Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia

by Jessica James

  “It’s not a question of danger, but duty,” Andrea retorted. “I’m doing no more than my duty—and no one can expect me to do less.”

  When Daniel did not reply, she leaned forward in her saddle, causing the leather to creak. “Do you have a better plan, Colonel Delaney?” She appeared calm and confident as she gazed at him. “If you do, I’ll gladly yield mine to yours.”

  Daniel looked from her to the spectral parade of gray-clad horsemen and back. “No.”

  “Then I’ll see you in Salem.” Andrea did not wait for him to change his mind.

  “Caution will be the order of the day,” Daniel yelled in a hushed voice. But she had apparently already thrown caution to the wind. Her horse disappeared into the shadowy landscape in the blink of an eye, and in another moment even the sound of hooves had faded. Daniel stared into the tree-line and shook his head. That girl would fan the flames of hell—and then charge through them—simply for the thrill of the ride.

  * * *

  J.J. listened with half-closed eyes to the sound of Daniel’s pacing. Suddenly the door burst open.

  “I have a report from one of my scouts,” Colonel Dayton said, throwing his hat on a chair.

  “About Sinclair?” Daniel asked, stepping forward.

  “Yes. It seems your scout, Sinclair, was observed trailing the enemy closely.” He paused and cleared his throat. “So closely in fact that my man lost sight of him.”

  “He what?” Daniel’s fists tightened by his side.

  “Apparently he was riding north of the enemy column. When the Confederates made the unexpected turn away from Salem toward Middleburg, my scout says Sinclair just kind of got mixed up in their line.”

  Daniel and J.J. looked at each other and simultaneously exhaled. Daniel even put his hand to his head as if he felt a sudden rush of pain.

  “There’s no need for worry,” Dayton insisted, sitting down and pulling a pipe out of a drawer. “He says Sinclair just sort of blended in with the enemy. There was no alarm.”

  “Was Sinclair on the black horse?” J.J.’s voice did not mask the concern he felt at the fact that she had once again thrown caution, and all else, aside.

  “No. He ran into some of my men on patrol and borrowed one of theirs.”

  J.J. glanced at Daniel again and knew they were both thinking the same thing: Justus would still have been fresh. That she had used some foresight in anticipating the Rebel cavalry would be on the lookout for a big, black horse, did little to ease their anxiety.

  After the general excused himself, Daniel and J.J. remained in his office, one gazing out the window, the other pacing restlessly back and forth. “I fear she will do something foolish,” Daniel said.

  “In all likelihood she already has.” His friend did not try to hide his apprehension.

  “Why does she do it, John? What possesses her?”

  J.J. stopped pacing for a moment. “I’ve tried, with little success, to find that out myself. All I can determine is she has a recollection of wrongs suffered and a desire to set them right.”

  “It must end,” Daniel said. “She’s not eaten and hardly slept for two days.”

  J.J. turned to face him. “Land’s sakes, man! You should know by now she doesn’t have to eat or sleep. She feeds on danger and thrives on risk. And I swear to you,” he added through gritted teeth, “if she makes it back alive, I’ll kill her with my own two hands.”

  “Not if I get to her first,” Daniel said, watching raindrops gathering in intensity on the glass.

  By the time the full report came up from the scouts, the officers discovered they had even more to worry about. The column Sinclair had fallen in with was Stuart’s. But the report said Hunter and his men were expected to join up with them by nightfall. Whether Sinclair knew that detail, they had no way of knowing. But it was clear if she did not get out by dark, she may not get out at all, because she would be in the midst of two of the most dangerous, ruthless, quick-striking forces in the entire Confederate army.

  * * *

  Andrea sat huddled by a smoky fire in the pouring rain with her tired and soaked new comrades. The storm, which moved in quickly, had been a blessing. Riding with their heads down against the onslaught, the Confederates took no notice of the new rider in their ranks, and the rain slicker she now wore helped her blend in.

