The pounding of hoofbeats and the jangling of spurs and bits interrupted the discussion. Andrea pulled herself to the windowsill and watched a group of ten riders, each leading at least two extra horses, draw rein in front of one of the paddocks.
Hunter was easy to spot in the group of disheveled men. Although mud-spattered and careworn, he looked vibrantly strong and lethal. Even from the window, he appeared to her the incarnation of knighthood. But Andrea’s mind was not on the muscular physique of her captor. Her pulse raced at the opportunity to be within earshot of Hunter’s feared band of Rebels.
At that moment Hunter looked toward the window, his eyes meeting and penetrating hers. Andrea shivered and turned away from his piercing glare. When she looked back, he had returned his attention to the horses. Leaning his bronzed arms on the fence, he appeared to be commenting on each one turned loose in the paddock. When all had been released, Hunter removed his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow, and headed toward the barn with long, powerful strides.
His men followed, but Andrea’s gaze now lingered on the martial figure in the lead. “What are they doing here?” Andrea asked, turning to Izzie.
“Dunno. His mens don’t mostly come heah.”
Andrea turned back to the window, but by now they had all disappeared. When she looked back for Izzie, she too had disappeared. There was nothing to do but wait for her return.
* * *
Hunter stood unnoticed outside his houseguest’s door and waited for Izzie to complete her chore. He heard the sound of the drapes being closed and then the shrill ring of Andrea’s voice.
“What are you doing?”
“Him ax that you stay away from the windows.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Ole Him ax that you stay away from the windows,” Izzie said again, just a little louder.
“And his Majesty the King is too cowardly to come and tell me himself?”
Hunter took a deep breath and strode into the room. “No, Miss Evans, I am not too cowardly to come and tell you myself. I was simply trying to avoid a—” He stopped and searched for the right word. “Confrontation.” Looking into her angry eyes, he paused. “But I can see I was not very successful in that endeavor.”
“You expected no confrontation?”
Although Hunter had found Andrea’s thoughts difficult to read in Richmond, he found interpreting her mood no difficult thing now. All signs indicated a swiftly falling barometer, and the clouds upon her countenance thickened and darkened by the moment.
“You will not allow me to avail myself of the only liberty of these four walls?” Her entire body heaved with hostility against the alleged violation of her freedom. “You call me a houseguest, yet lock me away like a common prisoner? I could well die from the roar of silence in this room!”
Hunter had never met anyone quite so intolerant of confinement. “As for the courtesies I’ve extended you,” he said in a calm voice, “your door has not been locked nor is there a guard standing outside. Both, I might add, against my better judgment.”
He paused, for indeed it had crossed his mind that not confining her to this room could be unwise. But as he kept little in the house of military importance, he had decided to be lenient. Truth be told, he valued his men too much to place one of them within spitting range of this defiant, Rebel-hating houseguest.
“Oh, yes. You have shown me every courtesy, save liberty,” Andrea argued.
Hunter shook his head. “Though inconvenient, I do not believe closing the curtains will cause you fatal injury. In fact, I believe I told you before, I rather think your indignation for the Rebel race will prevent you from dying in the home of one.”
Andrea seemed to quake with indignation. “This, sir, is torture in its most revolting, unrelenting and painful form. I’ve simply been obliged a transfer from Libby Prison to … to Camp Misery!”
Hunter tried to suppress a laugh, but nearly choked in doing so. “Camp Misery?” He glanced around her room at the accommodations. “No one could object to such agreeable terms as I have bestowed upon you. What depredations have you been made to endure, pray tell?”
“I do not have to undergo depredations to know I reside in a worse place than hell!”
“Miss Evans, I am merely requesting that you stay away from the windows for a few hours.” Hunter knew she comprehended that his request was not a request at all, but most certainly a command that he intended to be followed. “Contrary to popular belief, Miss Evans, I am a very easy-going fellow.”
