Northern Blood Page 9

  Many men called him the Brute, most just Wade or Hampton. Rumors ran through his tiny command that he’d fought a bear and won. Like most rumors, much of it was false with slivers of truth and fact.

  In actuality, he’d shot the bear first then ran it through with his hunting knife. Oh, how the grizzly had bellowed, scaring him, but he’d done it. Not with his bare hands like the gossipers held, but he let the men have their fun and create their heroes.

  It kept their minds off the task of living and dying at his command. It held them in check. Lack of respect for a leader could quickly disintegrate into mob rule, and he made sure that they felt his respect in return. I will not lead them where I do not wish to go. And he wished to go and fight Grant’s monstrosity of an army, an army that had moved below the Rapidan River searching for a fight.

  They’d been surprised when the Federals had stuck around after the bloodletting at the Wilderness, an area that was so thick with foliage one couldn’t tell friend from foe, and he was sure the Southerners feared that land more than the invaders.

  The door creaked open from a bedroom. Hampton’s eyes zeroed in on it with expectation. The other men glanced toward it as well.

  A woman’s form filled the doorway. Her hair was dark, almost black, parted down the middle, and pulled back into a bun. Her lips and mouth were average and her nose more round than sharp. Her white, black, and gray dress was long and patterned with crisscrossed lines and her collar lined with lace. She wore tiny gold hooped earrings, and her brown eyes regarded Hampton with friendliness. She smiled when she saw the colonel quickly approaching them.

  “Edmund. It is such a pleasure to see you again.”

  The colonel stood, bowing his head. “And I you, Flora.”

  Her smile didn’t fade as she turned to Hampton. “General, it is good to see you again. I trust your hip has healed?”

  Hampton pushed down his own angry feelings at having to wait and placed a gruff smile on his lips. A woman’s smile could always soften a man’s inner turmoil. “It has, ma’am. Thank you.” The truth of it was, it nagged him every time he mounted and dismounted his horse not to mention sitting for any length of time. In the end, he supposed it was a small price to pay to stay in this world.

  He noticed her clothing was lighter than normal instead of mourning black. She had been publicly grieving the loss of her daughter to a fever for over two years. “You look well-rested, ma’am. I trust all is well with the family.”

  She gave him a slight grin. “It is nice to be back on my feet. Little Virginia and Jeb Junior are well.”

  “Happy to hear it.”

  She stepped closer. Her smile held confidence, but uncertainty crept upon it. “You will watch out for him. My Jeb?”

  Hampton bent down from above. She stuck out her hands, and he gripped them carefully as a porcelain teacup. “Of course, my lady. He has my love and that of the men. We would never let harm befall him.”

  She blinked rapidly and her smile broadened. She gulped before she spoke. “I will hold you to your word.” She cast a brief look at Fontaine and released Hampton’s hands. “I am holding you from your business with my husband.”

  Hampton lowered his head in respect.

  “Come Flora, we must make haste for Beaver Dam. Maria and the girls cannot wait to see you. Lucia and Rosalie have a gift for you and Virginia.”

  “Then let us not tarry.”

  “Flora,” came a voice. The bearded major general, J. E. B. Stuart, the Knight of the Golden Spurs, also known as the Beauty, and all around dashing legend of the Confederate Cavalry Corps stood in only a shirt buttoned halfway up. He wore no weapon. No ostrich-plumed hat. He looked like a plain country gentleman just having awoke from slumber, not a man leading a corps in the middle of a war.

  He held out his arms for her and she swooned to his side and they embraced. He cradled her cheeks as they kissed deeply. After a moment, Hampton averted his eyes to give the two privacy. A few long seconds later, the two separated after repeated pecks to each other’s lips and little terms of endearment like “Honey” and “Buttercup.”

  Stuart pointed at Fontaine. “Do not delay. It is not safe here.”

  The colonel nodded and led Flora outside the home. Holding his hat, Hampton approached. The love-stricken general watched his wife and her cousin leave with longing eyes, ignoring his subordinate. Stuart sighed like a schoolboy smitten for the first time.

