by Ginny Dye
“I think he must really be a Yankee. That’s why he’s trying to kill all of us!” a fresh-faced boy added.
“I don’t ever want to hear anyone call General Jackson a Yankee again!” Robert snapped as he emerged from the shadows and stepped up to the fire. He stared around at the men coldly. All of the men looked up quickly when his voice cracked above them, and then they stared fixedly at the ground. Robert could feel the tension in the air. He understood how much the men had suffered. He himself had never been so miserable before. But this kind of talk was mutinous. None of them would make it out of this campaign alive if they didn’t stand together.
“Come on, Lieutenant,” one of the men finally said, looking up defiantly. “Don’t you honestly think it’s crazy to have us out in the dead of winter?”
Robert shrugged and kept his voice cold. Now was not the time to show sympathy. “I think if anyone of you wants to be a general, you should think about paying the price it takes to become one.” He stared around at the men again. “Did General Jackson not accomplish his objective at Bath? Did he not break Northern communications - in spite of the bad weather we faced on the march there?” He stared fixedly at the men until the prolonged silence made them look up. They nodded reluctantly.
Robert’s voice and face softened somewhat. “I know it’s like hell out here, men, but regaining control of northwestern Virginia is critically important. We have to be willing to campaign and advance when Yankee troops are all holed up for the winter. We have to take what we can, when we can. You men are accomplishing something the Northern troops have not even attempted.”
Slowly, the defeated looks on the men’s faces began to fade. The bitterness was slowly replaced by a look of pride in their accomplishments.
Robert pushed on. “Romney is waiting for us. It may be hell to get there, but get there we will! We made it this far when we thought it was impossible. We can make it there, too.” Then he turned and walked away, leaving the men to talk it out on their own. He had done all he could do.
He was staring down at the frozen stream minutes later when a voice sounded at his shoulder.
“Lieutenant?”
Robert turned. “Yes, Hobbs?”
“Thank you for what you said back there. I guess we kinda lost sight of things for a while.”
“It happens to everyone, Hobbs.”
Hobbs hesitated. “I wish you could talk to the rest of the troops.”
There was a troubled tone in his voice that caused Robert to go on alert. He looked at Hobbs sharply. “Why?”
Hobbs was quiet for a moment, and then he looked up with troubled eyes. “The troops are angry, sir. They really don’t understand why they are being made to endure such torture. And they’re sick. Too many of them can’t even walk anymore. I saw two yesterday. They were barefoot.”
“Barefoot!” Robert exclaimed, astonished.
“Yes, sir. Their shoes got burnt up one night when they were trying to keep their feet warm by the fire. I’m afraid they got a bad case of frostbite.”
“Are they my men?” Robert asked sharply.
“Oh, no, sir!” Hobbs said quickly. “Your men would have told you. They know you care.” He paused. “They are two of Hatcher’s men.”
Robert nodded grimly. “I will have it taken care of.”
Just then he heard a call behind him. “Lieutenant Borden.” Robert spun to meet the rider coming toward him. “Yes, Colonel?”
“How are the men in your command faring, Lieutenant?”
Robert frowned. “Not too well, sir. Many of them are very sick. All of them are exhausted and weakened from the cold.”
The colonel nodded. “General Jackson has ordered six days of rest. The men need to be healthy again before we attempt to take Romney.”
Robert smiled. “I’m sure my men will be happy to hear that, sir.”
The colonel smiled, too. “No more happy than you, I imagine. I believe all of us could use a rest.”
“You’re right, sir.”
The colonel started to turn his horse and then stopped. “How does a hot bath sound, Lieutenant?”
“Like a dream, Colonel.”
“Some dreams come to life,” he said with a smile. “The general has ordered water to be heated so all of the troops can have a hot bath. I’ll expect you to take care of your unit.” Then he turned and rode away.
“A bath?” Hobbs said in disbelief. “You mean that for just a few minutes I get to be warm?” He paused. “I take back everything I said about General Jackson. I guess he has a heart underneath there somewhere.”
