When the Union troops moved close enough, Hunter again gave the command. The house erupted, throwing flames and lead into the very faces of the men who attacked. Yet on and on the masses surged toward them, and on and on his men worked like fiends, instinctively loading and firing, loading and firing, through the smoke and suffocating air. As minutes passed, they began to fight more with the courage of desperation and frantic survival than battlefield valor.
The roar of the guns became deafening and the concussion of the weaponry jarred the eardrums until nothing was distinguishable. Hunter could see nothing through the smoke and breathe nothing but its caustic vapor. His clothes clung to him, soaked with sweat. His throat was parched; his face blackened by powder.
Time stood still. The Yankees remained defiant in their determination to overpower those inside, and those inside remained determined to repel them. Nothing existed but bullets and smoke and noise as the men fought amidst flying lead and splintering walls. Both sides remained unwavering, neither side willing to be the first to quit.
After what seemed like hours, the men were forced to go from carbines and shotguns to revolvers. Hunter suddenly heard a loud bang and watched the front door come crashing in. Flames from a dozen revolvers erupted around his face, and when the smoke cleared, three dead Yankees lay just inside the threshold.
Yet, again, as suddenly as it began, all grew still.
Hunter took a few moments to regain his senses. He lay on his back on the floor with two empty, smoking revolvers, his chest heaving with exertion. When he looked up, he hardly recognized his men, so blackened with powder were their faces. “Prop that door back up,” he ordered, jumping to his feet and gasping for a breath of air in the choking smoke that filled the house The men hurried to obey, pushing the door up and propping it in place.
Hunter went from room to room, assessing the damage. Two of his men lay dead, and seven were wounded, three seriously. He called the rest together, knowing it would be impossible to contend any longer with the vastly superior and fresh force of the enemy.
Looking at his men’s expectant faces, Hunter’s gaze fell. “It is unlikely we can survive another assault, and I believe we must discard the thought of receiving reinforcements.” He took a deep breath and stared vacantly over their heads.
Without warning, a loud roar from the back of the house almost knocked him off his feet, and caused what plaster remained on the walls and ceiling to come crashing down. The men covered their ears from the deafening thunder.
Artillery!
Hunter brushed the white dust from his eyes and ran to the front of the house to gaze at the chaos. The cannon fire had come from the hill behind the house. It continued firing into the mass of blue in front of them.
“It’s Stuart!” one of his men yelled. “They’re here!”
“Yes, I believe the general has taught us a lesson in the value of minutes,” Hunter said with a slight grin.
“How in the hell did he lug those guns up there?” Carter smiled, his teeth showing brilliantly against his blackened face.
“Don’t know,” Hunter said. “But I’m damn glad he did.”
Stuart soon relieved Hunter and his exhausted men, though even with the use of artillery it was hot work dispersing the enemy. Hunter turned over the captured horses and mules that Stuart desired, then set out to deliver the remainder to an outpost about fifteen miles away.
Well after midnight, Hunter ordered his band of weary horsemen to halt their mounts in the shadow of some trees to wait for the intense moonlight to dim behind a cloud. This cautiousness, though necessary, cost them precious time. Hunter ignored the men’s impatience and grumbling. He and Carter gazed at the moon and consulted, until at last he gave the order to mount.
Moving forward again Hunter picked up the pace, knowing both man and beast were bone weary. But while still some distance from their headquarters and with perhaps only another half-hour of darkness remaining, he hit an unexpected enemy picket post. The single sentry ambled out of the woods, scratching himself and yawning.
“Where ya headin’, boys? Need the countersign.”
Hunter was so tired he merely laughed, and so did his men. Almost home after three days of constant riding and fighting, a single sentry was not going to stop them now.
The picket, obviously not seeing the humor, brought his gun up to a more intimidating position and asked again. “I said I need the countersign.”
“Do you know who I am?” Hunter leaned forward, crossing his arms over the pommel of his saddle.
