Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia (26 page)

“But, sir,” Walters continued, his voice
quaking, “If you surrender you can trust in the mercy of the government.”

Hunter looked each man full in the eye. “As I
said, the men in this house are prepared to die here, not show their backs to
the enemy. And if you gentlemen are not out of range within three minutes, we
shall be obliged to open fire. Good evening.”

Without
waiting for a reply, Hunter stepped inside and closed the door, giving vent to a
loud expletive that startled his men. Then he turned to Carter and tried to
cover the emotional display. “How many men do we have?”

“Twenty-four. But four are in the barn guarding
the prisoners and two are out watching the horses and the hill behind.”

Hunter nodded and drew a deep breath. “Parole
the prisoners and hope for the best with the horses. We’re going to need every
man in here.”

He didn’t bother to say it, but it seemed
doubtful any of them would be getting out alive to need a horse.

“It can be held, sir, under favorable
conditions,” Carter said. “And the good Lord might be able to provide us with
that.”

“If it is
your custom to make requests to a higher authority,” Hunter responded, “tell
Him we need only two things: enough ammunition and adequate time.”

Hunter knew his successes over the past two days
had dealt the enemy a severe blow. This was the Yankees’ chance once and for
all to establish their supremacy in Virginia. Getting his entire command out
under cover of darkness while the Yankees sat planning their attack would be no
hard matter. But Stuart had ordered they remain until he arrived. It was an
order that could not be questioned.

Hunter went through the house and assigned two
men to stand guard for two hours while the others slept. Within five minutes of
the order to rest, a line of corpses would not have been more motionless than
the bodies strewn helter-skelter throughout that house.

“You better get some sleep too, sir,” Carter
told Hunter. “You’ll be no good to us otherwise.”

Hunter felt drugged by weariness, but his
strength of will and resolve were more potent. He looked at the tired men who
seemed oblivious to what the morning would bring, and listened to the ominous
noises of the enemy making preparations for slaughter.

Sliding down
the wall and putting his head on his knees, Hunter dozed fitfully for a few
moments. Rising to gaze through the darkness, he remained vigilant for any
movement or sound, half-fearing to see the view the gray light of dawn would
bring—for he knew full well it would contain far too much blue for his liking.

* * *

The rising sun had not even begun to affect the
darkness when Hunter told Carter to awaken the men. Gathering them in one room,
he spoke in a tone of mingled gloom and tenderness. “Men, we have been asked by
General Stuart to defend this house,” he said, swallowing hard, “and this we
must do, at any price.”

None made a comment. Rather, they stared back at
him with supreme confidence, ignoring the growing evidence that the forthcoming
match would not be an equal one.

“I knew well when I chose to fight for Virginia,
the difficulties and dangers I would face. I yet resolved to live or die in the
cause of my country, the honor which I owe to her.” Hunter’s gaze roamed from
man to man in the room, and when he spoke, it was with the cool, quiet dignity
that signifies command. “Men, we must hold this house, or sacrifice all in the
attempt. This is Virginia soil, men. And we are Virginians. Shall we not defend
it? Who is with me?”

“Son of thunder!” shouted a man who leaned near
a window. “Here they come!”

The final
preparations for defense were established in a moment, and then they waited
impatiently for the carnage to commence. Despite being aware that extensive
bloodshed was unavoidable and inevitable, Hunter’s men did not show it. Rather,
they smiled and winked at one another from their posts. This was the material
he used to wring triumph from defeat. This was the material of victors.

Hunter paced
behind the men making his final and fatal plans while the enemy gathered with a
collection of men and guns it seemed no mortal power could withstand. “Men,” he
yelled, “hold your fire until you hear the word.”

Desultory gunfire erupted from outside, but it
evoked no reply from within. Hunter’s ranks remained silent, waiting for a shot
that would make firing worthwhile. Hunter held his breath. The living wave of
blue came closer, halted and poured a volley into the house. Moisture ran down
his temples and into his eyes, making it even harder to see. When they were
almost to the porch he yelled, “Fire!”