  Andrea’s gaze shifted from the fire to the men around her. There were some in their prime; some well past. All looked like they had not eaten for quite some time and that sleep had been scarcer than food. They obviously suffered from the wet and cold, yet all looked ready to fight. Andrea remembered she also had not eaten for quite some time and concluded that the prospects of getting a meal here looked slim. Furthermore, she was exhausted from the lack of sleep of the past two days and scolded herself for not resting when she had the chance last night.

  So far, no one appeared to suspect her. Most, she surmised, were too miserable to even notice her. But her walk through the encampment had done little to uncover any intelligence of where this cavalry unit might be heading next.

  Sitting on a log turned on its end, Andrea faintly heard the door of the farmhouse behind her slam shut. She was unaware of anyone approaching until she felt a strong hand squeezing her shoulder with the strength of a bear. It was apparently a friendly gesture, but she knew she would not forget the power in that hand as long as she lived.

  “At ease, men,” a deep, ringing voice said, as the men around her began to struggle to their feet. “Just came down to invite you up to the porch if you’d like. Get out of the rain for a spell.”

  Andrea felt a tingle of fear run the length of her spine. She knew by the devoted looks on the faces around her that the man behind her was General J.E.B. Stuart. She tried to keep from breathing in short gasps as Stuart continued making small talk with the men, his hand still resting on her shoulder.

  “Might take you up on that, Gen’ral,” one said.

  “There’s a barn down the road a piece too, if any of you boys want to hunker down there for the night. We’ll be moving out at dawn.”

  A courier appeared with a dispatch, and Stuart went down on one knee by the smoky fire to read it. As he stood, Andrea turned her head away to avoid meeting his gaze. Seeming not to notice, he nodded to the group of men, patted her on the shoulder again as though she were an old friend, and headed back toward the house.

  Andrea followed the others, and after a little nudging, found a small space to sit down at the edge of the porch. The spot was barely shielded from the rain, but she appreciated being out of the mud. Just as she settled in, the sound of heavy footsteps and jingling spurs jolted her like a lightning bolt.

  She knew without looking that it was him, sensed his presence even before his indomitable figure came into view. Perhaps the current that ran through the others on the porch caused the reaction. Or perhaps it was the way he walked into her view, his form imposing and commanding as he followed one of Stuart’s aides to the house. Striding toward the porch with the bearing of a warrior, he removed his gloves while tramping up the steps with neither a look to the left or the right. Men instantly clamored out of his way, making a path that appeared to move before him like the parting sea. Although he had said not a word, everyone seemed to know he meant business.

  Andrea herself was spellbound, only turning away when she unintentionally made direct eye contact with the cigar-smoking lieutenant who followed close behind. A sudden apprehension of death stirred in Andrea’s soul when she glanced into those fighting eyes.

  “Captain Hunter!” Stuart’s voice boomed from within as the door opened. “You’re late. Out looking for that elusive fox of yours?” The gallant Stuart laughed loudly as if he thought his friend’s misfortunes a rather good joke.

  “He’s got more holes than a prairie dog,” Hunter answered, not sounding amused.

  “I’ve no doubt you’ll sniff him out, my boy. Don’t you worry; he’ll come out of his den into the jaws of Hunter yet.”

&nb
sp; Andrea heard Hunter remove his rain slicker, and soon after, the sound of rustling papers. There ensued a short silence as Stuart apparently read an intercepted dispatch, followed by a deep, booming laugh. “Captain Hunter, your name has become well known to the Union ranks, you devil. They don’t seem to know which way to turn.”

  “Your name is mentioned as well. I can’t take all the credit for their panic.”

  “Ha!” Stuart’s voice boomed. “This Yankee officer says here, ‘I’d rather face a full division of Jackson in my front than a dozen of Hunter’s men in my rear.’ The Yankees have gotten a good deal of education at your hands—and paid high tuition fees to boot!”

  Andrea heard Stuart’s spurs clanking across the room and the sound of a deep chuckle. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself—highly deserved I might add.”

  “I don’t feel deserving. Not after yesterday.”

  Andrea cringed and hoped no one noticed.

  Stuart’s voice grew grave. “I heard you lost a lieutenant.”