  “It’s been a tough few years for the both of us.”

  The ghost of his brother Frank still sat in the dining room watching the living with indifferent sunken eyes. Hampton didn’t want to console the general on his personal losses. He was here for business, but he understood the sense of loss from the war. It lingered around them all like a pale fog always engulfing them.

  They’d both lost friends and family in this war. Hampton’s two sons under his command had been spared both illness and injury. For that he was blessed. He had an intimate understanding of what loss could do to a man. Stuart’s loss wasn’t on the battlefield, but it plagued his family no less, especially his grieving wife.

  Hampton glanced at the ghost of his brother and sighed. “It has, Jeb.” He paused. “But that’s not why I am here.”

  Stuart’s eyes regarded him for a moment as if Hampton’s true form pulled him from the Avalon of better times. “I know why you are here, General.” He turned and went for the dining room table.

  “Then you understand why I chafe to be without a division while we fight against Grant’s invading leviathan.”

  “I appreciate your concern.”

  Do you? “I need the Laurel Brigade at my disposal now.”

  “I know you do. They would already be under your command, but I needed them to stymie Meade or Grant, take your pick, so we could secure defensive positions.”

  Hampton’s voice grew in volume a hair. “I do not want to give up Gordon either. With only one brigade, I will be smaller than a junior division commander.”

  Stuart blew hot air through his mustache. “Do not bring that up, General.”

  “It is a most egregious slight.” Hampton’s voice dipped back to a hushed bark. “Does Marse Robert lack so much confidence in my abilities?”

  The major general pounded the table. “He does not.”

  “Then why does he slight me so?”

  They locked eyes. Hampton knew what he was to say, but he wanted him to say it out loud. Recognize the unfairness of the situation. Admit that Lee treated him different than his own kin. Acknowledge there was nepotism. “I’ve written both yourself and Lee many times now. Have I fallen out of favor?”

  “You have not. Marse Robert is irritated with so much whining, but he has not lost faith.”

  Hampton stood taller. He towered over his commander as well. He wasn’t one to be told he was a complainer. He was a doer, taking what he had and getting the job done, but what could be accomplished with two hundred men? He could do something, but his full weight could only be felt with the proper command.

  “Then I ask. Why do I sit command-less?”

  “Good God, man. What do you want me to say? Rooney deserves a division. He is a sound commander. That division needs one of their kind to lead them.”

  Virginia rules the roost while the rest bear the brunt. “At the expense of senior commanders? Men that are proven at a divisional level?”

  “He was a prisoner for God’s sake. Give the man some space.”

  “You did not answer my question.”

  Stuart shook his head, having been broken down to the truth. “It’s Lee’s son. What more of an answer do you want? Of course, he’s going to be given responsibility. If he has an ounce of genius that his father has, we are better for it.”

  Hampton closed his mouth. Actions and results were not enough to garner favor. Rooney had good commanding qualities, but the South prided herself on respect of a man’s quality, and he knew he was Rooney’s superior. He also knew pushing Stuart wouldn’t accomplish
much. If only they would have shipped him west like had been requested by Johnston and then Longstreet. He wouldn’t have been stripped down as his regiments were sent away for refitting in the winter, leaving him almost without a command to turn away Judson Kilpatrick. It was like he was being held back because he was too valuable but lacked the right pedigree to be rewarded.

  Stuart stared up at him. “I’ve instructed Rosser to return here. He will fall under you, but you must give Gordon to Rooney.”

  “You know I protest this exchange. I don’t even have all of Young’s men. Half don’t have horses.” The railroads were as much of a determent as they were assistance. A patchwork of weak infrastructure that the Federals seemed to take great joy in destroying made transportation of troops a logistical nightmare for the rebels.

  There was little fight in Stuart’s voice. “I understand your dilemma and note your protest.”

  “I have less than two brigades. My effectiveness will be hampered.”

  “You will do what you always do, which is lead and win.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Can we conduct our business now?”