The picket apparently took him for the leader of an uppity cavalry unit out on a lark, because he spoke with unbridled audacity. “I don’t care if you writ the dad-blame Ten Commandments. You ain’t getting through this post till I hear the countersign.”
Hunter leaned down to talk to the man confidentially, but his voice was clearly heard by all. “I didn’t write them,” he said, placing his hand on the sentry’s shoulder, “but I’ve broken quite a few in the last couple of days.” He paused, while his men chuckled in their saddles. “As for the countersign,” Hunter cocked his gun in the man’s ear. “I am confident this will suffice.”
And suffice it did. Hunter, desperate to get back into friendly territory and exhausted beyond even his own endurance, decided to parole the sentry on the spot instead of taking him prisoner. Now only ten miles from safety, he rode forward without hesitation, assuming nothing could stop them now.
Riding about thirty yards in advance, as was his custom to protect his men from ambush, Hunter glanced up at an eminence ahead and noticed the rising sun glance off a metallic object. Drawing his revolver, he turned in his saddle to warn his men. Suddenly, from behind some trees, a dozen or more enemy sharpshooters appeared, their guns concentrated on him alone.
Hunter did not have time to react. A tumultuous noise arose, followed by a loud whack, and a jolt that nearly threw him from the saddle. His upper body exploded in pain, and the agony and fire that surged through his veins left him dizzy. His vision blurred, though he tried to give orders through the haze and the fog.
Two men rode to his side to help him, while others dismounted and started up the hill, blazing away with their guns. He saw little else. Faces blurred. Sound became muffled. He tried to gain control of his balance, to restrain the nausea rising in his throat. But he could see nothing save an undulating swirl of motion, and then not even that, as an ominous, dark cloud descended and carried him away.
Chapter 24
“He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.”
– King Lear, Shakespeare
Andrea’s arms trembled, but her determination to make it around the room one more time superseded the pain. Leaning on the crutches Hunter had sent from the field, she suppressed the urge to curse him. How arrogant of him to give her a gesture of kindness after his cruel treatment. How she resented his gentlemanly generosity.
Concentrating on how to place the contraptions, Andrea looked toward the window at the sound of approaching horses, and watched a group of men dismount in unison near the house. In silence they gathered around a single rider who remained in his saddle, though barely.
Andrea realized it was Hunter at the same moment Izzie screamed from the porch below her. “He hurt! Ole Him hurt!”
“It’s not serious,” Andrea thought she heard Hunter say. But his voice sounded weak, and his shirt was covered in blood, and he was only standing now with the aid of two of his men.
“I’s can’t stands blood,” Izzie screamed, putting her hand over her eyes.
Her animosity toward the injured man for a moment forgotten, Andrea made it to the stairs in just a few strides on her crutches. “Bring him up here,” she yelled when the men entered the door below.
“Izzie,” she commanded, seeing she would have to take charge. “Tell Mattie to boil some water and bring up clean linens. And you, get some whiskey.”
Opening the door to Hunter’s chamber, Andrea paused at the threshold, l
ooking for the first time upon the large, sun-swept—and masculine—room. Her sense of intrusion lasted only a moment. Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs and the figures of three men appeared in the doorway. Their faces and clothes, masked with smoke and mud, made them unrecognizable—more like some frightening creatures from the depths of a swamp than anything of flesh and blood.
After they laid Hunter down on the bed and removed his boots, Andrea noticed he did not move. “He’s lost a lot of blood,” one young man said, his brow creased with concern. “Doc’s in Richmond.”
“We’ll do what we can for him.” Andrea ripped away what remained of his tattered shirt, the condition of which showed he had passed through a dreadful battle or bad weather, or both. The seeping condition of the bandage placed on his shoulder in the field gave proof that he had been bleeding copiously for quite some time.
