Hunter let out his breath.
“I should not have, I realize. But I was trying to protect her.”
Hunter slid down the tree he was leaning on to a sitting a position with his head in his hands. He knew her duty to country meant everything to her—was all she lived for.
“Too bad it’s so dark, tonight,” Jordan commented casually. “You can almost see the river from here.”
Hunter blinked hard, understanding immediately his intent.
“It’s a bit steep and rocky on the way down, but a couple hundred yards, there it is. Darn rebels are right on the other side.”
“Is that so?”
“Yea, they’re close. I should probably have camp guards on this side, but we’re shorthanded and the men are tired.”
Both men were silent for what seemed an eternity. Then Jordan spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “I fear for her safety. She’s gone.”
“Gone where?” Hunter knew his tone was far too full of concern to deceive the general.
“I wish I knew.”
Hunter closed his eyes, and for the first time in his life, said a prayer. By the time he opened them, he knew the general was no longer there.
Glancing toward the group playing cards, he began to form a plan of escape. He did not care if it was a trick. Did not care if a firing squad of twelve or the whole bloody Union army was waiting for him at the river. General Jordan would be looking for her on this side. By Jupiter he would be looking for her on the other.
Chapter 8
Noble is the courage that performs without hope or without reward.
– Anonymous
It was that time of year when leaves on the trees change from gold to gone, seemingly overnight, leaving no doubt in the minds of those who gaze upon them that winter will soon come calling.
Three weeks had passed since Hunter’s escape from the enemy camp, yet no trace of Andrea had been found. If General Jordan’s search yielded better results, Hunter had received no word of it. It pained him to know that he probably never would.
“A courier is here with a dispatch for you, Colonel.”
Hunter lifted his gaze from the plate of untouched food before him to the face of his young hostess.
“At the door, sir.” The smiling woman pointed. “I would have taken it myself, but he said he has orders to place it in your hand.”
Hunter excused himself from the table and went out into the frosty night to accept the communication. A strange sinking feeling swept over him as he took the dispatch and broke the seal, as if a part of him knew that somewhere, something had gone terribly wrong. He held the paper up to catch the light from the house and hurriedly devoured the contents.
November 15, 1864
Col. Hunter,
It is my undesirable duty to inform you that a deserter from my command appears to have relayed information to the Federal forces concerning the intended raid on a train by your men in September, having heard of your intentions through careless members of my staff. It can be presumed this was the reason for the fateful events that followed.
All available means are being utilized to secure additional information which will be forwarded to you forthwith.
Your most obedient servant,
Colonel Wade Burton
Hunter read the dispatch again, his hands trembling as his mind absorbed the words. A deserter was responsible? Could Andrea be innocent of the charges of which he had accused her?
He dropped the note to his side and stared into the darkness. No. Justus was proof enough that she had ridden out that night. And that the horse had been ridden she had not bothered to deny. Even the servants had finally corroborated that she had been absent from Hawthorne. Hunter went quietly back into the house, trying to make sense of the dispatch, and found his men discussing a newspaper article the hostess had brought forth.
“That was the same night as the train raid.” Captain Pierce scanned the article as he talked. “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?” Hunter tried to put the dispatch out of his mind, and joined in the conversation. He sat down and accepted the paper from Pierce, who pointed to the source of their discussion. As Hunter 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 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.
The paper in Hunter’s hands began to tremble more violently. “Why did I not know about this?” He scanned each man’s face, his eyes like a searchlight. Yet no man in the room seemed capable or willing to answer. They looked at the floor, or at each other, or at something that suddenly interested them out the window.
No one—not even Carter—seemed willing to tell Hunter that his mood the past few months had made him unapproachable. None dared mention that his feverish impatience and restlessness had forced them to converse with him only when responding to an order, and then discuss only what was asked of them.
The room began closing in around Hunter, smothering him and taking away his ability to think. He looked up at his men staring at him, muttered an excuse, and headed out the door. His breath came in short gasps as he leaned over the porch railing, so heavy and strained that a puff of steam escaped with every exhalation.
