Aunt Molly didn’t even stop to look at Annie as she hustled by her on the steps, scooting by like a dog whacked hard with a broom. Lines were being drawn at Hickory Heights as strong as picket defenses.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
November 2, 1862
Hickory Heights
He was down there, General Stuart, down among the tents that speckled their fields with campfires, as thick as fireflies on an August eve. Annie ached to talk with him. The Virginia cavalry had ridden into their farm in the late afternoon, regrouping after a stinging encounter with New York and Rhode Island cavalry in the nearby town of Union.
In fact, stinging was probably not strong enough a word. Laurence had come into their house, grim faced and limping, his leg bleeding badly from a rip in his calf where a bullet had passed through his boot. If it hadn’t been for John Pelham, the tenacious boy major of Stuart’s horse-drawn artillery, said Laurence, they might have all been captured or killed.
He and the Confederate riders had actually fought dismounted, behind stone fences. When Federal forces pulled back to reload their single-shot carbines, Pelham charged and scattered them with cannon fire. Even so, Stuart’s cavalry had had to withdraw again and again under pressure from larger numbers. Fighting every step of the way, they’d given up only a mile of turf throughout it all. “We are obstinate, Annie, grant us that,” Laurence muttered as she and Aunt May bandaged him. “It is a fact, however, and an alarming one, that the Union cavalry is much improved.”
For the past several days, Stuart and his men had been within a few miles of Hickory Heights. On October twenty-sixth, McClellan’s Federal army had crossed into Virginia and moved toward Loudoun and Fauquier counties. Trying to protect the Blue Ridge Mountains’ gaps and passages into the Shenandoah Valley where Jackson and Longstreet were camped, Stuart had been sent out to attack. He’d skirmished up and down Snickersville Pike, once scattering the Yankees as far back as Aldie and the Bull Run Mountains. He’d also galloped into Middleburg and Upperville, sending the townsfolk into fits of joy akin to the greeting Annie had witnessed at Warrenton. She’d nearly burst with frustration, hearing about both visits after they’d occurred.
Now the poet-general was down in her pastures. And she wanted to talk to him. She’d seen him briefly, only long enough to offer him a huge shank of mutton for dinner. His staff had taken it to roast, while Stuart met with his officers to plan the next day’s strategies. Laurence had wanted to offer the house to his commander, but hearing of Miriam’s illness, Stuart had declined. Laurence was up with Miriam now. Surely it would be all right for Annie to approach Stuart’s tent and speak with the general for just a moment. She bundled herself up and slipped out the back door.
It was a cold near-winter evening. The moon had an icy white sheen to it and the brown grass was laced with frost. Crickets were long dead or burrowed into the mudflats to wait for spring. There was no sound of owls or shriek of foxes out hunting, only the crackling of campfires and the murmuring of men hunkered down against the frigid air. There was no singing, no joking, no shouts of congratulations. She passed gaunt horses tethered together for the night. She fought off a surge of nausea when she saw one horse still saddled, with a bunch of severed hooves dangling from the pommel. Laurence had told her how desperate for horseshoes the Confederate cavalry was becoming. In the middle of a battle, they’d pause to cut the hooves off dead horses to keep the usable shoes and nails. Without shoes, the horses’ hooves chipped and cracked. The horses quickly grew lame and unrideable. Without horses, there was no cavalry to scout out the Yankees or to shield the Confederate infantry.
Annie soon identified Stuart’s tent by the mass of men swarming it. A courier ran in through the flap. Within a few moments a dozen captains and corporals exited and the tent became silent and still. Now, she thought, might be a good time. She approached the tent. Stepping into the light of the lanterns ringing the tent’s entrance, she startled a young lieutenant, standing guard beside it.
“Evening, miss.” He tipped his hat. “May I help you?”
“I was wondering if the general enjoyed the lamb,” Annie asked.
The young man brightened. “Oh, yes, miss, he did very much. We all had a bit. Best meal in days. Thank you kindly.”
