Dark, billowing clouds raced across the sky.
Vicki had never seen clouds move so rapidly before. They made her uneasy. She gritted her teeth, fighting the sensation of fear.
What was the matter with her? She felt so cold. As if she were treading where she shouldn’t be, walking through a graveyard at midnight. She had a strange intuition that she’d crossed some forbidden line. She was seeing things she wasn’t meant to see.
Jason reached for her hand. Just as they touched, a tremendous bolt of lightning flashed down nearby. The thunder that rolled and clashed in its wake was instant and alarming.
Vicki looked up. The sky was nearly black. The trees were dipping and swaying, bowed down beneath the strength of the wind. She and Jason ran through the arch created by the lashing trees. A field of electricity snapped and cracked around them. It seemed they ran forever, then burst out into a clearing.
Then Vicki took a look around her, and screamed.
HEATHER GRAHAM
New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than ninety novels, several of which have been featured by the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild. There are more than twenty million copies of her books in print and she has been published in more than fifteen languages. Heather lives with her husband and five children in Miami, Florida.
HEATHER GRAHAM
THE LAST CAVALIER
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Blackfield’s Mountain
September, 1862
Before…
The Confederate cavalry officer stood staring down Blackfield’s Mountain, his gloved hands upon his hips, his silver-gray eyes fixed on the field that stretched out below him. His uniform sat well upon his broad shoulders and tautly muscled physique. His plumed hat sat low over his brow, concealing from his waiting men any emotion written in his eyes. His looks were striking; his handsomely chiseled features, hardened perhaps by the endless months of war, but arresting nonetheless. They were features that gave a measure of the man—the silver-gray eyes always steady; his mouth generous; his smile quick. He knew how to command, how to be stern, how to be merciful. Best of all, he knew how to instill his men with courage, while also doing his damnedest to keep them all alive.
A spasm of unease suddenly crept along his spine. He commanded the crest of the mountain at the moment, but there was something he didn’t like about the day. The air was dry and still, yet curious gray clouds were forming to the east. It was early morning, but already the battlefield was nearly black with the powder from Yankee mortar and Confederate Napoleons. A man could barely see two feet in front of his face.
But Jason Tarkenton had been given the order to charge, and so he would. Jackson was the commanding general, and Jason deeply respected the man. General Jackson made few mistakes.
Cavalry was most often used as reconnaissance, riding ahead, scouting out enemy positions. Then sometimes cavalry met cavalry ahead of the other troops.
Today, both the Yanks and the Rebs were forced to use their cavalry units to fight. They had done so before. Too many times, Jason thought.
For some reason, though, it seemed that this time it was a mistake. But if old “Stonewall” had ordered him to take his troops into the battle, then Jason would do so. Jackson had ordered them to hold the mountain. They would damned well try their very best to do so.
“Now, Jason?”
He arched a brow. His brother, John, anxiously asked him the question. Young, but a damned good military man for his tender age, John stood holding the reins to Jason’s big black gelding. After two years of training at West Point, John had been pulled back from the Yankee stronghold to fight the war. His rank was captain and his duties were to serve Jason as aide-de-camp.
In times like this, he never remembered to address Jason in a proper military fashion. But today, Jason just smiled. It didn’t seem like the right time to remind anyone about protocol or procedure. Jason gazed at John, then blinked painfully against the oppressive powder and the debilitating heat of the day.
Now. Yes, it should be now.
Still, he hesitated, and wondered if the awful days of endless fighting in Virginia were wearing him down at last. He didn’t dare hesitate! The battle could be lost through hesitation! What was wrong? He didn’t like the day. He just didn’t like the day.
Didn’t like the day? Since when did he get to choose when the Yankees would attack?
The enemy had been gathering in the valley, definitely preparing to attack. They had to take the initiative!
He gritted his teeth, determined that his brother would not see his unease or his hesitation. He was accustomed to the blinding properties of the black powder created by the cannon fire and the gun shot. He knew the shouts and cries of battle, the screams of dying men and horses. Damn it, he knew how to lead men, how to charge and how to retreat.
Today, things seemed worse. Different. Maybe it was the air, the damned air. It had a feel about it. As if it were charged with more than an earthly fire.
Maybe it was the sky. There seemed to be a promise of rain from the heavens above. The distant clouds that had grown as black as the powder of cannon fire, seemed to billow and roil in a constant, wild action. Yet here, where he stood, the day seemed unbelievably still.
A tempest was coming. A tempest deeper than battle, louder than any clash of steel. It seemed as if God Himself had grown angry with the fratricide, and was about to grumble out his wrath. There was something ethereal about the air. Something tense, something charged with a strange lightning…
Something ghostly…
Jesu! And he was supposed to be a military man!
He pulled down impatiently on his hat, stiffening, and standing very tall in his cavalry officer’s yellow-trimmed gray. Hell, it was war! No matter that he faced half his old friends from West Point, no matter that he had once been U.S. cavalry himself. He’d been facing old friends on the battlefield since his troops had first entered the fray at Manassas. This was war. War. It was natural that a battlefield should be fraught with tension. That it should be charged. It was even natural that God should be angry, watching all the men, so many in the flower of youth, bleed, break and die.