Robert turned and stared back down at the river. Then he looked back at Hobbs. “I’ll be over in a few minutes. Would you like to tell the men they have a week’s reprieve?”
“Yes, sir!” Hobbs said, smiling. He saluted smartly, spun on his heel, and strode off.
Robert resumed staring at the river. The day just past had been a repeat of the first torturous day of the march. It had left him no time to ponder what had happened the day before. He had heard before of men, when they came close to death, being forced to reevaluate their whole lives - who they were , what they had done with their time on earth. He had always been too busy living to spend time reflecting. Until now. His experience with the wagon had changed all that.
He was happy his men would have a chance to rest and recover their strength and health. He was happiest, though, for a chance to spend some time thinking. He turned away from the river. His men all needed a bath, and he must take care of that first. A smile flitted on his lips. His bath would be last, but it would be welcome.
Ike Adams cursed the weather as he pushed along the muddy river leading to the bridge across the Potomac. It would be a long ride. He had been called to the plantation of Quincy Moore, who had lost thirty of his forty-five slaves. They had simply disappeared during a stormy night. He was frantic to get them back before planting season started. Bankruptcy loomed before him if he didn’t have a good crop this year.
Adams didn’t usually take jobs so far away, but Moore had offered him a price he couldn’t refuse. He felt a deep sense of satisfaction that his skills were in such demand. When he was first booted from Cromwell Plantation, he had wondered how he would survive. Now he was making more money than before. The value of slaves was shooting up as more and more of them escaped. So had the value of slave hunters. He had steadily raised his rates. Not once had he been turned away.
And for good reason. His results were good. Many of the slaves he went after got no more than ten or twenty miles from their plantations. Many disappeared, having no idea where they were going - much less how to get there. They would bog down in woods or swamps, hungry and desperate for freedom, but with no idea of how to achieve it. To be sure, there were slaves he’d never recovered, but his percentages were good so he continued to demand top pay.
A strange object in the river suddenly caught his eye. He pulled his horse to a stop and peered closer. “What the ...?” he muttered, as he jumped from his horse and moved close to the edge of the water.
“My God!” he exclaimed, stepping back and fighting to control the nausea in his stomach. “It’s a man!” Quickly he looked around to see if there was anyone else on the road even though he knew better. This little-traveled road would most certainly be uninhabited in a winter storm like the one raging around him.
Adams looked around until he found a long, sturdy stick. He braced himself against a set of tree roots and leaned far out over the water. He finally managed to get an end of the stick snagged on the man’s clothing. Grunting with the effort, he hauled the water-logged, bloated corpse toward him. With a final grunt, he dragged the man up into just a few inches of water.
Then he just stood and stared at his catch. Never had he seen a man dead from drowning. Or was it a drowning? He frowned when he saw the dark brown stain across the front of the man’s shirt. No matter. The man was dead. Nothing was going to change that. By the looks of things, he had been dead fo
r quite some time. His facial features were swollen beyond any possibility of recognition, and his clothes hung in tatters on his body. He had been in the water a very long time.
The only thing still resembling clothing was his heavy wool coat. Adams was tempted to just push him back into the water and move on. There was nothing he could do for the man now. He grabbed the stick and prepared to send him back to his watery grave. At some point he would just wash out into the ocean.
Then he hesitated. What if the man had a family? Adams scowled and tossed the stick down. He was wasting valuable time. And he would continue to be cold and miserable until he got where he was going. He knelt down, grabbed one edge of the coat jacket, and pulled. The body bobbed a few inches closer. Struggling once again to control his nausea, Adams took off one of his gloves and reached into the man’s pockets. He knew the effort to determine the man’s identity was futile. Any papers would surely have been ruined by the water after all this time.
