Valley of the Shadow: A Novel (38 page)

Would it be over soon now? Might he even spend Christmas at home with Lucy and the boys? And, perhaps, with a new daughter?

“God bless you!” a man in high-waisted pants and suspenders called from a porch.

Hayes tipped his hat. His old brigade and, now, his division had even regained a rough appearance of order, the men sorting themselves out in the uncanny way they did once the shock of combat clicked into a rhythm. When they finally broke the last barricaded line at the edge of town, all serious resistance had collapsed—what there had been of it, at the end. They had advanced over fields strewn with dead and wounded, most of them in the rags the South counted as uniforms, past overturned wagons, an ambulance broken in pieces by a shell, and the human affectations discarded in war, playing cards, pipes, spilled haversacks, and folded letters panting with the breeze.…

Emerson needed to see
that
.

A last few rifles crackled in the streets, but the only hint of organized resistance rose south of town—a Reb rear guard, no doubt. Here, his men had only to round up prisoners, some of whom came forward, hands raised, to surrender eagerly, while others sat dejected against a fence or stumbled about. Many a wounded man who walked off the field had reached the end of his strength and lay on a porch or sagged upon its steps. Few of the Johnnies were arrogant now, although there were still some hard ones among the wounded.

A boy with an arm the surgeons would take before morning swore, “They’ll be back. Our boys’ll be back.”

But Hayes did not believe they ever would.

With a cheer that became a roar, his Ohio soldiers reached the shabby courthouse at the town’s heart, laying claim to being first in the city.

Hayes dismounted, handed off his horse, and walked forward among his soldiers. Their joy seemed uncontainable. They cheered him as he made his way, delighted with themselves and confident enough to reach out and slap him on the back, praising him fulsomely. He recalled reading, somewhere, the description “drunk with victory.”

A soldier with a magnificent red beard told him, “You’ll end up as governor after this.”

6:30 p.m.

The Valley Pike, south of Winchester

Nichols hobbled a stretch beyond the clot of men from Ramseur’s Division that passed as a rear guard. Then he sat down by the roadside, just plain sat. His leg hurt like the horrors. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. Not one thing that had happened that day was fair.

The Yankees did seem to be tuckering out. That much might turn out decent. Maybe those boys lined up across the Pike could face them down. With dusk upon them and dark pressing in, maybe the blue-bellies had about had their fill.

Bad enough with the Yankees coming from every side, wily as Satan’s legions, mighty as Gog and Magog. They’d fought them to the bottom of the well of what men had in them, and he’d done his part, standing when others ran high-tail. Only to be ordered back that last time, back to one final position, and while he was making his way as ordered—not running, not running, never running—some hot-metal wickedness had struck him in the back of the thigh, right in back of the same thigh where another piece of brimstone-made iron had struck him in the front back in July.

He had gone down with a yowl like a dog-bit girl. All confused. Captain Kennedy had paused to help him, bewildered himself, since once again there was no blood, no obvious break, just a great big heap of real sore hurt that kept him from standing up on his own two feet. The captain had helped him on back, telling him to use his rifle as a crutch from then on and just make his way to the rear, wherever that ended up. So he had gone on along, limping and huckle-bucking, moving with little leaps like in a hopscotch game, twinned in his dumbstruck misery by Jack Collins, a chawing man from Company K, who got all shot in the foot and was propping himself up with his rifle, too.

Times were, he feared to be overtaken, with all those hale and hearty men running past him through the streets, like boys racing for the prize of a bag of marbles. Most shameful thing ever witnessed, that reckless running. He had bumped along behind as best he could, calculating that getting himself captured once in a day was about enough.

A good woman had come out to her front gate, crying like Mammy and offering passing soldiers buns from a pan, and he had craved one as souls yearned for Salvation, but fleeter men grabbed them all before he could wiggle up through the crowd. And that woman just stood there with her empty pan, crying her eyes out, crying and crying, and the soldiers just went on past, ashamed, maybe, but not pausing to commiserate like Elder Woodfin said they should do with the poor.

Ive Summerlin had said, way back a piece, “Who’s he got in mind any poorer than us?”

Moabites and Jebusites, the Yankees had set their artillery against the town. He passed a blasted, burning house, amid female lamentations.

