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  “We only done it to survive.”

  “They don’t care why we did it,” Wolf said.

  “You be a smart one. But not smart enough to not hang,” Mack said.

  Wolf slumped down the edge of the wall.

  Mack shook the door again, and it wasn’t clear if he was testing the security or tormenting his prisoners. “You boys holler if you need anything. I like to keep my tenants happy.”

  “Maybe some food?” Roberts asked through the holes.

  “You really are dense, aren’t ya?” Mack said. He chuckled and left the room, snickering to himself as if the answer was so clear and easy.

  “Back in a cell,” Roberts muttered.

  “Just traded one for the other.”

  “You leave me out of this, Wolf. It’s the last time I listen to you.”

  “Ah, probably is.”

  Roberts took a seat across from him, and both men put their heads down in silence. They’d escaped only to become prisoners of their own army.

  Chapter Eight

  May 6, 1864

  Near Todd’s Tavern, Virginia

  Brigadier General George Armstrong Custer adjusted the collar on his blue sailor shirt beneath a black velvet hussar-style jacket. His red necktie chafed his skin. It was a unique style to himself, a style that had been adopted by his men. Red neckties were worn throughout the ranks, displaying a bond of respect he’d built with his men.

  Officers from the Army of the Potomac’s Cavalry Corps filled the old farmhouse where Major General Philip Sheridan had chosen to meet and strategize with them. As in any costly war, especially one that was so uncivil, new faces lined the rows of men both sitting and standing.

  There were newcomers from the Western Theater, but most were men that had risen through the ranks earning their commands with tact and guts or in some cases bad luck. Not many were left in command that had fought at Gettysburg.

  The rotation of faces was quicker than a dance around a Maypole; every time they met, there were new officers. Those that had disappeared had been displaced, dismissed, transferred, killed, or wounded.

  Shake-ups had occurred all over the Cavalry Corps after Grant’s arrival a few months prior. Judson Kilpatrick had been sent west after the debacle of his raid on Richmond. Custer wasn’t sorry to see the blowhard and brash commander go. Ulric Dahlgren was dead. He hadn’t known him well, but the man was Kilpatrick’s lackey, so his loss wasn’t terrible. Then there were those that would be missed. The most highly thought of and distinguished cavalry officer in the Union, John Buford, had died of a fever the previous December.

  It was a rotating carousel of command. Alfred Pleasonton, once Custer’s benefactor, had been shown the door in place of a bandy-legged short Irishman with a neatly trimmed mustache who went by the name Philip Henry Sheridan, known to the men as “Little Phil.” It wasn’t this man’s appointment that bothered Custer. No. Colonel Alger of the 5th Michigan spoke highly of the appointee. But the men that had been appointed at the divisional level over Custer left much to be desired.

  There had been a succession crisis in the eyes of the men when the 3rd Cavalry Division was given to Brigadier General James Wilson. He was an engineer until only a few days ago, and starred after Custer, Davies, and Merritt, making him ineligible to command senior officers by virtue of time in grade.

  Custer had known Wilson from West Point, and Wilson was not a man he could fathom serving under. In fact, he loathed the man. He’d made that very clear to Sheridan, and the corps commander responded by moving Custer under the 1st Division whose command now fell to another unexperienced cavalryman, Alfred Torbert. However, taking into consideration the alternative, a slightly more likable fellow.

  The divisional shuffle had cost Custer one of his favorite subordinates and artillery commander, Alexander C.M. Pennington, and the esteemed 1st Vermont, both of which he had fought tooth and nail to keep under his command. However, Sheridan hadn’t budged, and when Custer pushed harder his superior offered him a fine string of curse words that would put a sailor to shame.

  Torbert sat near Sheridan, a degree of haughtiness settling on his face. He resembled a younger version of General Ambrose Burnside with his bushy sideburns connecting with his mustache. For all his pompousness, the man could hardly ride a horse and carried himself like he was a gift from the Creator himself. We will see how far he can ride. The table they sat around was only so big, and most of the junior regimental officers stood. Custer’s men lined the wall behind him.