His men obeyed, their guns crackling in a single
deadly chorus. Flames shot from the front of the house as his men gave the
enemy an unpleasant reminder of the accuracy of Hunter’s guns.

The noise was loud, but Hunter’s voice rose
above the clamor, fierce and commanding, encouraging his men to hold their
ground. The desperate assault met a determined repulse, but only for a moment.
As quickly as it began, it ended. All became silent except for the chaotic
sound of the Yankees’ retreat.

 Hunter, who kneeled at the front window, saw
that perhaps a half-dozen Yankees had made it onto the porch, and there they
remained, bloodied and unmoving.

Stumbling to his feet, Hunter moved from room to
room through the smoke and haze, inquiring about casualties.
It appeared that three men had been wounded by
splintering wood and one was shot in the arm. None of the injuries seemed
serious. He sat down to reload his own weapons and smiled. They had held their
positions as he knew they would. No one would fight harder or be more ready to
sacrifice all for their beliefs than this group. Hunter’s heart swelled with
pride that he had the honor to lead them.

Sounds outside announced the enemy rallying for
another charge. Inside, with weapons reloaded and wounds bound, all was quiet
and somber and still. The smoke had cleared somewhat by the time the Yankees
lined up to attack, this time from both the sides and front. Hunter’s men,
determined to perform their duty, rearranged themselves and waited.

When the
Union troops moved close enough, Hunter again gave the command. The house
erupted, throwing flames and lead into the very faces of the men who attacked.
Yet on and on the masses surged toward them, and on and on his men worked like
fiends, instinctively loading and firing, loading and firing, through the smoke
and suffocating air. As minutes passed, they began to fight more with the
courage of desperation and frantic survival than battlefield valor.

The roar of the guns became deafening and the
concussion of the weaponry jarred the eardrums until nothing was
distinguishable. Hunter could see nothing through the smoke and breathe nothing
but its caustic vapor. His clothes clung to him, soaked with sweat. His throat
was parched; his face blackened by powder.

Time stood still. The Yankees remained defiant
in their determination to overpower those inside, and those inside remained
determined to repel them. Nothing existed but bullets and smoke and noise as
the men fought amidst flying lead and splintering walls. Both sides remained
unwavering, neither side willing to be the first to quit.

After what seemed like hours, the men were
forced to go from carbines and shotguns to revolvers. Hunter suddenly heard a
loud bang and watched the front door come crashing in. Flames from a dozen
revolvers erupted around his face, and when the smoke cleared, three dead
Yankees lay just inside the threshold.

Yet, again, as suddenly as it began, all grew
still.

Hunter took a
few moments to regain his senses. He lay on his back on the floor with two
empty, smoking revolvers, his chest heaving with exertion. When he looked up,
he hardly recognized his men, so blackened with powder were their faces. “Prop
that door back up,” he ordered, jumping to his feet and gasping for a breath of
air in the choking smoke that filled the house The men hurried to obey, pushing
the door up and propping it in place.

Hunter went from room to room, assessing the
damage. Two of his men lay dead, and seven were wounded, three seriously. He called
the rest together, knowing it would be impossible to contend any longer with
the vastly superior and fresh force of the enemy.

Looking at
his men’s expectant faces, Hunter’s gaze fell. “It is unlikely we can survive
another assault, and I believe we must discard the thought of receiving
reinforcements.” He took a deep breath and stared vacantly over their heads.

Without warning, a loud roar from the back of
the house almost knocked him off his feet, and caused what plaster remained on
the walls and ceiling to come crashing down. The men covered their ears from
the deafening thunder.

Artillery!

Hunter brushed the white dust from his eyes and
ran to the front of the house to gaze at the chaos. The cannon fire had come
from the hill behind the house. It continued firing into the mass of blue in
front of them.

“It’s Stuart!” one of his men yelled. “They’re
here!”

“Yes, I believe the general has taught us a
lesson in the value of minutes,” Hunter said with a slight grin.

