by Suzi Weinert
Her mother smiled. “Your dad developed this interest soon after retirement. He joined a Civil War study group here, mostly fellow retirees who moved to Florida from states involved in that war. This evolved into a social group as well, often including wives.”
“Did you enjoy this group?”
“Yes. Interesting, knowledgeable folks. One couple participated annually in Pennsylvania re-enactments, acting out famous battles with historical accuracy in mind. She wore long skirts and cooked in iron pots over fires, and he wore replicas of the original wool uniforms over the underwear of the period, growing the beard and hairstyle popular then.”
“Re-enactments are big in Virginia, and you’re right, players take their roles very seriously.”
“Yes. I was amazed. They even used tools, weapons and sanitation of that time. And, of course, their horses wore authentic Civil War saddles or true replicas.”
“We’ve seen some Virginia re-enactments at Kelly’s Ford and Brandy Station. So what was Dad’s take on this war?”
“Let’s see if I can remember. He said the North kept a small regular Army but the South didn’t, so they were ill-prepared for war. Both still depended on enlistments—more patriotic enthusiasm than skill. Dad pointed out some generals on both sides were in their twenties, a few brand new West Point graduates. He said some officers even received rank as political-payback or friendship by Presidents Lincoln and Davis. No surprise, those were poor leaders.”
“Did Dad favor either side?” Jennifer leaned forward, amazed this unknown side of her father dovetailed with her own new interest.
“He said he ‘had no dog in this fight,’ but Dad was a gentleman and I think he leaned toward the Confederacy. Probably because they were military underdogs, because he wasn’t at all sympathetic about slavery. He thought both sides had good points and bad.”
“Had he a favorite person?”
“Maybe one. He would say, ‘Col. John Singleton Mosby, now there was a creative man.’ You know, ‘creative’ was a high compliment from your father. He often said you are creative.”
Jennifer grinned. “He did?”
“Yes, and I agree.”
She’d learned new things about her father today, five years since his death. Like her mother, she felt his presence in the room with them—as if his hand brushed her arm.
She ran her fingers along his Civil War books. “Mind if I put these aside to go through myself tonight?”
“Of course, Jen. Then, if I can find the club member list, we might ask if they want the books. If not, put them on the estate sale pile.”
By evening, they finished the main floor triage lists, changed clothes and drove to Swan River for dinner. After ordering, her mother said, “In season, you’d see a long line of tourists for this table, but it’s also a favorite of locals like me.” She lifted her wine glass. “Let’s celebrate. Thanks to you, Jen, we accomplished downsizing miracles at the house today. A toast to you, my dear.”
“And to you, Mom. If you’d dragged your feet, we’d have little progress.” They clinked goblets and sipped. “Love you,” they said together, laughing at their like-mindedness.
But then a serious expression crossed her mother’s face. “Jennifer, today I faced a harsh reality. I’d be gone now if my phone call hadn’t reached you or if you hadn’t been able to leave on the first available flight. My being alive tonight hinges on those two coincidences.”
Jennifer remembered how she’d nearly missed that flight. “Add a third coincidence. The plane had already boarded when I arrived late, so they turned me away. Only the gate attendant’s impulsive decision put me in the one empty seat left on the plane—first class on my economy ticket—got me to you in time. It’s pretty miraculous.”
“Three coincidences then. Are they unrelated accidents or do things happen for a reason?”
“Mom, I wish I knew. These events we don’t control can lead to positive outcomes or the opposite. And if it’s all predestined, where does free will fit?”
Her mother looked thoughtful. “Perhaps free will is what you decide to do with what coincidence brings—you can ignore it or embrace it.”
Jennifer lifted her wine glass, “However it happened, I love the way it’s worked out. Whether good luck or random accident or a miracle, yours is a happy ending, dear Mom.”
Grammy’s eyes twinkled. “My mother used to say, ‘Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.’”
Jennifer lifted her glass. ”To coincidence: which keeps us guessing.”
Their goblets touched.
