Honor Bound (Shades of Gray Civil War Serial Trilogy Volume II) Read online

  “Dunno. They 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 vanished. There was nothing to do but wait for her return.

  Chapter 5

  You might as well appeal against the thunderstorm.

  – Union General William Tecumseh Sherman

  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 his houseguest’s voice.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Ole Him ax me to close the curtains.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Ole Him ax me to close the curtains,” Izzie said again, just a little louder, as if Andrea had merely not heard.

  “And his Majesty the King is too cowardly to come in and close them himself?”

  Hunter took a deep breath and strode into the room. “No, Miss Evans, I am not too cowardly to come and close them 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.”

  “No you were not successful. You hide me away in a curtained room and expect no confrontation?”

  Although Hunter had found Andrea’s thoughts difficult to read when he’d danced with her in Richmond, he found interpreting her mood now no difficult thing. All signs indicated a swiftly falling barometer, and the clouds upon her countenance thickened and darkened by the moment.

  “You call me a houseguest, yet lock me away like a common prisoner?” Her entire body heaved with hostility against the alleged violation of her freedom. “I could well die from the roar of silence in this room!”

  Although Hunter had never met anyone quite so intolerant of confinement, he made an effort to be amiable. “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’d 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 drapes 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’s head jolted back as if shocked at the comment. “This, sir, is torture in its most revolting, unrelenting and painful form. You pretend to be so chivalrous, when in reality 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 be tormented and distressed!”

  “Miss Evans, I am merely requesting that you stay away from the windows while my men are here.” Hunter narrowed his eyes, making it clear that his request was 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 Libby 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, making it clear she understood the term was meant as an insult. He wondered if he had gone too far in using it to describe her.

  “Then hide me away behind closed curtains if you must,” she said, her voice quaking 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 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 low with anger. “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 did not speak 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 eyed her cautiously. “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 rest assured, you may enjoy your houseguest privileges the moment my men and I depart.” He tilted his head and studied her a moment. “I trust you will attempt to make the best of your stay until you have more fully recovered…and that includes, of course, your senses.”

  He heard a riotous movement of bedclothes as she attempted to sit up. “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. So 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, Captain Hunter,” Andrea yelled when he started to depart. “You are a brutal and malicious cad.”

  “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 Yanke
e.”

  Andrea responded with a whole inventory of curses—of which she possessed a goodly store—to do justice to the occasion.

  “Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Hunter said under his breath as he descended the stairs two at a time.

  Chapter 6

  Only three men in the Confederate army knew what I was doing or intended to do; they were Lee and Stuart and myself.

  – Confederate Cavalry Colonel John S. Mosby

  One week later

  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. Yet from the looks on the men’s faces, they were content to trust their fate to the one who 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 to it, indicating an 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: Keeping the Yankees so busy worrying about Hunter at their backs, they would have little time to think about Stuart in their front. The Union flag fluttered nowhere that was safe or sacred from his restless wanderings. The captain was as familiar with the postings of the defenses of Washington as the Federal officials themselves.

  The sky had turned dark and angry clouds were amassing by the time 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 soon.”

  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, on the other hand, mounted his horse 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 roused him. “Carter, wake the men.”

  Within a few minutes of the order being given, the band of rebels was gathered around their leader. “I discovered some good news, men,” Hunter 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 men mounted and followed their leader.

  Dressed in rain slickers and armed with courage, they rode straight into the outpost as if they were a returning Yankee scouting party. The slumped, weary position in which they sat their horses and the casual way in which they nodded at the sentries, concealed their true motives and raised no alarm.

  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.

  Carter, on the other hand, received a curt nod from his leader, which meant Hunter wanted some company on a scout. Carter had learned long ago that Hunter’s reward for liking someone was to request the person to take part in risky expeditions. He therefore considered himself very well liked.

  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 again.

  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.”

  Chapter 7

  When the will defies fear, when duty throws the gauntlet down to fate, when honor scorns to compromise with death—that is heroism.

  – Robert Green Ingersoll

  Hunter allowed Carter to get some rest, but awakened him a short time later with the order to rouse the men.

  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 the scene spread out before him and understood in a glance what Hunter had ascertained the night before. A wagon train, heavily gu
arded in the front and rear, moved through the valley below. 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 took a group of men and waited until there was a break in the train. As the next wagon crested the small rise, he swung his arm to the left and pointed toward a secluded bridle path that branched from the main thoroughfare. 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 said over his shoulder without taking the time to remove the cigar from between his clenched teeth.

  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.”

  The sound of Hunter’s men emptying boxes and crates of their contents floated on the breeze just then, along with their shouts and jests. They were hooting at the audacity of their commander and laughing at the carelessness of the enemy who had seemingly just delivered an abundance of food, equipment and supplies right into their hands.

  * * *

  Hunter did not share in the festivities. Although at ease, he was not disarmed of caution. He sat on the hill watching for any movement and listening carefully for any sign of alarm. With eyes wandering, he scanned the landscape with the avidity of a hawk, enjoying the sounds of his men in the background.