The questioning thought confused him. He wasn’t an unsure man. He had always been decisive. He’d made a career from making lightning decisions in the heat of battle and bold maneuvers. That was how legends were made. And now he was in shambles with moments of clarity. His mind was foggy and unclear. Worry stabbed his gut repeatedly like a long bayonet. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced much even during this war, and now it controlled and steered him like someone else held his reins.
He was plagued by worry for his wife. But another stressor overshadowed even that. It was an overwhelming sense of dread. His last days were coming. He could feel it deep inside his soul. This war would take him into death’s cold hollow bosom.
When a man felt his demise looming, it always was a harbinger of ill. Deep in the marrow of his bones he felt the impending doom. It was almost a premonition fit for an ancient seer.
He’d spoken to Hampton about it passively as gentlemen would, only an offhand remark to mask the worry. All men must die, and if you must go early, then there is no better way than in the service of your beloved Virginia.
“If Wickham goes along the ridge, we will form a Y along Telegraph road.” Fitz said. “I understand that. Then Sheridan will be forced to address us in pieces where we can hammer his flanks. Perhaps capture his whole command.”
Stuart eyed them. He had duties to his nation. He could never reunite with the Union. His nation would live, or it would die on his shoulders. He ran a hand over his hair, joining the men. “Yes, yes, Fitz. Well done. That is what I had in mind.”
Fitz regarded him with tired chocolate brown eyes. “Thank you, Jeb.” He looked like he would say something else before settling on. “I am sorry about Flora. Hampton’s men are some of the best. If she can be found—“Fitz said. He gulped.
“She will be found, Fitz.”
Fitz lowered his eyes for a moment for fear of hurting his commander and friend. All his trusted commanders knew now. They were all so close. Lomax stood a bit straighter, getting rigid under the weight of an uncomfortable situation.
“Of course she will, sir. The Yanks will pay for their dishonorable actions,” Lomax said.
Have I focused too much on my wife and not the coming battle? His men were some of the finest soldiers in the war, but they needed their leader. His doubt in his own command made him squeamish.
Stuart shook his head, trying to orient himself. “It’s a good position. Fitz, make sure Wickham hurries. If you can get word to Gordon, make sure he comes even faster. I will not retreat to Richmond.” Retreat was not in his wartime vocabulary. He hated anything that looked weak in front of the enemy. Sure, placing his men behind earthen walls and harassing Sheridan’s men was a path to success, but it looked weak, and he couldn’t stand the thought of weakness. He wasn’t going to leave his wife in the clutches of evil men while he hid behind a wall.
“I want pickets and skirmishers in those woods about four hundred yards from Lomax’s men. The battery will hold the center. It will have clear shots on them if they push back our skirmishers. We’ll force Sheridan to commit here, and as the reinforcements arrive, he will be pinned between our two forces. Then the fun can begin.”
Fitz gave him a short smile. “This is good, Jeb.”
Stuart flashed a smile he didn’t feel inside. “This will do while we find my wife.”
***
He rode with Lomax along the length of Lomax’s Brigade lining the Telegraph Road south. Carbine fire popped off inside the woods ahead of his position. The battery at the center waited patiently to fire upon the Federals after their own men were clear. Between the picketed forest and his wooded position along the road was a field of three-inch corn and a land in full bloom. A land about to be devastated by war.
A bullet screamed past, cracking a tree behind them. All the men ducked down. “I see Sheridan’s boys have started to roll in,” Stuart said. The gnaw of his missing wife ate at his soul as he let himself be seen by his men. The bullet pulled him slightly closer to reality, focusing his dull senses.
Lomax’s skirmishers were in a mad dash for friendly lines. Men in butternut and gray didn’t even bother to shoot back as they sprinted. Dismounted blue-coated men barely visible moved through the forest and settled on hesitantly lining the edge of the trees. Death awaited them over the open field before they reached his men along the road.
“Fire that cannon!” Lomax called over.
