“That was the same night as the train raid.” Captain Pierce held a newspaper and scanned its contents. “You can be sure that it was no one from this Command. We had our hands full as it was.”
“Well, I was just curious,” their hostess said. “The article does, after all, give you men credit.”
“We get a lot of credit for things we don’t do,” Gus Dorsey said jokingly. “But usually it’s not for good things.”
“What have we gotten credit for now?” When Pierce handed him the paper, Hunter’s gaze fell upon the article they discussed. As he began to read, a dark haze descended, enveloping him and threatening to snuff him out.
By the grace of God, a Union medical supply train bound from Washington, was confiscated by Confederate troops south of Chantilly Saturday last.
The wagons reportedly were lost when a new guide led them straight into a Confederate infantry unit. No lives were lost, but the Confederacy gained twenty prisoners, nine wagons, fifteen horses, eighteen mules, and all of the supplies therein. The guide, apparently on a swift, black horse, was the only one to escape.
Though this correspondent can find no official report filed, it is widely speculated it was a member of Hunter’s command—or perhaps the gallant Hunter himself.
Hunter’s hands visibly shook. He looked back to the story, then to the date on the paper, and then stared into space. His heart did not doubt the truth, even while his head balked at accepting it. Never could he have envisioned any news that would have brought more of a shock to his mind or hopeless anguish to his soul.
It couldn’t be! She couldn’t have! Surely, she wouldn’t have!
But the pieces fit. With her knowledge and her cleverness, she could have passed herself off as a guide. It would have been difficult, but not impossible for one daring enough and reckless enough to make the attempt.
Her plan must have been hurriedly conceived, yet zealously and methodically thought out. Only she among the multitudes possessed enough mad resolve to have endeavored it—and only she among all others, manifested the bold cunning to have pulled it off. She, who had always possessed an abiding faith in achieving the impossible, had succeeded, yet failed.
Hunter looked up again at his men staring at him, muttered an excuse, and strode to the door. Once on the porch he put his hands on the railing and leaned forward. His breath came fast and hard, so heavy and strained that a puff of steam escaped with every gasp. He became so overwhelmed by his remorse that for once his iron will failed him. He sank to the porch, his limbs refusing to support his weight.
“I do not ask, ‘Can it be done’ … but rather, ‘Is it worth doing?’” She had laughed when she had spoken these words, as if it explained completely her reckless disregard for danger. She lived by her principles and believed in her logic that anything worth the doing was worth the risk of trying.
Hunter put his head in hands as the memory of that night came back to him with searing clarity. She had not cowered or sobbed or wavered, but her look of utter anguish, her quiet, pathetic despair at his distrust was now far more eloquent than any words. She had endured the insults he had hurled at her like one endures a physical torture, standing her ground like a soldier.
Sweat rolled down his face despite the chill when he remembered her parting words: “I trusted you to trust me.” How ironic that all along she had manifested more trust in him than he had in her … when all along she had thought it too much to give. She had accepted her banishment, allowed him to believe the worst without a fight, and he understood why. He had broken her trust. And that was not something she would seek to repair, nor something she would ever attempt to gain again.
“Colonel?” Hunter jolted and turned to face the voice.
“Colonel, you all right?” Major Carter looked down at him with concern in his eyes.
Hunter shook his head, and then stood slowly, awkwardly, like one who has imbibed overly much in alcohol, and started to walk away.
Carter followed and grabbed him by the sleeve. “It was her, wasn’t it?”
Hunter didn’t bother to answer, knowing the pain in his eyes made words unnecessary.
“There was a misunderstanding?”
“I was a fool!”
Carter sighed. “It’s the war, sir. It has a way of hurting the ones we care for the most the worst. We judge unjustly in proportion as we feel strongly.”
“I thought she—” Hunter choked. “She never told me—”
“I understand, sir. But truth, like water, finds a way to seep through.”
A deep groan shook Hunter’s frame.
