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

  What Others Are Saying About

  Shades of Gray

  “This stunning story captures the reader's attention from the start…a moving account of two people who are drawn into an untenable conflict and find love, despite their opposing beliefs.” - Romantic Times

  “Shades of Gray explores the War Between the States in a way that will touch you like no other work of fiction.” - The Book Connection

  “[James] has drawn a picture filled with conflict and love, loyalty and betrayal, history and romance, and a passion of lives lived in the moment.” — Civil War Notebook

  “Well written and expertly executed… You cannot leave this book unchanged in your understanding of the souls of the Civil War.” — Book Review Journal

  “I haven’t enjoyed a book so much in years! Shades of Gray is an incredible achievement and a treasure.” — Virginia Morton, Historian/Author

  “I'm a Civil War historian with roots deep in the Southern states and I couldn't put this book down!” — B. Webb

  Shades of Gray Awards:

  2010 Stars and Flag Book Award for Historical Fiction

  2009 HOLT Medallion Finalist for Best Southern Theme

  2009 Nominated for the Michael Shaara Award for Excellence in Civil War Fiction

  2008 Indie Next Generation Award for Best Regional Fiction

  2008 Indie Next Generation Finalist for Best Historical Fiction

  2008 IPPY Award for Best Regional Fiction

  2008 ForeWord Magazine Finalist for Book of the Year in Romance category

  Shades of Gray

  Copyright 2010 Jessica James

  This book is available in print format at most online retailers.

  Read the new ending in

  Noble Cause

  An alternative ending to Shades of Gray

  Shades of Gray

  A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia

  Or a

  Tale of the War for Southern Independence

  in the Old Dominion

  Jessica James

  Patriot Press

  Chapter 1

  “But one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive;

  and the other would accept war rather than let it perish. And the war came.”

  – Abraham Lincoln

  Northern Virginia

  1862

  A piercing bugle blast preceded the sound of galloping horses by mere seconds. Captain Alexander Hunter tore his eyes away from the horse and rider he pursued and focused on the Federal cavalry unit now pursuing him.

  Blast it. Tricked again.

  This was not the first time the large black steed with its agile rider had been spotted in advance of a Union assault—but Hunter swore today would be the last. Signaling his men to scatter, he spurred his mount toward the forest where his foe had disappeared. His band of warriors took off in every direction, their escape aided by a roiling mass of dark-bellied clouds that launched their own assault. With the storm as an ally, Hunter knew the Federal cavalry would not long sustain the chase. He worried not for the welfare of his men, who were familiar enough with the land to evade the enemy no matter what the weather. He cared only to find the Yank who led him into the trap and see him punished.

  Punished severely.

  Hunter lowered his hand to one of the revolvers at his hip. Damn that scoundrel. The timely arrival of Union reinforcements over the past few months could no longer be considered a mere coincidence. It was time for this cunning adversary to pay for the disruptions he’d caused.

  Hunter guided his mare through the underbrush and around fallen trees, but entertained little hope of finding his antagonist. The rider possessed a habit of appearing, only to disappear into thin air. Even today, when he’d thought the elusive character within his grasp, Hunter had instead found himself in another trap.

  The distinctive sound of running water replaced the hushed patter of rain and called Hunter from his thoughts. “How about a drink, ol’ girl?” He urged his mare forward, leaning low over the saddle to avoid tree limbs, then jerked on the reins at the sight of a youth crouched on the opposite bank gulping water by the handful. Hunter’s gaze shifted to the horse hungrily grazing on green shoots at the water’s edge. Enormous and coal black, its chest glistened from being ridden hard.

  Hunter reached for his revolver and blinked to make sure the fading daylight was not playing tricks on his vision. The scout was smaller and younger than he expected. He cocked his weapon and shouted across the fast-moving stream, “Don’t move!”

  Startled, the youth stood and challenged him. “What do you want?” he asked, holding nothing but dripping water.

  Hunter’s confusion intensified as he stared at his opponent. Dressed in an oversized coat, slouch hat pulled low, and baggy trousers, the boy looked harmless enough. Can this really be the Union scout I’ve been chasing?

  One more glance at the horse answered his question. Few such horses existed in this part of the country, certainly none of such quality that had not already been confiscated by one or the other of the armies. This was no guiltless civilian. This was a Yankee. And a cunning one at that.

  “I think you know what I want. It appears we’ve spent the last week watching each other, and still have not been introduced.”

  He urged his mare down the bank to a sandbar, but hesitated. The creek was not wide, but the swift-running current and slippery rocks made fording here treacherous.

  “If I may offer you some advice, sir?”

  “Begging your pardon, son, but I don’t think you’re in any position to offer advice.”

  “So it appears,” the youth replied, “but this is not a safe place to cross. If you go right down there—” He pointed downstream, but Hunter, blinking in disbelief at his audacity, interrupted.

  “Thanks for the advice,” he sneered, urging his horse forward in the ice-cold water, “but I’ll not go back without the scoundrel who’s been reporting my movements to the Yanks.”