A shot rumbled forth from the battery. The shell sailed into the tops of tree canopies then exploded with a loud pop. Leaves, blooming buds, and metal fragments rained down on the Union men beneath the trees. A few fell screaming to the ground, shrapnel having pierced their flesh.
Two more cannons boomed from Griffin’s Baltimore Light Artillery, showering the men in the trees. Pulling his field glasses from their case, he eyed southwest of their position.
More Federal cavalry were arriving and shifting into formation. Sheridan was beginning to reveal himself in whole. Damn, I need Gordon here. Two brigades won’t be enough. He checked one of the flags.
The Union Army had settled on conforming their standards and flags, making it easier to communicate on the field of battle. It also made it easier for their enemy to know who they were dealing with.
First Division, Second Brigade. Must be Devin. Formidable cavalryman. Not quite on par with his men but stout. He would admit the enemy had gotten better over the course of the war, but that only meant his men must perform to an even higher standard.
In the same direction as Devin’s men lay the abandoned Yellow Tavern and much farther to the east Davidson Farm, the last known location of Payne and, God willing, Flora. He still hadn’t heard anything, each painful minute ticking onward battering his heart and soul.
Skirmishers were reaching their respective commands. A few were bloodied. They spit white foam from dry mouths and guzzled water from canteens, their chests heaving. Black soot covered their faces, and most looked ready to keel over to embrace the ground in exhaustion.
“Be a ton of the bluebellies over there,” said one. He smeared sweaty gunpowder residue over his forehead with the back of his hand. “Whole ton. Came at us like wild Comanches,” he breathed. He turned back, seeing his commanding officers. “Sir!” he said, removing a brown farmer’s hat.
Stuart eyed him angrily, pointing with his field glasses. “You rally here, soldier. You make them pay for every inch of ground.”
The man straightened shouldering his rifle. “We will, sir!”
“I’d rather be whipped than give this ground! You hear me?”
“Yes, sir!” came a chorus of shouts.
“They’re forming on our flank,” came a shout from farther down Lomax’s line of dismounted cavalry.
Stuart turned his field glasses in that direction, but he didn’t need them to see the threat. Hundreds of sabers glittered in the sun like sparkling diamonds. The dazzling mounted force trotted their horses within a few hundred yards of their left flank.
Spurring his horse, he rode in their direction. “Wheel that line!” he shouted, gesturing madly. The 6th Virginia boys began to realize they were in danger. Heads turned away from the enemy in front to view the enemy forming on their flank.
“Wheel that line!” he called again.
A lieutenant gawked in confusion in his direction. Stuart jabbed his hand wildly at the advancing enemy. As if the rival horseman saw him trying to rally his troops, a high-pitched bugle sounded the charge. It was an upbeat and choppy sound, one to inspire bravery in the face of danger.
The lieutenant turned when hundreds of hooves announced the coming storm of sabers and bullets. His men scrambled to reposition in a cut along the road. They were painfully slow in their adjustment. Stuart drew his pistol, slowing his horse. He pulled the reins, and his mount made a circle. He twisted in his saddle to keep his eyes on the charging enemy.
He pointed at the dismounted cavalrymen from the 5th Virginia, who anchored the center of Lomax’s line. If the 6th was rout
ed, they could be as well, but if they formed properly, they could withdraw in some semblance of order. Chaos destroyed an army. Order maintained it. “Wheel ninety degrees. Defend your flank!” He needed time to adjust Lomax’s line.
Colonel Pate of the 5th took up his orders and called to his men, “One more round, boys, then we’ll get to the ridge.” He gave a quick glance at Stuart. His eyes said one thing: you are asking me to die here. You are asking me to get my men slaughtered. Pate turned back toward the enemy. His sword was drawn, and he understood that their stand would blunt the Yankee charge with flesh and blood.
The 6th Virginia scrambled past Pate’s men, who held their fire for fear of hitting their own. Everything worked in the enemy horsemen’s favor, giving them time to charge without suffering losses.
The Yankees whipped their horses, gaining on the fleeing men. A few swung shining sabers into those too slow as they passed by, and their steeds ate the ground like locomotives at full speed.
