Duty Bound (Shades of Gray Civil War Serial Trilogy Book 1) Page 2

  “Cap’n, you awake?”

  “Blast 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. Just checking 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…but 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?” He opened his eyes and glanced up at Malone.

  “We brought you back by wagon.”

  “Where did you find 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’d 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 walked 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 to stop the double 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 blasted doctor.” Hunter eased himself to a sitting position, even as the sound of his own voice caused his head to thud. 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 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 the 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.

  Chapter 4

  It will be all right if it turns out all right.

  – Union General Ulysses S. Grant

  Miles away from her ill-fated encounter with the Confederate officer, Andrea’s heart had still not stopped its violent thumping. She urged Justus on through the dark, knowing every hoof beat bore her farther away from the enemy and closer to the area she’d called home since the age of thirteen. Her cousin Catherine lived less than twenty miles away among the rolling hills and green meadows of northern Virginia.

  And though that wasn’t where she was heading at the moment, the region was as familiar to Andrea as a back yard…every field and forest having been ridden across and explored over the past four years. It was as if it had always been home really. She had felt a kinship with Virginia from the moment her eyes had first beheld its sacred soil, so different from the sandy, flat terrain of her native South Carolina that she now so loathed.

  Andrea allowed her mind to wander to the familiar territory and friendly faces that were not far away.

  But the pain in her sprained ankle brought Andrea back to the present. The injured tissue had swelled and now seemed determined to burst its way out of her boot. She pulled Justus to a walk and removed her foot from the stirrup as she looked at the bright side. I’m sure his head is hurting worse than my ankle.

  Leaning down to pat Justus’ neck, Andrea tried to ignore the cloud of dread that still hung over her. Hunter was a revered local legend here, lauded for his ability to cause terror in the Union ranks. His method of forcing his enemy to watch, wait, and wonder when he would strike strained Federal resources and the soldiers’ nerves more than an outright battle.

  Andrea shivered, remembering the rebel leader’s eyes and tight grip upon her. The cat-and-mouse game she had played the past few weeks was a dangerous, and perhaps a foolish, one. But she detested the Confederates’ stubborn pride, their unmitigated arrogance at having carried the war so far.

  The sound of a train whistle floated across the night breeze, halting her reveries. Looking around and getting her bearings, Andrea urged Justus off the trail to a large oak that stood like a guardian to a well-concealed ford. Andrea threw her leg over the saddle and dismounted with a suppressed groan when her weight landed on her ankle. She knew she would have to walk from here, the brush being too thick and the tree limbs too low to ride any farther.

  “Come on, boy,” she said to Justus, leaning on him heavily while she hopped alongside. “Your turn to take it easy.”

  Andrea dreaded the short walk to the river, more so for the profusion of spider webs crisscrossing her path than the pain in her ankle. She shivered at the contact of the invisible threads in the darkness. “I’d rather face an enemy battery than walk through these,” she muttered to herself as she clawed another strand from her face and fought her sense of unreasonable panic.

  “Make that an enemy battery at close range,” she whimpered, slapping at the sticky traps more fretfully and stifling the scream that arose in her throat from her irrational fear. “An enemy battery at close range commanded by Captain Hunter.” She swiped one hand through the air to clear the way while smacking at biting insects that had begun to light on every pore and scratch of her skin in a feeding frenzy.

  She at last breathed a sigh of relief when the sweet sound of low water lapping gently at the riverbank reached her ears.

  “We’re almost there.” She patted Justus on the head while closing her eyes and recalling a favorite Bible verse. Give thanks unto the Lord for He is good and his mercy endureth forever.

  Stepping through the last few feet of vegetation, Andrea took in the sight of the majestic Potomac, its slow-running water enfolded in ghostly silence. She stared into the dark realms of the river from the bank for a moment, then slid down to a strip of gravel on its shore and bent down to splash cold water on her face. When the moon peeked out from behind a cloud, she bent down even lower to gaze thoughtfully at her reflection highlighted in the shaft of light.

  The image that greeted her almost made Andrea laugh out loud. If only her father could see her now. But suddenly that thought was not so funny, and her smile turned to a frown. She scooped up a stone and threw it into the water, causing the image to disperse in waves. Yes, the pampered elegance of the aristocratic child was gone…sometimes she wondered if the child had ever really existed.