“You are most kindly welcome,” she answered, stalling to think of a way to ask to see Stuart without seeming forward. Since Miriam’s illness, Annie had struggled to take on the behavior of being the head-mistress of her household. The niceties required of such a position were still new to her, but now she spotted an advantage in them. “I wanted to know if the general needed anything else for the night.” There, that kept her from sounding like a lovesick schoolgirl.
“I’ll ask, miss. Please, may I announce you?”
“Yes. Tell him it’s Annie Sinclair.”
The lieutenant stepped inside the white canvas. Annie heard low voices, and the young man came out again. “He asks that you wait just a moment, miss, and that you forgive his delay.” He looked back at the tent and then moved closer to Annie. He whispered, “He’s just received bad news, miss. His daughter is gravely ill.”
Daughter? What daughter? Annie went as cold as the night. If he had a daughter, that meant he had a…a…wife.
Aghast, Annie took a step back. What a fool she’d been to read anything into that poem, his flirtatious banter. She thrust her hand into her pocket. There was the treasured letter she’d carried for more than a year now, hanging on each and every word. Her fingers wrapped around the crisp, thick paper and she crushed it, getting some satisfaction in the crunch it made.
“Is that Lady Liberty?” a familiar voice spoke, but it was husky and somber, lacking its usual merriment and theatrics. Stuart stood before her, pulling on his outer coat. No golden colors to him that night—no sash, no plume, no braided epaulets—just a tired, mud-splattered soldier. He brushed his eyes and pushed back his hair, and Annie realized that he’d been crying.
Stuart spoke. “I am sorry to hear of your mother’s illness, Miss Annie. Please tell her how much I enjoyed the mutton she graciously shared with us.” His voice was flat.
Annie had wanted to slap him, to shout her disappointment at him, to accuse him of leading her on. But suddenly, she just felt sorry for him; sorry for herself; sorry for them all in that cold, stark night.
She found her way in polite conversation. “Perhaps we could bundle Mother down in the morning, so she could meet you, General. I know that would mean a great deal to her. But”—Annie paused, then said—“you must forgive her if she is quiet, General. She is not herself just yet. The diphtheria has left her very weak.”
Stuart looked toward Annie but was clearly not seeing her. “We must all bear the sadness that sickness brings us with Christian fortitude and resignation.” He slowly shook his head in disbelief and mumbled, “My own little Flora, just barely five years of age…such a sweet nature, so devoted to her papa.” He stopped and stared off into the night.
Annie didn’t know what to say. This was not the raucous, charismatic Stuart she knew, the larger-than-life man who could embolden a thousand men by his speeches or reduce women to swoons by a glance. He looked small, hairy, dirty, unmoved by her presence.
She’d been so sure of his interest in her. But then again, she’d never been courted before. How would she know the difference? In the cool moonlight, Annie realized that Stuart’s poetic tribute to her was just part of the fun, the game, the lore of the crusade, the precious Southern cause.
Flattering? Yes. Heartfelt? Probably at the moment of penning it. Serious affection? It couldn’t be.
At least, Annie told herself, she had enough sense to not burden this critically important general with her infatuation while he was in the middle of a confrontation with the enemy. She also had absolutely no idea what to say, her sense of embarrassment ran so deep. She waited.
“Well.” Stuart sighed. “There’s sure to be a fight tomorrow. I cannot leave my men to see my daughter, as my
wife asks. God’s will be done. Flora will live or die whether I am with her or not. My place is here.”
Stuart attempted a smile. “After all”—his voice swelled with a bit of his accustomed bravura—“I am the knight of the golden spurs.” He lifted a foot to show Annie an elegant, long, gleaming spur. “They’re gold, sent to me by a lady in Baltimore. Aren’t they marvelous?”
There was something very childlike in the question. Annie looked at him with surprise, catching a glimmer of neediness akin to Jamie’s. God forbid that his men, that Laurence, should see it, not this night, not when they’d need all their pluck and confidence come dawn.
“Indeed, General, they are very handsome.” Annie smiled reassuringly, trying her best to imitate Miriam. Her mother had always known how to bolster someone. “They befit the man who will lead the Confederacy to victory.”
