Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia (25 page)

Carter followed his instructions, waiting until
there was a break in the train, then stopping and directing the next wagon down
a secluded bridle path that branched from the main thoroughfare. When he rode
forward and pointed toward the road, the teamster just nodded, turned the
wagon, and the rest of the train obediently followed.

About twenty wagons had disappeared down the
path when an irate officer rode up behind Carter and shouted in a tone more
forceful than polite, “What is the meaning of this? Why have you turned these
wagons?”

At first, Carter ignored him and continued his
business of waving the wagons on. “Orders, sir,” he snarled over his shoulder.

The officer rode closer and grabbed Carter by
the arm to get his attention. “Whose orders?”

Carter pulled his revolver and held it to the
man’s head to get
his
attention. “Hunter’s, sir.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the hill, Carter
heard the men laughing at the audacity of their commander and the carelessness
of the enemy, as they disgorged boxes and crates of their contents and began to
partake of the delicacies within.

* * *

Hunter did
not share in the festivities. Although at ease, he was not disarmed of caution.
He sat on the hill watching the horizon and listening for any sign of alarm.
With eyes wandering, he scanned the landscape with the avidity of a hawk. His
smile of contentment turned to a frown of annoyance at the unwelcome sound of a
bugle call floating to him on the breeze. He waited only an instant more. The
thundering reverberations produced by the hooves of galloping horses reached
his ears at the same time a moving dot appeared on the horizon.

Hunter gave one swift whistle to warn Carter,
then galloped down the hill full tilt to his men. “Put the prisoners in front,”
he yelled. “Keep the horses and mules together.”

His men unhitched the remaining horses while
Hunter rode up and down the line, urging them to hurry and ordering them to
leave behind the most cumbersome of their loot.

“Sir, Gus Dorsey reporting.”

Hunter reined to a stop. Gus, his foremost
scout, had been ordered to watch and report on the enemy’s movements. “Yes,
Gus, what do you have?”

“Ran into one of Stuart’s men. He was looking
for you. Wanted me to give you this.”

Hunter opened the dispatch and scanned it
quickly.

Headqrts. Saddle

Major Hunter,

I am in
receipt of your latest intelligence as well as telegraph reports from the enemy
of your exploits to date. Your diversion has worked well, but Yankee patrols
have been dispatched in every direction to effect your capture. If you can,
cross Gooseneck Creek, burn the bridge, and head north to an abandoned house
and barn. Gen. Lee wants that piece of ground held at all costs. We are en
route and will provide support.

Your obedient servant,

Gen. J.E.B. Stuart

Hunter sighed deeply at the unwelcome and
unexpected news, but otherwise provided no indication to those studying him
whether the communication held good or bad news.

“Let’s go, men.” Hunter ordered the men forward,
intending to move at a pace that would render pursuit difficult. But any hopes
of fusing speed and distance were soon dashed. The horses slipped and slogged
through the greasy Virginia mud, their progress hindered by the deplorable
condition of the road.

At length the bridge came into sight, and
horses, mules, and men clattered across. Hunter ordered Carter to withdraw the
prisoners and the battalion to the farmhouse, then requested four volunteers to
hang back and serve as rear-guard—a perilous and possibly deadly obligation
considering the size of the approaching enemy.

The call for
such duty caused its usual uprising. Several men shouted and argued that it was
their turn to serve; others dismounted and announced they were willing to
settle the matter with their fists. It took Hunter several minutes to calm them
down and choose who deserved the honor. With the choice made, the four men went
about their job of trying to burn the structure. “May as well try to burn the
creek,” one of them said in frustration after fifteen minutes of trying to
light the wet wood.

“All right,
let’s go,” Hunter said. The thundering sound of a heavy body of cavalry
followed his words. Hunter sent the four men to the top of a rise in the road
behind him to make a show of force, while he stopped his horse and gave the
approaching Yankees something to look at.

“Let your guns speak loud and clear men,” Hunter
yelled over his shoulder. “Tell them what you’re thinking. Let’s jam ’em back
over the bridge.”