  In his own Michigan Brigade, the faces had almost all changed. Colonel Town of the 1st Michigan had departed back for his home state. The combination of consumption and campaigning had taken their toll on the cadaverous colonel. Custer didn’t think he would live long.

  The 1st fell to Lieutenant Colonel Peter Stagg, a capable soldier who had stepped in for Town on many occasions. He kept his thick jaw free of all facial hair and had piercing blue eyes that could read the terrain in a moment. He held steady reins on the veteran regiment.

  Then there was Colonel William D. Mann of the 7th. Custer never had any love for the wild-bearded man. A man with a beard and a crazy-eyed gaze should have been well suited for war, but in fact, he was much better suited for solving logistical needs. His patented invention to assist the way soldiers carried packs and equipment with adjustable straps had actually been a worthy improvement.

  It was enough that Custer looked past his dislike and supported the colonel and his product. The Ordnance Department felt otherwise. Of course it was all financially oriented, so much so that he was surprised when they had begun issuing more of the repeating Spencer carbines.

  Mann hadn’t gotten his way and resigned his commission, which wasn’t a huge negative in Custer’s mind. His replacement, Major Henry W. Granger, stood to Custer’s left. He had a broad face, a commanding voice, and a thick bushy beard that reminded him of a grizzly bear.

  A youthful face stood on the other side of Granger. Major James B. Kidd of the 6th Michigan had become Colonel Kidd after Colonel Gray had to seek rest for a bad back.

  Bad backs and horsemanship did not go hand in hand. But God bless the man if he didn’t try his hardest on countless occasions to return to his regiment. His Lieutenant Colonel Thompson had been wounded in Hunterstown, leaving Major Kidd as the next replacement. He’d proven himself sound and energetic. Time and luck would tell how far he’d go.

  Then there was the portly Colonel James F. Moore of the 13th Michigan. He’d managed to find a seat at the table despite only leading a regiment. He stared longingly at the major general as he spoke. Custer trusted him about as far as he could throw him, which wasn’t a great distance, yet somehow the commander with the least innate abilities and minutest martial prowess had survived and maintained his position within the Michigan Brigade.

  The man standing on Custer’s right was the only other man who had been with him since the beginning, Colonel Russell A. Alger of the 5th Michigan. A handsome man with dark hair, he held no love for Torbert but respected Sheridan, and that was enough for Custer to trust the man as well.

  “I’ll tell you one thing about Meade. He is an old grandma in general’s clothing who doesn’t have a goddamn sense in a bone of his body. He lacks innovation. He lacks guts,” Sheridan spat. “And if I had half of a man as a superior, this war could be done.”

  Torbert’s face took on a less than comfortable tone. He had been appointed by Meade. He was also at the root of the conflict. His men had relinquished Todd’s Tavern under Meade’s orders that had superseded Sheridan’s orders. Now rebels had entrenched themselves at the critical crossroads, and Meade had directed the cavalry to take it back. Men would die on the morrow because of the confusion.

  Custer peered at the short brown major general with long arms and bandy legs. His neck was hardly enough to hang the fellow. His rival, Wilson, didn’t look much better. He had been bested during the opening engagements of the Battle of the Wilderness. On the opposite end, Cus
ter’s Brigade had been met with success once they escaped the drudgery of baggage train duty. He’d had but only a moment to scribble a letter to Libbie about it.

  Oh my love, I wonder what you are doing now? Do you think of me as I think of you? He couldn’t remember a time before her delicate embrace. He tried to shove the thoughts of his lovely wife into his heart and focus on the task at hand.

  Tomorrow would be bloody. Men would die crawling over the rotting fly-covered corpses of horse and man alike. The army had most likely lost the initiative to wedge itself between Lee and Richmond, which meant infantry would again be thrown into the meat grinder that could have been avoided. But tomorrow Sheridan’s command would retake Todd’s Tavern, clearing the way for Grant’s army.