  Hunter attempted to keep his eye on the enemy while guiding his mount through the maze of rocks in the stream bed. About halfway across, he saw the youth bolt to his grazing horse and gather the reins. Reacting instinctively he fired a shot, causing his mare to lose her footing and plunge to her knees. The panicked animal struggled a moment before bounding up with a great surge of strength, knocking Hunter off balance. As he tried to regain control, the mare lunged again, this time unseating him and sending him sailing backward. Hunter felt himself falling, seemingly in slow motion, until there came a skull-cracking thud and a blinding flash of light. Then nothing.

  * * *

  Andrea Evans waited breathlessly, fearing a trick, before leaping into the cold water. The Rebel floated face up, yet the red froth swirling around him made his injuries appear serious. She grabbed him beneath his arms and backed toward the bank, slipping, falling, spitting mouthfuls of water as she fought the current and struggled with the man’s weight. By the time she dragged him onto land, her legs trembled from exhaustion and her lungs screamed for air.

  “Dammit, I told you not to cross there,” she groaned between teeth chattering from the cold. Leaning down to get a closer look at his injury, she shook her head. “Now what am I to do with you?”

  Without warning the man’s eyes flew open, and his hands grabbed her arms like a pair of steel vises. “The question is, what am I to do with you?” he snarled, rolling her onto her back. He straddled her, pinning her to the ground with the strength of an angry bull.

  Andrea clenched her teeth and studied her dreaded foe. He did not speak; his eyes did the talking—and what they said drove t
hrough her like a ramrod. “I should have left you to die,” she spat, regretting her impulsive decision to rescue him.

  “It’s your undoing that you did not.”

  As the soldier scrutinized her face, Andrea began to kick, push, and squirm beneath him in a violent but futile attempt to escape. Pushing with all her remaining strength, Andrea grimaced at the uselessness of the effort against his powerful arms. Resigned to her fate, she relaxed and looked up into eyes that now appeared glazed and unfocused. She felt his grip loosen, watched him blink and sway before groaning and collapsing to one side. Andrea remained on her back for only a moment, sucking in air and listening to the chaotic pounding of her heart. Then she rolled out of his grasp and stared at the unconscious form.

  She knew this was the notorious Captain Hunter, a man the North feared as a calculating guerrilla leader and the South glorified as a knight. He was a legend for his ability to keep the Federal army on constant alert and in a continuous state of panic. His unorthodox methods of warfare left Union troops wondering when to expect him—and dreading what to expect.

  Even unconscious he appeared a formidable image of strength and power, making Andrea fear that the muscular frame beside her would rebound with the force and vitality for which he was so well known. She crawled another arm’s reach away, but not before catching a glimpse of the gash, still seeping blood, from beneath a mass of brown, wavy hair. She closed her eyes to quell the chill of fear inching its way up her spine—not sure if it was from the fear that he might be dead or the fear that he might suddenly awake. Although death had surrounded her for months, she never anticipated actually being the cause of it.

  A voice in the woods behind her jolted Andrea from her thoughts. She swore at herself for losing another opportunity to escape.

  “The gunshot came from over here,” yelled someone with a distinct Southern drawl.

  Lantern light reflected off the leaves, casting shadows on her and her unconscious companion.

  “Over here! I found the Cap’n’s horse,” another voice shouted.

  Andrea held her breath. With no sign of her horse, she slipped into the darkness, hoping the soldiers were too busy searching for their leader to hear.

  “Over here! I found him!”

  Light flooded an area not forty yards downstream and a dozen Rebels descended from the tree line. Andrea decided it was time to run, and run she did, cutting away from the bank and into the temporary safety of the trees. More concerned with speed now than caution, she sprinted through the woods, pushing blindly through the profuse underbrush into the awful blackness beyond. It seemed the trees tried to stop her, reaching out with spear-like branches to snag her clothes and hold her tightly in their gasp. Long, prickly limbs appeared out of nowhere to tear at her cloths and lacerate her skin. She whimpered at their savagery, but fear of capture inspired her legs to move faster.

  Pain seared through her when her ankle twisted on a fallen limb, and she dropped flat on her face—but only for a moment. She scrambled to her feet, or tried to anyway, half-crawling, half-running a few steps until a tangle of vines stopped her. Disengaging herself with frenzied urgency, Andrea ran again, but only a short distance more. She could go no farther, certain her lungs would burst from the exertion, or the pain in her ankle would cause her to collapse.

  Andrea leaned against a tree, clenching the spasm in her side and trying to gulp in air quietly. When a twig snapped, she froze. Just my imagination. She let her breath out slowly. Or maybe a fox or a deer.

  Standing still like the trees around her, Andrea grimaced as something warm trickled down her cheek and into her mouth. The metallic taste of blood gave her the urge to spit, but she swallowed instead when another noise came, closer still than the last. She held her breath and clutched a limb with shaking hands. Someone is coming. She listened to them shuffle through the underbrush, then stop. Andrea crouched and waited, her heart pounding like a locomotive in her ears. She reached into her boot for a derringer, but realized it was useless, soaked from her swim. Dammit. Her only other weapon, a Colt .44, was still on her saddle. The words of Colonel Jonathan Jordan suddenly raced into her mind: War is no game.