The enemy,
who had been rushing forward at a gallop, slowed at the sight of the single
horseman standing in their path. Hunter watched their eyes simultaneously rise
to the four men behind him. He knew the undulating road made ascertaining the
strength of the potential force behind those four impossible. And he knew, as
Yankees, they would be reluctant to find out.

They did not charge, but drew up in line of
battle and waited for the attacking force, which came without delay. Hunter
spurred Dixie toward the enemy, firing six shots and emptying five saddles.
Howling at the top of their lungs, the remaining four followed his lead,
charging the enemy like enraged demons and firing with the rapidity of
lightning.

With four men on jaded horses, Hunter deceived
the oncoming foe into thinking his entire command attacked. Unwilling to fight
such a force, they fired a few ineffective shots, then turned and clattered
back across the bridge to regroup, while Hunter galloped back to his men.

“Follow the road to an abandoned house. I’ll
meet up with you there.”

The men needed no further orders. They urged
their exhausted mounts on, at times pausing long enough to wheel around and pay
their respects to the now-pursuing enemy. Again and again they turned and stung
the Yankees with their lead, while Hunter, riding a parallel route, took
occasional pot shots as well.

Even in the midst of the gunfire, Hunter heard
the sound of a heavy engagement in front of him. He smiled grimly. Stuart had
neither implied nor insinuated in his dispatch there would be no enemy to
dispute their taking the farmhouse.

When the four men who had been with Hunter
galloped up the narrow lane, the firing picked up its pace. Despite the barrage
of bullets, they rode hell bent into the bloody fray, cracking away with their
revolvers, showing nothing but elation at having so much action in a single
day.

Hunter covered his men from a sheltered corner
of the property as they rode across the open ground, then sat with head bent,
attempting to reload for his own trip across the yard. Catching a movement out
of the corner of his eye, he looked up to see a man in blue step from behind a
tree, his gun leveled and steady. Unable to move or fire, Hunter heard a shot,
and blinked when the soldier’s life-blood—not his own—shot like a fountain to
the limbs above him. Moments later, one of Hunter’s men rode by at a gallop,
smiling. Hunter spurred Dixie and followed him to the barn.

“Pierce!” He dismounted and grabbed the younger
man by the shoulder.

“Sir?”

“Why are you out here? I ordered your company
into the house!”

“I wanted to be in the fray with you,” was the
simple reply.

Hunter stared at him, trying to decide whether
to reprimand him for not following orders or thank him for saving his life. He
decided to do neither. “That will be all, Pierce.”

Hunter
turned and found his way to the back of the barn where he assessed the layout
of the farm. The house and the barn lay at the base of a rather large and steep
hill, from which he doubted the enemy could launch an attack. His men had
corralled the captured horses in a large paddock beside the structures. The
prisoners, about a dozen or so, were held in the barn.

The thirty-foot sprint to the house felt like a
mile and a half to Hunter. He dove to the safety of the back porch and was
pulled inside by a serious-faced Carter.

“What is the situation here?” Hunter strolled
through the rooms, examining where Carter had placed the men.

“We cleaned out maybe a dozen or so,” Carter
said. “There’s still a couple out there though.”

“There will soon be more. How much ammunition do
we have?”

“Sufficient I believe. We captured enough
carbines and shotguns from the wagons to give each man two—some have three.”

“My orders are to hold the house.” Hunter stared
vacantly through the window, refusing to look into Carter’s eyes. “We should be
able to resist them, provided they do not resort to artillery.”

Hunter said the words as if the use of artillery
meant little to him. But he knew Carter understood that when the enemy unloaded
its cannons, the house and everything in it would be turned to jelly. It was
simply a matter of when, a race of time, and a question of who would make it first—Stuart’s
cavalry or the enemy’s big guns.

“Have the men barricade every door and window
with furniture or whatever they can find,” Hunter said. “And tell them not to
fire unless they receive the order or have a good target.”

