The Blue and the Gray Undercover

by Ed Gorman

  “By residence, yes,” Hotchkiss said, “but I was born a Yankee in Windsor, New York. You seem to have guessed.”

  Katie felt a shiver of fear, but she hid it.

  “I heard it in your voice,” she said, “or something, anyhow, that didn’t sound right.”

  “Well, rest easy, Miss Katie,” Hotchkiss said. “I may have been born a Yankee, but I’m a Virginian now.”

  “I’m sure,” Katie replied stiffly, but she remained uneasy.

  As they rode closer to Stony Creek, they saw, or rather Brown and Hotchkiss claimed they saw—Katie noticed nothing but some small patches of trampled earth—evidence that at least a few Yankees had crossed Tom’s Brook and were scouting ahead of the main force.

  “They’ll be hunting out a ford,” Hotchkiss explained as he remounted his roan after investigating one patch of dirt. “Men and horses can cross where artillery and supplies cannot. They’ll never chase Old Jack from Rude’s Hill without artillery.”

  “Could starve him out,” the laconic Brown suggested.

  “Hard to do with the Shenandoah running round the hill,” Hotchkiss objected, “and with our side having the drop on them. And for a siege they’d want artillery.”

  “True,” Brown admitted.

  Katie kept her peace. Ever since she’d learned that Hotchkiss was Yankee-born, all her suspicions of the day before had come back. Brown sounded like a Southerner—he claimed in a rare spate of talkativeness to have been a Jefferson County surveyor before the war. Still, there were Southerners who had espoused the Union cause in the conflict. She’d heard that there were whole battalions in the Federal army made up of such traitors.

  And hadn’t they admitted to being spies? They’d never say right out if they were spying for the Yankees. Hadn’t Grandpa needed to sort of force Hotchkiss to say they were with Jackson? Hadn’t they admitted they didn’t have commissions? What if they were sort of freelance spies, ready to sell their information to the highest bidders?

  Still, for now, Katie was committed to her role as guide. She decided that she’d show them Stony Creek, and get away as soon as possible. This plan kept her calm as they rode on through the damp woodlands, but when they reached Stony Creek she found her simple plan foiled by Hotchkiss himself.

  “Why don’t you stay with us for a bit, Miss Katie?” Hotchkiss suggested, getting his sketch pad out of his saddlebags. “I’m right worried about what might happen if you came across some Union scouts. My thought is that you could stay with us until we’ve checked out enough of this creek to ready a rough map. Then either Brown or I can ride to Rude’s Hill to report and the other can take you home. Or…”

  He twinkled, just like her uncle did when he was about to offer her a treat.

  “Or we could take you along to camp with us and introduce you to the general. Maybe you could ask about your father. Then the general could detail a slightly larger party to escort you back to Rowland Farm.”

  “If it’s just the same to you, sir,” Katie said meekly, though the mention of her father sorely tempted her, “I’d rather go home soon as possible.” A sudden inspiration hit her. “I did promise Mother I’d help with the churning.”

  “I’m sure she’d rather have you home safe than soon,” Hotchkiss said, “but we can manage both. Lend us a hand taking some measurements and the like and we’ll finish all the more quickly.”

  Katie couldn’t very well just ride off, not without giving away her suspicions, so she complied with Hotchkiss’s suggestion.

  In this way she learned the reasons behind many of Brown’s mysterious actions the day before. She discovered that he knew precisely the measurements of his handspan, his forearm, and even the length of his horse’s stride. These—and other even more peculiar rulers—were used to provide measurements for the map Hotchkiss began to sketch.

  At Brown’s request, Katie waded Stormshadow into the bed of the creek at various locations to test both the depth and the texture of the bottom. Whenever they found a promising ford, Hotchkiss would add it to his map. Overall, the banks of Stony Creek were too steep to permit good crossing for wagons and artillery but there were places that could be adapted, perhaps with a bit of digging.

  Whenever they found a potential ford, Katie was asked to ride into the creekbed again and see how easily she could spot Brown as he tried out various hiding places from which the defending Confederates might operate. As rolling hills rose sharply about a quarter mile from the creek, several spots proved quite promising for stationing artillery or hiding ambushes.

