Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia (2 page)

Pain seared through her when her ankle twisted
on a fallen limb, and she dropped flat on her face—but only for a moment. She
scrambled to her feet, or tried to anyway, half-crawling, half-running a few
steps until a tangle of vines stopped her. Disengaging herself with frenzied
urgency, Andrea ran again, but only a short distance more. She could go no
farther, certain her lungs would burst from the exertion, or the pain in her
ankle would cause her to collapse.

Andrea leaned against a tree, clenching the
spasm in her side and trying to gulp in air quietly. When a twig snapped, she
froze.
Just my imagination
. She let her breath out slowly.
Or maybe a
fox or a deer.

Standing still like the trees around her, Andrea
grimaced as something warm trickled down her cheek and into her mouth. The
metallic taste of blood gave her the urge to spit, but she swallowed instead
when another noise came, closer still than the last. She held her breath and
clutched a limb with shaking hands.
Someone is coming
. She listened to
them shuffle through the underbrush, then stop. Andrea crouched and waited, her
heart pounding like a locomotive in her ears. She reached into her boot for a
derringer, but realized it was useless, soaked from her swim.
Dammit
.
Her only other weapon, a Colt .44, was still on her saddle. The words of
Colonel Jonathan Jordan suddenly raced into her mind:
War is no game.

Those were
the last words he had spoken to her before she left with his dispatch two days
earlier with orders not to delay. Those were the words he spoke every time he
saw her. She closed her eyes while fighting the hopelessness consuming her.
When she opened them, the veil of clouds began to part, throwing a sharp beam
of light through the dense canopy above. Andrea held her breath and peered
around the tree, spotting the outline of the supposed predator. Her heart
lurched at the sight of the four-legged creature, all but invisible in the
darkness.

“Justus,” she whispered, as he took the
remaining steps toward her.

Mounting her
horse soundlessly, she did not take time to contemplate the close bond they
shared or the significance of his name:
Just us
. She urged him forward
and prayed they had time to escape the danger surrounding them.

Chapter
2

“Fondly
do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily
pass away.”

– Abraham
Lincoln

A pounding headache woke Hunter just after dawn.
For a moment he believed he had foolishly indulged in some of his men’s bad
whiskey before retiring the night before. But pressing his fingertips to the
back of his head, he realized his mistake. A bump the size of a lead ball
caused him to wince and swear simultaneously.

Hunter took a deep breath and struggled to sit
up, his skull throbbing in perfect tempo with his heart. He collapsed against
the pillow and flung his arm across his eyes to escape the penetrating rays of
the sun pouring in through an open window. Hazy images of the Yank he had
chased drifted into his mind like clouds scudding across the sky. But when he
tried to concentrate, they dispersed and dissolved into an unrecognizable haze.

Falling back into a restless slumber, Hunter
floated down a river of dreams. Water swirled around him, lulling him into a
sleep from which he feared he might never rise and was powerless to stop. But
as he drifted, hands reached for him and dragged him toward the bank. The water
and the person seemed to be in a duel over his body, each pulling in opposite
directions. After a long struggle the current lost its battle and Hunter lay on
the riverbank, safe from the water’s grip. He opened his eyes and reached up to
touch the face of his rescuer leaning over him—

“Cap’n, you awake?”

“Damn it, Malone!” The worried gaze of one of
his men came into focus just inches from his face. He put his hand to his head
as another wave of pounding pain ensued.

“I’m sorry, Cap’n. Jus’ checkin’ to make sure
you was all right. Heard you groaning in your sleep.”

Hunter closed his eyes and tried to bring back
the image that seemed close enough to touch seconds ago. His rescuer’s face was
gone. Was he dreaming, or had someone pulled him from the water? If so, then
who?

“How did I get here?”

“We brought you back by wagon.”

“Where did you
finzae3wd
me?” Hunter grew
impatient at his inability to remember the chain of events.

 “Cap’n, like we told you last night, you was
lying near the bank.”

Hunter shook his head, trying again to clear the
cobwebs. “Any sign of anyone else?”