CHAPTER 24
At nine o’clock that night, Jennifer picked three of her father’s Civil War books about Mosby. Weary from the day’s emotional and physical efforts, she climbed into bed and opened the first book.
She read how Mosby’s childhood schoolmates relentlessly bullied his frailty, but instead of knuckling under, he crafted dozens of ways to outwit them. Later, like other similar-minded southerners who sympathized with the North about abolishing slavery’s injustice, he took no action until the North invaded the South. To fight these Union “bullies,” he joined the Confederate Army as a private in 1861 at the age of twenty-eight.
The hit-and-run tactics, ambushes, sabotage, raids and mobility he’d used as a boy worked well then. But as war tactics, they defied current European-style battle form, where opponents traded rifle volleys as they marched forward in long lines directly facing each other. After grim casualties, those left standing in the battlefield faced hand-to-hand combat with bayonets.
Thus, the military frowned upon other methods until General J.E.B. Stuart noticed Mosby. Impressed with his flair for scouting and coolness in crisis, Stuart listened when Mosby explained with these tactics his men could harass the Union at night, cut communication lines, interrupt supply wagons and railroad trains, capture horses and take prisoners. “The Union may rule the day, but we Confederates will rule the night,” Mosby promised.
Given the near impossible task of winning every skirmish and thus the war, General Stuart immediately recognized the practical side of Mosby’s novel plan to form an army partisan unit using guerilla warfare. He made Private Mosby a lieutenant.
Despite negative votes from other ranking officers, Stuart supported Mosby’s vision until Lee finally gave permission to form the 43rd Battalion, Virginia Cavalry—a partisan unit informally known as “Mosby’s Rangers.”
Jennifer read that the man beneath the plumed hat wasn’t imposing, at 5’8” tall and 130 pounds, but Mosby’s quick mind, intuitive daring and miraculous success earned him the respect of his admirers and fear of his foes. As Mosby’s notoriety grew, stories about his successes appeared in both southern and northern newspapers. His battalion came to be known as “Mosby’s Raiders.”
Jennifer could see why her mother described Mosby as her father’s Civil War favorite. She read further.
In one remarkable daredevil foray on the night of March 8, 1863, Mosby approached the village of Fairfax Courthouse and, in the wee hours of March 9th , captured a sleeping Union general. But she found no mention of his finding valuables Stoughton looted from Virginia families.
Jennifer put down the first book to read versions of this incident in the other two books. Because of her riddle and map, the tale gnawed at her. Her clock read midnight. So completely had Mosby captured her imagination, she’d unexpectedly read for hours.
Closing the last book, she noticed the dragon staring at her from the dresser. Why did she feel as if energy radiated from this inanimate figure? The artist’s ineffable craftsmanship?
This new information about Mosby swirled in her mind as she yawned, saluted the dragon, turned out the light and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Then began a vision, plunging her into another time and place.
Hoofbeats thundered through darkness as thirty Confederate cavalry galloped across the snowy Virginia countryside. Riding at point, Mosby signaled a halt and pulled his poncho tighter. His twenty-nine
rangers reined up around him, their horses stomping and snorting against the cold temperature and steady drizzle. With the men’s gray uniforms covered by black rain ponchos, they hoped to pass in the dark as either Rebel or Union troops, a threat to neither side.
“We must work fast,” Mosby warned in his pre-assault briefing. “Capture every horse and soldier you can find, especially officers, plus food and arms to supply our troops. Share whatever spoils you find in the prisoners’ belongings or tents, but remember, we must be away from these Union lines before dawn.”
A sergeant caught up to Mosby. “Sir, we cut the telegraph lines a mile back so the Feds can’t wire their battalion for reinforcements,” he spoke into the chill, damp night air. “You really think an unprotected Union headquarters lies ahead?”
“Sgt. Ames says so. He defected to us from this very unit, and I trust him. He will guide us in through the picket line. This village fits Union headquarter needs—a hotel, stables and large houses to requisition.” He thought also of Antonia Ford, the clever lady spy who confirmed “Big Yank” Ames’ information. “Big Yank says this headquarters is over a mile away from the brigade it commands, and the very troops who might defend it. This plays right into our hands, and if that dog Wyndham is there, as reported, I’ll deal with him personally.”
