Ghosts of Time (8 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As they rode north with Mosby and his men, wearing rubber ponchos over their uniforms against a light mixture of rain and sleet, Jason noticed a couple of things.

The first took him a while to put his finger on . . . something that seemed not quite right. Then it came to him, for he had encountered other cavalry in various ages, and those cavalry could always be heard hundreds of yards away, with the clanking, clattering and jingling of their swords and scabbards and canteens. These men were
quiet.
Their march didn’t seem particularly orderly, but with no sabers or drinking equipment the only sound they made was that of hoofbeats. On soft ground, Jason thought, they must have been practically inaudible. He began to understand how they had seemed to appear out of thin air . . . especially if, as he suspected, Mosby gave commands by hand signals up to the moment of battle. He tried to imagine what it must be like for the Federals, never knowing when an attack would burst upon them without warning. And he recalled the undercurrent of fear he had discerned beneath the Union captain’s bluster, and the panic that the attack had ignited.

The second thing Jason noticed, as they passed various farms (at each of which men fell out of the column by twos and remained), was that more and more often the barns and grist mills were burned-out shells. He mentioned it to Mosby.

“Yes,” the colonel said grimly. “At the end of November, Sheridan sent Merritt’s cavalry division through Ashby’s Gap to do the kind of destruction they had already done in the Valley. Oh, they had orders not to burn people’s dwelling houses—perhaps Sheridan remembered my standing order that no quarter should be given to house-burners. But they wiped out families’ livelihood . . . took away the milk cows of mothers with infants . . . left them hungry, all through Upper Fauquier, and Loudoun County to the north.”

“So they punished the innocent families of Confederate sympathizers?” Nesbit asked, aghast in a way Jason (who had seen so much of history) could not feel.

“Not just those.” Mosby waved toward the north. “Being from Mississippi, you wouldn’t know this, but while Fauquier County has always been solidly pro-secession, there are quite a few Unionists in Loudoun County, especially among the Quakers and Germans there, who as a matter of principle don’t own slaves. It didn’t matter. The Yankee cavalry burned the barns and stole the livestock of people who greeted them cheering and waving the Stars and Stripes. Thus the United States rewards loyalty!”

“Why?” Nesbit was clearly bewildered.

Mosby gave him an odd look and replied as though the answer should be obvious. “To try to make it impossible for me to operate.”

“You mean by depriving you of supplies?” Dabney prompted.

“Yes, but beyond that Sheridan sought to turn the local people against me. He thought they would blame me for bringing these hardships on them, and cease giving aid and shelter to my men for fear of further depredations.” Mosby laughed grimly. “He was wrong, even though on the eighth of this month he went a step further and closed all trade across the Potomac under the permits that had previously been issued to Unionists on the Virginia side so they could purchase necessities. In the end, all he did was unite the people here even more firmly behind me. They’re not the fools he took them for; they know he is the one to blame for their sufferings. They also know I’m able to give them protection, either directly or by keeping the Yankees busy skirmishing. And as you’ve seen, they’re still boarding my men.”

Jason recalled the pairs of men Mosby had left at the various farms. He was thinking about it when Nesbit spoke up again—through chattering teeth, for dusk was coming on and the rubber ponchos, while effective against the wetness, provided little warmth. “Ah, Colonel, if I may ask, do we plan to make camp soon?”

“Make camp?” Mosby laughed. “If we made camps for the Yankees to find, I would have been killed or captured a year or two ago! I don’t have a tent to my name—none of us do. No: after a raid the Rangers don’t make camp. They vanish.”

“Vanish?” Nesbit repeated. “Where?” Dabney looked like he knew the answer but was eagerly waiting to hear it anyway.

“Into the countryside.” Mosby gave an expansive gesture. “The people hide my men in their homes until I call a rendezvous for the next raid. Usually two per family, although sometimes as many as eight.”

“So as far as the Yankees are concerned, the Partisan Rangers as a unit don’t exist except when they’re raiding,” said Jason. “They can’t be found.”
I’m beginning to understand why Dabney said this man is called the “Gray Ghost.”