Pate’s men were quick to obey, assembling and forming nearly as quick as the galloping horsemen. They were experienced soldiers. But they didn’t have time to breathe before the enemy was too close or make sure the hammer was cocked or finish a reload and aim at the enemy.
Within seconds, the blue wave poured into the cut like a flood. Mounted men urged their horses among Pate’s, swinging madly with sabers into the rebels.
The back of Pate’s skull exploded as a pistol bullet blew it out. He crumpled over himself backward. Then the slaughter began. Hooves trampled his men. The dull thud of sabers atop heads repeated itself over and over. A horse screamed as a man stabbed it with his sword, sending its rider to the ground.
Stuart grimaced. I sacrificed them for the Cause. He lined his LeMat pistol on his enemies, nine shots total, not including the underneath smoothbore, short-barreled, 16 gauge single-shot shotgun. A flip of a lever on the hammer and the gun would fire the lower barrel, sending pellets screaming at anyone in close range. He fired a single shot and then another.
Smoke clouded his vision, but a rider flinched, and he was satisfied with the result. The battle was quick, and he turned his horse around as to not get separated from his own men. How could I have not seen this coming? No matter, we must adapt.
A yell went out from the opposing tree line, drawing Stuart’s attention away from the road. A squadron of dismounted cavalrymen charged forth toward Lomax’s line. A golden-haired man urged them onward but within distance of Wickham’s men. “Brave fellow,” Stuart muttered. “Trying to roll us up.”
The cries of Pate’s men chased him along. Some fled. Others still fought. Stuart galloped along the rear of Lomax’s line. “Hold the line! Hold the line!” His aide was by his side.
“Get that battery to push them back in the center.” Boteler disappeared in a cloud of dust as he made the half-mile to the guns. He would apply pressure to the center of Custer’s dismounted men. When they fell back, it would leave the men flanking Stuart exposed. The flankers would be forced to retreat or risk a thrashing. Perhaps I can bring the 1st Virginia up and rout them? He hated the idea of using his reserves so early in the day, but if things continued to go poorly, he would do as he must. They would have to concede Telegraph Road and reposition on the ridge.
The 6th Virginia was attempting to reform behind the blood and guts of the 5th. The 15th was concerned about protecting their flank while defending themselves from the assault in front. That bold bastard Custer. But if Lomax’s boys were repositioned, eventually Wickham would be able to pressure Custer’s dismounted men to withdraw.
He found Lomax near the 15th Virginia. “Make for the ridge,” he shouted. Bullets thudded in the trees around them, buzzing as they passed. The dismounted 15th returned fire with more Federals sneaking across the field.
“Sir, we must get you to a safer location,” Garnett, another aide, shouted.
“Make for the ridge. Set your defense there in line with Wickham’s new line.”
Buzzzzz! A bullet whip-snapped past his ear. That one was close. He sucked in air greedily. The snap always meant it was close. Was that the one meant for me? Will they get closer and closer?
“Sir, this isn’t safe,” Lomax agreed. “You should ride ahead.”
“Not to worry. You’ll be fine, Lomax. Carry out my orders. Don’t let them reach Richmond.”
Lomax blinked his deep-set eyes. “Of course, sir. We won’t.”
“Look, sir!” Garnett said. He pointed out at the field. The Baltimore Light Battery was laying excellent fire, and the Yanks in the center were retreating for cover. Stuart surveyed the length of Telegraph Road. Those Yanks knew it too. They were disengaging with the 5th and riding away.
All of his men that were left carried themselves back down Telegraph Road toward the ridge. The Yankees maneuvered in the opposite direction, a host of prisoners under guard as they fell back.
“Reform them on the ridge. Protect the battery. They are a favorite of mine.” He glanced that way looking for them. “It’s a good position. Trust your judgment, it is sound.”
Lomax squinted in confusion. “Yes, sir? I don’t understand, sir.”
Boteler returned appearing unstable atop his mount. “The battery is trained on them, sir.”
“Very well then, good sir.” Stuart cocked his head to the side. He could hear the faint ringing of church bells. “Infantry from Richmond are on their way. Good luck!”