The sergeant chuckled. “That Brit general who called you a common horse thief?”
“The very one.” Mosby smiled.
The sergeant added, “Of course, he didn’t mention that all the horses you stole had riders aboard and the riders had sabers, carbines and pistols.”
They shared another laugh.
“I hope to earn a little more respect from him tonight.” Mosby grinned.
He signaled his men to fan left and right–to find, disarm and capture sentries before their alarm roused sleeping Union soldiers. Mosby preferred taking prisoners, but if necessary his men would knife resistant guards to ensure the needed secrecy.
Field experienced, the raiders knew what to do. Capitalizing on surprise, in thirty minutes they easily captured all patrolling sentries, their horses and equipment. Then, at 2:00am, Mosby’s men crept into the sleeping town to find deserted streets and no light or sound from the houses.
“Each horse is a prize,” Mosby often reminded his men. When they reached the provost marshal’s stables, they took every serviceable mount, herding them in front of the village hotel.
One raider captured a soldier, who said he stood guard for the headquarters of Brig. Gen. Edwin H. Stoughton, giving Mosby a new idea. “Instead of capturing Gen. Wyndham myself,” he turned to Sgt. James Ames, “you bring him to me, Big Yank.” As Ames left, Mosby grabbed the frightened captive guard by the lapel and demanded, “Tell me where to find Gen. Stoughton.”
Trembling, the guard pointed. “He requisitioned that one, Dr. Gunnel’s house, for himself and his staff.”
Mosby chose six raiders close by, led them to the house and knocked loudly on the door with his pistol butt. In a few minutes, an upper window opened and a weary voice asked, “Who’s there?”
Thinking fast, Mosby invented, “Fifth New York Cavalry with a dispatch for Gen. Stoughton.”
The window closed, followed by footsteps on the inside stairs.
The door opened. “I’m Lt. Prentiss of Stoughton’s staff. You can give…”
But Mosby clutched him by the throat, rammed a pistol against his cheek and growled, “Lead me to the general’s room. Now!”
The bug-eyed, panicked lieutenant led the way upstairs to a bedroom, followed by Mosby and three of his men, guns drawn. With trembling hand, the lieutenant opened the door and pointed to a figure beneath heavy covers.
Noting empty champagne bottles on the dresser, Mosby whispered to his captive, “A big party last night?” The lieutenant nodded miserably.
Mosby strode to the bed, whipped back the blankets and smacked the curled-up snoring man’s backside. The general grumbled awake.
“General, did you ever hear of Mosby?” asked the person leaning over him.
“Yes. Have you caught him?”
”He has caught you.”
Confused, the general sat up. “Who is this man? What’s the meaning of this, Lieutenant?” he blustered.
Before the subordinate could answer, Mosby interrupted, “It means, General, that Stuart’s cavalry has taken over Fairfax and General Jackson is at Centreville.” Would this invented story fool the general into thinking his position hopeless against such forces? It worked.
As Stoughton and Prentiss dressed, Mosby told his men to get them downstairs while he and a corporal searched the room for battle plans.”
Mosby loaded documents and maps into a large pouch as the corporal said, “Sir, this looks like a chest of pirate treasure. It’s crammed with jewelry, coins, gold and silver candlesticks, bowls and tableware.” He pulled aside more of the wrapping cloths. “See.”
“What the…where did they get this?” Mosby examined a plate. “Solid gold and worth a small fortune.”
Picking up a familiar-looking goblet, he recognized it from Belcore, a gracious plantation whose hospitality he knew well. Mosby glared. “That devil stole these precious heirlooms from fine Virginia families. Well, now they’ll take a new journey to Robert E. Lee, for return to those rightful owners. Here, Corporal, grab those two canvas bags and load in the treasure. Make sure each one stays wrapped for protection. Then put the bags in one of the confiscated carriages or wagons and guard them with your life. Tell no one about this until I say so.”
