The Velvet Shadow

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  The man grinned up at Alden, then blinked in the sunlight. “I’ve an awful pain in my mouth and a raging headache,” he said, gently pressing his fingers to his forehead, “but the throbbing in my jaw is gone! The angel came last night and pulled my tooth. See here!” With a flourish, the man fumbled at the blanket where he lay, then held up a bloodied brown tooth.

  Alden grimaced at the sight of it. “Your tooth fell out?”

  “No, the angel pulled it out.” The idiot grinned, and even from this distance Alden could smell whiskey on his breath. “She gave me drink, and then she sat back and said it would hurt but a minute. And then it was all over!”

  “There weren’t no angel.” This observation came from the other side of the room, where another man leaned on his elbow and glowered at the giddy drunk “There was a soldier, sure, and he went around and gave everybody water. But he weren’t no angel.”

  “A soldier?” Alden thrust his hands behind his back. “Surely you mean Dr. Gulick or his assistant.”

  “It weren’t neither of them fools,” the man said, his voice breaking in a horrible, rattling gurgle. “I saw him. It was a soldier, just an ordinary soldier. He woke me up and poured water into my mouth.”

  “What did this soldier look like?”

  “I couldn’t see much.” The man lowered his head back to his blanket. “It was dark. He was just a shadow.”

  “Soft.” The man with the swollen mouth gently rested his cheek upon his hand. “The angel was soft, with delicate hands and a whispering voice. Even when she pulled my tooth, I kept thinking how soft her touch was.”

  “Soft as velvet,” Private Green murmured, his eyes focused on some indistinct point. “I remember now! I drank water, too, but thought I was dreaming of a waterfall. There was a soft murmuring sound, like a river, and water flowing from somewhere above me.”

  “Are you men trying to tell me that a velvet shadow passed among you last night?” Alden sighed with exasperation. He’d heard of battle fatigue, of cowardice, and fear and false bravado, but no one had ever warned him that sick men might share a hallucination.

  “Whatever it was, it done me a sight more good than that army doctor.” The drunk grinned up at Alden with a remarkable space between his teeth. “If Gulick was as liberal with the whiskey as the Velvet Shadow, there’d be far fewer sick men in here.”

  “And far more drunks in the camp,” Alden muttered, turning away. He paused in the open doorway, considering this mysterious “velvet shadow.” If the man could be discovered, Alden didn’t know whether to commend the mysterious fellow or rebuke him. Absolutely no one was allowed to move about after taps except officers and those on guard duty. Yet the fellow had obviously done these men a great service.

  But nothing could be done until the man was apprehended, and since they were leaving the sick behind, the mysterious saint might not appear for several weeks. And Alden had other, more urgent matters to consider.

  He stepped outside and watched the men of Company M as they went about the work of dismantling their tents and stowing their gear. They moved with the fumbling, awkward movements of men not quite in the mold of soldiering. But that would change soon enough.

  “Men of the Twenty-fifth Massachusetts! Today we begin our march toward the enemy in Virginia!”

  An anticipatory shiver rippled through Flanna’s limbs as the colonel’s voice rang out over the assembly. Today they would begin to move south, and each step would bring her closer to her father…and danger.

  Colonel Farnham sat stiffly on his horse, a fine white stallion that pranced anxiously before the assembled troops. “Men,” Farnham continued, “General Charles Stone has asked for our assistance. He holds Sugar Loaf Mountain, a position in Maryland, and needs some brave Massachusetts boys to help him make sure the Rebs are running from that part of the country. So we’re going up there to do a little reconnoitering in the grand old dominion of Virginia.”

  The men erupted in a cheer, but Flanna felt as though strong bands were constricting her chest. She turned her head until Alden Haynes appeared in her line of vision. He stood in the line of officers just ahead of her, his golden hair peeking out from beneath his hat. His calm attitude of self-command and relaxation helped soothe her strained nerves.

  “Men of the Union!” The sound of the colonel’s voice filled the meadow. “The hour for which you have waited has arrived. We are about to enter the enemy’s territory. Let every man do his duty. Be cool. Keep ranks as we march on the road, as we file through the woods, as we reclaim the traitors’ land. And if, by chance, we should encounter the Rebels, hold your fire until they are in easy range. Then aim low and fire deliberately; listen for the voice of your sergeants. If you follow orders, we will emerge the victor in every contest.”