Hunter went from room to room giving laconic
orders, making sure no point of defense had been overlooked. He reminded
everyone there would be little commanding after the firing began. As usual, it
would be each man for himself. When done, Hunter joked with his men, giving the
impression he thought the enemy was retreating instead of gathering and
preparing to attack in overwhelming numbers.

But the shouting of officers, clanking of
sabers, and whinnying of horses soon made that fact undeniable. Hunter’s men
watched the threatening phenomenon with grave expressions as they began to
acknowledge the deadly significance of the numbers and weaponry assembling
outside.

“Damnation. I wish we had some artillery to bear
on them,” Carter said.

“Since we cannot take them by force, we shall
have to take them by strategy,” Hunter said.

“And we can do it,” Carter said, “God willing.”

Hunter paused and looked over his shoulder. “You
can wish for God to be on your side, but
I
will rely upon Stuart.”

Gus, who had been walking by after distributing
ammunition, asked innocently, “Sir, what are we going to do?”

“Do? Why, we’re going to shoot them.”

“But, Major, there are hundreds of them, maybe
thousands. That’s impossible.”

Hunter smiled like he had just been told the
enemy had turned and run. “Then we shall do the impossible.”

As night slowly closed in around the command,
sporadic gunfire continued. The Yankees seemed intent on keeping those in the
barn and upstairs windows on their toes, though the wasteful use of ammunition
did little to alarm Hunter’s men.

When the night abruptly turned quiet, Hunter
stepped to the window and watched a white flag move across the yard. Expecting
something of the sort, he removed the coat that showed his rank and went
outside to meet the two officers who bore the flag. “Gentlemen,” he greeted
them. “Excuse the informality. We were not expecting callers tonight.”

“Are you Major Hunter?”

“I am an officer with the authority to accept
your communication.”

One of the men, a colonel, stepped forward. “I
am Colonel Joshua Walters. You must know, sir,” he said, looking Hunter’s muddy
uniform up and down, “that you are, for the most part, surrounded.”

Hunter looked over the man’s shoulder with a
stare of colossal calm, but decided the statement required no response since
the situation was obvious.

“You don’t have a chance of surviving,” the
second spoke up. “We have an entire division within bugle call.”

The arrogant attitude of the Yankees disturbed
Hunter, but he did not allow it to show. “I am not unaware of that fact nor
uncomfortable with my ability to deal with it,” he replied, leaning one
shoulder against the front porch post and shoving the other hand into a pocket.
“So to be fair, I must ask that you please make your men aware they will have
their work cut out for them.”

The two officers took a step back and began
whispering together in council. The plump officer stepped forward again. “How
do you intend to defend this house against a brigade?”

Hunter blinked and bristled at the audacity, but
then, again, calmed himself. “That is for you to find out when you come and
attempt to take it.”

The man muttered oaths, indignant at the bold
effrontery as Colonel Walters stepped forward again. “Daylight will show you
the hopelessness of your situation,” he said in an insistent voice. “We are
trying to diffuse a volatile situation without needless bloodshed.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, for your concern.” Hunter
pushed himself off the post. “But I believe I shall bring an end to this
conversation. We are Virginians, and we intend to stand and fight. We hope to
see another sunrise, yet we are willing to perish nobly here.”

“That is pure foolishness. How many men have you
in there?” The stout major stamped his foot as if demanding an answer from a
subordinate in his own army or snapping a command at a disobedient dog.

“Sufficient for the purpose, I believe,” Hunter
answered with a calmness that emphasized his determination. “You must know,
gentlemen, I would not attempt such a defense without a number I believed
adequate to settle the matter conclusively in our favor. I believe it is you
who have drawn a tough assignment.”

“Sir, you do not understand,” Colonel Walters
said. “We are here to demand your immediate surrender.”

Hunter’s
smile faded. He cocked his head to the side and blinked in rapid succession to
ward off the sound of a word he refused to acknowledge existed. “I regret
greatly to disappoint you,” he said, his voice hostile and threatening now.
“But as I can still draw breath, I shall decline your generous offer. We will
sell our lives dearly. And I fear many of yours will be part of the cost.”