“Only one other set of footprints,” Malone
answered. “And those of a horse. A big darn horse from the looks.”

A vague image began to form in Hunter’s mind,
causing him to close his eyes and concentrate. He pictured the horse, ambling
along the other side of the creek as it pulled up clumps of grass. It was a big
horse, the black horse they had been chasing. Like the winged Pegasus, it flew
into his memory just as it had appeared before him yesterday, soaring across
the landscape as effortlessly as a gale of wind. Then it disappeared, replaced
by the image of the youth standing startled by the water’s edge. “And what of
the rider?”

“Don’t know. None of us saw him once we
scattered. We did find this, though.” Malone walked over to a nightstand and
picked up a scrap of paper. “Could be the scout’s. We found it on the bank near
where we found you.”

Hunter squinted at the piece of paper the
private handed him, closing one eye so he would only see one image. After much
concentration, the blurry words came into focus.

H
eadquarters Jordan’s Battalion

Guards, Pickets and Patrols: Pass the holder,
Andrew Sinclair, at all places and at all times, with or without the
countersign.

By order of Col. Jonathan P. Jordan

Officer Commanding

Hunter closed his eyes, then opened them and
gazed out the window, trying to recall more details of the previous day’s
encounter.

“Doc’s on his way from the Talbert’s.” Malone’s
tone conveyed grave concern.

“I don’t need a bloody doctor,” Hunter snapped,
easing himself to a sitting position. After resting on the edge of the bed for
a moment, he stood and stared at Malone.

“I want that blasted scout caught if we have to
walk through Yankee blood to the knees!” He waved a fist in the air and
grimaced at the ensuing pain. “I want him in
my
hands if we have to hunt
down and kill every last mother’s son-of-them to find him! Do you
hear
me?”

There was no need to pose the final question.
For one thing, Malone had already started backing out the door to fetch the
doctor. For another, it would have been difficult to believe that anyone within
a ten-mile radius had not heard his thunderous declaration.

Hunter stood
in the middle of the room, swaying and cursing the enemy with every throb of
his head, until a rousing revelation came to him. He once thought that he
pursued a specter, so cleverly had the scout eluded him in the past. But now he
knew he was dealing with someone of flesh and blood—a mere mortal that, to his
own detriment, appeared to possess more compassion than common sense.

* * *

Miles away from her ill-fated encounter with the
Confederate officer, Andrea’s heart had still not stopped its violent thumping.
She urged Justus on through the dark, knowing every hoof beat bore her closer
to the place she’d called home since the age of twelve. Her cousin Catherine
lived not twenty miles away among the rolling hills and green meadows of
northern Virginia. Familiar territory and friendly faces were not far away.

The pain in
Andrea’s sprained ankle brought her back to the present, the swelled tissue
seeming determined to burst its way out of her boot. She pulled Justus to a
walk and removed her foot from the stirrup.
I’m sure his head is hurting
worse than my ankle.
Leaning down to pat Justus’ neck, she tried to ignore
the grip of fear engulfing her. Hunter was a legend here. His name alone was
enough to cause terror in the Federal ranks, as much for what he didn’t do as
for what he did. His tactic of forcing the enemy to watch, wait, and wonder
when he would strike strained their resources and their nerves more than an
outright battle.

Andrea shivered, remembering the Rebel leader’s
eyes and tight grip upon her. The cat-and-mouse game she had played the past
few weeks was a dangerous, and perhaps a foolish, one. But she detested the
Confederates’ stubborn pride, their unmitigated arrogance at having carried the
war so far.

The sound of a train whistle floated across the
night breeze, halting her reveries. Urging Justus forward off the trail, she
rode to a large oak that stood like a guardian to a well-concealed ford. Andrea
threw her leg over the saddle and dismounted with a suppressed groan when her
weight landed on her ankle. She knew she would have to walk from here, the
brush being too thick and the tree limbs too low to ride any farther.

“Come on, boy,” she said to Justus, leaning on
him heavily while she hopped alongside. “Your turn to take it easy.”