Naturally! There was something ghostly about it all. Men were going to die.
And it was time to enter into the fray.
“Now, John,” he said quietly, keeping his emotion from his voice.
But it sure did look like suicide. If the Yank shot didn’t get them, they might well be gunned down by their own artillery. He turned slightly, looking out over the field of his men. Young and old. Graybeards and green young fellows, all of them a little lean in the face, since they had been with him quite some time now. Some leaned upon their rifles, some just standing by their mounts. With level eyes and infinite faith, they watched him. In silence, they awaited his command. And every man jack there would follow him without question. He lowered his head, smiling. Well, hell, they had their pride. They might all be as stupid as all get-out to go racing into forces that outnumbered them three to one, but it was the courageous thing to do, and that was one thing every Southerner liked to claim—wagonloads of courage. And honor. He mustn’t forget that. Young men fell like flies for the honor of dying for their beloved cause.
He was no better!
Again he reminded himself firmly, It was war! They had no choice.
Taking the reins fr
om John, he mounted Max, his huge black gelding. Mortar exploded nearby, uprooting a giant oak. A horse screamed, and the powder in the air thickened around them. Max, good old warhorse that he was, remained still, as accustomed to shot and fire as his master.
“Jackson’s asked us to keep the mountain, boys!” he told them.
“Yessir!” cried back one of the men.
“Yessir!” was echoed all around.
He pulled down on his hat again. “I’ll guess we’ll keep the mountain, then!”
Looking back up the mountain, Jason could scarcely see their own artillery. There was a fallen body at his side. A man killed in the earlier fighting. Jason knew that the dead man was an artillery private only by the stripe of red that ran along the side of his uniform trousers. There was nothing else left that could distinguish his identity.
The smoke cleared somewhat. Jason drew his saber from the sheath at his side and raised it high. Some distant ray of sunshine broke through the clouds and powder to touch down upon the blade, and it glinted silver in the air. The Yanks were down there regrouping, Jason knew. They were ready to start their own charge up the mountain. It would be far better to meet them in the valley, and leave themselves the top of the mountain for their field of retreat. In the valley, there would be room to maneuver, room to beat back numbers far greater than their own.
Now.
“Charge!” Jason ordered.
“Yessir!” rose the voices of his men.
He nodded. His saber slashed through the air as he stretched low over his horse’s neck, leading the advance.
He felt the hoofbeats pound beneath him, and the vibration of the earth as over a hundred mounts followed hard behind him. Ahead of him lay the enemy in blue. Men and boys. Some would fall, and some would die. And soon, somewhere, someplace in time, mothers would cry and widows would grieve. And that was what war was: death and despair. But a man was called upon to fight it and it was best not to dwell upon the pain and horror. Better to think about staying mounted, about avoiding the falling shrapnel, about fighting and surviving.
Yet, if he fell…Well, how much would it matter? Widows and sweethearts were supposed to weep, and soldiers were supposed to die.
But here he rode, alive and well, while Lydia lay in the cold darkness of the earth, beautiful even in death, so fragile in that beauty.
“Jesu!” Even above the hideous pounding on the earth and the roar of fire, he could hear his brother’s cry to heaven as mortar exploded all around them. The earth came up in big chunks and rained back down upon them. Jason looked John’s way. It must have been a hundred degrees, and their uniforms were made of wool. Sweat dripped down the lean planes of John’s face.
A chorus of shouts rose up behind Jason, loud and strong. The Rebel yell, coming from each of the men who were riding hard down the mountain for their date with destiny and doom.
They charged into the fray.
Jason lost all track of himself. He met Union steel with his Richmond saber and fought and hacked and fought again. The cavalry troops began the battle; they were quickly joined on the field by the infantry, running behind with their own Rebel yell.
All around him, horses and men screamed. Men in blue and gray. Cannons continued to bellow, guns to roar.
Jason stared into faces. Young faces. Faces of boys still wet behind the ears. Faces that would never age enough to bear more than a pale wisp of peach fuzz. Faces that were gnarled with years, gray whiskered, leathered. He couldn’t choose between the faces. Kind faces, hard faces, gentle faces. This was war, so he must battle. When a sword raised to his, he fought for his own life, and shoved back any thoughts of an easier, gentler time when he might have shared a whiskey with any one of these Yanks in some nameless tavern upon a nameless road.
The smoke was awful. The day grew grayer. Darker. What little light there was, reflected in the blood spilled upon the earth.
The Confederate troops gained an advantage, and a retreat was sounded for the Union soldiers.
“Jason! We’ve done it!” John shouted, waving his arm. His horse pranced at a small distance from Jason’s. “They’re skedaddling, those blue bellies!”
“Look at them run!” cried Henry Ostraw, another of his men.
Jason shook his head with both impatience and sorrow. Let them go. Let’s all live! his heart cried. But he was an officer. He couldn’t let the Yanks regroup and come after them again. “Give chase!” he commanded.
