Andrea’s expression turned mournful, though she looked down almost immediately to escape his gaze. She nodded, making it perfectly clear that the soldiers in blue whom he considered dire enemies, were friends and comrades by whose side she had shared danger and laughter, peril and mirth. She was one of them. Or had been.
Hunter, who so rarely showed emotion, became clearly overwhelmed by it now. His eyes misted at her commitment and devout loyalty to him. “You have done me and my men a great service today,” he said, bringing his horse next to hers. “One that I can never hope to repay.”
Andrea grabbed his gauntleted hand, his earlier stinging words apparently forgotten. “But you can.” She looked earnestly into his eyes. “I will let you pay it back, slowly, for the rest of your life.”
Hunter’s mouth curled into a smile, relieved that she was not angry, and now, somehow elated at the prospect of having such an overwhelming debt to pay. “Do not fear, Private Evans, I fully intend to honor my obligations.”
Leaning forward then, he gave her a long, adoring kiss.
* * *
Andrea wrapped her arms around Hunter’s neck in obvious desperation and felt herself being lifted with strong arms across his saddle. “Oh, Alex,” she said, burying her head in his chest and clutching his manly form. Hunter responded by tightening his embrace, leaving her to wonder how a mortal man could possess such boundless tenderness in such iron muscles.
“Andrea, you will go back to Hawthorne,” he said, his voice strangely low. “No matter what.”
She lifted her head, not sure if he was stating a fact or asking a question. “No matter what?”
“If anything should happen to me … I would like to know that you would still go back. That it would be in good hands.”
Andrea blinked, trying to hold back the tears that threatened. “If that is your wish.”
“It is my most desperate desire.”
She looked up in anguish at the businesslike tone of his voice. “There is no need to seal your devotion to the Confederacy with your life, Alex,” she said, clutching his coat. “Please, not now.”
He did not answer at first, and when he did, his gaze was locked on something over her shoulder. “What I do, I do for my country. You understand, do you not?”
He shifted his attention back to her and remained there in a spellbinding gaze of devotion.
“We’d better get back,” he finally said, his tone carrying a calmness and determination that terrified Andrea. She pulled her horse close and swung her leg over its back.
“Wait, Andrea.” She drew her horse to a halt and looked up at him, a tear breaking loose from where she had willed it to stay. “My love for country, my duty to state, does not mean I love you less. Do you understand?”
Neither spoke for a moment. Even the horses stood perfectly still. “I shall not obstruct the path of your duty, Alex,” she said, her chin trembling. “I give you to Virginia and God—if that is what you wish of me.”
Andrea caught only a glimpse of his eyes filling with fluid, and then he nodded, turned his head from her, and nudged his horse forward. After riding a short distance, Andrea reached out for his sleeve and stopped him again. Her heart beat tumultuously at the thought that sand was slipping through the hourglass at a speed beyond her control.
“I know it is your right, your privilege to die for the Cause. But Alex, you will be careful?”
Alex turned his attention back to her, but it appeared to Andrea his mind was already elsewhere. “I will see you on the other side of the river, Andrea,” he said without concern, his eyes full of a strange brilliancy. “The Virginia side.”
Chapter 65
“Having chosen our course, with guile and with pure purpose, let us
renew our trust in God and go forth without fear and with manly hearts.”
– Abraham Lincoln
The men had already begun to move out by the time Andrea and Hunter galloped back. Andrea pulled her horse into the shadow of some trees while Hunter conferred with Carter in low, whispered tones. When they were finished, Hunter looked up and urged his horse toward her.
“You ready?” He grasped her hand in a final testament of warm regard, his eyes remaining locked on hers during the brief moment they touched, as if absorbing her through the contact. “Stay safe, Andrea.”
Andrea nodded and forced a smile. “I’ll see you in Virginia, Alex.” Then she turned, spurred her horse into a gallop, and disappeared into the midst of the Confederacy’s most illustrious band of heroes.
Andrea heard only scattered gunfire until she was almost to the river—then all hell broke loose. It seemed the Yankees had been taken by surprise at the sudden departure of the enemy and were now intent on pulverizing them for their own carelessness.
She at once recognized Pierce, riding back and forth like a madman through a shower of lead, directing and strategically deploying his men to meet the coming foe while defending the battalion’s crossing. Because of the difficult terrain in reaching the ford, only a few dozen had yet safely reached the southern shore, and it was obvious the enemy was intent on stopping the rest.
“Keep them moving!” Pierce yelled. “Keep that ford open!”
Andrea had every intention of doing just that, but Buck decided he preferred the shore he was on and went madly out of control, sideswiping her leg against a tree.
Unfortunately, he was not the only beast of burden with unenthusiastic thoughts about the crossing. Already horses were plunging into the water, some without riders, many out of control. Andrea rushed into the river as well, slapping horses on their rumps to keep them moving, and holding injured men on their saddles until they could get across.
The fighting soon came so close to the ford that bullets from both sides whizzed by Andrea’s head. Still, she continued riding back and forth across the swollen river, pulling, prodding and poking to keep both injured man and beast from stopping or falling. Once across, the wounded handed her their extra weapons and ammunition to take back to their comrades on the other side. Time after time she crossed, loaded down with carbines, pistols, and powder to be distributed among Pierce’s men, who were facing the brunt of the attack.