  Those were the last words he had spoken to her before she left with his dispatch two days earlier with orders not to delay. Those were the words he spoke every time he saw her. She closed her eyes while fighting the hopelessness consuming her. When she opened them, the veil of clouds began to part, throwing a sharp beam of light through the dense canopy above. Andrea held her breath and peered around the tree, spotting the outline of the supposed predator. Her heart lurched at the sight of the four-legged creature, all but invisible in the darkness.

  “Justus,” she whispered, as he took the remaining steps toward her.

  Mounting her horse soundlessly, she did not take time to contemplate the close bond they shared or the significance of his name: Just us. She urged him forward and prayed they had time to escape the danger surrounding them.

  Chapter 2

  “Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away.”

  – Abraham Lincoln

  A pounding headache woke Hunter just after dawn. For a moment he believed he had foolishly indulged in some of his men’s bad whiskey before retiring the night before. But pressing his fingertips to the back of his head, he realized his mistake. A bump the size of a lead ball caused him to wince and swear simultaneously.

  Hunter took a deep breath and struggled to sit up, his skull throbbing in perfect tempo with his heart. He collapsed against the pillow and flung his arm across his eyes to escape the penetrating rays of the sun pouring in through an open window. Hazy images of the Yank he had chased drifted into his mind like clouds scudding across the sky. But when he tried to concentrate, they dispersed and dissolved into an unrecognizable haze.

  Falling back into a restless slumber, Hunter floated down a river of dreams. Water swirled around him, lulling him into a sleep from which he feared he might never rise and was powerless to stop. But as he drifted, hands reached for him and dragged him toward the bank. The water and the person seemed to be in a duel over his body, each pulling in opposite directions. After a long struggle the current lost its battle and Hunter lay on the riverbank, safe from the water’s grip. He opened his eyes and reached up to touch the face of his rescuer leaning over him—

  “Cap’n, you awake?”

  “Damn it, Malone!” The worried gaze of one of his men came into focus just inches from his face. He put his hand to his head as another wave of pounding pain ensued.

  “I’m sorry, Cap’n. Jus’ checkin’ to make sure you was all right. Heard you groaning in your sleep.”

  Hunter closed his eyes and tried to bring back the image that seemed close enough to touch seconds ago. His rescuer’s face was gone. Was he dreaming, or had someone pulled him from the water? If so, then who?

  “How did I get here?”

  “We brought you back by wagon.”

  “Where did you finzae3wd me?” Hunter grew impatient at his inability to remember the chain of events.

  “Cap’n, like we told you last night, you was lying near the bank.”

  Hunter shook his head, trying again to clear the cobwebs. “Any sign of anyone else?”

  “Only one other set of footprints,” Malone answered. “And those of a horse. A big darn horse from the looks.”

  A vague image began to form in Hunter’s mind, causing him to close his eyes and concentrate. He pictured the horse, ambling along the other side of the creek as it pulled up clumps of grass. It was a big horse, the black horse they had been chasing. Like the winged Pegasus, it flew into his memory just as it had appeared before him yesterday, soaring across the landscape as effortlessly as a gale of wind. Then it disappeared, replaced by the image of the youth standing startled by the water’s edge. “And what of the rider?”

  “Don’t know. None of us saw him once we scattered. We did find this, though.” Malone wal
ked over to a nightstand and picked up a scrap of paper. “Could be the scout’s. We found it on the bank near where we found you.”

  Hunter squinted at the piece of paper the private handed him, closing one eye so he would only see one image. After much concentration, the blurry words came into focus.

  Headquarters Jordan’s Battalion

  Guards, Pickets and Patrols: Pass the holder, Andrew Sinclair, at all places and at all times, with or without the countersign.

  By order of Col. Jonathan P. Jordan

  Officer Commanding

  Hunter closed his eyes, then opened them and gazed out the window, trying to recall more details of the previous day’s encounter.

  “Doc’s on his way from the Talbert’s.” Malone’s tone conveyed grave concern.

  “I don’t need a bloody doctor,” Hunter snapped, easing himself to a sitting position. After resting on the edge of the bed for a moment, he stood and stared at Malone.

  “I want that blasted scout caught if we have to walk through Yankee blood to the knees!” He waved a fist in the air and grimaced at the ensuing pain. “I want him in my hands if we have to hunt down and kill every last mother’s son-of-them to find him! Do you hear me?”

  There was no need to pose the final question. For one thing, Malone had already started backing out the door to fetch the doctor. For another, it would have been difficult to believe that anyone within a ten-mile radius had not heard his thunderous declaration.

  Hunter stood in the middle of the room, swaying and cursing the enemy with every throb of his head, until a rousing revelation came to him. He once thought that he pursued a specter, so cleverly had the scout eluded him in the past. But now he knew he was dealing with someone of flesh and blood—a mere mortal that, to his own detriment, appeared to possess more compassion than common sense.