Instantly, Stuart beamed and straightened up. “You see, Miss Annie, you do soothe the soldier.”
Annie recognized the line from his poem to her. So he remembered. Or was it a line he used on women he hoped to inspire—or impress? Annie felt a new wariness, a new understanding of how words could have many meanings. And yet, on this night, this moment of changing history, did it matter whether she was one of many he so flattered? His honeyed words inspired, even romanced Southerners into patriotism. That’s probably what should matter most, she told herself, and closed her mind to further questions.
Certainly there might be need for her, for all of them, even boys such as Jamie, to join in the defense of Virginia. The seemingly unconquerable knight of the golden spurs would not win his battles the next day, or the day after that. As bravely as they fought, Stuart and his riders were driven south by the 5th New York Cavalry. They scrambled back over the Hazel and Rappahannock rivers, burning bridges behind them. Stuart even buried two cannons that were slowing their withdrawal to keep the Yankees from having them.
Despite the Union cavalry victories, General McClellan slowed his pursuit of the Confederates, allowing them to regroup. By month’s end, the gray forces were strongly fortified at Fredericksburg, Virginia. Frustrated, President Lincoln removed McClellan from Federal command and appointed Ambrose Burnside to lead the Yankees. Burnside had commanded a brigade at the Battle of First Manassas and fought at Antietam, but how he’d be in command of the entire Union army was unknown. No one could guess what the Federals might try next.
But one thing was clear to Annie—Stuart was learning to retreat, and at speeds faster than a trot.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
December 30, 1862
Middleburg
It was the night before New Year’s Eve, the dawn of 1863. Stuart and his men were celebrating. The cavalry had ridden up from their winter quarters near Fredericksburg, and for the past several days had been raiding Union outposts and telegraph stations just south of Alexandria, across the river from Washington, D.C. They completely surprised the Federals and captured dozens of Union officers, two hundred horses, mules, and sutler wagons filled with supplies—the most prized cache being three hundred pairs of boots!
They’d ridden through snow and sleet, catching every Yankee picket along the heavily fortified Telegraph Road without alarming the Federal camps sleeping nearby.
Stuart’s final exploit had been at the railroad telegraph office at Burke Station. There he paused to send a mirthful, taunting message to the U.S. quartermaster general, complaining about the quality of mules Stuart had captured from the Yankees: “Quality of the mules lately furnished me very poor. Interferes seriously with the movement of captured wagons.” Then he cut the wires, burned a bridge, and set off to look for more loot at Fairfax Courthouse, a Union garrison.
Stuart was back to his bodacious self.
Despite the death of his small daughter, Stuart was buoyed, as were many in the Confederacy, by their victory at Fredericksburg in mid-December. Theirs was a hushed satisfaction, however. It had been a terrible slaughter of the Federals. Forced by their generals to cross a wide-open field toward a thick line of Confederates safely dug in behind stone walls and atop a rim of hills, thousands of Union soldiers had been shot down. Surely, sent in to such certain death with such callousness by their leaders, the bluecoats would give up fighting and the war would end.
With such thoughts, Stuart pressed on toward Fairfax Courthouse. But this last raid was not to be. Stuart was ambushed by pickets just outside the town. Stuart and his men withdrew without firing, relieved to find only one man nicked by a bullet. Confused by their lack of return gunfire, the Federals sent out a flag of truce and called through the darkness to Stuart’s men: “Friend or foe?”
“The flag will be answered in the morning,” one of Stuart’s men shouted back. Stuart had his men light enormous campfires as if a large force were settling down for the night. Then, silently, they rode west until they reached Middleburg, some twenty miles away.
There, they stopped to rest and to share with the citizens the bounty they’d captured.
From a house on the town’s outskirts, Laurence sent for Annie. She and Jamie arrived, with several other locals, to celebrate the holidays with some of the canned meats, fruits, and cheese Stuart’s men had found in the Union wagons.