  Hampton dipped his chin in concession.

  “I believe that stubborn drunk Grant means to continue his debacle of a campaign. He’s trying to flank us to Richmond. If he can control Spotsylvania Court House, he will have easy access to the capital.” Stuart nodded, studying a map on the table. “But he isn’t infallible. His corps comes in pieces from the Wilderness. One at a time. There is our opportunity. We just need to slow them down.”

  He tapped the map. “Federal Cavalry has been seen here. Todd’s Tavern. A disgusting little hovel. If we can bottle them up here, that will give Lee a chance to shift his army from the Wilderness.”

  Hampton scrutinized the map. “Lee has a much farther way to go.”

  “He does. That’s why I need you.”

  “As soon as I make contact with Rosser, I will move out to see what can be done.”

  “Very good, General.” Stuart sighed. “I know this can be trying, but Grant is Lincoln’s last hope. If we can defeat him here, we can win.”

  “I share your optimism, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  Hampton took his leave. The door opened before he reached it. A man stepped inside. His almost black beard was short along the sides but in a longer rectangle around his chin. His receding hair had been brushed to the side of his head and was kept in place by sweat and natural grease, flaring outward from his ears. His eyes had a slight downward slant, making him appear worried. His cheeks were thinner than Hampton remembered, a combination of his recovery from Gettysburg and his subsequent imprisonment, but his nose was still too round, giving him a slightly more proletarian appearance. His mouth pursed when he recognized Hampton.

  “General Hampton.”

  “General Lee.”

  Both men regarded each other coolly for a moment.

  “Come on in, Rooney. I need to speak with you,” Stuart said.

  Hampton gave him a thin smile. “Congratulations on the promotion, General.”

  “Thank you. If you forgive me, I must see Jeb.”

  Hampton nodded and walked outside. He wanted to curse the man. He wasn’t used to being the one men looked down on, but these damn Virginians stuck to one another as if they had all the answers.

  A young lieutenant with a black mustache peered at him as he came outside. He stood at the ready as Hampton approached, but his smile faded when he recognized the anger on his father’s face. The young man was his son, Thomas Preston Hampton, but he’d always called him Preston.

  He was his second son from his first marriage and had been at South Carolina College when the war began. He was an impetuous young man with a knack of finding a fight, which drove his father mad and simultaneously made him extremely proud. Hampton kept him close when he could and worried about him endlessly when he was out of sight. His other son, Wade Hampton IV, served on the staff of Joseph Johnston and the Army of Tennessee.

  Preston handed him the reins to his favorite horse, a burly bay named Butler.

  “Is everything all right, father?”

  Hampton regarded him for a moment, his anger subsiding with a glance at his son. “Everything is fine.”

  “Your meeting with Stuart? Did you get your brigade?”

  Both men mounted their horses.

  “We have enough. Enough to wage a war. Come.”

  Father and son spurred their horses for Young’s camp.

  Chapter Ten

  Morning, May 7, 1864

  Alexandria, Virginia

  For four long boring days, Wolf had expected to be taken in front of a military tribunal in Washington, D.C. Surely they had courts in the capital for such things during wartime, but they hadn’t crossed the Potomac to the heart of the Union. Instead, they passed prestigious church steeples built in the colonial period as they headed the opposite direction.

  They had an escort of six troopers, including the smooth-faced prick, Lieutenant Fox, and the prison guard, Corporal Mack. Both the prisoners sat in the back of a cart like boxes of dried hardtack destined for the army.

  Chains jangled as Roberts positioned himself upright to get a look at the city around them. Their hands had been manacled and chained to one another like they were common criminals or slaves. They’d left their feet unchained, but to escape six men on horseback would be a most difficult endeavor.

  They passed by Christ Church in Alexandria, the horses’ hooves clopping over the bricked streets lined with stately mansions and beautiful townhomes. Christ Church was the same one Robert E. Lee and George Washington used to attend when they resided near or in the Virginia port town.