  Andrea turned and mounted Justus with the help of a fallen log, then urged him in
to the water. Within minutes, he had clawed his way up the opposite bank and they melded into the shadows of the opposite shore.

  They had not traveled far before Andrea smelled the faint odor of wood fires and smoke. She took a deep breath of relief. She was safe. The camp was her second home.

  Not long after, came the expected challenge. “Stop, rider! Who goes there?”

  “A friend. A courier seeking Colonel Jonathan Jordan.”

  “Dismount and proceed with the countersign.”

  Andrea groaned at the thought of dismounting and reached into her pocket for her pass. She and Justus both jumped in surprise when a soldier, not attached to the voice up ahead, appeared from the shadows beside them.

  “Boonie? Is that you?” Andrea recognized the man instantly, but continued to fumble in her coat for the pass.

  “Sinclair?” he answered, calling her by the name she used in camp. “Colonel’s been snapping at the bit waiting fer word from you. Dang gum it, where ya been?”

  “Got detoured.” Andrea continued riding while the sentry walked along beside. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach when she realized her pass was gone.

  “You on picket duty?” She tried not to sound distressed as she searched through other pockets in the dark.

  “Just got relieved. Heard a rider come splashing across the river like there weren’t no war, and thought it might be you,” the lanky soldier said.

  The woods opened up just then, revealing a large, sloping meadow that lay dotted with white tents and dying campfires. Andrea frowned at his cynical comment while taking in the scene of the sprawling camp. A few men lounged around a smoking pile of coals—probably just returned from picket duty. But for the most part, the camp appeared silent and dark.

  “Colonel told me to fetch him no matter what time you got in,” Boonie said. “Probably fixing to have you arrested for desertion.”

  “Tattoo has sounded?” Andrea asked incredulously, not knowing the lateness of the hour.

  “Yeah. About two hours ago.” Boonie shook his head in exasperation.

  The realization that it was now past midnight, combined with the excitement of her hairs-breadth escape, served to increase Andrea’s exhaustion. “Is it really necessary to wake—” She turned to Boonie, but he had already disappeared into the maze of tents.

  Doggone it, Boonie. Why do you always have to follow orders so exact?

  Andrea waited uneasily for the Colonel, and he finally appeared, looking disheveled and a bit annoyed at being awakened so late. He wore his coat, but his suspenders hung down below as if he had dressed quickly and not bothered to adjust them.

  “Sinclair. It’s late,” he barked, barely looking at her. “Come with me.”

  Andrea winked at Boonie as she handed him her horse’s reins, then bravely attempted to follow the Colonel without limping. When she entered the tent behind him, he turned, threw his arms around her, and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank goodness, Andrea, you’re safe! We heard there was trouble near Mount Gilead.” He held her by the arms and took a step back. “And it appears you were in it. Are you all right?”

  “Other than a few scratches and a sore ankle, I’m fine.” Andrea smiled to reassure him. “Much better off than Captain Hunter, I’m sure.”

  Colonel Jordan had turned to light a second lamp, but at the mention of the Confederate captain’s name, he stopped and whirled back to face her. “You tangled with Hunter?”

  “You could say…we met.” Andrea hobbled over to the nearest chair and lowered herself into it. “Can you help me get this boot off?”

  Colonel Jordan’s soft brown eyes appeared to change from concern to apprehension, and the tone of his voice became laced with alarm. “What’s wrong with your ankle?” He stared at the obvious swelling of her boot.

  Andrea watched his eyes flick up to her ripped pants and scan her torn and ragged coat. She knew, even without a mirror, that if she had escaped from a den of tigers, she could look no worse.

  “If it was Hunter trying to get you,” he said, raising his gaze to meet hers, “it appears like he darn near succeeded.”

  “Now, J.J.,” Andrea said, making light of her injury by calling him the pet name only she and his wife were privy to. “You know ‘darn near’ doesn’t count in time of war.”

  Andrea thought her comment was cause enough for a good laugh, but “J.J.” ignored it and knelt down to examine her ankle.

  “Blazes, Andrea, how long has it been like this? We’re going to have to cut your boot off.”

