Valley of the Shadow: A Novel

by Ralph Peters

  September 23, 1:00 a.m.

  Woodstock, the Murphy home

  “No need to lie to me, Dr. Maguire,” Pendleton said. “I know I’m dying. It’s God’s will, I’m satisfied.”

  “Yes,” Maguire said, “that’s about the truth of it, I can’t lie. I’ll stay with you, though. I can do that, at least. We do go back.”

  “Old Jack,” Pendleton murmured. After the nightmare journey in the ambulance, he had grown lucid in this soft, warm bed. And if he held perfectly still, the pain was bearable.

  “Old Jack,” the doctor echoed.

  “I do believe I’ll see him. Soon.” Fighting down a spasm, he tried to joke. “I’ll give him your compliments, tell him you’ll be along. In your good time, of course.”

  “You do that.”

  “Doc?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s one thing you can do.”

  “Surely.”

  “Leave, go. The army needs you. I don’t.” He attempted a smile. “Not anymore.”

  He did not choose to think about his wound. But he thought about it.

  “I’d prefer to stay,” his old comrade said.

  Pendleton groaned. He would have jackknifed up to clutch the pain, but lacked the strength to move.

  “No. You go. Please. Do that for me.”

  “Sandie…”

  “Don’t want the Yankees capturing Old Jack’s surgeon on my account. Probably parade you around in a medicine show.”

  “You rest now. I’ll be right here.”

  “Tell me you’ll go.”

  “Sure you won’t take whiskey? Help the pain?”

  Pendleton tried to shake his head. “Promised Kate.”

  “Anything I can tell her for you? Shall I take down a letter?”

  Pendleton fought to master himself, to rally his spirit. The pain was so severe, it squeezed out tears. But his confusion was past, for that he was grateful.

  “Tell her … tell her it’s better so. I’ve been chosen early for that finer world, tell her we’ll meet again—”

  Abruptly, he lost consciousness and disorderly visions plagued him. He was back in the ambulance, jolted and suffering pain he had never imagined, wet as a babe in diapers, but with blood. The ambulance was taking him to Chancellorsville, but it wasn’t Chancellorsville, it was Kate’s family home, beautiful in the daylight, as she was beautiful beyond measure in the daylight.

  It was still raining when next he woke, still night. Candles, no oil for the lamps. Yankees starving the South of every last thing. Someone was in the room, a woman. He tried to call out to his wife but faded again.

  What was the name of that yellow dog the Salters kept tied in the yard? He always had yearned to untie it, let it loose. Was this Kate’s bed, their bed? Would it ever be their bed? Someone had to bring up ammunition, Jackson was furious … that yellow dog …

  He sensed, vaguely, that Dr. Maguire had honored his wish and gone back to the army, but the world had lost its sharpness, its boundaries, and he couldn’t be certain. Only the pain was distinct.

  Dawn found Sandie Pendleton still with the living. His last hour, far beyond suffering, was spent in the company of Yankee surgeons and officers.

  “The pain…,” he muttered as he woke one last time.

  “Shall I give him some more, do you think?” a Northern voice asked.

  “… pain’s gone,” Pendleton finished.

  “More might kill him. Colonel Pendleton? Can you understand me? Is there anything at all that we can do for you?”

  “My wife,” he said.

  “Yes, your wife. I understand. Is she nearby? Shall we bring her to you?”

  “Child.”

  “Something about a child. I can’t make it out.”

  He tried to lift his hand and could not.

  “Colonel Pendleton, what do you want to say to this child? Or to your wife?”

  “Love.”

  “What are you trying to say, son? We can’t understand you.”

  “Better so.”

  PART

  III

  THE SHADOW

  SIXTEEN

  October 3, 1864, 9:00 p.m.

  Petersburg, Virginia

  Lieutenant Colonel Charles Marshall rose and extended the letter.

  “From Governor Smith,” the military secretary said.

  “Again?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “The same matter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Robert E. Lee paused short of Marshall’s desk, exasperation poisoning his eyes. Six months back, the older man would have concealed his ire.