Andrea met his gaze with a mixture of curiosity and disgust.
“Simply do as I say and we shall get along fine.”
She snorted in disgust. “Surely you are not under the illusion that my gratitude for being rescued from hell is going to outweigh my resentment and loathing for the one who placed me there.”
“I have not been under that illusion since the moment you awoke, I assure you,” Hunter responded. “But certainly, Miss Evans, you can understand that I’m not anxious for my men to discover there is a Yankee residing here.”
For a moment there was no sound, save Andrea’s rapid intake and exhalation of air. That she understood no other epithet conveyed a bigger insult to the Southern ear than the word Yankee was obvious. He wondered if he had gone too far in using it to describe her.
“Then hide me away behind closed curtains you must,” she said, her voice trembling with offense. “For no earthly power shall keep me from denouncing the enemies of my country!”
Hunter stared at her with furrowed brow. The intrepid young lady seemed to have no fear, and as for emotions other than fury and hatred and rage, they appeared to be undiscovered or were dead or had never been born. She was, without a doubt, the most untamed creature with which he had ever had to deal. He pitied any man who would attempt the challenge of trying to domesticate her.
“Then it is evident that your imprisonment is self-imposed,” he said in response to her fierce pride. “As well may be your untimely departure from your earthly bounds if you do not learn to control your temper.”
“Do not dare talk to me like that.” Her voice grew hushed. “I will not submit to it.”
Hunter laughed at her brazenness. “Submit to what? My threat or my order? Beg pardon, I mean request.”
“You spoke not the truth when you told me I was not a prisoner?”
“Miss Evans … I mean, Andrew Sinclair. Your sudden great respect for the truth is incredible, since you so rarely use it yourself. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting someone who was so adept at telling a lie on such short notice.”
“I resent that.” She pointed her finger at him. “I have not lied to you.”
“So you are a native of Maryland and your name is Evans?”
Andrea turned her head away. “Some half-truths were necessary.”
“I thought as much.” Hunter started to leave, but then stopped and turned toward her. “For the record, it is my belief that a half-truth is a whole lie.”
He watched Andrea’s eyes turn a darker shade of green as she muttered an imprecation he could not quite hear.
“If I may offer some advice,” he said. “Concentrating on your recovery, instead of ways to aggravate your host, may prove to be a better investment of your time. I would encourage you to accept, with gratitude, the offerings I have bestowed upon you.”
“Over my dead body.”
Hunter did not respond verbally, but tried to convey by his look that her wish could be easily arranged.
“Do not jest with me,” she said, reading the gaze accurately. “You have not dealt with the likes of me.”
Hunter tilted his head to one side. “Yes, I believe on that point we are in complete agreement.” He turned to leave. “I regret the necessity for the inconvenience, but be assured, you may enjoy your houseguest privileges the moment we depart.”
“But . . . this is unjustifiable imprisonment!”
“Miss Evans, there are enough
charges against you, of which I can personally substantiate, to make a rope around your neck justifiable. You will please pardon me if I decline to debate legitimate forms of punishment with you.” He pulled a small watch out of his pocket, glanced at it and then back at her. “Time is valuable, and you’ve taken a considerable amount of it. Have a good day.”
“How dare you speak to me this way,” Andrea yelled when he started to depart. “You are brutal and malicious and can go to hell, Captain!”
“It’s Major now,” Hunter said over his shoulder. He stopped then and leaned back in the doorway. “And Miss Evans, can you not restrain your temper and control your language? It’s most unbecoming—even for a Yankee.”
Andrea responded with a whole inventory of curses—of which she possessed a goodly store—to do justice to the occasion. “I’ll be damned if I can! And the hell I will! And too bloody bad if it is!”
“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Hunter said under his breath as he descended the stairs two at a time.
Chapter 23
“An army of sheep led by a lion would defeat an army of lions led by a sheep.”