Back in the yard, Big Yank approached his leader. “Sir.” The sergeant saluted Mosby. “Two Rangers captured seven headquarters couriers from tents in the yard plus their bridled, saddled horses. More captured prisoners and horses wait at the square. And Sir, I’m sorry to say, Gen. Wyndham went to Washington yesterday by train, but we raided his quarters, captured his deputy captain. We also confiscated his horse and all the general’s uniforms.”
Mosby chuckled. “Good job, Ames, but don’t worry. We captured us a Union general tonight anyway, just not the one we expected.”
The raiders worked the village so efficiently, prisoners thought the entire Confederate cavalry had broken through Union lines. Taking Gen. Stoughton’s cue, none offered resistance. One look at the hat with the plume and they knew they faced the legendary terror: Mosby.
He rode among the horses, men, prisoners, carriages and wagons to get the column rolling. They must pass Centreville before daylight to reach safety in Culpeper behind Confederate lines.
Mosby turned to Sgt. Ames, “While we ride, Big Yank, question Lt. Prentiss and several other prisoners about the source of this treasure.”
An hour later, Ames reported back. “Sir, the six I questioned cooperated fully and told the same basic story. The general ordered them to loot every large home in their path. He chose the items himself, taking the most valuable things he saw. He said this demoralized owners and enriched the Union, but they suspect he intended keeping them for himself.”
“Thank you, Ames. What’s the count of captured prisoners and horses?”
“Forty-two men, three of them officers, with arms and equipment and fifty-eight horses, most saddled and equipped. Also three carriages, five wagons, several casks of wine and a cask of bourbon. And Sir…”
“Yes?”
“All without firing a single shot or losing a single man.”
CHAPTER 25
When her eyes opened the next morning, Jennifer awoke exhilarated.
She had much to delight her: her mother’s recovery from the near-lethal drug and the surprise of her willingness to move to McLean. Also producing the deputy’s needed stolen-items list on time and easing her mother through touch-and-go separation anxiety she faced yesterday in the den.
But this new excitement stemmed from her remarkable dreamy vision—that imaginary journey to a different time and place that felt so real…and related to the map and riddle mystery high on her mind!
S
he sat up in bed. For the first time she understood how the past could draw someone inexorably to immersion in a different dimension—like Egyptologists consumed by a centuries-old world of pharaohs, or paleontologists spending their lives hunting dinosaur bones, or archeologists searching out ancient structures and the cultures that flourished there. All wanted to confirm known facts about the objects of their focus, but were also animated by the fever to discover something new about their quarry.
Until this dream fantasy, Jennifer had lived in the here and now. Documentaries about past history educated or entertained, but she never felt immersed. Now, she understood her father’s attraction to Civil War history and her airplane seatmate’s hunger for its artifacts.
Alone downstairs, she started the coffee pot and booted her laptop. Wasn’t her seatmate’s last name Early? And his ancestor…did he say Jubal Early? She typed in the name. Up popped dozens of links. She clicked one after another, learning this general’s personal history, battle accomplishments and other attributes, while making notes on a pad.
Ten minutes later, she poured a cup of coffee and, sipping it, studied her jottings: 1816-1894, family in Virginia since 1700s, West Point graduate, lawyer, Civil War Confederate general, irascible, white supremacist, blind to own mistakes, a critical fault-finder, not liked by subordinates or generals, short tempered, fiercely resentful of criticism about himself, cantankerous, blunt, relieved of command by Lee in March 1865, never married but had four children with Julia McNealey between 1850-1864 and gave them his surname.
Not exactly a glowing relative, but neither was his great-great-grandson seated next to her aboard the flight four days ago. William Early’s personality gave Jennifer chills. Coincidence or genetic? Who knew?
“Do I smell fresh coffee?” Her mother strolled into the kitchen. “Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?” As she poured coffee, Jennifer told her about the vivid story that played on the screen in her mind the night before.