  The men cheered, and the colonel pulled his sword from its scabbard and waved it overhead. “For your God and your country!” he yelled, his lined face brightening in an ardent flush.

  The colonel spurred his horse and raced down the line; the officers turned to face their companies. At once, a blizzard of commands whirled in the air, the band began to play, and the lines moved. To the stirring rhythms of “John Brown’s Body” Flanna stepped out with her fellows and began to march toward the south.

  Through the rising din, she breathed one word: “Home.”

  They marched for three days, sleeping in small, four-man wedge tents as they moved northwestward toward Sugar Loaf Mountain. From what Flanna overheard, she gathered that the Rebs had occupied the train depot at Leesburg, Virginia, but General McCall, whose men held nearby Dranesville, Virginia, to the south, had been scaring the Rebs away with a heavy show of force. Her regiment was to cross the river and approach Leesburg from the east, pressuring any remaining Rebs to move out. “I suppose we’ll look for Confederates as we go through the woods,” she explained to Charity as they breakfasted on Flanna’s ration of hardtack and dried beef. “And I earnestly hope we won’t find any.”

  Flanna wiped her hands on her jacket, then opened her journal long enough to record the date—October 21, 1861. Too nervous to write more, she snapped the book shut and dropped it, with her pen and ink bottle, back into her haversack. They had camped last night at Sugar Loaf Mountain. Today they would cross the Potomac into Virginia, and that realization had painted a shadow even on Paddy O’Neil’s jovial face. Albert Valentine’s mournful eyes had deepened into pools of black melancholy, and Rufus Crydenwise, a pale-faced mama’s boy who never should have enlisted, was fairly weeping into his coffee cup.

  Jonah Barker stood to wipe his nose on his sleeve, then glanced at the men around the fire. “Does anyone have any cartridges to spare?” he asked, his voice dull and troubled. “I spilled mine as we crossed that ridge yesterday. I was afraid to stop and pick ’em up.”

  William Sheahan, a Crimean War veteran who had drifted into Flanna’s mess, exploded. “Fool! Do you think we carry extra cartridges just for imbeciles like you?” Standing tall and straight like a towering spruce, he glared at Barker. The scar on his cheek darkened to match the vein that swelled in his forehead. “You are a shame to us, a curse, a jinx! You should have stayed on the farm and left the fighting to men who know what they are doing!”

  “Leave him be, Sheahan.” Sergeant Marvin stood, opened his cartridge box, and counted out ten dead men. “Here.” He thrust them into Barker’s hand. “Don’t lose these.” The sergeant turned and looked at the others, one corner of his moustache twitching. “Anyone else got a few to spare?”

  Flanna dug out her cartridge box and pried it open. “I do.” Truth be told, she’d willingly give every last cartridge to poor Barker because she didn’t plan on shooting anyone. She’d keep her gun loaded for self-defense, and if pressed, she’d shoot at the tops of trees and rocky ledges. But she had no intention of shooting into any Confederate line that might hold Wesley or one of her cousins.

  She counted out ten cartridges, then rolled them into Barker’s open box. To her surprise, Paddy O
’Neil did the same, as did Rufus Crydenwise.

  “All right then.” The sergeant spoke in a slow drawl, then picked up his rifle. “Let’s go. O’Connor, you and that boy of yours bury the fire, then hurry and fall in. We’re leaving right quick.”

  Flanna shoveled sand over the glowing embers of their fire while the others picked up their belongings and moved away. “Are we going to run for it now, Miss Flanna?” Charity whispered, her eyes wide.

  “We’ll be in Virginia as soon as we cross this river. And I’ve got your other clothes, so you can slip out of that Yankee uniform in the woods. We can find someone to take us back to Charleston—”

  “Shh, not now.” As she scrubbed the sand from her hands, Flanna glanced up and scanned the milling crowd in the clearing ahead. Apart from the others, near a small thicket, she saw Roger and Alden Haynes, their heads close in conversation.