– Arabian Proverb
Captain Carter watched Hunter sitting in the shadows with a remote look on his face, while some of the men talked and bragged in small groups around him. No one appeared mindful of the danger of the enterprise upon which they were about to embark—except perhaps Hunter himself. He stared at the distant horizon, apparently envisioning in explicit detail every facet of the conflict yet to come.
As usual, Hunter had spun a veil of secrecy around the expedition. But from the looks on the men’s faces, Carter saw they were content to trust their fate to the one that led them.
“You men looking for trouble?” Hunter came out of his trance when five of the men rode close enough to cause Dixie to lunge forward with teeth bared.
“Yes, suh,” they shouted in unison.
A devilish grin spread across Hunter’s face. “Good. Let’s go find you some.”
Carter could not help laughing along with the men. Hunter appeared to be in a fine mood, and that usually portended plenty of action. As a result, he knew he would hear his leader’s characteristic speech at least one time today. It always began with, “The enemy is in force before us, gentlemen,” and ended just a few sentences later with, “Who here is with me?”
“What say you we go stir up some Yankees?” Carter noticed Hunter’s voice held a ring of impatience, indicating his eagerness to start the foray ordered by General Stuart.
Although Carter did not know where they were going, he knew what they would be doing: By keeping the Yankees so busy worrying about Hunter at their backs, they would have little time to think about Stuart in their front.
The sky had turned dark and angry clouds had massed when the group finally rode south. Not long after, hat brims began dripping with a wind-driven rain that soaked man and beast alike. Hunter, at first, seemed to disregard the deluge as he rode at the head of the column.
But Carter looked at the man riding beside him and winked when he saw Dixie’s head sweep around to face the ranks. It was time for Hunter’s customary statement about riding through a storm. No matter how often they rode in the rain or the sleet or the snow, which was often, Hunter never said, “sorry, men,” or “try to stay warm, men,” or “we’ll find a place to get out of the weather.”
It was always the same words said in the same low voice. “Keep your powder dry, men.”
After two hours of steady riding, and plenty of jokes and laughter, a call went back the line for no talking. Not more than a mile farther, through a maze of pines and shrubs, Hunter directed his men into the shelter of a grove of cedars where they dismounted.
Carter soon learned the reason for the need of silence. The campfires of the enemy burned so close to their right, he could hear the voices of the soldiers talking around them. To his left, farther away, came the muffled sound of a Union band playing. They were encamped midway between two enemy outposts, probably about fifteen miles from support of any kind. Here, Carter knew, they would lie, watching and waiting for the proper time and opportunity to venture forth and strike.
Carter sat down and leaned against a tree with his horse’s reins wrapped around his hand. Hunter, dressed in a rain slicker, mounted and rode away, an indication that the tranquility of their current situation would not last. In another few minutes Carter was asleep, despite his soggy bed.
Sometime later, the sound of Hunter’s voice woke him. “Carter, wake the men.”
After all had gathered, Hunter reported what he’d found. “I discovered some good news, men,” he said, in a low voice. “They have doubled their pickets.”
Carter looked at the confusion on the faces of the men as they tried to figure out how that was good news.
“That will double the number of horses for us and they are prime,” Hunter continued, ignoring their bewilderment. “I am inclined to go right in and help ourselves. Who here is with me?”
Carter stood in the shadows and smiled at the way Hunter talked to his men. He was always a man speaking to men, never bragging about his rank or power or authority. As for the unpredictable change in pickets, Hunter’s reaction was completely expected. Double the pickets or no pickets at all, it was one and the same to him. He never focused on the possibility of failure, only the chance for success. If his men were in the proper mood for a fight, which was pretty much all the time, he felt justified in disregarding the inequalities of force and firepower.
“Let’s go recruit some Yankee horses to the Confederate service, men,” Hunter said before turning on his heel and mounting his horse.