  The mapping process was quite interesting and, since Brown never asked her to ride into water that might be too deep or too dangerous, Katie never even got her bootsoles wet.

  Finding Brown when he hid reminded her so much of playing hide-and-seek with Tod and Beth when they were still children that Katie had to fight against enjoying herself.

  After a time, Hotchkiss suggested that they halt and enjoy the lunch Mrs. Rowland had packed for them.

  “I’ll finish some details while we eat,” he said to Katie, “and then Brown can take the map to Rude’s Hill while I escort you home.”

  Katie’s sense of apprehension returned at these words, but she reminded herself there was nothing to be gained by letting Hotchkiss know she distrusted him.

  They were eating thick slabs of her mother’s rye bread with cold bacon and onions when Brown suddenly stiffened. He held his finger to his lips when Katie opened her mouth to speak, and cupped his ear. Hotchkiss, who had been absorbed in his drawing, was nearly as surprised as Katie, but, unlike her, he knew his companion and trusted his woods wisdom.

  Though she strained her ears, Katie heard nothing. She was just beginning to relax when she realized how odd that “nothing” was. The local birds and small animals had long ago dismissed the three humans as nonthreatening and the forest had resounded with birdsong. Now it was quiet.

  Stormshadow lifted his head from the bit of grass he had been lipping and flared his nostrils suspiciously. The roan and the chestnut also seemed uneasy.

  Katie felt tension building like a physical thing beneath her breastbone. She was afraid and excited all at once and the desire to do something—anything—to relieve the tension was so intense that she thought she must scream if the quiet stretched on a moment longer.

  Then a sound broke the silence: a sharp, artificial metallic click. Katie had gone hunting and target shooting with Tod. She knew too well the sound of a gun being cocked. Then a voice with a hard, nasal Yankee accent spoke:

  “Keep your hands where I can see them. Don’t move a muscle or even breathe too hard. I’m a nervous man.”

  He didn’t sound nervous, Katie thought. He sounded just like a cat might when it had a mouse cornered.

  “You, the fellow with the short beard,” the Yankee went on, “drop the rifle in the water.”

  Brown did so, moving with careful deliberation.

  “Now the pistol,” the Yankee ordered.

  Brown dropped his hand with the same slow carefulness. Even though Katie was watching with fascinated horror—her mind focusing on Brown’s every move so she wouldn’t think about what might come after the Yankee had him disarmed—she didn’t guess what Brown intended.

  His hand unholstered the pistol, but rather than dropping it into the stream, Brown leveled it and shot in the direction of the voice.

  Katie saw the little spurt of fire that followed the bullet and heard a second shot so close to the first that the two sounds merged into one loud thunderclap. She saw Brown clap his hand to his side, saw the red that blossomed there, and heard a scream. She was scrabbling on hands and knees toward Brown before she realized he had not been the one who had cried out.

  Brown’s lips were compressed into a thin, pale line, but even in this moment of shock and pain he didn’t make a sound.

  She paused, but already Hotchkiss had leapt to his feet and was smashing through the bushes. Katie bent over Brown.

  Dr. Rowland
had never been one of those men who believed women should be spared the sight of blood. Indeed, he held the very realistic opinion that what with nursing the ill, childbirth, and other such things, the average woman would see far more blood in the course of her life than would the average man. Thus Katie ascertained quite expertly that Brown was badly hurt.

  The bullet had sliced into his side, leaving a deep, bloody furrow. Worse yet, his quick intake of breath when Katie pressed gently on his ribs indicated a probable break. There was no blood on his lips or other indication of that a lung had been pierced, but if there was fragmented bone, this would be an all-too-likely complication.

  Hotchkiss crashed out of the brush as Katie finished her initial inspection. He held a pistol belt in one hand and an ammunition case in the other.

  “Dead,” he said of the Yankee, for once as laconic as Brown.

  Katie noticed Hotchkiss didn’t mention whether the Yankee had been killed by Brown’s bullet or in some other fashion, and felt relieved.

  “And from his level of confidence in tackling all three of us,” Hotchkiss continued, “the Federals won’t be sitting on the other side of Tom’s Brook very long. How’s Howell?”