“They almost become part of their hosts’ families,” continued Mosby, obviously in a discursive mood. “They share their booty following raids, and enjoy many of the comforts of home in between. I know some call them ‘featherbed cavalry,’ but good food and sound sleep give them an advantage over men who’re exhausted and fed only on army rations. And the families who board them provide other services as well, taking care of horses, mending uniforms, and giving us warning by passing the word of approaching Yankees.”

“It must be because of such a warning that you’re now dispersing your command to avoid being caught by General Auger’s men,” Dabney began . . . then clamped his mouth shut.

Mosby gave him a sharp glance. “How did you happen to know about that,” he inquired.

“Uh, we heard some of your men talking about it,” Jason put in, with a surreptitious warning glare for Dabney.

“Altogether too much loose talk.” Mosby’s blue eyes went as icy as the drizzle. “Ah, well, it’s true. Just yesterday Sheridan sent his cavalry corps under General Torbert on a raid down toward Gordonsville, with orders to return through this area in the hope that I’ll rendezvous my men in response. In the further hope of catching me if I do, he’s also ordered Auger, who’s now at Fairfax, to send men through Thoroughfare Gap in the Bull Run Mountains to Middleburg. But they won’t succeed. And yes, that’s one of the ways the people here help us. In return, we provide the only law and order in this debatable part of the state; I run a kind of informal civil and criminal court where the people can come for justice. And we do our best to protect them from the Yankees, and also from bandits who prey on civilians while falsely claiming to be my men.”

I don’t think I need to ask what happens to the latter when you catch them.
“I see why this area is known as ‘Mosby’s Confederacy,’” said Jason aloud.

“I’m too modest to emulate the Yankees in calling it that,” Mosby said with a chuckle. “I prefer to call it ‘the Flanders of the South.’ The resistance of these people to an invader can only be compared to that of the Flemish people who rallied to Guy de Dampierre against the French armies of Philip IV in the Middle Ages.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jason saw Mondrago give Mosby a look of surprised respect.

“But,” Mosby resumed, “I haven’t yet dispersed all the men. Some of them are helping with the wedding preparations at ‘Rosenix,’ the home of the bride’s aunt. It’s a special occasion: our ordinance sergeant, Jake Lavender, is marrying Judith Edmonds, the sister of another Ranger, Johnny Edmonds. But for tonight, I know a place where you and your men can stay. I’ll send for you tomorrow.”

Mosby dropped them off at a sturdy two-story farmhouse which featured, among other things, a large hidden cellar where, they were assured, Rangers had concealed themselves from Sheridan’s men. They ate better than people in Richmond could hope for these days, and the cellar was considerably more comfortable that Elizabeth Van Lew’s secret attic chamber.

“All right, Carlos,” said Jason after the family had gone to bed. “Tell us about this Mosby.”

“Yeah,” Mondrago urged. “He’s an interesting bird.”

“Well, for a start, he has absolutely no military training or background. His education was in literature and history. Before the war he was a lawyer—he must enjoy running that rough-and-ready court of his. Like Lee, he disliked slavery and was flatly opposed to secession. But, again like Lee, he felt he had no choice but to go with Virginia when it seceded. He enlisted as a private, then rose through the ranks as a protégé of Jeb Stuart, Lee’s cavalry commander, under whom he got a reputation as a matchless scout and intelligence-gatherer. He even did some spying in Washington as a prisoner of war in 1862, before he was released in a prisoner exchange.”

“I’ll bet the Federals kicked themselves later for exchanging him,” Aiken commented.

“Very likely. At the beginning of 1863, Stuart and Lee decided he was wasted in the regular cavalry and sent him up here to form a unit of partisans.”

“So these characters aren’t really in the Confederate army?” Logan wondered.

“Legally, they are, under the Partisan Ranger Act, which established special rules for such units—one of which is that in lieu of pay they share in whatever spoils they take. Because of that, and the mystique of the bold, dashing cavalier that meant a lot in the South, so many men wanted to join Mosby that he was able to hand-pick them.”

Mondrago looked sidelong at Jason. “Does this remind you of anything?”

“Yes,” Jason nodded. “The seventeenth-century privateers of our recent acquaintance. Of course, the Spaniards had other names for them.”