Andrea dreaded the short walk to the river, more
so for the profusion of spider webs crisscrossing her path than the pain in her
ankle. She shivered at the contact of the invisible threads. “I’d rather face
an enemy battery than walk through these,” she muttered to herself as she
clawed another strand from her face and fought her sense of unreasonable panic.
“Make that an enemy battery at close range,” she whimpered, slapping at the
sticky traps more fretfully and stifling the scream that arose in her throat
from her irrational fear. “An enemy battery at close range commanded by Captain
Hunter,” she sobbed, fumbling to clear the way ahead of her while smacking at
biting insects that had begun to light on every pore and scratch of her skin in
a feeding frenzy.

Andrea at
last heard water lapping at the riverbank. Hopping on one leg to the water’s
edge, she paused to take in the sight of the majestic Potomac. When the moon
peeked from behind a cloud, Andrea slid down the bank to a strip of gravel and
gazed at her reflection.

Memories of her early years of pampered elegance
caused Andrea to suppress a laugh. If only her father could see her now. But
the mere thought of Charles Monroe made her smile disappear. She threw a rock
into the water and watched the image disperse in waves. Yes, the aristocratic
child of the South was gone. Sometimes she wondered if that child had ever
really existed.

Andrea limped back to Justus and allowed him to
take a quick drink, before splashing across and up the opposite bank. They had
not traveled far before Andrea smelled the unmistakable odor of the encampment,
and her lips curved into a smile. She took a deep breath. She was home.

Not long
after came the expected challenge. “Stop, rider! Who goes there?”

“A friend. A courier seeking Colonel Jonathan
Jordan.”

“Dismount and proceed with the countersign.”

Andrea groaned at the thought of dismounting and
reached into her pocket for her pass. She and Justus both jumped in surprise
when a soldier, not attached to the voice up ahead, appeared from the shadows
beside them.

“Boonie? Is that you, you dang fool Yankee?” She
continued to fumble in her coat for the pass.

“Sinclair?” he answered, calling her by the name
she used in camp. “Colonel’s been snapping at the bit waiting fer word from
you. Dang gum it, where ya been?”

“Got detoured.” Andrea continued riding while
the sentry walked along beside. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach when
she realized her pass was gone.

“You on picket duty?” She tried not to sound
distressed as she searched through other pockets in the dark.

“Just got relieved. Heard a rider come splashing
across the river like there weren’t no war, and thought it might be you,” the
lanky soldier said.

The woods opened up into a large, sloping meadow
that lay dotted with white tents and dying campfires. Andrea frowned at his
cynical comment while taking in the scene of the sprawling camp. A few men
lounged around a smoking pile of coals, likely those fresh off picket duty. But
for the most part, the camp appeared silent and dark.

“Colonel told me to fetch him no matter what
time you got in,” Boonie said. “Probably fixing to have you arrested for
desertion.”

“Tattoo has sounded?” Andrea asked
incredulously, not knowing the lateness of the hour.

“Yea, about
two
hours ago.” Boonie shook
his head in exasperation.

The realization that it was now past midnight,
combined with the excitement of her hairs-breadth escape, served to increase
Andrea’s exhaustion. “Is it really necessary to wake—” She turned to Boonie,
but he had already disappeared into the maze of tents.

Doggone it, Boonie. Why you always gotta
follow orders so exact?

Andrea waited
for the Colonel, and he finally appeared, looking disheveled and a bit annoyed
at being awakened so late. He wore his coat, but his suspenders hung down below
as if he had dressed too quickly to bother with them.

“Sinclair. It’s late,” he barked, barely looking
at her. “Come with me.”

Andrea winked at Boonie, then bravely attempted
to follow the Colonel without limping. When she entered the tent behind him, he
turned, threw his arms around her, and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank
goodness, Andrea, you’re safe! We heard there was trouble near Mount Gilead.”
He held her by the arms and took a step back. “And from the looks of you, you
were in it. Are you all right?”