Stuart yanked his reins toward the Davidson Farm. He would not, no he could not let his honor be besmirched by classless Yankee bandits. It was downright deplorable. These men grow bold while I am forced to battle them and my fears for my love.
“Sir? We retreat to the ridge.”
“Boteler and Garnett, with me,” he yelled at his aides. The two men exchanged looks with one another.
He galloped his horse along the rear of a humble ridge running perpendicular to Telegraph Road with his aides trailing behind him.
Chapter Thirty
Morning, May 11, 1864
Near Yellow Tavern, Virginia
Overhead morning clouds threatened to storm. A breeze followed along, daring to grow into a wind. Leaves rustled around them fresh and green, shaking under the unseen currents.
“Smells like rain,” he said to Flora. They were alone in the gray morning light.
“It does.”
Every time the sound of carbine fire rippled to the northwest she would eye that direction nervously. It was accented by the low rumble from artillery. There were only a few bass drums of death, pounding out their morbid march. It was nothing like the earth-shattering barrage on the third day of Gettysburg. Her worried eyes searched for shells and balls heading for them. But nothing came their way.
Hoof thunder in the distance as mounted men repositioned themselves worried Wolf more. A random patrol from Union or Confederate forces could pose an obstacle. So much so, every time they heard riders, he would lead them off the path and wait for the rhythmic beating of hooves to pass. The riders, friend or foe, would never even notice them in the forest. Then they would carry on.
“Is the battle close?” Flora asked.
“Close enough.” They continued to ride in silence, the battle serenading them from afar. Wolf’s eyes continually scanned for anyone and anything in the distance.
“Are we in danger?” she added. The woman was clearly worried and rightfully so. An errant cannon shot sailing overhead could explode, impaling them with jagged shrapnel. A sharpshooter could think them officers or the enemy and take careful aim, sending bullets through their skulls. And depending on which side they ran into, they could mistake them for the enemy. A woman would most likely stay a soldier’s hand, but Wolf might be done for, friend or foe.
“No, ma’am. Not much. The battle is about a mile away.”
“Can a cannon shoot over a mile?”
Wolf cocked his head to the side. “There are guns that can shoot over a mile. Pennington could shoot a shell through a window from that
distance, or so they claimed. Can’t say I seen it.”
“But there are guns that could shoot that far?”
Wolf shrugged. “Yes, ma’am.”
“So we could be in danger.”
“Suppose we are.” He briefly regarded her with a fraction of amusement. “It would have to be a mighty lucky shot, ma’am.”
She visibly relaxed. Their horses’ hooves clip-clopped the ground on the path they traveled. Hogan was sure if they rode east until they found a creek then followed that north, they would reach the Davidson Farm. After following the creek for some time, they exited the timber and entered an overgrown field.
Stunted grass grew in the field, swaying back and forth in the wind. With no trees to deflect the wind, it ran unchecked over the land. The tree line cut north at a ninety-degree angle where the farmer’s land must have ended. The timber grew like a natural fence. Then on the far side of the field, stood the Davidson Farmhouse.
His eyes found the single horseman standing motionless in the distance. His coat was gray along with his slouch hat. The red of his shirt was brazen and vibrant, sticking out like a lone rose in a field of dying wheat.
“Is that him?” Flora asked.
“I believe it is. Do not be afraid, but there will be violence here today.”
“Would you break your promise of my freedom?”
Visions of the hot poker hovering near his flesh almost made him puke. He daydreamed of ramming his sword into Payne’s gut. “When this is over, I will return you to your people.”
She lifted her chin, satisfied with his answer. “You are a reprehensible man. No gentleman. But no man has brought me harm in your care. And I wish you perseverance over this man despite his association with my husband’s army.”
The rider began to trot toward them. Wolf tracked him, unbuckling the flap over his pistol.
“Thank you, my lady. Glad we aren’t leaving on poor terms.”
She gave him a terse nod with her chin, yet her eyes watched the tarnished man who’d come to rescue her. Freedom lingered on the edges, bringing her to an outward peace.
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