Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia

by Jessica James

  “Is your affection for danger so great that you must amuse yourself with it? I believe you would jump off the face of a cliff with the intention—and the hope—of growing wings on the way down!”

  “J.J.” Andrea sighed heavily again as she pulled out a chair and sat down. “Duty is ours, the consequences are God’s. If a bullet finds me, it will be according to the order of Providence.”

  “It will be according to whether you have any sense or not! Holy Jerusalem! I would have thought your horse’s life, at least, had a little value to you.”

  “Please, Colonel,” Andrea said, chafing at his tone and manner. “Perhaps from your vantage point you could not see, but the incline was too steep. They were content with firing over my head.”

  “Oh, you have that right.” He walked over and pulled off her hat. “They were indeed shooting over your head!” He pointed to a ragged bullet hole she had not known was there. “Why do you seem to get the most enjoyment out of life when you are within an ace of losing it?”

  Andrea stared uneasily at the hat as she spoke, but did not allow her voice to betray her. “I only did what I thought was best, considering the—”

  “Did it ever occur to you not to think? To just follow orders? Was your mission not clear? Were my orders not explicit?” Must you persist in your obstinate refusal to obey?”

  “You evidently did not follow your own orders, Colonel,” Andrea said as sulfur smoke, sinking down from the upper floors, began to fill the room. “I am apparently not the only one to have taken the wrong pass.”

  “I never intended to be at Hopewell. I intended to keep you away from this Gap and the enemy, and thereby out of trouble!”

  Andrea blinked in disbelief, realizing for the first time he did not trust her.

  “Blazes,” J.J. said, running his hand through his hair. “I’m going to have every blasted officer on this side of the Bull Run Mountains demanding my report on this.”

  “I believe you’d be less likely to criticize my actions were I a man,” Andrea countered, her voice rising in anger.

  “You’d be imprisoned for insubordination if you were a man! And if you still carry any notions about going to Richmond,” he said, standing directly in front of her now as if she couldn’t hear his yelling from across the room, “then I can’t help but fear the voice of reason has entirely abandoned you.”

  Andrea’s gaze jerked back to his and she rose to her feet, but he held out his hand for her to be silent. “My scouts tell me Hunter squeezed through our lines and has returned to wherever he came from, so there’s no use deliberating over it now. You are dismissed.”

  “Sir, with all due respect—”

  “I said you are dismissed.”

  When Andrea turned to exit, she nearly collided with an officer striding through the door. “Ah, there you are, boy. Never saw anything like it. How about you, Colonel?” Colonel Dayton dragged Andrea back into the room by her shoulder. “Did you ever see anything like it?”

  “Can’t say I ever have,” J.J. said. “Seems to me only a fool or a madman would attempt extinction in such a manner.”

  “Colonel, surely you mean dis-tinction,” the officer exclaimed. “Why, I can’t begin to fathom how this young man got through that pass, knowing darn well those hills were full of Rebs. Then to have Delaney move in behind—mercy but it was incredible. Splendid piece of work turning the tables on Hunter himself. Wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  “I’ve … not had time to be briefed on the full account,” J.J. said, staring thoughtfully at Andrea.

  “What’s your name anyway, son?”

  “Sinclair, sir.” Andrea locked her gaze on the floor.

  “Well that was well done, Sinclair.” Dayton slapped her on the back so hard she stepped forward to remain standing. “Devilish clever!” He turned to leave, and Andrea turned to follow.

  “Sinclair!” Andrea stopped at the sound of J.J.’s voice, but did not turn and did not answer. “Get some sleep and then report back to me. Get something to eat too. You can’t live on mudpies.”

  Andrea departed the room with the relief of one who has escaped the scene of a scalping. Heading for a quiet spot near the stream, she wrapped herself in a discarded blanket, laid her weary body down on the cold, wet ground, and fell instantly asleep.

  Chapter 9

  “The same canteen, my soldier friend, the same canteen,

  There’s never a bond, old friend, like this!

  We have drunk from the same canteen.”