“You can make amends, Colonel,” Carter said, sounding fearful for Hunter’s well-being. “Surely there is naught that cannot be fixed.”
“It’s too late, Carter,” Hunter said, looking straight into the darkness with such despair in his voice it made the elder officer cringe.
“She is lost to me.”
Chapter 58
“Fields, roads, trees, and shrubs were alike clothed in the white robes of winter,
and it seemed almost a sacrilege against the beauty and holy stillness of the scene
to stain those pure garments with the life blood of man, be he friend or foe.”
– Mosby’s Rangers, James Williamson
Winter hit northern Virginia with no warning and little mercy. Snow and sleet fell all day, putting down a cold blanket of discomfort that slowed the horses and froze in the beards of Hunter’s men. Although the enemy was in winter quarters, Hunter did not lessen his attacks. Nothing—not sleep, not exhaustion and not the weather—stopped him or even slowed him down.
Hunter walked up and down the tracks in silence inspecting his men’s work while Dixie followed diligently behind. His Command had now assumed the size of a full brigade, and his activities had become even more widespread as a result. Many in his ranks were no longer boys, but officers who had resigned their commissions in the regular army for the honor of serving under him.
Satisfied with the job his men had done, Hunter became absorbed for a moment by the shrubs and bushes that glistened like rolling waves of whitecaps under the starlight. He thought how Andrea would enjoy the incredible scenery, then swore under his breath and continued into the pines.
Retreating a small distance from his men, Hunter pulled his buffalo robe from behind his saddle and laid down. The train would be another hour at least in coming. Despite the numbing fatigue that weighed upon his body, he feared he would not be able to rest. Ignoring the strange feeling of dread that had hung over him all day, he put his saddle blanket under his head, closed his eyes, and was asleep before taking another breath.
But sleep did not seem to last long. Hunter heard what sounded like a single horse coming at a trot, its hoofbeats muted on the frozen snow-covered ground. Crawling to the edge of the pines, he listened as the sound grew closer to the bend in the road. He felt the anticipation of his men around him as they too hugged the ground and strained breathlessly. Seconds ticked by slowly, painfully. Sweat trickled down his face, and his heart raced with anticipation. When a nearby branch gave way to the weight of its burden, his nerves reacted with a painful jolt.
Steadying his breathing once again, Hunter watched the shadowy image of a horse and rider appear from around the curve. A full moon shifted in the sky just then, casting a beam of light in front of them like an ethereal pathway. Hunter’s pulse quickened at the sight. Somehow he had known, had hoped at least, it would be her. She rode perfectly relaxed, one hand on loose reins, the other on her thigh, seemingly oblivious to any danger.
Hunter watched mesmerized as she glanced up at the moon in all its glory, then reached down and patted the skittish horse on the neck as it shied at the strange shadows created on the crystalline snow. They were nearly in front of him now, so close he could see every detail—the frozen whiskers on her horse’s muzzle, the frost-steamed breath pouring forth from its nostrils. He stepped out onto the road to greet her, and thought how beautiful the nigh
t star looked shining its light down upon her.
Yet now the scene before him began to blur and move in slow motion.
The sharp crack of a revolver startled him. He saw her lurch to one side, then scramble to right herself. She looked down at her chest, her brow wrinkled in confusion at the redness blossoming there. Then slowly, in disbelief, she raised her head and met his gaze. She appeared bewildered, surprised for a moment. Then her eyes glazed over with the pain of recognition.
Hunter tried to go to her, but his legs remained planted where he stood. He wanted to tell her it was not him, it was not his shot, but he was left voiceless by the utter madness of the scene.
She continued to stare at him as she put her hand to her chest, and he stared back in utter confusion when it seemed to disappear inside her. She sighed heavily then, and the pain in her quivering eyes turned to sadness, betrayal, disappointment. But even as she fell forward, she never removed her pitiful eyes from him. She held his gaze with a questioning stare, never blinking, yet seeming to accept the fate that had befallen her.