  It took a moment for Katie to recall that this was Brown’s given name.

  “With care, he’ll live,” she said, and fancied she saw a look of relief cross her patient’s face, “but there is a possibility that his broken ribs could damage a lung and then he’d be in danger of a collapsed lung, pneumonia, or worse.”

  Hotchkiss didn’t question her diagnosis, only crossed to the roan and drew some medical supplies from a saddlebag.

  “Can he ride?” he asked.

  “He shouldn’t,” Katie stated bluntly, taking Brown’s knife from his belt and using it to cut away his shirt.

  “And we shouldn’t stay here,” Hotchkiss said worriedly. He stood guard while Katie tended to Brown. “Not only might those shots bring the curious, but General Jackson must be told that the Federals are getting bolder.”

  “What about that Colonel Ashby?” Katie asked. “Shouldn’t he be warned?”

  An odd frown wrinkled Hotchkiss’s brow. Katie got the distinct impression that he was speaking out of turn when he said:

  “Frankly, Miss Katie, I’m not sure anyone knows where Turner Ashby is to be found at any given minute. Ashby’s men are as devoted to him as you could wish, but if he’s not with them, they’re not the most organized unit in the army. I’d rather report to the general, give him my map, and let him decide what to do.”

  “You go,” Brown whispered and it was clear that even those two syllables hurt him. He managed one more. “Both.”

  “You want us both to go,” Hotchkiss interpreted angrily, “and leave you?”

  “Hide,” Brown managed. “Rest.”

  Katie couldn’t help but think that Brown’s usual habit of being economical with words had made him a master of saying the most with the least.

  Hotchkiss wasn’t pleased.

  “Miss Katie could stay with you,” he suggested tentatively.

  Katie interrupted.

  “I don’t know how to fire a gun, so I’d be less than help if trouble came, but,” she continued, so steadily that she amazed herself, “I could ride to General Jackson and deliver your map. We could hide your horses in one of the thickets Mr. Brown and I spied out and you two could stay here.”

  Hotchkiss stared at her. “You’d ride out to Rude’s Hill with Yankees about?”

  “They won’t take me for anybody,” Katie replied with more confidence than she felt. “I’m just a local farmgirl. You two, you stand out.”

  She managed a weak grin. “After all, I thought you were spies myself.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  Katie pointed to the dead Yankee’s gun belt which proclaimed U.S. ARMY in square letters neatly stamped onto the leather.

  Hotchkiss shook his head. “Lots of Confederates wear U.S. Army gear, The Yanks are our best suppliers.”

  “They don’t,” Katie stated firmly, “leave their wives in Staunton.”

  The matter wasn’t settled all at once, but at last Hotchkiss accepted Katie’s suggestion. They moved the injured man into cover. At the end of the process, Brown looked quite pale and a slight froth of blood on his lips suggested that despite Katie’s best efforts at binding his wounds he might have damaged a lung.

  While Katie tacked up Stormshadow, Hotchkiss wrote a note for the general. Then he suggested that she hide both it and the map between her saddle and saddle blanket.

  “That way,” he said seriously, sealing the packet in oiled cloth, “no one will take you for a spy.”

  Katie accepted a hand up into the saddle then smiled down at the Yankee-turned-Virginian.

  “I’ll be as quick as I can,” she said, “but I’m going to need to double-back some and then cross to the turnpike. I don’t want to ride along Stony Creek if the Yanks are scouting it.”

  Despite the rough ground, Katie pushed Stormshadow hard in her eagerness to get to the turnpike. She thought about stopping at Mount Jackson and seeing if someone would go from there to help the two mapmakers, but feared the delay.

  As she had expected, no one bothered a farmgirl riding a shaggy gray horse along a public road, but when Stormshadow clattered across the bridge over the North Fork of the Shenandoah, Katie was aware of the watching pickets. Sure enough, she was stopped as soon as she turned toward Rude’s Hill.

  “Hotchkiss and Brown” wasn’t precisely the password, but the pickets seemed fascinated that an unattended girl would insist on seeing the general, and passed her through to the next level of command. Eventually Katie was handed over to a sharp-featured, beardless young man who looked to be little more than a boy.