“I imagine those names were mild compared to some of those applied to Mosby by the Union forces.” Dabney chuckled. “The real making of his reputation was in 1863, when he and a small force entered Fairfax Court House under cover of night, in the middle of the Union army, and got away with a Union general and more than thirty other prisoners—not to mention a herd of horses—without firing a shot or losing a man. That wasn’t the only time he captured a Union general. Once, he barely missed capturing Grant. When he sent President Lincoln a lock of his hair and hinted that he was going to come into Washington and abduct him, the Union high command wasn’t laughing. For the rest of the war, thousands of troops were tied down in a defensive perimeter securing the capital against Mosby, who never had more than four hundred men under his command at any given time.”

“When we had our run-in with those Union troops,” said Jason thoughtfully, “I could almost smell the fear.”

“That was his true genius. He owned the night. The Union troops in this region could never relax; they never knew when he was going to appear out of nowhere, and their estimates of his numbers were always wildly exaggerated. It is attested that sleep deprivation was a problem among them, and they jumped at every sound and rumor, wasting a lot of effort and energy chasing imaginary partisans. Mosby had become almost a bogeyman figure to them.”

“The technical term,” said Mondrago rather pedantically, “is asymmetric warfare. He used fear as a force multiplier.”

“Less technically,” said Aiken, “he got inside their heads. Mao Tse-Tung and Che Guevara said something like that. So did Janos Rand in the twenty-third century wars against the Transhuman Dispensation.”

“So did Clausewitz,” said Mondrago, not to be outdone.

“And for years Mosby operated with impunity only a day’s ride from the enemy capital,” added Logan wonderingly.

“Yes,” nodded Dabney. “And to the very end of the war he still had the tactical initiative.”

“What happened to him after the war?” asked Aiken, clearly fascinated.

Dabney smiled. “Here’s where his story gets
really
unbelievable. At first he was a hero in Virginia, and when he went back into the practice of law he flourished. But then he committed social suicide by becoming a friend and political supporter of U.S. Grant, who had once ordered that any of his men who were captured were to be summarily hanged. Then he made it worse by outspokenly defending his old mentor, the late Jeb Stuart, against the charge that he had been responsible for Lee’s defeat at Gettysburg. This made it seem like he was criticizing Lee, which was a form of sacrilege. So he went from hero to pariah. His law practice dried up, so he went to work for the federal government. Grant’s successor as president, Rutherford B. Hayes, appointed him consul to Hong Kong, where he stirred up a hornet’s nest by cleaning up the entrenched corruption that had been victimizing both American seamen and Chinese immigrants. Later he worked for the Justice Department in various capacities, and eventually came to be reinstated in the pantheon of Confederate heroes. He lived into his eighties. By then, silent motion pictures were being made about him—he even had a small part in one of them.”

“He sounds like a classic example of a ‘contrarian,’” mused Jason. “The type who thrives on being a minority of one.”

“‘Aginner’ was the contemporary term,” said Dabney. “For some reason, he felt compelled to never back down from a fight and always take the side of the underdog.”

“No mystery there,” Aiken asserted confidently. “Just look at him. When he was a boy, a scrawny kid like that in this culture must have been bullied unmercifully. There are two ways to react to that. One is to become shy and withdrawn, which he obviously didn’t do. The other is to counterattack—fight back at the drop of a hat, even if you lose the fights.”

“Hmm . . .” Dabney considered. “Come to think of it, he was once expelled from the University of Virginia for shooting a bully.”

“There you have it. As far as he’s concerned, the overwhelming Yankee army is a bully in a blue coat.”

“Well,” said Jason firmly, “that’s enough amateur psychology for now. Tomorrow we ought to see his more peaceful side at this wedding, where I gather we’re going to have to put in an appearance. Then we’re going to have to slip away to Rectortown. For now, let’s get some sleep.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The weather was slightly better, but with portents of turning wretched again, the next day when they arrived at “Rosenix.”

As Mosby had indicated, a number of Rangers were present for the wedding, contrary to their usual practice of dispersing after a raid. He himself was there, conversing on the lawn with Dolly Richards and another captain, whom he introduced as his second in command, William Chapman. He was a little older than Richards, but still only in his early twenties. And he was an even more striking contrast to Mosby than Richards: tall, and dark of hair, eyes and complexion.