  Lips tightened, Lee took the letter. He did not sit to read it, but steered to a table lamp and drew out his spectacles. The eyeglasses, too, had appeared only of late.

  Masking his glances, Marshall considered the general. It had been yet another hard, bad day, with all of Grant’s armies whittling away at the South, a wasting disease in blue. Lee’s digestion and angina had improved since the awful spring and desolate summer, but his arthritis had worsened. Lee hid his discomfort from the men, maintaining a flawless posture in the saddle, but among his closest aides his crispness wilted.

  Lee muttered to himself, another new habit.

  The week before, Marshall had been struck by a revelation. Riding past soldiers gaunt as the victims of famine, Lee had been received not as a general, but as a wondrous father, even a savior. That was hardly new, but amid the cheers raised from jutting Adam’s apples and starved throats, Marshall had realized that he himself no longer served out of loyalty to the Confederacy, but out of devotion to Lee. He suspected that Taylor and Venable, the other two members of the staff’s triumvirate, felt just as he did.

  It was not a matter gentlemen discussed. It smacked of treason.

  Yet, it was true. Experiencing Richmond’s haughty self-regard from nearby Petersburg was enough to dishearten any man. And were that squalid vanity insufficient, the way officials treated not only the hungry army but Lee himself was mortifying.

  As he finished reading the letter, Lee’s hand trembled. But the general composed himself and handed back the paper, revealing a frayed sleeve, a sight once unthinkable.

  “Do you wish to reply, sir?”

  Lee shook his head. “Not tonight, not tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The older man looked drained of all vitality.

  “Any other matters, Colonel Marshall?”

  “Nothing pressing, sir.” There were, of course, countless matters that wanted attention, but Marshall preferred to handle them himself and let Lee rest.

  The general nodded. Marshall expected Lee to leave the room, to retire to his bed in this once fine house, perhaps to ponder private woes in turn. His wife’s condition had worsened again, and Custis, his son, remained ill. On top of that, his nephew had been severely wounded at Winchester. And after contemplating his private sorrows, Lee would pray, ravaged knees on bare planks. Marshall knew him better than Lee imagined, well enough to break a decent heart.

  Instead of leaving the room, Lee took a chair. His flesh seemed to sigh.

  “What does the man expect me to do? Who do I have to replace Early? Who could I send?”

  Governor “Extra Billy” Smith’s letter had been drafted with crimson claws.

  “The governor’s faction favors General Breckinridge,” Marshall reminded him. “The soldiers are said to want Gordon.”

  “Not Gordon, not yet. Too soon. As for General Breckinridge…”

  Marshall knew Lee well enough not to expect the completion of the sentence. Lee did not think Breckinridge had the gift of commanding armies, not even depleted ones.

  “I feel…,” Lee went on, in one of his franker moods, “I feel that Governor Smith is behaving ignobly. Command appointments cannot be undone based on our antipathies. As for factions, Colonel Marshall, ‘faction’ will be the death of this Confederacy, should the Lord ever see fit to withdraw his favor.”


  “Hasn’t come to that, sir,” Marshall said. “Thanks be.”

  Not listening, Lee resumed speaking: “They don’t understand Early, they refuse to see him entire. If my ‘bad old man’ is flawed, so are we all, Colonel Marshall, so are we all. Early’s done his best, I cannot doubt that. Nor am I convinced that any of our generals would have proved abler. The newspaper people do him an injustice. And the Richmond papers…”

  Marshall understood what went unsaid: The newssheets were despicable and none more so than Richmond’s, accusing Early of everything from incompetence to drunkenness on the battlefield, charges against which even Breckinridge defended his sometime friend and erstwhile tormentor. Everyone assumed that Virginia’s governor lurked behind the press as well. There was a torrent of bad blood between Old Jubilee and Extra Billy.