His bugler began to sound out the order on the dark and dusky air. Jason waved his sword in a circle, and cried the order again. “Give chase!” Then he nudged Max’s thighs, and the animal sprang forward, lunging into a gallop, racing after the enemy who was already disappearing into the forest at the base of the valley.
Suddenly, there was a roar of cannon, and his brother screamed. Jason saw that John was no longer riding at his side. He raised a hand to Lieutenant Nigel Keefe, his second in command, indicating that he should lead the men on forward. Nigel and his troops obeyed, racing onward into the darkening day.
Jason reined in Max, carefully trotting back, scarcely able to see in the red-and-gray day. He heard a moan, and only then saw John on the ground before him. He hastily dismounted, falling to his knees beside his brother. It was John’s arm that had been hit. Shrapnel. The arm was badly ripped up. The bone had been shattered.
The surgeons would amputate, and hell, it seemed that infection always set in after an amputation, and then…
And then a man died.
Not my brother, damn it all to hell! He looked to heaven, both fury and agony in his heart. He’d lost too damned much already. Not John. He wouldn’t lose John, too!
John was bleeding, bleeding badly. Jason quickly pulled his mustard scarf from about his throat and applied it as a tourniquet to John’s arm. “It’s going to be all right,” he assured his brother. “I’ve just got to get a surgeon and—”
“Hell, no!” John protested. “Ah, hell, Jason, it’s bad, really bad, and I’m not any man’s fool. I’m going to die. Let me go easy, Jason. Don’t let those old sawbones chop me up before I go.”
“Now, dammit, John. You aren’t going to die. I’m not going to let you die.” Brave words. He had to get help. Despite the tourniquet, John was still bleeding badly.
But men were bleeding all over the battlefield. Men were dying all over the battlefield. The surgeons, orderlies and nurses were already out, attending to the wounded. They weren’t alone. Some wives and lovers, camp followers, even some of the braver local population, were out, too, doing their best to tend to the wounded, to sort the living from the dead.
And seeing to the fallen men in blue, as well as the men in gray.
Jason gritted his teeth. Someone would be along. He had always prided himself on being such a damn good military man. He should turn away from John and ride on to lead his men.
But in the midst of all this suffering, something had to matter. In all the sacrifice and horror—in the great quest for honor—something still had to matter.
John mattered.
“Listen to me, John. You aren’t going to die. Hell, I can’t fight this stinking war without you! Ma would be rolling over in her grave right now, crashing into Pa! I can’t let you go, John. I can’t. Don’t you dare die on me. The two of them will haunt me the rest of my days!”
As he’d hoped, he drew a painful smile from his brother.
“Now, I’ll be right back. You just lie there, nice and still. In case we should start to lose this ground again, shimmy your way under that rock. You don’t want to wind up injured in a Yank camp, right?”
John nodded at him bleakly. “You gotta lead the war, Colonel,” John reminded him.
“Oh, so you do know my rank?” He was still trying to keep his voice light. “Keefe knows what he’s doing. The war will wait for me for just a few minutes, I’m certain.”
John tried to give Jason a thumbs-up signal, but pain was naked in his glazed gray eyes. He was just a kid, Jas
on thought. Barely twenty. That was war. War killed dreams and slaughtered the future!
Sometimes Jason just wished to hell he could walk away from all of it. Just up and walk away. Disappear.
He whistled for Max, and Max obediently came. Quickly Jason mounted his horse again. “You’re going to make it!” he told John. He swung Max around, dug his heels in and leaned low against the gelding’s neck to race hard with the gray-and-crimson day once again, trying to catch up to his own lines this time.
Jason swore when another cannon shot exploded right in front of him. The air was so thick with the explosion of powder and earth that he couldn’t see a damned thing. He blinked and spoke out loud to Max. “Fools! Can’t they keep from shooting at their own damned side?”
He reined in, feeling Max’s power beneath him as the gelding pranced, waiting for the powder to settle and for light to break through the darkness. A wind had risen with that burst of cannon. A strange wind. One that seemed to come from both the east and the west.
No, the wind didn’t come from the east and the west, especially not when the day had been dead calm just a few minutes ago. Dead calm, with a leaden gray sky.
But despite the strange wind, the powder swirl that had filled the air did not settle. It seemed to grow. Odd. There was a loud crack in the sky, like the sound of a cannon, but distinctly not the sound of a cannon.
He stared skyward. Clouds, billowing black and gray, seemed to rush down toward him. He threw out an arm in defense—in defense against a cloud?—and watched in amazement. There was an arbor of large oaks just to his side. Huge trees that reached the clouds themselves, their branches forming an archway. The clouds billowed and roiled. They curled back into themselves, puffing and swirling there in the archway formed by the swaying branches of trees. He realized with amazement that a strange doorway had been created in the arbor, in the blowing clouds and mist.
All around him strange winds rose, and in their whistling gust he heard a mournful wail, a cry that seemed to echo from the very heart of the dark, twisting heavens. The lashing branches moved like gigantic bony arms, mocking him, beckoning him closer, into their skeletal embrace. And as he watched, an unearthly sensation swept over his body from head to toe, as if someone—or something—was touching him. Touching him with clammy fingers that marked a chilling path down the length of his spine.
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