  It was a two-story church with a tall bell tower that rose in three parts, each smaller than the last: rectangle, octagon, and at the top, an even more compact capped octagon with a red dome. Wolf had never seen a church like it, but he supposed it looked the part enough.

  The unit continued through the Alexandria streets, passing stately mansions. They all had a similar Georgian style to them, everything in symmetry and balance. The doors usually sat in the center. The windows were of considerable size and equally spaced apart as if on a grid and were enclosed by plain exteriors.

  The horses clopped off the brick streets until they reached a muddy road lacking any structure. They took this west until the land became familiar and turned into the recognizable campgrounds of the Army of the Potomac near Stevensburg, Virginia.

  However, as they entered the camp it was clear that something was very different. It was devoid of almost all people. Sick men with gaunt depleted looks stepped out from huts. A man with an amputated arm, his sleeve rolled to the elbow, waved with his other. There were more wounded soldiers on crutches, some missing feet or entire legs. They all watched with sullen faces.

  Trash littered the ground. A gust of wind tossed paper into the air, rolling it like a tumbleweed. An empty tin cup lay on its side forgotten. White tents, empty of soldiers, flapped in a soft breeze.

  There were seemingly more women than normal. They tended the wounded and cooked food. Sutlers still had their row of tents and goods stacked, awaiting the armies return so they could gouge the soldiers on simple things they couldn’t live without.

  A few companies of logistical personnel who maintained the supply depot remained, but even most of them were gone. The military camp was missing its mounted branch. The Cavalry Corps had departed with the rest.

  Wolf and Roberts were shoved into a house’s cellar which had been cleared out of everything but bugs, dirt, and a bucket. It had a low ceiling, and the men were forced to sit for comfort. With no candle for light, they may as well have been in a coffin.

  Every now and then, heavy boots would traverse the floor above, sending dust into a clouded frenzy around them and make Roberts sneeze.

  Wolf tossed a pebble in the dirt as he sang loudly in the dark stuffy air. “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy. A Yankee Dood
le, do or die.”

  “Will you shut up?” Roberts called at him.

  Wolf made sure to face the direction of Roberts’s voice. “A real live nephew of my Uncle Sam’s.”

  Standing, Roberts grunted as he smacked his head. “Now I told you once to be quiet.”

  A guard pounded on the cellar door. “Shut up!”

  Getting to his feet, Wolf edged closer to Roberts, hovering his face near his friend’s. Roberts shifted away, his feet shuffling. “Your breath stinks.”

  He grinned at him making sure to enunciate every word. “Born on the Fourth of July.”

  “I have half a mind to throttle you,” Roberts snarled.

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  “If you hadn’t made us put on those damn jackets, we’d never be in this mess.”

  In his own fashion, Wolf’s comrade was correct. His back wouldn’t have been burnt. His face broken. His thumbs popped in that device. The thought of that press made his stomach churn and a cool sweat break out on his neck. They’d never have been beaten and abused. They wouldn’t be back in Union territory. They’d be stuck on Belle Isle with all the other enlisted men, freezing in the cold, dying from exposure and starvation alike as if it were a competition to see which one killed them first.

  He wasn’t sure which was worse: a slow wasting death or being strung up like a traitor from the end of the rope. Both had their perks. One was quick and dishonorable. The other was an inglorious drawn-out affair. And both led to a shallow grave.

  Wolf backed away from his friend. “You’re right. I gave us a shot. Didn’t work out. But at least we’ll hang over starving.”

  “You always were a real downer,” Roberts said, sitting back on the floor.

  Wolf rested his head on the wall, glancing at his friend he could hardly make out in the darkness. “Sorry, I got you into this.” He kicked at the cellar door.

  Their guard’s voice belted through the cracks. “I’ll come in there and whip ya!”

  Malice filled Wolf’s eyes as he stared at the door. Light blazed through the cracks, casting slivers of visibility on the floor of their prison. If the man didn’t use a weapon, he could probably best him. He banged his head on the stone wall. “I’ll tell you one thing. If we ever escape, I ain’t never going back in a cell. Never.”