“Wait! Let me help!” Hunter thought he said the words out loud, but if he did, she did not listen. She slumped off the side of her horse to the crystal earth, almost at his feet. He heard the dull thump when her body hit the ground, stared in awestruck horror at the scarlet-spattered snow all around her. He looked to her face, now devoid of all color, then to the brilliant green eyes that stared blankly at the full moon overhead.
“Andrea! No!” He knelt by her side in frantic horror, blinking in disbelief as he watched the light flicker and go out of those once-expressive eyes, just like a match suddenly extinguished.
“Can you hear me?”
But he knew she couldn’t. Couldn’t possibly. Not now that the green was gone. Gone! Melted away! Those beautiful windows to the soul were now two gaping, vacant orbs.
Hunter’s gaze turned to the pure white snow contrasting against the shocking red flow of gore that seemed ever spreading. He looked toward heaven, hoping for some refuge there, but now even the sky had turned to a crimson sea of horror, as if her lifeblood ebbed from her body to saturate the very heavens. Panicking, Hunter looked around for his men, but they had all vanished.
There was no movement. No sound anywhere. It seemed the world had stopped.
“Andrea!” He reached out to touch her, to somehow stop the vital current that continued to spurt like an endless fountain from her motionless form.
That’s when he noticed the gun, still smoking, in his hand.
No-o-o!
* * *
“Colonel. You all right?” Carter knelt beside his commander.
Hunter sat straight up, gasping for breath, his hands clenched into fists. “Is she dead?”
“Is who dead?”
Hunter appeared drenched, like he had been caught in a downpour. He rubbed his hand through sweaty hair, and looked over Carter’s shoulder apprehensively, as if expecting to find something there.
“You sure you’re all right, Colonel?” Carter put a tentative hand on his shoulder. “You kill someone we don’t know about?” He tried to make a joke, but he could see it was no laughing matter. He felt Hunter trembling through the heavy woolen coat, and his clothes were so damp with sweat they steamed in the cool night air. Hunter continued to stare into the darkness, breathing heavily, his face solemn.
“Here,” Carter instructed, digging through a saddlebag. “Take a swig of this.”
Hunter accepted the small flask, but his hand still trembled so violently, he handed it back, exasperated. “I’m all right.”
Carter knew differently. The face of the man who had always possessed such extraordinary control over his feelings, expressed perfect despair and hopelessness. Carter waited, hoping Hunter would want to talk, but the sound of a train whistle in the distance brought the Colonel to his feet.
“Get the men ready,” was all he said, before walking stiffly toward his horse.
Carter’s gaze remained on Hunter as he strode silently across the moonlit field and went through the motions of preparing his mount. War was usually good for taking the mind off things, but Carter could see not even that was sufficient to release his commander from the terrible turmoil within.
Chapter 59
“Love does not die easily.”
– Hamlet, Shakespeare
Andrea ignored the unearthly scream of shells. She moved from wounded soldier to wounded soldier, trying to give aid and comfort to those who lay where they fell in the midst of the thunder of guns.
She was not unaware of the chaos or the dreadful suffering and agony around her. She was simply too exhausted and concentrating too much on her duties to take much notice of it. The field on which she worked was a vast plain of wreckage, as if a great storm from a place worse than hell had swept through. Yet she continued her work without pause, refusing to allow brave men to lie in misery while their countrymen continued to slaughter one another.
Lifting her eyes briefly in an attempt to get her bearings through the thick haze of smoke, Andrea caught a glimpse of the seemingly endless sea of writhing humanity strewn around her. The beautiful rolling hills of Virginia were nothing like she had once known them. The paradise she had once considered beautiful was now a living hell. Andrea lowered her eyes again and moved on. She could help but one at a time. There was no use agonizing about it.