  Lee had not finished. “What angers me, Colonel Marshall, what I find unacceptable—ungentlemanly—are these anonymous allegations, these unnamed sources of information Governor Smith proclaims he’s sworn to protect. Think of it, think of it! What cowardice for a man to blacken another’s reputation, yet lack the decency to sign his name. Anonymous attacks lack even the brute assassin’s measure of courage. No man, Colonel … no man should ever malign another anonymously, the practice is contemptible.”

  Marshall knew that Lee also found Virginia’s governor contemptible. And Marshall, who shared a Warrenton tie with Smith, agreed in full: Extra Billy had been a wretched officer and proved no better as an elected official. The governor was a man of endless schemes and few achievements. Lee, of course, would never voice such views, but Marshall could read his thoughts from a lifted eyebrow: Lee despised Smith. But Lee would never say as much to any man.

  For his part, Marshall wished the general would confront Richmond’s iniquities and handle President Davis with less deference. Lee’s rigorous—almost ostentatious—subordination to civil authority, his unwillingness to chide even villains like Smith, threatened to lead the army into tragedy.

  Lee was the last man trusted by all, yet he restricted himself to tactical questions. Marshall had begun to think it was possible to be too much of a gentleman.

  “If I had another man, I would replace General Early,” Lee said abruptly. “For his own sake, to spare him all this. But not because he was gainsaid a victory, not when I have fallen short myself.” He pawed the air for invisible support. “This expectation of miracles, this pharisaic demand for impossible wonders, is as unjust as it is irreligious. General Early may be abrasive when out of temper—I grant you, I grant you—but no man has a higher sense of duty.” Lee met his assistant’s eyes. “Others talk, he fights.”

  Marshall agreed with much of what Lee had to say. But he also knew it wasn’t only Smith who’d lost faith in Early. Accustomed as all were to victories in the Valley, two sharp defeats shocked soldiers and civilians, high and low. When misfortune struck, men didn’t want explanations. They wanted someone to blame.

  But Lee had chosen to send Early reinforcements, all the men possible, returning Kershaw’s Division to the Valley, then dispatching Rosser and a cavalry brigade, stripping the Petersburg defenses to a dangerous degree. Even so, the reinforcements were paltry compared to Sheridan’s newly reported strength.

  Lee rose, not without effort. “I will not blame General Early. But I do blame General Sheridan for this … this general alarm. His conduct, these … these atrocities … have no place in the affairs of civilized nations.”

  Reports claimed that a man perched atop the Blue Ridge would see more fires blazing than he could count. Sheridan wasn’t making war on Early now, but on the entire Shenandoah Valley, on the people.

  The bitterness graven on faces around the headquarters had grown fearsome, etched deep by concern that such might be the fate of the entire South. The one thing burning the Valley did not do was to incline men to surrender.

  On the threshold of the parlor serving as Marshall’s office, Lee paused again.

  “We must all have faith,” he said. “We must have faith.”

  That seemed to end the evening’s exchange, but upon reaching the stairs, the older man turned and surprised Marshall with a smile.

  “I forget myself, Colonel. You have a birthday today. My congratulations. I wish you many more.” The smile faltered. “In better times.”

  October 3, 9:00 p.m.

  Outside Harrisonburg

  The darkness between the tents produced Doc Joe. Face bedeviled by shadows and the campfire’s orange light, he appeared to a mournful fiddle tune that rose from the depths of the camp.

  “I come, dear brother-in-law, bearing good news.”

  “Miracles do happen,” Hayes said. He moved to stir the fire, then chose to let the flames weaken. “Take a seat.”

  “Little cold to be sitting out,” Joe said. “Fire or not.”

  “Sit down, or tell your news standing.”

  The surgeon took a camp chair. “It’s Russ Hastings. Sawbones’ telegraph tells me he’s likely to live.”

  Hayes closed his eyes for a moment, thanking the Lord in whom he could not believe.

  “That is good news. Wonderful news.”

  “Most of the pieces seemed to fit together. He may even look presentable again. To the extent that boy ever did.”

  “Get word to Will McKinley. He feels guilty.”

  Joe stirred up the fire Hayes had neglected. “Wait till morning, I expect.”