  Flanna’s heart contracted in sympathy for both brothers. This was Roger’s first foray into the enemy territory, and she knew he had to be anxious. And Alden—though he was cut of military cloth—had never ventured into an enemy’s territory or faced an enemy’s guns. He would not only have to conduct himself with dignity and valor, he would have to place the men of his regiment above his own needs.

  “This would not be a good time, Charity,” she whispered, knowing with pulse-pounding certainty that she could not leave Alden Haynes today. “We’re still too far north, and the woods might be crawling with men from both armies.”

  If Charity disagreed, she said nothing. She helped Flanna finish covering the fire and spoke only when Flanna stood to adjust the straps of her heavy knapsack. “I’ll pray that God is with us today then. ’Cause the sooner we move south, the sooner we’ll get home.”

  “Right you are.” Flanna glanced pointedly at a fellow who had slunk backward toward them, then lowered her voice. “But you can’t stay with me while I go out. Servants usually stay in the rear with the supply wagons, so you go with them and wait for me. Don’t some of the officers have body servants who’ll be waiting there?”

  Charity nodded, and in response to the flickering fear in the girl’s eyes, Flanna patted her arm. “Don’t worry, we’ll be fine. This is just a scouting expedition, nothing more.”

  “Yes ma’am—I mean, yes sir.”

  “Okay. See you soon.” Without a further farewell, Flanna held on to her hat with one hand and ran forward to join her fellows.

  Alden paced on the banks of the Potomac and tried to disguise his annoyance. He should have known that a politician had arranged this reconnaissance, for nothing about the approach to Harrison’s Island or the Virginia shore had been well planned. He and his men had crossed the Potomac earlier in the morning, but only four boats—three long, light, flat-bottom bateaux and a small skiff—had been engaged to ferry four regiments and a squadron of cavalry from Harrison’s Island to the Virginia landing site. The bateaux carried only thirty men and the skiff only four, ensuring that the river crossing would be difficult and slow. Already the sun stood high in the sky, and the artillery unit had not yet begun to cross.

  Alden glanced across the river and moved his gaze through the trees. The area they were supposed to investigate sat high on a ridge known as Ball’s Bluff, a hundred-foot-high cliff that could only be reached by walking up a narrow, serpentine path. Colonel Charles Devens, commander of the Fifteenth Massachusetts, had crossed at midnight with three hundred men. After reporting in, he had been ordered to conceal his men and wait for reinforcements. “We’d be happy to support you, Colonel,” Alden muttered under his breath, “if we ever get across this cursed river!”

  Alden had been ordered to oversee a small detachment to guard Harrison’s Island while the other regiments made the crossing from the island to the Virginia shore. The last troops had just been ferried over, and Alden and his men were ready to cross and join their comrades atop the bluff.

  “Come on, hurry!” he called, herding the last of his men into a bateau. They piled in, a pair of privates picked up the oars, and Alden climbed in after them, his heart pounding in anticipation. Colonel Baker, with his “First California” regiment—so named to honor Senator Baker when the regiment was in fact the Seventy-first Pennsylvania—had taken the lead position, while Roger and the other Twenty-fifth Massachusetts companies marched somewhere in the center of the line. Alden wasn’t sure how his regiment had regrouped, since the men were scattered in the disorganized river crossings.

  “Are we going to miss the best of it, Major?”

  Alden looked at the man next to him. Idly scraping the callused tip of his forefinger across the blade of his fixed bayonet, the man looked almost relaxed, though a feral light gleamed in the depths of his blue eyes. Alden struggled to recall the man’s name. He was from Company M—yes, Sheahan, the one who’d fought in the European war. He was a professional fighter, swarthy and seasoned, and probably a better soldier than most men in the regiment. Alden didn’t completely trust him, though, for the man spoke with the broad, slow accent of a Georgia planter.

  “The best of what?” Alden reached out to balance himself as the boat wobbled in the swift current. “This is a scouting expedition, not a battle. Word has it that the camp atop this ridge has been abandoned.”

  “I don’t think so.” Sheahan’s scarred face cracked in a smile. “Can’t you feel it? It’s in the air; I can smell it. Hunger. Battle lust. This day will end with blood.”

