The Quaker and the Rebel (5 page)

Emily let the matter drop and gave her full attention to the salad course. It wouldn’t do to get fired on her second day of employment.

“I picked up a copy of the
Richmond Ledger
in town today,” said Alexander, addressing his uncle. “The Gray Wraith has struck again. He made off with a hundred prime cavalry horses with their saddles and tack, besides fifty wagons of food, blankets, and medicine on their way to the Union Army encamped at Warrenton. Begging your pardon, Miss Harrison.” He bobbed his head in Emily’s direction. “The paper
says they masqueraded as a Federal detachment, rode in, and ransacked the caravan without a single shot being fired. The supplies are now in the hands of Thomas Jackson’s men in the Shenandoah,” he concluded with great enthusiasm. “Begging your pardon again, Miss Harrison.”

“Excellent news,” said Dr. Bennington. “Those horses couldn’t be more essential with skirmishes increasing and recruits arriving to the camps daily. But I doubt Mr. Lincoln’s prime stock can compare with your horses, Alexander, or with mine.”

Alexander turned to Emily for a reaction, but she was concentrating on a biscuit. She spread butter into each nook and cranny with deliberation. With a shrug of his shoulders, he proceeded to devour an entire pheasant leg. “Joshua, please give my compliments to Matilde. This roast bird is superb.”

Joshua’s smile revealed a gold tooth. “Thank you, Mr. Hunt.” He bowed slightly and withdrew from the room.

“Would you like to try your hand at cooking, Miss Harrison, during your free time?” Alexander handed her a bowl of candied yams. “I’m sure my aunt and uncle will let you experiment on Matilde’s day off. They should send in Margaret and Annie as your assistants to develop their domestic talents.” His gaze remained on Emily as he took a long drink of wine.

Emily knew he was taunting her, but she could say nothing without offending her employers. So she imagined upturning the bowl of yams over his head, along with the platter of sautéed spinach. The image of sugary juice running down his chin and wilted greens decorating his pristine white shirt brought a smile to her lips. She sipped from her water glass. “I look forward to it, Mr. Hunt, but I’ll save the occasion for your next visit that you might enjoy the fruits of my labor.”

Alexander raised his glass in a mock toast. “Shall I pour you some wine?”

“Thank you, no. I’m Quaker and don’t partake in spirits. I’m surprised you do. Your aunt mentioned you were a Friend.”

“I have fallen away, I’m afraid. Too many thees, thys, and thous for my tastes.” He nodded deferentially to his aunt.

“Tell me more about this Gray Wraith, Dr. Bennington,” said Emily, eager to change the subject. “The Ohio newspapers don’t print stories about him.”

“Oh, he’s very mysterious, my dear.” Mrs. Bennington provided the explanation. “He’s believed to be a partisan ranger, but no one knows his true identity. His men refer to him only as Colonel. He rides a white stallion in the dead of night with his scarlet-lined cape flying behind him. Very dashing, don’t you think? According to the accounts, he carries only a saber, refusing to possess a firearm.” Mrs. Bennington’s eyes sparkled in the glow of the candlelight.

“My wife has grown more besotted with the Wraith’s intrigue than even Margaret. I pray he never rides to Bennington Plantation. I fear I’ll lose the love of my life if she sets eyes on him.”

Mrs. Bennington blushed demurely. “Oh, Porter, how you do go on.”

Emily looked from one to the other but refused to glance at Alexander.
Who is this Gray Wraith wreaking havoc on the Union forces? How dare he steal food and medicine from the very troops Matthew serves with?
The veins at her temples began to throb as her hands turned clammy. She didn’t view the matter quite as blithely as the other three. No doubt this was the first of many differences of opinion she would have with Dr. Bennington. Fortunately, Mr. Hunt would soon return to his home. She wouldn’t have to deal with his cocky attitude or his forward behavior. The man had the exasperating ability to reduce her to a nervous, skittish doe, with her stomach flip-flopping each time their gazes met.