And so with double the pickets, which Carter knew would make it hard to get in, and surrounded by five hundred of the enemy, which, likewise he understood would make it hard to get out, he and the rest of the band of rebels mounted and followed their leader.
Dressed in rain slickers and armed with courage, they rode straight into the outpost. The slumped, weary position in which they sat their horses and the casual way in which they nodded at the sentries, led the Yankee guards to believe they were a returning scouting party of their own men. Once within, they went to work with practiced haste, each knowing his duty and performing it without words and little noise. Twenty minutes later, the group rode out of the camp accompanied by another seventy-five horses without a shot being fired.
Hunter sent the horses back to Hawthorne with a small detachment of his men and headed deeper into enemy territory. Once a respectable distance from the Yankee encampment, he allowed his men to lie down and rest in the mud in another grove of cedars. Hunter nodded at Carter, indicating he wanted some company on a scout.
Carter had learned long ago that Hunter’s reward for liking someone was to order the person to accompany him on a risky expedition. Carter therefore considered himself very well liked. Often called upon to “probe the enemy’s numbers,” Carter knew that in Hunter’s command that meant, “ride forward and start firing, then count the number of guns firing back.”
Thunder rolled in great booming waves as Carter followed Dixie’s shadowy form at a full gallop through a blinding rain. He lost sight of the duo when they veered off the road and into a grove of pines, but a lightning bolt illuminated their misty figures before they disappeared.
Blinking a few times to clear his lashes of raindrops, Carter saw why they had stopped. A few hundred Yankees materialized in the mist about fifty feet away—more than likely the advance for the wagon train they sought. He watched Hunter gaze out of the darkness like a wily wolf, staring hard, unblinking, reluctant to take his eyes from the quarry he stalked. Carter knew he was busy counting their numbers, inspecting their array, and satisfying himself of their armament and readiness. If he thought the force too strong, he would move on in search of other prey.
“Let’s get back,” Hunter whispered. “It appears we’ve found some game worthy of pursuit.”
* * *
Hu
nter awakened Carter well before dawn and ordered him to push the men forward. The sun had just begun to spread its golden fingers upon the horizon when the group drew rein on the summit of a small hill. Carter took in at a glance what Hunter had ascertained the night before. A wagon train, heavily guarded in the front and rear, moved through the valley below them. Amazingly, it had no escort in the center. Before them sat a feast of riotous abundance.
Hunter stood on the hill enshrined by the early morning light and stared at his imprudent enemy below. “Well, go to it, Captain Carter,” he said, never taking his eyes off the enemy’s careless movements.
Carter followed his instructions, waiting until there was a break in the train, then stopping and directing the next wagon down a secluded bridle path that branched from the main thoroughfare. When he rode forward and pointed toward the road, the teamster just nodded, turned the wagon, and the rest of the train obediently followed.
About twenty wagons had disappeared down the path when an irate officer rode up behind Carter and shouted in a tone more forceful than polite, “What is the meaning of this? Why have you turned these wagons?”
At first, Carter ignored him and continued his business of waving the wagons on. “Orders, sir,” he snarled over his shoulder.
The officer rode closer and grabbed Carter by the arm to get his attention. “Whose orders?”
Carter pulled his revolver and held it to the man’s head to get his attention. “Hunter’s, sir.”
Meanwhile, on the other side of the hill, Carter heard the men laughing at the audacity of their commander and the carelessness of the enemy, as they disgorged boxes and crates of their contents and began to partake of the delicacies within.
* * *
Hunter did not share in the festivities. Although at ease, he was not disarmed of caution. He sat on the hill watching the horizon and listening for any sign of alarm. With eyes wandering, he scanned the landscape with the avidity of a hawk. His smile of contentment turned to a frown of annoyance at the unwelcome sound of a bugle call floating to him on the breeze. He waited only an instant more. The thundering reverberations produced by the hooves of galloping horses reached his ears at the same time a moving dot appeared on the horizon.
Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia Page 18