He was surprised when his fingers located a pouch of some kind. He pulled it out and discovered a leather pouch lined with rubber, doubled over, and secured with a snap. His fingers were already growing numb from the cold, but he managed to open it and pull out what was inside. His curiosity grew as he looked at the sheaf of papers it held. They were slightly damp, but the pouch had done an incredible job of protecting them. Adams pocketed the pouch and then turned his attention to the papers.
A blast of snow made him close his eyes in defense. He moved quickly to the protection of a grove of trees standing on the bank. Then he held the papers close to examine them. Slave documents! Adams almost threw them away in disgust. Then his eyes narrowed. If this man had been traveling with slave documents, then that meant his slaves had been with him. Had they killed him and pushed him in the river? Had they been stolen from him by overzealous abolitionists? The last idea wasn’t impossible this close to the Northern border.
Adams looked more closely at the documents. He gasped when he saw the two names. Rose. And Moses. The papers stated the two slaves were owned by a man named John Salem. It should have ended there. But Adams had a feeling about this that wouldn’t go away. His friends told him he had a sixth sense like a hound dog. It was screaming there was more to this than he knew.
Suddenly his eyes narrowed, as his earlier instinct somehow hardened into certainty, even though he had no solid evidence. He was sure he was looking at papers for Rose and Moses from Cromwell Plantation. His eyes glittered in anger as he thought of the giant black man he hated so much. His face hardened as he thought of Carrie Cromwell with all the hate in him surging to the surface. He cursed and slammed his fist into a tree. Yes, he was making more money, but the humiliation that burned in him at the very thought of Carrie Cromwell and her throwing him off her plantation had only deepened as time went on. He was determined to get even with her.
His mind traveled back to his encounter with Louisa Blackwell months earlier. She had suggested then that Thomas Cromwell would appreciate his services, but he had not followed up. A job had taken him north for over a month. Another job followed. He was making so much money hunting slaves he had no desire to go groveling to Cromwell for a job. All he wanted was to get even with Carrie Cromwell. He was sure his day would come.
His eyes glistened as he stared at the documents in his hand. Rose and Moses were two of Thomas Cromwell’s most valuable slaves. He knew, too, how close Rose and Carrie were. Surely they had not just disappeared. His lips twisted as he imagined Cromwell’s displeasure at discovering his precious daughter had helped such a valuable investment disappear. Adams laughed shortly and stuffed the papers in his pocket. They would come in very handy. Cromwell would just think he was approaching him out of concern. He might even pay him handsomely for the information.
Then he frowned. He had no real desire to hunt down Rose and Moses. He knew how brutally strong the young giant was. He was also sure he would do anything to help the girl he loved. Moses had been ready to attack him that day in the quarters before Carrie had shown up with the gun. Adams still regretted his failure of having his way with Rose. She was beautiful - even if she was a slave.
Adams shook his head and moved to mount his horse. He would figure out the best plan of action. There would be a way to meet his objective. After all, hadn’t the fortunes allowed him to find the body of John Salem, or whatever the man’s real name was? Adams was quite sure he had found the body of a conductor for the Underground Railroad.
He put his foot in the stirrup and then stopped, glancing back at the river. If he left the body there, maybe someone would find it and give it a proper burial. Smiling cruelly, he turned away from his horse and stalked back to the river. It took just a moment to grab his stick and push the body back into the water. He watched with satisfaction as the bloated body continued on its bobbing course down the frigid river.
Then he mounted and continued on his way. He had work to do.
“Hey, Lieutenant. It looks like the sun may be trying to come out!” Hobbs called excitedly from the front of the line.
Robert looked up hopefully. After six days of resting at Unger’s Store, Jackson’s troops were ready to head on to Romney. Or at least they were supposed to be. The men’s spirits had risen over the course of the days, but there were still many sick men in the brigades. If the weather held, they might make it the rest of the way. If not... “Here’s hoping for good weather,” Robert called out cheerfully. Then he mounted and gave the signal his men were waiting for. “Move out, men!”