  “They don’t call him Old Snapping Turtle for nothing, sir,” Wilson said.

  Sheridan sighed, shaking his head. His face was heated with agitation. He’d been going on and on for over an hour about his distaste for Meade. “If he hadn’t recalled my orders, we could have gotten the jump on them.”

  “They are on the defensive, sir. We will break them on this rugged ground and take Richmond,” Wilson said with an assuring smile. Charming and likable words wouldn’t make up for a weak performance in the field, at least that was Custer’s take on it. Then again, these men were the ones promoted.

  “Granny Lee will see that we can’t. Or we will turn around and march back home. We need off our leash. We have over 100,000 men in this army. We have over 10,000 cavalrymen. Let’s use them.”

  “Grant won’t back down. He’s promised this much, but I cannot speak for Meade,” Wilson added. He’d been a former aide to Grant and was apparently making sure everyone was aware of his close relationship with the Union Army’s top dog.

  Sheridan slammed his fist into the table. “I don’t give a damn what Meade thinks. I am trying to whip the devil out of some rebs and win this damn war. We don’t have time for cautious maneuvers.”

  A captain stepped inside the room. He stood with his black slouch hat underneath his arm.

  Sheridan licked his lips. “We need to draw them out. Destroy them. Stuart doesn’t have the men or the horses to sustain any kind of engagement with us.”

  The officers raised their voices in agreement with the fervor of their commander. “Ayes” and “Yeas” came from them. Not one wanted to appear timid in front of their new commander.

  Sheridan licked his lips. “One of you needs to give me something. Something I can take to Grant to convince him this is possible. Think on it tonight men; tomorrow come to me with your plans. We have a long road ahead.”

  Custer ran fingers over his mustache, massaging it down. A suitable plan was a good way to gain favor and make his rival Wilson look worse by stealing the show. He must write Libbie before he laid his head down to rest. Surely she would have some profound input for a plan, if she was here with him.

  The officers took their leave, one by one filing out.

  “Autie, would you care to grab a drink?” Alger said.

  “Not tonight. I must get a letter to Libbie. It’s been too long.”

  “It’s been only a few days since we left.” A small grin took over his lips beneath his closely trimmed ebony-colored beard.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand a man in love.”

  Alger’s grin became mischievous. “You’re a changed man.”

  Custer matched his grin. “You, my good man, will never change.”

  “You sure I can’t pull you away?”

  “I would only be a distraught and miserable drinking partner. My mind is elsewhere.” An idea struck him and he blinked. That’s it!

  “I’ve seen that look before,” Alger said.

  “I think I have an idea.”

  “Should I be nervous or excited to get back into the thick of it?”

  A slight smirk formed on Custer’s face. “I’d say a little of both. I’ll let you know later.”

  Alger understood his meaning: leave him in private with Sheridan. “You stop by if you want some sleeping medicine.” He nodded to Sheridan as he left.

  The major general eyed him. “General, do you have something to say?” With a tiny irritated shake, he said, “I swear to God if you are going to complain about Torbert’s command, I will shove my boot so far up your ass.” His eyes read Custer, and satisfied that he wasn’t going to protest, his tone softened. “You did well out there today.”

  “Thank you, sir. But no need for any boot shoving.”

  Sheridan held up a finger. “You aren’t getting Pennington back either.”

  “A damn shame but not what I wanted to talk about.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Sheridan said. “You have a plan for me already?”

  “You know me, sir. I love a good scrap. You point me in the right direction, and I will bring those rebels to heel.”

  “I want to dismantle the rebel cavalry piece by piece,” Sheridan said. “Give me something to convince Grant to let his dogs of war off the leash.”

  “I’ve been going up against Stuart for a long time. His subordinates are well-versed and high-quality horsemen.” Custer’s smile deepened. He’d bested Rosser, a friend and roommate from West Point, all afternoon. The big dark Texan was an admirable rival and an excellent commander. They would have still been close if they fought on the same side.