  “Quiet, Sheahan. You’re gloomier than Valentine,” Sergeant Marvin called from the front of the boat. Alden caught the sergeant’s eye and grimly smiled his thanks. The men didn’t need to hear prognostications of doom before their first outing.

  Sheahan didn’t speak again, but a bright mockery invaded his stare as he studied the bluff above them. Alden turned away from the man and looked out over the rippling waters. As much as he hated to admit it, Sheahan probably knew more about what might happen up there than he did. Alden had studied Napoleonic strategy. He had memorized facts regarding historical battles. He had proved himself as a sharpshooter and swordsman. But he had never smelled powder away from the firing range, never felt blood on his hands.

  He didn’t particularly want to.

  Flanna caught her breath and forced her heavy feet to climb the steep trail. She had never visited Virginia and had no idea it was so rocky. The path they climbed had not looked so steep from the water, but now every step carried her more upward than forward. The weight of her knapsack threatened to pull her backward into a long line of men who might topple like dominoes if she missed a single step.

  The air was cold and damp; the morning’s gray promise had been fulfilled with a slow drizzle that soaked her clothing as she walked skyward. Her hands and face felt as cold as glass, but perspiration had dampened her undershirt as her legs worked to push her up the path. She had congratulated herself on being able to keep up with her companions on the long march to Sugar Loaf Mountain, but she’d never realized that climbing upward would exhaust her strength.

  A cold wind blew past her with a soft moaning sound. Her comrades walked without speaking, each man uncomfortably aware that he walked in Johnny Reb’s territory. They were moving through Virginia hills, over a Virginia mountain, with red Virginia clay beneath their feet. Flanna heard the far-off knocking of a woodpecker and the liquid duet of a pair of birds from somewhere across the river. But the space along the line of men was quiet, the silence filled with dread.

  At last they crested the knoll. Relieved smiles lit the faces of the men who’d arrived the night before. A few of them had stretched out on the grass, their canteens open as they splashed their faces with water. “Quite a climb, eh?” they called to those who came up the narrow trail. “And all for naught. Just look at the encampment we came to spy upon!”

  One of the revelers pointed toward the woods, and Flanna saw nothing but a row of pale trees shimmering like silver in the afternoon light. “What?” She looked at the soldier in confusion. “Trees?”

&
nbsp; “The idiots who flew over in the spy balloon thought they were a line of tents,” the soldier said, grinning. “Guess they never saw a white tree before.”

  “What’s been happening here?” she asked.

  The soldier jerked his thumb toward the trees. “The Fifteenth Massachusetts started out for Leesburg as soon as they got up here, but I don’t know how far they’ll get. Johnny Reb is out there, but we don’t know where.”

  Flanna folded her arms and looked around. She stood in a field of about six acres, open to the cliff and the river on one side, and bordered on three sides by thick trees. Colonel Cogswell and his Forty-second New York artillery were dragging howitzers up the muddy path, men tugging like pack animals as they struggled to maneuver the heavy guns over the circuitous path.

  The soldier grinned when he caught her eye again. “Too steep for the horses. So they make men do what horses cannot.”

  Flanna opened her mouth, about to reply, but halted when a bugle sounded and Colonel Baker strode into the center of the clearing.

  “Fall in, men!” The rich timbre of his orator’s voice echoed in the clearing. “To your regiments!”

  With a quick farewell to the soldier at her feet, Flanna hastened to join her company. The air of merriment vanished as Baker directed the troops—the Forty-second New York to the left, Wistar’s First Cavalry to the fore, Lee’s Twentieth Massachusetts to the right, and Farnham’s Twenty-fifth Massachusetts to the rear.

  “Do they think the Rebs are playing hide and seek?” A young man running to join his regiment turned and tossed the wisecrack over his shoulder. “If they were there, we’d have seen ’em before this.”

  As if in answer, a volley of rattling shots rent the air. An instant later the young man tumbled to the ground at Flanna’s feet, his eyes open to the sky, a dark hole in the center of his forehead. She stifled a scream as she automatically dropped to the ground beside him; then her stomach fell, and the empty place filled with a frightening hollowness.