Not all of Jackson’s troops had the luxury of resting for six days. After a few days, Jackson had ordered troops back to Bath to keep the Union forces there distracted. He directed more of his troops south of Romney and sent cavalry units almost to the gates of the city. He had been slowed, but he refused to be paralyzed.
The weather held a few hours. Then another winter storm, as ferocious as the earlier ones, moved in over the mountains. Once again the men battled bitter cold, sleet, and snow. Before the end of the day, precious regained energy was completely spent. Sickness once more held many of the men in its grip. More than one man lay where they fell, unable to move any further.
Robert had his head bent against the storm when he heard a gunshot directly to his left. Startled, but not surprised, he looked up. It had become almost a common occurrence. Men, scrambling for footing on the slick surface would fall, discharging their guns as they went down.
Hobbs suddenly appeared through the blanket of snow. “It’s Clark, sir. He’s been shot.”
Robert groaned and followed Hobbs’ shadowy form as he darted back to the left. Moments later, he came upon Clark’s huddled form. The gunshot had not been deadly, but the blood spreading on the ground from his leg wound made it obvious Clark would not continue in this march. Robert almost envied him until he saw the stark pain on the man’s face.
“Stop the next ambulance wagon,” Robert ordered Hobbs. Then he motioned to two of the men watching. Carefully they picked Clark up and carried him to the side of the road. Just a few minutes later a wagon came lumbering up. Robert waved for it to stop and then placed Clark inside, covering him as well as he could with a mound of blankets. He smiled down at the suffering man and tried to sound encouraging. “We’ll get you into camp as soon as we can,” he promised.
Clark nodded bravely, his eyes searching Robert’s face for strength. Robert took his hand and pressed it. “You’ll make it, Clark. God be with you.” Then he remounted and continued on.
Once again the day felt as if it would never end as the men struggled to maneuver horses and wagons over hills and across icy streams. The days of rest vanished from their mind as once more the grip of winter tried to rip life from their grasp.
The first good news came when they were huddled around the campfire that night. Union forces had pulled out of Romney three days earlier. The very idea of the Confederate troops marching toward them had caused them to lose heart and withdraw. Jackson, who had taken some cavalry troops
and gone on ahead, had found a vacated city. Now he was waiting for his troops, his messenger said. The time was ripe to press on and destroy railroad bridges. Send the men on.
The next day was no better than the first. Men weakened by the conditions could make no headway against the storm. Robert urged his men on, gratified to see their valiant effort, even in the face of almost insurmountable obstacles. He realized they were passing other units. Soon, he knew, Jackson’s troops would be spread out for miles. Any offensive against them would be disastrous, but the men were giving all they had to give. One of the leading brigades that day made only four miles. Another managed to cover only five hundred yards. The torture seemed interminable.
They were only a few miles from Romney when Robert called his troops to a halt several nights later. They would enter the town the next day. For now they would get some much needed rest in a sheltered grove of trees he had found. They would need all their energy to push the last few uphill miles. The men gathered wood for fire, and soon roaring flames sent sparks flying toward the sky. Robert watched his men get settled and then retreated to the edge of the grove to stare out over the pasture.
In spite of his hatred for the suffering he and his soldiers were enduring, Robert could see beauty in the landscape. The snow-covered ground glowing a soft gray under the moonless sky offered a sharp contrast to the mountains around them. A glimmering ribbon of ice cut through the field, promising moisture when spring reclaimed the land. A sudden gust of wind caused a brief break in the clouds. For just a moment, the moon shone down. Robert drew his breath in with appreciation as the moon threw sparkling diamonds onto the snow and caused the frozen stream to ripple gently. Then just as quickly, it was gone. A few minutes later the wind picked up, and snow once more began to fall.
Robert stayed where he was. Being responsible for so many men... having almost lost his life... experiencing a loneliness he had never known existed... having been witness to so much suffering. All of it was transforming him. He could feel the changes, but he couldn’t really describe them. He just knew he was different. He knew God was somehow responsible. He didn’t understand it all yet. He just knew it. Maybe when all this was over, he could make sense of it.