  – “We Have Drunk From the Same Canteen,” Civil War Song

  When Andrea awoke a few hours later, the inside of her mouth felt like it was caked with mud, and her throat itched as if ants had taken up residence there during her slumber. She coughed and spit, trying to force herself into consciousness. Looking down at her clothes, she remembered her earlier ride, and the events the night before—and her meeting with J.J.

  Rising stiffly from the wet ground, she heard the familiar buzz and hum of shouted jests floating in the breeze from somewhere downstream. She limped to the stream and splashed the sleep from her eyes, gasping when the cold mountain water hit her face. Cupping her numb hands, she drank its delicious coolness, then stood as a voice behind her beckoned.

  “You awake, Sinclair?”

  She turned to see Boonie making his way down the bank to the stream’s edge.

  “My eyes is open, ain’t they?” Andrea wiped the water off her face with her coat sleeve.

  “That don’t necessarily mean you’re awake.” Boonie stared hard at her. “Guess you seen we got a regular powwow going on here.” He nodded toward the mill.

  Andrea turned her stiff neck. Tethered in front of the millhouse were a dozen horses, obviously those of officers and their aides. “What the plague is going on?” she asked, somewhat curious, but not really giving a hoot. For all she knew or cared, they were up there drinking wine, smoking big, fat cigars, and discussing world politics.

  “What’s going on?” Boonie stared at her, looking dumbfounded. “They’re here about your little escapade near’s I can tell. They say Jordan’s fit to be tied.”

  Andrea looked up at Boonie and then back to the mill, but simply shrugged at his remark. “You don’t say.” She sat down and tried to detach her boot from her swollen ankle.

  “You don’t say?” Boonie’s voice got louder. “Is that all you got to say?”

  “Well, as to the Jordan part, I was already fully aware, ’cause he’s already given me jaw about it,” she said. “As to the other, I doubt my little escapade was of enough consequence to draw the attention of all those officers.”

  “Well, they ain’t here for nothin’,” Boonie said, shaking his head. “I heard tell a dispatch came in from the division commander and your name was in it.”

  Andrea did not answer. Camp rumors no doubt. Once something like that got told, it took wings and flew. But her mind was no longer on the officers in the mill or what they were there for. Instead, she thought of how she should have had the sense to remove her boot before going to sleep, because her ankle had swollen tight against the leather again. She knew J.J. would never consent to giving her another pair if she cut this one off.

  “We’re getting a card game goin’,” Boonie said. “Wanna lose some money?”

  “In a minute.” Andrea wrestled again with her boot and grimaced at the slow progress she made.

  Boonie walked over and gently helped her pull it off. “Still bothering you, huh?”

  “A little,” Andrea croaked, when he pulled her to her feet. She held onto his coat for balance, half-walking, half-hopping toward a circle of soldiers.

  “That was sho ’nuf some ride this mornin’, Sinclair,” a man named Leroy said in a voice louder than necessary. “If that warn’t some tall fun to watch, then I’m no judge.”

  “Colonel Jordan didn’t think it was too fun to watch.” Andrea sat down and banged her boot on a rock, sending clods
of dried mud flying.

  “You about scared the bejeezes out of him,” Boonie said, shuffling a deck of cards. “You can’t hardly blame him, plumb crazy as it was.”

  Andrea frowned at her friend for taking the colonel’s side, but did not bother to defend herself. She was still tired from her ride and exhausted from the excitement of the previous day’s events.

  “Bejeezes?” Leroy laughed. “You could’ve knocked the colonel over with a lick of spit before you come riding through that smoke. He thought you was headin’ for the boneyard sure.”

  “Yea, I have to say, I thought you had your passport to paradise,” one of the others said.

  “Passport to paradise or permit to purgatory, one or the other.” Boonie’s’ voice was full of sarcasm as he began to deal.

  Andrea shifted her gaze from the soldier who had spoken and placed it on Boonie. “I look forward to the former and I’m already in the latter.”

  “All right, break it up you two. By George, you look like you got a bad case of locked bowels, Sinclair.” Leroy pulled a canteen out from under a rock. “Have a drink.”