  For a few minutes the conversation was spoken in low tones, making it unintelligible to Andrea. Not long after, a rider galloped up on a lathered horse and slid to a stop in front of the steps. Sweat began to drip down Andrea’s shirt despite the growing cold.

  “Cap’n Hunter in here?” The young man did not wait for an answer. He proceeded up the steps two at a time, knocked once on the door, and entered. The group on the porch grew quiet in anticipation of what was to come. They did not have to listen hard. The voices inside carried well.

  “What have you, Gus?” Hunter asked.

  “Sir, I have reason to believe there is a Yankee in our midst.”

  Andrea stopped breathing altogether. She listened and waited in silent suspense

  “Go on, boy!” Stuart boomed.

  “I watched a rider following the column earlier. He didn’t reappear. This is the only place he could be.”

  “You’re sure?” Captain Hunter’s voice carried as he walked to the door. The sound of his approaching spurs caused convulsive chills down Andrea’s spine.

  “I’m sure, sir. I stayed out to make certain.”

  The men stomped out the door and onto the porch. “Inform all the pickets, no one in or out of this camp without our expressed consent,” Hunter said to one of his men. Then Stuart yelled to one of his. “Secure this camp! Make it so tight the ghost of Caesar cannot escape us!”

  Stuart and Hunter walked off the porch still talking and gesturing, each warrior looking formidable and impressive in his own way, together creating an image that made Andrea’s blood run cold.

  Dropping off the side of the porch, Andrea leaned against the house in a deep shadow created by the chimney. Perhaps Stuart was right, she thought, the hunted fox may be forced into the vengeful jaws of Hunter yet. She shivered with inexplicable dread, then took a few deep breaths and willed herself to calmness. Think. Think. She forced her weary brain not to panic as she paced back and forth in the shadows.

  First, she would need a horse, a fast one, a mount that could be depended upon to be fresh. She could not risk her escape on a steed already fatigued from hard riding. She scanned the yard where horses were tied hither and yon. None looked especially fleet; most appeared wet and miserable.

  The realization of which horse she needed to find—and take—brought a smile to her face. The comprehension of the difficulty of getting her hands on it made the edges of her lips tremble.

  And the smile disappeared.

  Chapter 12

  “When the mouse laughs at the cat, there is a hole nearby.”

  – Chinese Proverb

  Trying to move without raising any suspicion, Andrea walked toward the barn, sticking her hands in her pockets and whistling under her breath when soldiers were near. When she got close to the building, she picked up her step to indicate urgency.

  A camp guard stopped her, sounding more tired than commanding. “What’s your business?”

  “Get out of the way, man,” she said, her voice full of impatience. “Captain Hunter ordered me to get his horse.”

  “Cap’n Hunter? He’s already on his haws.”

  “I know that. He needs his second. The other tripped in the dark and is lame. Hurry, man! He said he needs a fresh horse!”

  The picket walked over to a sleeping soldier and nudged him with his gun. “Dodge, git up and fetch the Cap’n a haws.”

  The man sat up sleepily. “He’s got Fleetson.”

  “Well, saddle up Stump. It’ll take but five minutes.”

  “No,” Andrea yelled a little louder than she intended. “I haven’t that many seconds to spare. Just show me the horse. The captain’s already got his saddle.”

  “He’s that bay on the end of the picket line,” the man who had been sleeping said. “Two white socks and a blaze. You one of Stuart’s boys?”

  “Yea,” Andrea said over her shoulder as she untied the horse and headed away from the barn.

  Andrea paid no heed to the pain in her ankle. She walked fast, practically dragging the animal called Stump behind her. “Stump,” she whispered to him. “What kind of lowlife name is that for the horse of a cavalryman? Sounds like you should be pulling a hay wagon.”

  Scrutinizing the horse in the shadows, Andrea saw he was nearly the size and build of Justus, but he moved lethargically, and with a name like Stump … well, she would soon find out.

  The men guarding the rear entrance stared at Andrea suspiciously so she continued walking, deciding to try her luck at the farm’s main entrance. With both sides of the lane bordered by four-foot stone walls, she would have only two directions to worry about a confrontation. “Stump” would have to be relied upon to outrun anything she in her way.