Andrea had no time to think, no time to process the passage of time. Only once, when sitting on her knees helping reload fresh weapons, did she catch a glimpse of Alex shouting words of encouragement to Pierce’s men. Through the smoke, he appeared more spectral than real, raging through the storm of lead like a lion, the lust of battle flashing from his eyes. He did not stop other than to reload or confer with Pierce, then he rode back into battle, appearing to rejoice in the storm.
After losing sight of Alex, Andrea continued her duties, her body numb with exhaustion and her head aching from the incessant gunfire. The crescendo of war reached a feverish pitch, the lead hurling toward the ford seeming never ending. She was halfway back across the river when a man within an arm’s length of her blinked with a look of surprise and fell backward into the muddy water. Andrea dove off her mount, pulling him out of the way and onto the bank before he was trampled by a score of frenzied horses.
Standing ankle deep in mud and knee deep in water, she saw the man had been hit in the upper leg and was bleeding profusely from the gaping wound. Springing to his assistance, she took off her coat and bound his injury, speaking words of encouragement to rally him.
When she was all but through, Andrea felt a tingling sensation on the back of her neck. She turned, seeking Alex through the smoke and confusion on the other side of the river. It did not take her long to find him sitting on his frothing steed, silently watching her with a resolute stare. Enshrouded by the light from above and backlit with the smoke of battle, he appeared to be something other than mortal.
The world stopped for Andrea. Slowly, deliberately he raised his hand in a poignant, heartfelt salute. Andrea rose to her feet and returned the gesture, her eyes searching his from across the wide expanse. She was afraid to blink, afraid he would disappear
—and all too soon he did, wheeling his horse back toward the field and the fury, vanishing like a dream upon awakening.
Andrea felt a strange, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew he had sought her out, and feared to the very depths of her soul she had just witnessed a final goodbye.
Within a few moments, the firing on the other side of the river diminished in its intensity indicating the enemy was maneuvering for some new assault.
The men around her began maneuvering as well, most preparing to make a stand at the ford while others, like Pierce’s company, rushed forward to check the advancing forces before a new attack could be made. Andrea glanced around at the picture of vigorous martial splendor surrounding her. She knew she would remember those grimy faces lit with battle fire for the rest of her life.
On both sides of the river, exhausted and desperate men summoned all their strength for a final convulsive effort to repel the enemy long enough to get the remainder of the battalion through the perilous passage. To Andrea, the hazardous situation seemed only to render the men more fearless. It appeared their commander had instilled in them the idea that they were unconquerable, and they therefore did not know they were not.
All too soon the onslaught began again, the guns of the enemy pouring death and destruction in a storm of lead. The barrage was of a character more desperate and determined than Andrea had ever seen, but the ranks held, and the stream of gray kept moving to safety, despite the shelling that seemed to come from every direction.
“What’s your name?” Andrea kneeled by an older man she knew was one of Hunter’s officers.
“Boz,” he said grumpily. “Got me in my darn shooting arm.”
Andrea began tying a large handkerchief around his arm to help stem the flow of blood, when he struggled to his feet, almost pushing her down.
“Captain!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “To your right!”
Captain Pierce, sitting on his horse on the opposite bank, wheeled his mount around and shot a man in blue who had apparently crawled to the riverbank to pick off those who were crossing.
The Yankee, shot in the stomach or lower chest, went down, but Andrea and the man beside her watched in horror when the gun rose again. What only took a few seconds seemed to play in slow motion to Andrea. The sharpshooter, struggling for his life, propped his back against a tree for support. Slowly and deliberately, he lifted the gun to his eye and again took aim at Pierce, who by now was too far away to hear any shouts of warning from Andrea or Boz. They looked around to see who could help, but everything was in a state of chaos with horses whinnying, water splashing, and guns firing in rapid succession.
Andrea did not remember thinking or reacting or planning a response. Without warning there appeared on the side of the Yankee’s head a horrid red fountain, and at the same instant, he fell a corpse. She looked at Boz in relief, for the danger, it seemed, had been averted.
Boz’s eyes were not on the fallen Yankee. They were on her.
Andrea followed the line of his gaze to her outstretched hand, to the barrel of the still-smoking gun pointed toward the opposite bank.
She blinked, as if by doing so the gun would vanish. Then she glanced behind her, thinking surely someone else had taken the shot. But as for the former, the gun did not disappear, and as for the latter, there was no one in sight to assume the blame or accept the honor.
The cold reality of the situation rushed over her. With a shiver of revulsion that shook her, Andrea threw the dreadful instrument of death into the river. “It was just a Yankee,” Boz said, watching a perfectly good weapon disappear. “And he was dead before you shot him. You just hurried him up a little.”
Andrea took no comfort in his words. She continued to stare at her hand as though it belonged to someone else, then turned away, unable to endure the sight of the opposite bank.