“How in the hell did he lug those guns up
there?” Carter smiled, his teeth showing brilliantly against his blackened
face.

“Don’t know,” Hunter said. “But I’m damn glad he
did.”

Stuart soon relieved Hunter and his exhausted
men, though even with the use of artillery it was hot work dispersing the
enemy. Hunter turned over the captured horses and mules that Stuart desired,
then set out to deliver the remainder to an outpost about fifteen miles away.

Well after
midnight, Hunter ordered his band of weary horsemen to halt their mounts in the
shadow of some trees to wait for the intense moonlight to dim behind a cloud.
This cautiousness, though necessary, cost them precious time. Hunter ignored
the men’s impatience and grumbling. He and Carter gazed at the moon and
consulted, until at last he gave the order to mount.

Moving
forward again Hunter picked up the pace, knowing both man and beast were bone
weary. But while still some distance from their headquarters and with perhaps
only another half-hour of darkness remaining, he hit an unexpected enemy picket
post. The single sentry ambled out of the woods, scratching himself and
yawning.

“Where ya headin’, boys? Need the countersign.”

Hunter was so tired he merely laughed, and so
did his men. Almost home after three days of constant riding and fighting, a
single sentry was not going to stop them now.

The picket, obviously not seeing the humor,
brought his gun up to a more intimidating position and asked again. “I said I
need the countersign.”

“Do you know who I am?” Hunter leaned forward,
crossing his arms over the pommel of his saddle.

The picket apparently took him for the leader of
an uppity cavalry unit out on a lark, because he spoke with unbridled audacity.
“I don’t care if you writ the dad-blame Ten Commandments. You ain’t getting
through this post till I hear the countersign.”

Hunter leaned down to talk to the man
confidentially, but his voice was clearly heard by all. “I didn’t write them,”
he said, placing his hand on the sentry’s shoulder, “but I’ve broken quite a
few in the last couple of days.” He paused, while his men chuckled in their
saddles. “As for the countersign,” Hunter cocked his gun in the man’s ear. “I
am confident this will suffice.”

And suffice it did. Hunter, desperate to get
back into friendly territory and exhausted beyond even his own endurance,
decided to parole the sentry on the spot instead of taking him prisoner. Now
only ten miles from safety, he rode forward without hesitation, assuming
nothing could stop them now.

Riding about thirty yards in advance, as was his
custom to protect his men from ambush, Hunter glanced up at an eminence ahead
and noticed the rising sun glance off a metallic object. Drawing his revolver,
he turned in his saddle to warn his men. Suddenly, from behind some trees, a
dozen or more enemy sharpshooters appeared, their guns concentrated on him
alone.

Hunter did not have time to react. A tumultuous
noise arose, followed by a loud whack, and a jolt that nearly threw him from
the saddle. His upper body exploded in pain, and the agony and fire that surged
through his veins left him dizzy. His vision blurred, though he tried to give
orders through the haze and the fog.

Two men rode to his side to help him, while
others dismounted and started up the hill, blazing away with their guns. He saw
little else. Faces blurred. Sound became muffled. He tried to gain control of
his balance, to restrain the nausea rising in his throat. But he could see
nothing save an undulating swirl of motion, and then not even that, as an
ominous, dark cloud descended and carried him away.

Chapter
24

“He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.”

– King Lear, Shakespeare

Andrea’s arms trembled, but her determination to
make it around the room one more time superseded the pain. Leaning on the
crutches Hunter had sent from the field, she suppressed the urge to curse him.
How arrogant of him to give her a gesture of kindness after his cruel
treatment. How she resented his gentlemanly generosity.

Concentrating on how to place the contraptions,
Andrea looked toward the window at the sound of approaching horses, and watched
a group of men dismount in unison near the house. In silence they gathered
around a single rider who remained in his saddle, though barely.

Andrea realized it was Hunter at the same moment
Izzie screamed from the porch below her. “He hurt! Ole Him hurt!”