  But alas, that wasn’t how this war worked. Sloppy, dirty, and personal. Except nobody knew it would be like that when the war began. He wondered if the country still would have tread the same path with the knowledge they held now. “They are cool-headed, and they don’t want a true fight if they know the odds are against them.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know, General.”

  “You see, I have an idea. One that will bring Stuart out. Force him to fight. Act rashly and without thought.”

  Sheridan’s eyes narrowed above high cheekbones. “And how would you accomplish this?”

  “I simply thought about what would drive me mad.” He paused for effect. “And there is one thing that would drive me and all other men madder than a rabid dog. Miserable and mad enough to risk everything.”

  Sheridan spoke quickly. He wanted the answer to his problem now. “And what might this be?”

  “May I take a seat?”

  “Of course. Get on with it,” he said, ushering him to sit.

  “I have two prisoners we didn’t have time to deal with before we departed Stevensburg. They’re actually still in Alexandria.”

  “We have plenty of prisoners.”

  “No, Union men.”

  “Deserters?”

  Custer shook his head to the negative. “Not one bit.”

  “What got them there?”

  “Impersonating officers.” Sheridan did not appear impressed, but Custer continued onward anyway, hoping he hadn’t jumped too far out of line. “They went on that Kilpatrick raid and got themselves captured wearing officers’ coats. Escaped Libby. Made it to Fort Monroe. Butler had them shipped to Alexandria.”

  “That cross-eyed prick had no idea?”

  “He thought they were telling the truth.”

  Sheridan leaned forward patting his coat for a cigar. He reached back, searching a different pocket. Finding one, he plopped back into his chair. “I don’t see what this has to do with getting us off Meade’s leash? Destroying Stuart’s command? Winning the war?”

  “Well, you see, I have an idea.”

  Chapter Nine

  Early morning, May 7, 1864

  Near Shady Grove Church, Virginia

  Major General Wade Hampton III rubbed the brim of his black slouch hat. Dust cloaked the edge, and he ran a thumb over and over it in an attempt to correct its imperfection. There was increasing heat this May morning, and the heat brought dryness and dust which made a soldier appear flustered, weary, and unsoldierly. Lately he had been all three, but his officers and servants were cognizant enough to not test him.

  He had been the richest man i
n the South before the war. Despite his father and grandfather having been war heroes, the need had never arisen for him to take up arms until the North had decided to force all the South into a rebellion.

  He’d outfitted his own legion—composed of infantry, cavalry, and artillery—and had risen through the ranks to major general. His rise was marked by his calculated and aggressive maneuvers that earned his soldiers’ respect. And now while he should be leading an entire division in the battle taking place up north, he’d been regulated to an effective squadron of about two hundred men. Barely two hundred men.

  A woman’s laughter caught his ear, raising his blood pressure even higher. In an adjacent room sat two of Stuart’s aides digging through mountains of paperwork. The larger of the two, whom he recognized as Henry McClellan had a tall frame and a thick chest, looked up, shaking his head. The smaller bookish man with spectacles continued surveying the documents with great interest.

  Hampton had been waiting for over an hour for his commanding officer to meet with him, and while they were in the middle of a war, he’d made a romantic rendezvous with his wife.

  Giggles, amorous laughter, and charming sighs had leaked from the room with seemingly no end in sight. Each youthful sound of pleasure dug him deeper into his pit of anger. Yet he waited in a dining room along with the ghost of his brother, whom he ignored, and another officer.

  The man across from him sat erect. He was slender, older than Hampton, and white covered most of his head. He was handsome with an imperious and intelligent air to him. Surely another aristocrat turned officer of the South. His gray uniform was pristine as if it had seen neither weather nor war.

  Hampton stood abruptly, causing the man across from his to shift uncomfortably. He started to pace, his large riding boots thumping the floor. It drew the attention of the older and spectacled aide. He glanced from his papers. Hampton glared in his direction and the man eagerly went back to reading. Pacing was the only action he could do to contain his unsettled frustrations.