Finally, the endless dinner drew to a close and she bade them all a good night. But neither Dr. Bennington’s complacent view of slavery, nor the exploits of this Gray Wraith, nor even Mr. Hunt’s effect on her composure was Emily’s chief concern as she climbed the staircase to her room. Someone had slipped a letter under her door from the evening mail packet. Carrying the letter onto her balcony, she could barely make out the address on the dirty, tattered envelope: Miss Emily
Harrison, c/o Bennington Plantation, Parkersburg, Virginia. In the fading light, she read two sentences that would change her life forever:

Dear Miss Harrison, I regret to inform you that Pvt. Matthew Norton of the OVI has fallen in battle in Virginia at the Battle of Bull Run. He died a hero’s death, covering himself in glory on the battlefield and into eternity.

She read the words over and over as her hopes and dreams crumbled to dust. A single tear fell on the parchment sheet before it fluttered to the portico flagstones below. Emily gazed over the lawns, gardens, and fields of the plantation that was not much of a plantation at all. In the distance, she saw men and women marching back from the fields in the last rays of sunlight. The sight of slaves salved her wounded spirit, galvanizing her resolve.

“At least I know what to do,” she whispered in the humid, enveloping darkness. “My duty to God and my country is clear.”

From their well-hidden position in the foliage, twenty men gazed down on the sleeping town, watching with satisfaction as blue-clad soldiers mounted and rode out in formation. None spoke, but they held their reins tightly in hand lest their horses draw undue attention. As the last of their adversaries disappeared into a cloud of dust, the men turned toward their leader.

Sitting tall in the saddle, the colonel didn’t move a muscle until the last Yank disappeared into the haze and stillness returned to the hamlet. Then his lips formed a smile as he glanced left and right at his men. “Well, boys, it looks like Ellsworth worked his magic again.” Laughter broke the silence as their plan came together. But their leader didn’t wait for compliments or backslapping. Spurring his horse, he galloped toward the train station below with a singular purpose and his second-in-command close behind.

“Dawson, ride up the track to the signal flags,” ordered the colonel.
“Post the red to make sure the train slows well in advance. Jamison, you and Hobart throw the switch to turn the train into the siding. The rest of you men position yourselves among those trees. Any Yanks traveling with the train will either be in the first car or in the last, so that’s where you enter. Be quick, be decisive. Surround and create havoc. Shoot only if you must, but to wound not to kill. Boggs, Turner, follow me.”

The men reacted with speed and proficiency. These were no green recruits, no nervous, trigger-happy youngsters eager to throw themselves into battle without thought or care. These seasoned professionals were the elite of trained cavalry, men who had been born to the saddle and who handled weapons with the same precision as their mounts. Yet regular Confederate cavalry they were not.

The colonel ordered his second-in-command to enter the passenger compartment while he directed maneuvers from outside the train. If his unwelcome notoriety grew any larger, the Yankees would move him up their list of priorities. And that would only hamper their cause.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am Captain Nathan Smith of the Army of Northern Virginia. This train will be delayed for a brief interval. Please sit quietly, and you’ll still be alive when the train pulls into the station.” Although the dapper young officer tipped his hat upon entering and smiled during his introduction, his two Colt revolvers left no doubt regarding his intentions. Rangers at the other end of the car leveled their Enfield rifles with the same silent threat.

Well-dressed businessmen, traveling from Washington and points east, looked with contempt upon the intrusion, yet no one twitched a whisker. Their wives and daughters weren’t quite as composed. Several sobbed into lace handkerchiefs, and more than one began to pray.

“What do you want with us, sir?” asked a white-haired matron with plenty of courage as the captain made his way down the aisle. She pulled her heavy reticule from the floor to her lap. “Will you take our cash and jewelry?”