  Andrea gripped the side of the chair, her knuckles white, as the throbbing intensified. “It’s only a sprain,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “And a ruined pair of boots.” Colonel Jordan did not bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice as the old leather fell apart under his knife.

  Andrea shrugged and drew in a sharp breath as she gazed at her cousin’s husband. Having lived with them for years, Andrea considered J.J. more like a dear brother than a commanding officer. He was known as a man of courage and conviction, but she loved him even more for his remarkable gentleness—a trait she had never before witnessed in the male species. With striking good looks and warm, brown eyes, he had an easy-going manner that made everyone feel instantly at home.

  But it wasn’t just family that thought highly of the man. J.J.’s popularity among his men was celebrated, and his reputation as an officer, renowned. He possessed a calm demeanor in camp that made his men feel at ease and a steady nerve under fire that made every soldier willing to follow him anywhere.

  If his men could only see him when in the company of his wife, Andrea mused as she took a deep, exasperated breath. Sometimes the love J.J. and Catherine shared scared her. It seemed foolish to care for someone so much, to depend on someone so desperately. Her mother had married for money and power. The adoration and esteem Catherine bestowed upon J.J., and that he returned tenfold, confused her.

  “How does that feel?” He looked up, tearing Andrea from her thoughts.

  “Much better.” She leaned back in the chair, resting her gaze on the ankle that had swelled to more than twice its normal size.

  “Hopefully the swelling won’t get any worse,” he said as he gently wrapped a bandage around it. “I should have doc take a look at it in the morning—and this.” J.J. grabbed her arm, his brow furrowing as he examined one of the deeper gashes. “Now, tell me what happened.”

  Andrea chewed the inside of her cheek, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes for a moment to gather her thoughts. J.J. must have seen how fatigued she was.

  “Never mind. You must be famished and exhausted. Hunter is no doubt long gone by now. You can tell me in the morning.”

  Andrea smiled. “More tired than hungry—or too tired to eat. I’m not sure which.”

  “You can sleep here.” J.J. nodded toward his cot. “I’ll find quarters elsewhere.”

  “No. I’ll be fine—”

  “That’s an order.” J.J. blew out the lamp to end the conversation. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Chapter 5

  That man will fight us every day and every hour till the end of the war.

  – General James Longstreet, speaking of General U.S. Grant

  “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.” J.J. opened the tent flap, allowing a stream of sunlight to gush in and fill every corner. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with one boot on,” he said, holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a pair of shiny boots in the other.

  Andrea blinked at the sudden brightness. “I guess I was more tired than I realized. It’s been awhile since I slept in a bed.”

  J.J. winced. “I would hardly call that a bed.” He stared at his wife’s cousin sitting on the edge of his cot, elbows on her knees and face in her hands, trying to wipe away the sleep that remained. Her thick blonde hair lay tangled with twigs and leaves like the mane of a wild horse. Her pants were torn and muddy. The picture she presented was one of determination and a strong will, two tr
aits equally at fault for leading her into frequent trouble.

  “You must stop this.” He handed her the cup of coffee. “It’s getting too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Andrea gave him a look that indicated she did not think he was being rational. “The Union is at stake—”

  J.J. shook his head and put his hands up to stop her. She pushed his patience, and his nerves, to the limit. The decision to allow her into camp had been a source of much regret from the start. But in his defense, he had been given little choice. She had enlisted the aid of his wife to stand against him, and between them, they had worn him down.

  With much reluctance he had allowed her to carry messages back and forth to Catherine, usually only a day’s ride, depending on where he was camped. At the beginning of the war, the idea seemed harmless enough. He’d actually enjoyed the frequent communications from his wife. But that was back when everyone assumed the Confederacy would be defeated in a single battle, when the conflict’s duration was prophesied to be short, and the Union’s success was considered to be certain.

  Although he could not recall the exact circumstances, somewhere along the line she had been asked to deliver a message to an outpost close by—then another and another. And now here she was, entrenched in a war that had no end in sight, her heart and soul enlisted in such a way it seemed impossible to remove her. Every officer in this part of the state knew of the kid called “Sinclair.” They knew of the youth’s familiarity with the countryside and the swiftness of his horse. And though they assumed he was too young to enlist, they heard he was fearless.

  What they don’t know is that “he” is a “she” who has more courage than sense. And that it’s entirely up to me to keep her out of trouble.