Kneeling by a man who lay just within a tree line, Andrea stared at the bloody path he had made by dragging himself there. She ripped open his pants leg and tried to stem the bleeding of the fearfully torn flesh. She knew it was somewhat futile. From what she knew of such injuries he would not have the limb for long, if he lived at all. Still, she was determined to do her best. Concentrating on the wound, she felt a hand grasp her wrist.
“Andrea?”
She blinked at the barely recognizable face staring up at her. The only identifiable features were the eyes—and they portrayed mortal agony. “Yes, Alex. It is me,” she whispered.
He stared at her unbelieving, blinking through sweat and blood, apparently trying to decide if she was an illusion or real. Andrea put water on a cloth and wiped his brow, resisting the urge to lay her head upon his chest and weep. She had cried many tears since leaving Hawthorne, more than she thought a human being had within them. Now she wondered what kind of God it was that wished to torture her afresh. Why could He not let her go on with her life and forget?
“I must …” Hunter swallowed and licked his lips. “I mus …talk …to you.” He struggled to hold his eyes open, to stay conscious.
“Be still,” Andrea commanded, sweeping her eyes across the field. Although she could see none of his men, she knew they must be watching, waiting for the opportunity to extract their leader from this precarious place.
“I made … terrible mistake.” His eyes were eyes glazed with pain. His fevered, bloodshot gaze searched her face.
“I’m sure your men will forgive you.” Andrea poured water on his wound.
“No!” He grabbed her again violently. “Nothing to do … with … men!”
Hunter seemed to turn somewhat delirious. Although he appeared to be trying to talk, he succeeded in doing little more than muttering incoherently. Still, his voice, his presence, affected Andrea, making her heart throb frantically as she wiped the clammy dew from his brow.
“Andrea … where are you?”
“I’m right here.” She tried to sound calm, while turning her attention back to his mangled leg.
“N-o-o!” His voice sounded agonized. He reached out to her again, grabbing frantically for her wrist, which he held with a strength she could not believe he possessed. “Where are you? Take me … there!”
Andrea looked at his wild, glassy eyes. Sweat ran in torrents down his face. His shirt was soaked. “I cannot take you there … a field hospital near Winchester,” she said, grasping his meaning. “You would be taken prisoner.”
“No matter. Take me there,” he said weakly. Do not … leave
me, Andrea! Please!” It seemed to her he was almost sobbing. “I cannot … find you.”
Andrea removed his hand and looked down at him. His face was contorted in a blend of physical agony and emotional anguish. “Your men will get you out,” she assured him. “You are better off here than in a Union prison.”
Hunter whimpered and began talking in a hurried, rambling tone that was frantic and confused. Something was wrong, and it was far more tormenting to him than his injury.
Andrea looked again at his leg, an unrecognizable wreck of flesh, and then at his dead horse that lay some rods distant. She sat awestruck at the valor of the man who had faced the obvious superior fire power—no doubt in accordance with orders.
A drink of cool water revived Hunter somewhat, though he was still unable to articulate what he so desperately wanted her to understand. He seemed so distraught, rambling on to her about snow and bloody moons, that Andrea feared the injury affected his senses.
Dressing his leg as best she could on the field, she watched him open his eyes and search for her once more. “Don’t,” he commanded her with his tone and his look, “don’t . . . leave . . . me!”
Andrea looked away. She had to refuse him. She had no means to move him, and even if she did, she could not bring herself to convey him to a place of certain death. He was safer here.
A movement from the corner of her eye drew Andrea’s attention to within the canopy of trees. Shifting her gaze, she saw a single rider on horseback appear from behind a boulder within the dappled depths of the woods. Soon she made out the ghostly figure of another on foot, and then another, crouching in the shadow of the trees. Their eyes and attention were focused solely on the man before her, making it clear she was delaying his rescue.
Leaning over Alex, she wiped again the moisture from his face. “Alex, your men are here. You are safe.”
Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia Page 44