While his men gathered around the fireplace to sing Christmas carols, Stuart approached the settee on which Annie sat. She was glad to be wearing a new dress made out of the Massachusetts velvet. Midnight blue, it was a grown-up gown. The bodice was high in the back, low and square in the front, modestly trimmed with an edge of lace. The fabric sent by the Yankee mother was so elegant, Miriam had left the skirt unadorned, save for a wreath of lace at the hem and at the elbows of the puffed, short sleeves. Annie even wore Miriam’s choker of pearls. Thus dressed, she felt very self-assured.
Still, Annie’s heart skipped at the sight of Stuart. She couldn’t help admiring him, even though her schoolgirl infatuation had died that night in her fields. She fleetingly thought of what Stuart might say if he knew the fabric had come from a Union family. Given his enjoyment of needling the enemy, he might relish the idea. She planned to tell Stuart until she noted the attitude of the small, wiry man accompanying him. The stranger was definitely all business.
“Miss Annie, this is Lieutenant John Mosby, one of my best scouts,” said Stuart. “We are heading back to the main army, back to Fredericksburg. But John wishes to stay behind to keep watch on the bluecoats, to harass the enemy’s rear for me. I think it’s a good idea. I’m giving him a contingent of nine men from the 1st Virginia.
“This lady”—Stuart turned to Mosby—“is Miss Annie Sinclair, a great friend to the cause. Don’t let her size or beauty fool you. She is Lady Liberty to me. If you are in need, I am sure she will come to your aid.”
Mosby turned to Annie. Unlike Stuart, who was dressed in all his finery, Mosby wore plain, unadorned gray. He was clean-shaven, with a long, sharp nose and fine, honey-colored hair. His eyes were piercing blue, lighter than Stuart’s, and serious as they assessed her. There was something shrewd, even calculating, about him, despite his polite manners. Annie was surprised that Stuart would think so highly of someone so very different from him. But then again, Stuart adored Stonewall Jackson, a dour, humorless man.
“Lieutenant.” She nodded at him.
“Miss Sinclair.” He nodded back.
“Why stay here in Fauquier and Loudoun, Lieutenant? The enemy is currently farther east, isn’t it? In Fairfax County—Centreville, Chantilly, Vienna, Occoquan?”
Mosby hesitated, perhaps assessing Annie’s sincerity, perhaps surprised by the directness of her question and her awareness of enemy locations. “This is the perfect landscape for my operations,” he answered matter-of-factly. “There are woods in which to hide, hills that offer long views, high fieldstone walls for me to use in ambush, and, hopefully, loyal inhabitants such as you to keep me apprised. I can hit the very places you describe and quickly return here to safety.” He shifted his feet and added bluntly, “Besides, the enemy will co
me again into this area, miss. I am sure of it. This is the highway to the Shenandoah.”
His words filled Annie with dread. Yankees again. They had plundered through the neighborhood during much of November. She was so sick of scurrying to hide things—Angel in the cellar, feed bags on her hooves to quiet her tread; the silver in the pigeon roost; wheat in pillowcases and mattresses; bacon up the chimneys; meat shanks carefully wrapped and buried. The thought brought an end to her holiday mood.
It also was the end of Mosby’s conversation, beyond asking where Annie lived and making note of Hickory Heights’ location. He excused himself.
“A lawyer,” Stuart whispered to Annie. “Old Mose is not one for idle chatter. I gather he read the law while he was in prison. He shot a fellow student at the University of Virginia who had insulted and threatened him on a dark stairway. John is definitely not someone to tangle with. My kind of rogue!” Stuart laughed heartily and took Annie’s hand.
“Now, Miss Annie, do tell me all about yourself. You look exquisite this evening.”
Annie felt her face flush and took a deep breath to keep herself from silliness and reading too much into his banter. “Well, General, you know it is difficult these days to—”
But Annie never finished. Laurence stepped up, and behind him was a hot-faced, breathless Jamie. Laurence wore an amused look. “General Stuart, I need to introduce you to my brother, James.” He winked at Annie, who couldn’t help smiling. Jamie was about to split open from excitement. “I didn’t have the chance to do so when last we were together at Hickory Heights. The general had other concerns.” Laurence pointed the last words at Jamie.
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