  “Still holding Russ at Winchester?”

  The surgeon nodded. “Can’t move him yet. May be some time.”

  “When we get back to Winchester, I need to see him.”

  “Sounds like it isn’t only Will McKinley. Who’s feeling guilty.”

  Hayes shook his head in denial, but he did feel a trace of guilt. He remembered telling Hastings, “Stay close to me.” And the aide had stayed close and had paid for it.

  “May not be that long,” Joe said, “before you get to see him. I also hear, from a very different and generally dependable chain of informants—that would be the commissary sergeants—that we’ll be moving north again right soon. To the Cedar Creek line, at least.” He nodded at the southern horizon, the view that had kept Hayes mesmerized all evening. “Get away from all this.”

  “That’s a military secret, Joe,” Hayes noted.

  “There aren’t any secrets in the military,” his brother-in-law said. “Might as well try to hide a dose of clap as a general’s plans.”

  “Still…”

  “I’m not pumping you. Just offering up what the sergeants are all saying. In case my cherished relative—who I hear has been recommended for brigadier general—in case that august gentleman has not been informed by the mighty powers about the latest change in the situation. Hate to see a hero look plain ignorant.” Joe tossed the stick atop the reborn flames. “When were you going to tell me? About the promotion?”

  “Hasn’t happened yet.”

  “It will. And you know it. And next week, after the ballots are counted for the Ohio elections, you’re going to be a congressman-elect. Yet, here you sit, moping like Hamlet in a traveling troupe.” Casting a wild shadow on stained canvas, Joe stretched wide his arms, then slapped his hands together. “Papers back home are full of you, I hear. ‘Hero of the Opequon.’” Joe chuckled. “Sounds a bit like ‘The Song of Hiawatha.’”

  “That about captures it, I’d say,” Hayes told him. “Made-up stories.”

  “I will admit that the illustrations—’least, the one I saw—look somewhat more dashing than the somewhat unkempt reality. Lucy’s going to be wondering who she married.”

  On the southern horizon, flames soared.

  “You know,” Hayes said, soft-voiced, “this is as close as I’ve ever come to taking your advice.”

  “About trimming that beard, if you want to keep the lice off?”

  “About resigning my commission.”

  “Well, hallelujah! Let me shake your hand, Congressman Hayes. Boys are talking about you for gove
rnor, you know that? And it wouldn’t hurt you to go home and stump for Lincoln ahead of November.”

  “I didn’t say I was taking your advice. Only that I’ve never come so close.”

  “Well, come a little closer. You’ve done your part. Lucy and the boys need a husband and father.”

  “Nearing her time,” Hayes said, changing the subject.

  “Don’t you worry about that, either. She’ll be fine, that gal. Probably birth a twelve-pounder, in honor of du Pont’s artillery.”

  “Her rheumatism worries me.”

  “Rheumatism doesn’t affect childbirth. As a practitioner of the high science of medicine, I can attest to that with fair authority.”

  “But after.”

  “Worry about ‘after’ after. Lord almighty, Rud. You’re about to be elected to Congress, you’ve been recommended for a general’s star, you’re a hero to the folks back home, and your wife is set to give birth to a healthy, strapping infant who, no doubt, will have the lungs of a company first sergeant. How about tossing some joy into the pot?”

  Hayes gestured toward the countless glows that pinked the horizon in the direction of Staunton. “It’s that, Joe. All that.”

  “Nothing you can do about it.”

  “No,” Hayes agreed. “But I can be ashamed.”

  “Turn around and face north. Forget it. This damned war.”

  “These people won’t forget it. Their great-great-grandchildren won’t forget it.”

  Joe coughed up a laugh. “Two weeks ago, you were the apple-pie optimist. Telling me how good men would patch this country up.”

  “Not after this.”

  “They had it coming.”

  “No.”

  “Sounds insubordinate, Colonel Hayes. General Sheridan’s orders—”

  “I’ve followed my orders. But I don’t have to like my orders.”