“I still call him and Dolly captains,” Mosby explained to Jason afterwards, “despite the reorganization General Lee approved early this month. Our battalion is to become a regiment, and the two of them will become battalion commanders, with the ranks of lieutenant colonel and major respectively. But it doesn’t officially take effect until January 9. The same applies to my own promotion to full colonel—which, by the way, is why I still wear these.” He indicated the two-star lieutenant colonel’s insignia on his collar.

“Congratulations, sir,” said Jason. “I’m sure the extra star will make that uniform even handsomer.” This was not entirely flattery, nor did it refer just to the plumed hat and scarlet-lined cape. Compared to what most of the Confederate army was currently wearing, Jason had been struck the previous day by the superior material of Mosby’s gray coat and trousers, with their yellow cords down the seams. He now said so.

“Yes, Yankee sutler wagons often contain some very fine cloth.” Mosby laughed. “But you must not imagine that I normally turn myself out this elegantly for raids. I am wearing my best for the wedding. Speaking of which, let’s go in.”

Not as many Rangers were actually on hand for the wedding as had previously been about, helping with preparations and running errands for the family. Mosby, unable to ignore the possibility that Augur’s Union cavalry from Fairfax might already be present in the area, sent men out on patrol, earning a surreptitious nod of approval from Mondrago. However, the wedding proceeded without a hitch. It was only in the afternoon, during the reception, that one of the scouts rode in. With no appearance of alarm, Mosby took the man aside and spoke to him privately. Then he dismissed the scout and returned to the party, wearing a thoughtful look.

“Tom,” Mosby called quietly to one of his men, with whom he exchanged a few inaudible words. The man nodded and departed. Mosby then circulated inconspicuously, speaking briefly to Chapman and Richards before approaching Jason.

“What is it, Colonel?” Jason asked.

Mosby spoke in low tones. “It seems Yankee cavalry have entered Salem. They must be some of Auger’s men. I’m going to take Tom Love—he’s outside getting the horses—and go reconnoiter.” He had a sudden thought. “Why don’t you and your men come along, Captain? I may need couriers to carry messages for me. Come quietly—there’s no need to disturb the reception.”

As Jason unobtrusively mustered his men, Dabney nodded. “Yes. I remember now: Mosby was noted for often doing his own scouting.” He frowned. “It seems there’s something else I
ought
to be remembering—something about this whole situation that seems vaguely familiar, as though I should know what’s going to happen next. But I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Well, whatever it is, we’ll find out soon. Let’s mount up.”

At Salem, they learned that the Union cavalry—six hundred men of the 13th New York Cavalry, under a Major Douglas Frazar—had departed in the direction of Rectortown. Jason hoped he and his men would have an excuse to get into the town and pursue their mission, but Mosby was intent only on locating the Yankee column. They rode on through a developing freezing rain, to the vicinity of Rectortown. Jason was almost fidgeting—so near and yet so far—but he could hardly get into the town now. For they soon discovered that the Yankees had stopped just outside it.

It was early evening, and they looked down from a hill on a bivouac where the Union troops were building fires. “They must be camping for the night,” said Mosby. His predatory eagerness seemed to render him oblivious to the weather, even though by now the wind chill made it seem even more miserable than it was. “But it’s too late to organize anything for tonight. Captain Landrieu, dispatch one of your men back to the wedding. Tell Captains Chapman and Richards to prepare to harass their column in the morning.”

“I’ll go, sir!” blurted Dabney and Aiken simultaneously.

“You, I think,” said Jason, indicating Dabney. He wasn’t too happy about the prospect of being without whatever forewarnings the historian might be able to provide, but Dabney was the best rider they had. “Are you sure you’ll be able to find your way?”

“I’m sure. I’ll ride hard and get there before it gets too dark.”

Privately, Jason thought that would take some riding. But he held his peace as Dabney took instructions from Mosby and departed with a cocky wave. He obviously regarded this as an adventure straight from the pages of his studies. Jason hoped the disillusionment process wouldn’t be fatal.