“That will be all,” she said, looking up at the men gathered solemnly around the bed. She pretended not to notice their looks of surprise or their nods and winks as they exited the room. When she heard the door close, Andrea paused and swallowed hard at the appearance and physique of the man lying before her. Covered in mud, his face blackened from powder, he still radiated exceptional power and strength.
By the time Mattie arrived with the water and linens, Andrea had discovered that a clipping from his coat and shirt remained within a ragged hole near his shoulder. The lead had torn a rather large hole upon its exit, but the bullet did not appear to have hit any bones.
“I’m just going to clean this up a little.” Andrea did not know if he was conscious. He had not moved.
“Keep the hot water coming,” she said over her shoulder to Mattie. “He’s a mess.”
Wiping the sweat from his brow with a cloth, Andrea frowned at the situation. I never could turn away from an injured animal, she thought to herself.
* * *
Hunter heard a voice and felt fingers probing his shoulder. Although his arm throbbed with pain, the touch felt tender and soothing upon his bare flesh. He tried to force the cobwebs from his brain, to clear his blurred vision and mind.
Opening his eyes and blinking at the pain, he stared at the face leaning over him. He thought he recognized the countenance—but no, that could not be. He saw no sign of the hatred and anger that blazed so fervently when last they’d quarreled, nor any sign of the customary sullen frown.
He closed his eyes and tried to think. Tired. So tired.
After being hit, he had fallen. Perhaps he had hit his head and was hallucinating now. Or perhaps he was just so exhausted he was having a strange dream. Strange indeed, because the woman he had left in the next room would be more inclined to strangle him than bend over him in aid.
Hunter blinked at the intensity of light flooding through the window while gazing upon the worried face. Though fairly certain he was dreaming, he decided to talk to the apparition. “What do you think, Doc?” He hoped he had actually spoken the words aloud, because it was only with supreme effort that he retained consciousness.
The figure did not respond right away, seeming intent on cleaning the wound. Or maybe, Hunter thought, she really is just a figment of my exhausted imagination.
“It appears a bullet has pierced your celestial armor, Major,” she answered at last. “Unfortunately, it does not appear to be fatal.”
She did not lift her eyes at first, but when she did bring them up to meet his, they brimmed with amusement. Hunter thought he had never seen anything so beautiful, so exquisite, as those two dazzling green eyes filled with laughter. He contrasted the image to the raving, maddened woman he left, but could find no comparison. Where did this person come from or where had the other gone? He hoped they had switched places for good.
“I’m not the first to baptize the soil of the Old Dominion with my patriotic blood,” Hunter said weakly. His words made her frown, and her eyes reflected a look so somber and wise it made his bones ache.
“Nor will you be the last, I fear.” She bent back over to examine his wound. Her breath was now so near, Hunter could feel it on his skin; her hair so close, he could smell its sweet fragrance. Her touch was divine. He felt strangely out of breath.
Hunter raised his gaze to her, but she seemed not to notice. Lost in silent observation, she bit the inside of her cheek as she concentrated on her work. When a tendril of hair fell and brushed his neck, a shock surged through his body that made him shudder.
“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” She looked up anxiously, her eyes filled with unconcealed alarm.
“No. Go on.” Hunter transferred his gaze to the ceiling and bit the inside of his cheek as well, forcing himself to concentrate on something else. Although worn with fatigue, he could no longer think of sleep.
“I appreciate the confidence, Major. I am an honorable woman, and despite the fact you are my enemy, your treatment will be just.” She sounded innocent enough as she repeated the exact words he had said to her, but Hunter saw a smile twitch along the corners of her mouth. Then, like a mass of storm clouds parting to expose the rays of the sun, she revealed a smile.
Hunter was thankful he was lying down. A face that had heretofore only frowned, glared, and grimaced at him now glowed with a teasing grin. He gazed upon lips that were not merely turned upward but that lit her countenance with a lovely sparkle of enchantment. He thought the smile the sweetest that had ever illuminated a mortal face. The throbbing in his shoulder mysteriously disappeared.