  “Why couldn’t your name be Lightning or Blitz, for heaven sakes,” she mumbled while attaching the thick, hemp lead rope to the horse’s halter for reins. She mounted by hopping on him from the bed of an empty hay wagon. “Or Dazzle even, or—”

  The moment Andrea touched his back, Stump became a different horse. Perhaps he did not like her comment about pulling hay wagons. Possibly he thought humans should not ride without saddles. Or maybe he was simply taking on the characteristics of an ornery Rebel. In any event, he hopped and skipped and pranced, first in one direction and then another, with a sudden rebellious temper. Andrea used every ounce of her strength and skill to move him toward the gate.

  “Halt.” A sentinel stepped out in front of her and grabbed the makeshift reins. “Where you think yer going?”

  “Egads, man! Captain Hunter is clamoring for this horse, and I’ve got to get it to him!” Andrea tried to sound authoritative, but she was already out of breath.

  “No one can pass through this gate without the expressed consent of Cap’n Hunter or Gen’ral Stuart,” the whiskered old man barked, repeating the commander’s order word for word.

  “Captain Hunter gave his consent when he ordered me to get this horse,” Andrea yelled. “He’s down that lane right now, sitting on a dead lame horse, probably watching that spy get away while you’re holding me up. Why are you carrying your gun that way anyhow? That’s no way for a soldier to stand duty. What’s your name?”

  “Pass on.” The man stepped aside.

  Andrea kicked the horse, her spurs gouging into his sides, urging him in a southward direction. But even with the aid of spurs, the ornery animal did not seem to know in what direction to travel. He continued instead to prance and spin within the confines of the stone walls.

  After what seemed like miles, but was certainly much less, the horse settled into a reasonably straight path. Reaching down to pat his neck, Andrea took a deep sigh of relief—just before all of the blood rushed out of her heart and pooled into a large coagulated glob in the pit of her stomach.

  At first all she saw was a tall figure silhouetted in the faint starlight along the road. But then the reflected gleam of his Colt revolver, held low by his thigh, caught her eye, followed by the distinct click of its hamm
er reaching her ears. Mounted on a dark bay tonight instead of the gray, Andrea fathomed she could actually feel, rather than see, his eyes upon her. The sensation his vengeful stare produced unnerved her more than the gun.

  Andrea pulled the horse to a stop while contemplating her options. Concealment was impossible at this point, and flight all but hopeless. In an effort to mask the fact that her insides had distilled to jelly, she drew her gun. The act of defiance did little good. Attempting to control her mount with one hand was not a realistic proposition.

  “Ah-ha, Stuart was right. My fox has finally left the henhouse,” Hunter said coolly, seeming to enjoy her struggle with his horse. “And I see you’ve met Stump. Interesting choice.”

  Andrea would have answered had she not been so intent on staying on her mount while he reared, circled, and pranced in sheer rebelliousness. But she was rather glad for his antics. It gave her time to seek a way out.

  “You’ve got two commands of cavalry behind you and me in front of you,” Hunter said as if reading her mind. “I’d say you’ve set a pretty good trap for yourself—on a stolen horse no less.”

  He smiled with a kind of contented look that brought to Andrea’s mind the image of a vulture preparing to feed on a carcass that is not quite dead.

  “Perhaps I have,” she said, pretending a calm she did not feel. “As for the horse, he carries the U.S. brand. Indeed he was stolen by someone.”

  Her voice did not falter. Yet Andrea could not suppress the urge to glance at the sky with the hope that God would furnish a lightning bolt to strike Hunter down, or perhaps a squadron of angels to carry her away. And then she worried, just a little, that these were the only two possibilities for escape that appeared feasible to her at the moment.

  “All the angels in heaven cannot save you now,” Hunter said, again seeming to divine her thoughts. He continued watching her struggle with his horse for a moment with a look of vague surprise mixed with anger. “I lost a good man yesterday,” he said then as if to remind her of it. “And woe to the hand that shed that costly blood.”