  Andrea looked around at the circle of flushed faces. All, with the exception of Boonie, appeared to be in sparkling good spirits. “You boys intoxicated on patriotism or bad whiskey?”

  “Bad whishkey!” Jasper Clemons, the youngest of the group, yelled, confirming that they were well on their way to being disgracefully inebriated.

  “Blazes, keep your voices down.” Andrea hit him in the knee and reached for the canteen.

  “Don’t worry, the colonel’s got other things on his mind today,” Jasper said. “Heard tell there’s to be a full-blown inquir-ee into that crazy ride this morning. Look at all them officers up there. They’re thick as flies on a goddam warm carcass!”

  The group turned their heads toward the mill and, seeing the horses thus tied, erupted once again into waves of laughter. Andrea frowned, wondering how everyone in camp knew what was going on but her. Dismissing the idea that she really cared, she considered getting beastly drunk along with her comrades. If nothing else, a couple good belts would give her the good night’s sleep she desperately needed. “Better get myself properly prepared then.” She took a long draw on the canteen, closing her eyes as the fluid hit her throat, and smiling when she felt its surging warmth in her veins.

  “Easy with that! You don’t want to get stumblin’ drunk.” Leroy grabbed the canteen.

  “Oh, go dry up,” she said, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “Who made you the campfire authority?”

  “I’ll be bound, I don’t even think you’re old enough to drink. How old are you anyways?”

  “Old enough to get shot at, Leroy,” was her blunt reply, which sent the rest of the men into fits of laughter once again.

  “They was surely pouring some canister into you, I’d say,” Jasper agreed.

  “Da’gone right. And don’t you go worrying about how old he is,” Boonie said. But then he paused and stared at Andrea, a quizzical look on his face. “But how old are you anyhows?”

  Andrea bit her cheek. “Seventeen.” Again the group erupted into laughter.

  “Now that’s some moonshine! You’re seventeen! Next thing you’ll be telling us you’re a girl!”

  Andrea stood up as if challenge Jasper to a fight over the comment, but Boonie pulled her back down.

  “I do declare, Sinclair, had you been pursuing Satan this morning you’d of caught him sure,” Jasper said, trying to change the subject.

  “That’s funny,” Andrea answered soberly, “cause the only thing I caught so far is hell.”

  Two of the younger men slapped each other on the back and rolled around on the ground in fits of laughter, scattering cards everywhere.

  “Hey Sinclair, you hear ol’ Carlson got a furlough?” Jasper asked.

  “Nope. What’s it to me?”

  “Carlson, tell Sinclair what the first thing is you’re gonna do when you get home.”

  “That thar’s between me and my wife,” the middle-aged man answered wryly, staring at his cards. “But the second thing I’m gonna do is take off my boots.”

  This pronouncement sent the soldiers into more hoots of thigh-slapping laughter until a booming voice from the mill quieted them.

  “Sinclair!” All eyes turned to Colonel Jordan, who stood motioning impatiently for Andrea.

  “Guess he did tell me to come back when I woke up,” Andrea said under her breath. “But it looked like he had company.”

  “Blazes, Sinclair,” Boonie said, shaking his head. “Yea, he’s got company! And they’re all waiting to see you!”

  “Then I guess I’ll march right up there and pay my respects to all them high-ups.”

  “Looks like they got enough for a whole firing squad up there,” Leroy offered.

  Andrea ignored him and hurriedly pulled on her boot, wincing as it squeezed around her ankle. Seeing that J.J. had disappeared from the porch, she pointed to the canteen. “Give me another slug of that. Need to clear the cobwebs from my throat so’s I can talk loud and clear in front of all them fuss and feathers.”

  “Don’t give him that,” Boonie warned. “It puts the devil in him.”

  “Don’t need no whiskey to put the devil in Sinclair.” Leroy laughed.

  The liquor made its circuit and stopped in front of Andrea again. Putting her head back, she closed her eyes and gulped.

  “Easy with that!” Boonie grabbed the canteen from her grasp.

  “Whishkey don’t have no afflection on me, Ba-hooney. I mean, it don’t even afflect me—“

  “You tell ’em, Sinclair,” Jasper said, laughing at her pretended drunkenness. “You go up there and tell ’em . . . give me whishkey or give me death!”