Stumbling into some bushes, she bent over, and with her hands on her knees, gagged and heaved. She turned back toward Boz, but took only a few steps before sinking to the ground at the thought she had sent a human soul, fighting for his country, into eternity.
“Don’t see why you’re so upset, but look at it this way, kid,” Boz said, walking to her and patting her on her shoulder. “You saved a life today. One man was already on his way out. If you hadn’t shot, there woulda been two.”
Andrea nodded, but it was plain to see his words did not ease her anguish nor console her mental torture. Boz had no way of knowing that she had not just killed a Yank, she had killed a comrade—in order to save a Rebel, no less.
Andrea’s mind whirled with pain and confusion, but she had little time to lament. Hearing heavier gunfire, she caught a horse and rode to a small eminence a short distance away. What she saw filled her with dismay and horror. Union troops attacking the rearguard with furious determination had almost surrounded those remaining, cutting them off from the river and safety. Although holding their ground tenaciously, there was only a small force to meet the shock of the advancing hosts. And Alex was likely among them.
Andrea watched the two forces move closer and closer to hand-to-hand combat. Her soul froze at the sight of the Confederate banner waving defiantly within the chaos. This was not war, it was slaughter. A useless sacrifice. She spurred her horse up to Carter.
“Major, you must do something,” Andrea yelled above the din. “They are almost surrounded!”
“My orders are to move forward, not to look back.” He continued to wave on the men.
“But they shall all perish!” Andrea tried to remain calm, but it was useless. Pure and complete panic prevailed, to the extent that she was unable to think rationally. She looked Carter dead in the eye when he refused to budge or respond.
“I have no such orders,” she yelled.
Whirling her horse around, Andrea headed back to the river, though she had no idea what she could do. But she had a feeling Carter would follow to stop her—and he did. And she had a feeling the rest of the men would follow him—and they did. Dozens of those from the main body, apparently thinking there was to be a renewed fight, advanced at a full charge toward the river where their companions stood firm against the enemy’s fire. Some of Carter’s men charged undaunted back across without orders, willing to sacrifice all in defense of comrades they knew were in serious trouble.
Carter joined forces with Pierce, who split the command to attack the flanking parties, hoping to keep them back long enough to get the final seventy-five across.
More heavy firing a half-mile to the east, and a lessening of fire where the rearguard had been fighting, caused Andrea to cast her eyes in that direction. Seeing Carter again, she rode up beside him. “What could that be?” she yelled. “Have some of the men gotten separated?”
“Probably the Colonel creating a diversion,” Carter said with forced calmness, continuing to wave his men forward.
Andrea felt her heart do a summersault as she stared at him in horrified astonishment. “A diversion?” She grabbed him by the arm when he started to ride away. “He told me he was serving in the rearguard!”
“That too … but if I know him, he’s engaging the enemy to the east.” He nodded toward the sound of gunfire. “Giving time for more men to cross. Then he’ll cross over with . . . er-r, after . . . the rearguard.” Carter took a deep breath, and then added, “If all goes as planned.”
“But the diversion—” Andrea shook her head, trying to allow her brain to catch up with what her heart already knew. “How many men has he with him?”
She suddenly found it hard to concentrate with the whooshing in her ears that had nothing to do with the lead flying around her.
Carter shrugged. “The object is to draw their attention from the ford—”
“I know what a bloody diversion is,” she screamed, standing in her stirrups. “How many men has he with him?
Carter gazed at her intently, looking like he did not wish to answer. “There is but one man popular enough to distract the Yanks.”
He did not finish. He did not need to. A thunderous explosion of gunfire in that direction caused Andrea’s jaw to drop. Hunter was facing the enemy alone. She remained motionless, watching the scene play in slow motion before her eyes.
“Is it a diversion?” she cried out like a terrified child. “Or a sacrifice?”
“It’s his duty,” Carter said, more brusquely now, apparently afraid he was going to have a bawling woman on his hands. “And he is not one to evade it—not at any cost.”
Andrea looked back toward the sound of gunfire. It grew quiet for a moment, the enemy apparently checking to see if the target still stood. Then it began again with renewed and more violent intensity.
Damn him! Damn him!
His words came back to her. He never said he was going to retreat. He had said he would allow the officers to decide what the Command would do. He knew all along he was going to stand and fight while securing his men’s safe passage. His instinct to protect his country’s honor was stronger than his instinct for personal safety—even in so desperate and unequal a struggle. His own personal gallantry would not allow him to quit the field and retreat, even when solid military prudence made it clearly advisable
Andrea blinked hard, fighting back tears that were stinging her eyes. She looked at Carter with brimming lashes.
“He’ll come out all right, darlin’,” he said in a reassuring tone. “He always does.” Then he turned his horse and galloped back into the fray.
It seemed like only minutes later, but was certainly much more, when Carter and a dozen other riders splashed through the river now red with blood. “Move out!” he ordered to all those who remained on the bank. The firing behind them continued and the water around them gurgled with gunfire as his remaining men galloped through. The rearguard, cut and slashed and war beaten, followed across beneath a hail of suppressing fire from some reinforcements Gus had brought up to cover their passage.
Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia Page 49