  Introducing himself as Captain Sandie Pendleton, the general’s aide-decamp, her escort took her to the general’s headquarters.

  Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson came riding in just as Katie’s escort was leaving to find him. The general relaxed in the saddle as he listened to Pendleton’s brief explanation, giving Katie a moment to study the man who had been indirectly responsible for her brother’s—and possibly her father’s—deaths.

  Stonewall Jackson was mounted on a scrawny sorrel that seemed no more what Katie thought of as a general’s horse than Jackson himself seemed like the popular image of a general.

  For one thing Jackson’s feet were too big. For another, he sucked on a section of lemon all the time he listened to his officer’s report. The general’s dark hair and beard lacked the cavalier flare favored by so many Virginians; his pale eyes seemed to belong to a preacher rather than a war-leader. Yet he was all military as he accepted this latest twist of fate.

  “Unsaddle Miss Rowland’s horse,” he ordered in a rather high voice as he himself dismounted, “and retrieve the papers the lady has carried here.”

  When this had been done and Jackson had the papers in hand, the general listened impatiently to Katie’s account of the situation.

  “Captain Gisiner,” he snapped at another soldier, “get a detail together to rescue Brown and Hotchkiss.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Miss Rowland…”

  Katie resisted an impulse to salute as each of the men had done when accepting their orders.

  “Yes, General Jackson,” she said, dipping a slight curtsy.

  “Can you guide a party back to where Hotchkiss and Brown are?”

  “Yes, sir.” She was worried that as yet he hadn’t looked at Hotchkiss’s report. Feeling too tired to be tactful, she blurted out, “What are you going to do about Stony Creek?”

  She didn’t know then that Stonewall Jackson maintained a fetish for secrecy regarding his plans. That would explain the steely, indeed angry, gaze he turned on her. Then, perhaps seeing her exhaustion and realizing that she was little more than a child—a child hard-pressed by the day’s events—Jackson replied kindly.

  “I will take a moment to look at Mr. Hotchkiss’s map
,” he said, “but I believe his recommendation to be a good one. Colonel Ashby will be ordered to prepare a stand along Stony Creek in the event that our line at Tom’s Brook is broken.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Katie said meekly, eager now to be away from that pale preacher’s gaze with its hidden ferocity.

  “Thank you, Miss Rowland,” he said. “Captain Pendleton, see that Miss Rowland is given something to drink before she departs and that Captain Gisiner understands that she is to be escorted to her home and that thanks are to be extended to her family.”

  Then, with an abbreviated bow, General Jackson turned away. Knowing herself dismissed. Katie walked a few steps away to where the boyish Pendleton was pouring coffee for her. Despite the camp noises surrounding her, Katie imagined she could hear the oilcloth packet being opened and the papers being spread out for the general’s inspection.

  * * *

  Later Katie would learn that Hotchkiss’s maps had reached Colonel Ashby in time for him to prepare against the Federal army’s crossing of Tom’s Brook. For two more weeks, Ashby’s cavalry, reinforced by rotating companies sent by General Jackson, had held the Union forces on the north side of Stony Creek.

  Eventually, however, the dashing cavalry commander grew less than attentive to his picket duty. Union troops forded the upper reaches of Stony Creek. Near Columbia Furnace they captured fifty Confederates, their horses and equipment—a stunning setback for Ashby’s troop. That defeat was the beginning of the end for the Army of the Valley’s tenancy on Rude’s Hill.

  Some days after the Confederate troops had retreated, Jed Hotchkiss stopped by the farm to inform the Rowland family of the change of affairs and to report that Brown was mending nicely.

  “When the Federals crossed Stony Creek,” he reported to a rapt audience clustered in the parlor, “General Jackson decided that they might be fronting something bigger than merely Banks’s army so he pulled back his vanguard. Good thing, too. The Federals hit Rude’s Hill hard. Some say what we managed there was a retreat. I heard Major Harman, the quartermaster, call it a rout and I’d be forced to agree with him. Still, Old Jack got his army out mostly intact.”