  Andrea shook her head and brushed off her coat. “How do I look, gentlemen?”

  “Like you rode through the gates of hell and didn’t get enough sleep afterwards,” Boonie said.

  Andrea saluted mockingly. “Farewell, comrades. Du-tee calls.” Bowing grandly as if responding to a summons to be honored by the king, she turned and limped toward the mill.

  Chapter 10

  “We fail more often by timidity than over daring.”

  — David Grayson.

  When she arrived at the mill, Andrea was greeted with stern indifference by Colonel Jordan’s orderly, a straight-faced, glum sort of man. She gave him an exaggerated salute, thinking perhaps she could get him to smile—but the door opened before he did, and then closed before she would have had time to see it anyway.

  She found herself in the same room she had earlier met with Colonel Jordan, which was now in deep shadow. Blinking in the dim light, her gaze fell on J.J. sitting stiffly behind a table amidst stratified layers of smoke. Out of the corner of her eye she saw at least three other officers in the room. Then the effects of the alcohol began to kick in.

  “At ease,” J.J. said without looking up. “Sinclair. I believe you’ve met Colonel Dayton. And this is Colonel Blake. And you know Colonel Delaney.”

  Andrea had not noticed Daniel standing by the window with his back to her, but at the sound of his name he turned around and nodded politely. Andrea did not think the greeting very courteous and began to have a distinct sense of trouble. She attempted to stand with soldierly erectness, but her ankle throbbed and her body ached, and her mind was becoming too soothed by the alcohol to really care about decorum.

  J.J. cleared his throat. “You understand why you are here, do you not? It’s necessary that we learn the facts of what occurred during your recent … excursion. I understand now there were some extenuating circumstances that led you to come through this pass.”

  Daniel stepped forward. “I explained to the Colonel that you were diverted to Gainesville.”

  “And he explained to me that you came across his regiment in the Gap and devised this scheme to act as a decoy,” J.J. continued. “Do I understand the scenario correctly so far?”

  “Well, I’m not sur
e I would characterize it exactly—”

  “From what I can gather,” he interrupted, apparently not interested in her opinion at all, “you told Colonel Delaney it would be unwise and dangerous for his men to proceed through the Gap, but that if you went through first, you would be able to draw the Rebels out.”

  Daniel stepped forward and looked directly into Andrea’s eyes as if warning her not to speak. “I explained it was entirely my fault. I accept full responsibility.”

  J.J. ignored him as well and continued. “I’m still a little confused about why you would attempt such a foolish scheme.” He leaned over the table. “Perhaps you can enlighten us.”

  Andrea bit the inside of her cheek, and then cleared her throat. “Colonel Delaney has no fault in the matter, sir.”

  “How so?”

  “I told him I was going through with or without him. That I could serve as a diversion—”

  “And he did not try to stop you?”

  “Um-m, yes, sir, he did.”

  “And you did not listen to him?”

  “I thought it a good opportunity to use the enemy’s tactics and surprise them from the rear,” Andrea said, looking at the floor.

  “And you did not listen to him?” J.J. repeated, louder this time, in case she had not heard.

  “I listened,” she replied, her voice rising just a little too. “I did not obey if that is what you are asking.” Andrea came to the conclusion that she should not have taken that final slug of whiskey, because it no longer felt warm and welcoming in her veins. In fact, it felt like it was no longer welcome in her body at all. She imagined herself throwing up in front of these men of great prominence and rank, and the thought made her stomach lurch. And then she heard a voice in her head—Boonie’s voice—telling his buddies in his calm, deliberate Northern drawl what he thought of Sinclair getting physically ill during an interrogation. “Now there’s a spectacle won’t be equaled in quite some time, boys.”

  Andrea’s mind began to race and a surge of queasiness began to overtake her. It can’t be the whiskey making me sick, she thought. Perhaps it’s the cigar smoke. Yes, that’s it, those vile cigars. Or the after effects of the sulfur smoke hanging in the air from the sharpshooters. Or maybe it’s the fact I’ve not eaten since . . .