“Then I shall attempt to put on as brave a front as my houseguest and endure the fate that has befallen me.” Feeling slightly out of control, Hunter took a shaky breath and wondered if she had dosed him with laudanum when he was unaware. She suddenly possessed some power that made him feel light-headed and dizzy. He glanced again into her eyes and felt a dull ache in his chest begin to spread throughout his body. He forced himself to look at the ceiling again and concentrated on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
He tried not to think about the soft hands gently probing his arm, tried not to think about how they would feel— His breath became ragged. His nerves throbbed and jumped involuntarily.
“I’m sorry. I know I’m hurting you. I’m almost done.”
Her voice jolted him back. He attempted to ignore the roaring in his ears and the wound that had started to ache in the back of his teeth. “Tell me, Miss Evans,” he said, trying to regain the self-control he prided himself on. “Are you trying to get on my good side?”
Andrea gave him a puzzled look. “That is quite impossible, Major, as I was not even aware you possessed one. But I thank you for letting me in on your well-kept secret.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling mischievously, and then went back to work, her jaw set firmly as she attacked her task with renewed fervor.
Hunter smiled too, a cockeyed schoolboy grin, which he quickly suppressed. “Perhaps it’s like yours, merely hidden most of the time,” he said huskily.
“Perhaps,” she responded. But Hunter could tell she was more engrossed in her grim work than the conversation. Maybe she was letting him know she had no intention of discussing her good side, which she evidently preferred to keep to herself.
Andrea sat back and surveyed her work, then her gaze drifted up to meet his. “You have a funny look on your face, Major.”
“I do?” He choked the words.
“Probably just the pain from your injury.” She smiled, and, in a motherly way, put her hand on his forehead to see if he had a fever. Stroking the hair from his brow, she looked with a mixture of sympathy and concern at the spot where his head had made violent contact with the ground.
Something about that look reached down to his soul and made him struggle to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, lest she read any secrets there.
“Bullets have a way of humbling one, I suppose,” she said as if to herself.
“It’s not the first time I’ve been humbled.” Hunter meant to say it was not the first time he’d taken a bullet, but he was so tired and confused, he could
not think straight. So tired. Yet his heart banged against his rib cage like it wanted out.
Andrea did not respond to that. She lifted his arm and began wrapping his wound with the bandages.
Hunter forced his eyes open again. “You seem experienced in the art of healing, Miss Evans,” he said weakly. “Have you done this before?”
“Oh, yes. I used to help Mammy with the sla—”
She looked straight into his eyes, her brows drawn together, her face just inches from his. Apparently realizing it was too late to stop, she finished matter-of-factly, “… with the slaves.” Turning back to the basin, she busied herself wringing out the washcloth.
“But,” Hunter said, genuinely confused, “I never assumed you were Southern by birth.”
“It should not be hard to believe that I was born and lived among the misguided,” Andrea snapped. “When one is reared in the presence of some six hundred slaves, a proclivity against, and an intolerance for, the institution and those who condone it can hardly be considered unjustifiable.”
She turned back to the bowl of water, but the tone, the words, the savagery, were more like that to which he was accustomed. Even her eyes had taken on that all-too-familiar look that meant the mule was back.
“I didn’t mean . . .” Hunter stuttered. Please don’t go, he thought.
“My heritage is Southern. My devotion is, and shall always be, Union.”
Thus ended the conversation. And thus ended the appearance of the gentler side of his houseguest. Hunter closed his eyes again. Six hundred slaves? She must have been born into one of the wealthiest families in the South, entitled to all the luxuries and comforts that such breeding grants. She had never boasted of wealth or influence, yet apparently possessed both. What in the hell was she doing here?
“Cans I help, Miz Andrea?” Mattie came back into the room with another bowl of water.
“No, I’ve just got to clean up the rest of him.”
Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia Page 20