“And now,” said Mosby, almost as jaunty as Dabney, “let’s head north to Rector’s Cross Roads and spread the word among some of the men who’re boarding around there to report tomorrow morning.”

But as they rode through a world of hanging icicles, the going grew slower, and eventually cold and hunger began to gnaw at even the seemingly impervious Mosby. Shortly before none o’clock, after they had gone about four miles and were still a mile shy of Rector’s Cross Roads they saw lights ahead, in the windows of a middle-sized two-story ashlar stone farmhouse.

“’Lakeland’,” said Mosby. “The home of Ludwell Lake. His son, Ludwell Jr., is one of my Rangers, and his daughter Ladonia is married to Benjamin Skinner, another Ranger. We’re sure of a warm welcome here—and Ludwell’s wife Mary is a famous cook. I recall especially her fresh-baked rolls.”

“And we all know hot coffee is your only indulgence, Colonel,” said Tom Love with a grin.

“Exactly. Let’s stop and seek the Lakes’ hospitality.”

“I’ll stay outside and stand watch, Colonel,” offered Love as they dismounted.

“No, there’s no danger. Come with me. You too, Captain Landrieu, and your sergeant. Perhaps your men will take the horses around to the back and wait in the barn—I’ll have food sent out to them.”

Ladonia Skinner answered the door, greeting her husband’s commanding officer enthusiastically, as did her mother and her sister Sarah. The three women, with the aid of slaves, set about preparing a meal in the summer kitchen behind the house while Mosby turned left from the entry hall to a parlor, where he shook hands warmly with the master of the house. The parlor had obviously been converted to a bedroom, and the reason why was equally obvious. Ludwell Lake was one of the most obese human beings Jason had ever seen, and undoubtedly couldn’t get up and down his own stairs. Jason’s imagination quailed at the task of visualizing the details of how Lake had gone about siring three children; presumably he had been far slimmer in his salad days. Fortunately for his daughters, they took after their mother, who was merely matronly.

Mosby and his companions went back through the hallway to the living room and gratefully warmed themselves by the fire until Lake’s daughters began to bring in coffee, spareribs, and Mrs. Love’s famous rolls to the dining room across the hallway beside the parlor/bedroom.

“Ma’am,” said Jason to Mrs. Lake, “Why don’t I and my sergeant go out back to the kitchen and take some food to my men in the barn?”

“Why, certainly, Captain. Sarah, help the gentlemen.”

“We’ll rejoin you directly, Colonel, if we may,” said Jason to Mosby, who gave an indulgent wave.

The dining room had a back door for ready access to the kitchen. There, they obtained food and a pot of coffee, which they conveyed to the barn. There, they discussed plans.

“How about it, Commander?” asked Mondrago. “We’re only a mile from Rectortown. Maybe we could slip away now, while Mosby is inside, and—”

“I thought of that. Just two problems. One is that Dabney is at ‘Rosenix’—my implant confirms that he made it there—and tomorrow morning he’ll be riding with Chapman or Richards, thinking that will be the way to rejoin us. The other is that we may be operating in this part of Virginia for a while yet, and we’d better not make Mosby suspicious of us by running out on him. So maybe we’d better—”

At that moment, the chilly silence was shattered by the clatter and clanking of a conventional cavalry unit, and a column of horsemen appeared out of the darkness. Blue-clad horsemen.

“Down!” hissed Jason. “And quiet!” They all went on their bellies inside the open barn door and began to load their revolvers.

“No shooting unless we’re attacked,” Jason whispered. But the Union cavalrymen showed no interest in the barn as they surrounded the house and dismounted. One, obviously the officer, trotted his horse around to make sure all was in order, then dismounted and, accompanied by several of his men, walked around the house toward the front door.

“So Frazar’s men weren’t camping for the night outside Rectortown after all,” Mondrago whispered to Jason.

“No. Those fires we saw must have just been to cook food before resuming the march, following the same road we took. They must have stopped here because they saw our horses tied up out there.” Inwardly, Jason was cursing himself for sending Dabney off. He would have liked very much to have the historian with him now, because he didn’t like what was happening. Mosby was a well-documented historical figure—indeed, Dabney had assured them that he would become the stuff of legend, and live on for half a century after the war. And now he was in serious trouble.