“No, madam, I assure you.” Captain Smith swept off his hat and bowed. “We’re only interested in the provisions on their way to Yankee camps.” His smile revealed perfectly straight teeth. “You are in the
sovereign state of Virginia, part of the Confederate States of America. You are not home any longer. But I assure you, the colonel has no desire for civilian property.” He pointed to the window with a flourish of his hand. A tall man, clothed in a black cloak with a plumed hat pulled low, sat astride a majestic white horse. Fog swirled around horse and rider, increasing the aura of intrigue.

Leaning toward the glass, the elderly woman gasped. “Is that the Gray Wraith? He doesn’t appear mortal. I read about him in the papers.”

“I assure you, madam, he is flesh and blood.” Captain Smith replaced his hat and strode from the car, leaving his men to guard against would-be heroes.

The rangers quickly overpowered a dozen Union soldiers, stripping them of their weapons and leaving them tied up in an empty train car. Along the tracks, the colonel directed the train’s unloading with well-honed efficiency. True to the captain’s word, the passengers were soon on their way. In less than thirty minutes, the rangers unloaded food, medicine, guns, and ammunition into wagons hidden in the woods. In the last two boxcars they found fifty fine horses with saddles and tack stacked along the wall, plus the unexpected bounty of a Union payroll. After tethering the horses into groups of five, they galloped off before the sun rose high enough to burn off the mist.

“Those boxes contain repeating rifles, Colonel,” shouted Captain Smith as they rode out of town. “Woolen socks, buckskin gloves, leather boots, engraved saddles, halters, bridles—this shipment must have been headed to a cavalry brigade, sir.”

The colonel glanced at Smith with amusement. Seldom had plunder so excited the man. “That’s right, Captain.” He slowed his horse on the narrow path, pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “This bounty will be for Jeb Stuart, not for General Jackson as we had planned. Sheridan’s loss will be Stuart’s gain,” he added, scratching his stubbly chin. He never would get used to the bristly beard he grew prior to a raid. “And Jeff Davis will appreciate that Union payroll, thirty thousand dollars by my estimate.”

“To another successful raid and the diminishing of the Mr. Lincoln’s Treasury, sir.” Smith pulled a silver flask from his pocket and offered a toast to his superior officer.

The colonel stared at the flask momentarily before downing a hearty swig. “I’m just glad we were able to serve our Glorious Cause without killing any of those fool Yankees in the process,” he muttered. “Now let’s organize the men and send this bounty on its way to Richmond before the Yanks figure out that no division of infantry is marching to Winchester this morning.” Both men laughed over their successful deception. Union officers would boil when they discovered they had been tricked. The colonel hoped local citizens wouldn’t suffer because of his activities, but they couldn’t raid anywhere else. Federal provisions, greenbacks, and horseflesh appeared to be limitless in the fertile area between the Shenandoah Valley and Washington. Their storehouses were like sweet cherries—ripe and ready to be picked. And his beloved Confederacy desperately needed all they could provide.

Rendezvoused with his men, the colonel savored some of the commandeered, spit-roasted Yankee beef. Someone passed around an expensive bottle of bourbon and another of brandy. He allowed his men to enjoy this small diversion in camp while he sipped only strong coffee. One man played a harmonica as another danced a jig. Most of his seasoned soldiers retold the day’s adventure over and over until they drifted to their bedrolls. Tomorrow they would return home—to their parents or wives or just to a lonely boarding house in a small town. But tonight they were rangers—brave, accomplished, and famous. And their leader was proud of them all.

Staring into the flames as dampness drew him to the fire, the colonel thought of the winsome, spirited girl he’d met on Bennington Island. Emily Harrison was nothing like the flirtatious women who usually heated his blood and caused his heart to race. He found her peculiarity unnerving, as though she’d ensnared him with a spell. When he wrote to his aunt to inquire about her, he couldn’t keep exuberance from his words. How could he become smitten after so brief an encounter? He was no youth experiencing attraction to a pretty girl for the first time.