In an instant, all was clear. The choice he had always feared she would make—between her country and him—had been made in his favor. Yet he had assumed, she’d intentionally betrayed him. And by judging her thusly, he had destroyed the trust of one who had only just learned how to give it.
“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 became so overwhelmed by his remorse that for once his iron will failed him. He sank to the porch step, and put his head in hands as the memory of that night came rushing back to him. The recollections sent shockwaves of pain from his toes to the back of his eyes as he realized her peril, and her awful cost.
Why? How? She had everything to lose and absolutely nothing to
gain. Yet in her mind, she had accepted the consequences as worth the end result. Self-sacrifice in an extreme form.
The blood in his veins suddenly grew so thick and so cold that his heart could barely find the strength to beat. He put his head in hands, uncontrollably distraught as he thought back to the scene. The memory of that night came to him in searing clarity…her solemn silence and calm self-possession… his hateful malicious words.
Hunter shuttered, seized by an emotion so strong it threatened to overwhelm him as he recalled how she had trembled that night. He knew now she had been wrestling with telling him the truth or allowing him to believe the worst. And for the sake of her own pride she had chosen the latter. He had accused, and she had accepted that she was guilty—guilty of trusting him.
She had not cowered, or wavered, or sobbed, but he remembered well her look of utter anguish, her quiet, pathetic despair. That reaction to his distrust was 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 Hunter 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.
He had wounded her deeply. It was an injury she would probably never forget, and definitely never forgive. Yet she would go on as she always had, making the best of the worst by concentrating pain into strength.
Hunter’s mind wandered back to his brief captivity. After all the pain he had caused her, why had she shown him mercy rather than seek revenge? He knew instantly the answer to his question. Her vengeful side had ever been but a mask to hide her inner pain. And now, it seemed, the pain no longer mattered to her.
When he recalled that emotionally vacant stare, those empty eyes, he wondered if anything did.
Only a heart breaking with its burden of repressed and stifled agony could produce such a look as that upon a human countenance. He could not get it out of his mind. She had given everything to him and asked nothing in return. What little he had promised her, had gone largely unfulfilled. He had made a mistake eternal in its consequences.
“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 turned away and looked again at the sky, as if there he could find an answer. Slowly he shook his head as he stared at the brilliant diamonds twinkling overhead. He could not speak. Could not breath. Could think only of her suffering. Her sorrow. Where was she? Had she been heard from? Was she safe?
Hunter took a deep breath and then stood slowly, awkwardly, like one who has imbibed overly much in alcohol—before starting to walk away.
Carter followed and grabbed him by the sleeve. “It was her, wasn’t it?”
Hunter turned and looked into Carter’s eyes, and saw he knew the truth. He didn’t bother to deny it, knew that the pain in his eyes made words unnecessary. Walking a few steps more, he leaned his shoulder heavily into a tree, breathing hard as if he had just carried a heavy burden a great distance and could go no farther.
“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. But truth, like water, finds a way to seep through.”
A deep groan shook Hunter’s frame.
“You can make amends, Colonel.” Carter’s voice sounded somewhat fearful, as if Hunter’s well-being concerned him. “Surely this is nothing that cannot be fixed.”
Closing his eyes while Carter talked, Hunter tried to recall her face just like he’d done countless times before. For a brief moment he saw the green eyes and the familiar features of the warm, enchanting smile. But the living likeness vanished in a flash, replaced by a ghostly form that stared sorrowfully into the distance as if seeking something lost.
Hunter shuttered. He had ordered her to leave and she had done so without a fight. And now, in this moment of truth, he knew that departure was complete.
“No. It’s too late, Carter.” Hunter stared straight into the darkness with such despair in his voice it made the elder officer cringe.
“She is lost to me.”
Chapter 9
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 continued to harass any Union soldiers who dared enter his territory, and his activities had become even more well known 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 the pair 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 glittering 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 night 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-laden earth, almost at his feet. He heard the dull thud 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 that contrasted with 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.
Glory Bound (Shades of Gray Serial Civil War Trilogy Book 3) Page 4