In the stillness, he thought he heard the front door open and close. Through the dining room back door came a mutter of voices, the first sounding like it was issuing a peremptory demand, the second possibly Mosby’s, although the words were indistinguishable.

Jason glanced left and right at his men. Nesbit, immediately to Jason’s left, was shivering . . . and, Jason thought, not just from the cold. He was the only one of them without military training, and his limited experience in the seventeenth-century Caribbean had not prepared him for this kind of nerve-wracking wait. Jason opened his mouth to say something soothing.

Somewhere nearby, a dog’s bark suddenly shattered the quiet. Startled, Nesbit’s finger tightened convulsively on his trigger. His colt crashed, jumping in his nerveless hand and sending the shot high. Jason instantly grasped his arm and wrenched the revolver from his grasp. But it was too late.

Pandemonium broke out in the back yard. The Union troops, already keyed to a pitch of tension as they usually were at night in “Mosby’s Confederacy,” had no idea where the shot had come from. They began firing their revolvers wildly, in all directions. There was a sound of shattering window glass, a female scream, and a shout from within: “I am shot!”

This time it was definitely Mosby’s voice.

There was the sound of a commotion from within, and the light was extinguished. The cavalrymen between the barn and the house ceased their shooting and, after a moment’s bewildered inaction, ran around the house to the front, where an officer was bawling orders. A new light appeared, in the windows of the bedroom adjoining the dining room.

“Come on,” Jason whispered. “Carefully!” he added with a glare at the sheepish-looking Nesbit. In a crouching gait, the time travelers scrambled across the yard and flattened themselves against the rear wall of the house. Jason peered cautiously over the windowsill.

Mosby lay on the floor, the front of his blue flannel shirt soaked with blood in the abdominal area. He was holding back the flow with what Jason recognized as a bonnet Sarah Lake had been wearing. Sarah was hastily stuffing his uniform coat with its telltale rank insignia under the bed. The rest of the family, and Tom Love, stood watching. A sound of stomping cavalry boots was heard from the hallway.

“They’re coming back,” Mosby whispered. “I have to give an imitation of a man about to die.” He put his hand in the blood and smeared it on his mouth, as though he was hemorrhaging from within.

The door crashed open and a choleric-looking Union officer wearing major’s insignia stormed in, with several of his men crowding in behind him.

“I surrender,” Tom Love said instantly, handing over his revolver. “Don’t harm the family.”

The major ignored him. The redness of his face suggested that, aside from anger, he had been fortifying himself against the chill night with frequent nips from a whiskey flask. He leaned over the prostrate Mosby. “I am Major Frazar, 13th New York Cavalry. Who are you?”

“I told you before, sir,” grated Mosby in tones of agony. “Lieutenant Johnston, 6th Virginia Cavalry.”

“Yes, so you did.” Frazar definitely sounded a bit befuddled. He kneeled down, examined Mosby’s wound, then stood up unsteadily. “The bullet entered his abdomen two inches below and to the left of the navel. No point in taking him in,” he added callously to Ludwell Lake. “He’ll be dead in twenty-four hours. I’ll leave him for you to dispose of.” He turned on his heel and departed. A pair of his troopers followed, taking Love with them.

The others were about to leave, when one spoke up in an Irish brogue. “Those are rare fine boots, bejesus. I fancy this boyo won’t have much use for ’em.” The others evidently agreed, for they removed Mosby’s boots—and his trousers for good measure—before departing. The Lakes were left alone with Mosby, silently listening to Frazar’s troop remounting and riding off.

As soon as the sound of the cavalry column had receded, Jason rose, motioned to his men to follow him and reentered the house through the back door. Then, just in time he halted, flattened himself against the dining room wall and hastily motioned the others to silence as a lone Union trooper reentered the bedroom, revolver in hand. The Lake family shrank back from him.

“I thought I’d stay behind a minute or two and make sure of this Reb,” he man said. “And see what I can . . . collect here.” He looked around at the household goods, his eyes finally settling on the two Lake daughters. Then he aimed the revolver at Mosby.