Then all the fuss slackened up, with the shooting gone down to a pestering, and at one point, a posse of Yankee horsemen galloped across his path, ignoring his existence, a final insult.

He had never hated Yankees so much. And he did not think he’d known a worse day in his life, not even when nigh on dying in that Danville pesthouse pretending to be a hospital, with his insides pouring out of his sorriest part.

Unhorsed and limping in high boots, a lieutenant saw him sitting where he’d paused behind Ramseur’s boys. The officer’s face was pale in the near-dead light.

“Don’t cry, son,” the lieutenant said. “We’ll whip them next time. You’ll see.”

“I ain’t crying,”
Nichols said before realizing his face was doused with tears.

“Guess it’s nothing but sweat, I wasn’t looking right,” the lieutenant said. “Why don’t you come on along now. Come with us until you find your regiment. Don’t want the Yankees catching up with you.”

Nichols almost told him about his leg, how much it hurt, how he had only sat down because he did not think that any man, not David nor Goliath, could have taken one more step with that hurt upon him. But he didn’t say it, would not be known for a complainer, which was hardly any better than a coward.

He fumbled back to his feet and said:

“Yes, sir, I reckon I’m coming.”

7:00 p.m.

Winchester

Sheridan let Crook lead him through the streets. Apart from dejected bands of prisoners, everyone, soldiers and citizens, shared an air of jubilation. Of course, Sheridan realized, many a man and woman remained locked behind their doors and out of temper.

“This way, Phil,” Crook said. He knew Winchester. And the right people, though hardly in the social sense.

Sheridan felt gay himself, immeasurably pleased. He had broken the curse of the Valley, winning the Union’s first victory in its confines, the first real win in three and a half years, and a colossal victory it appeared. The satisfaction was so rich, he felt he must glow like a gas lamp.

The soldiers he passed cheered him. He loved it when men cheered him.

With the Johnnies on the run, he had ordered his corps commanders to assemble, their every delay, outburst, and blunder forgiven, erased by victory. Winning was the thing, the rest was wastage. If his plan had faltered, it didn’t matter now. Victory purged every sin in the military decalogue.

“This way,” Crook called again, straining to be heard above the ovation.

Old George had done splendidly by him, and Sheridan was delighted to have him near, forgiving, in this moment, Crook’s annoying habit of being right. His “mountain-creepers” had done a marvelous job, fighting with the resolution of Regulars. Led well, volunteers sometimes worked wonders.

Triumphant, Sheridan banished all thoughts of his midday moment of doubt.

“Chased ’em like rabbits!” a soldier called out to him. “Run ’em like hares.”

Sheridan tipped his hat. For a pained trance of seconds, he remembered Davey Russell. His army’s losses had been severe on many counts.

But only victory mattered. War forbade sentiment. If a general wouldn’t sacrifice his own mother to win a battle, he didn’t deserve his stars.

Men lit makeshift torches. To celebrate, not to destroy. The destruction would come later, though not here.

He had ordered his cavalry to pursue Early’s army, instructing Torbert not to ease the pressure. He knew the horses were blown, that any pursuit would peter out with nightfall. You had to press men, though. If his orders meant only an additional ten minutes of harassment of the enemy, that ten minutes made a difference. You determined just how much men could achieve, then demanded more.

Crook and the aide all but glued to him—McIntire? McGuinness?—halted their mounts before a two-story house, a better-kept affair than most of its like south of the Potomac. No frippery woodwork, though.

Quakers, Sheridan shook his head. Probably use ’em as provost guards in Heaven, make sure folks didn’t take too much pleasure lounging on those clouds. He let himself down from Rienzi’s back. It was a long way to the ground. It struck him, of a sudden, that he was exhausted. But this was no time for a man to indulge himself.

Crook and his aide waited on the porch. Sheridan strode up, saber banging the steps.

“Thought I’d let you have the honor,” Crook told him.

Sheridan knocked on the door.

Prim but not without promise, a young woman opened the door. She held an oil lamp. Its light gilded her face, throwing shadows along a hallway.

After a swift appraisal of his uniform, she said, “Thee and thine are welcome in this house. Wouldst eat? Our fare is simple.”

Sheridan smiled. Figuring that more than one of his soldiers had knocked on more than one door asking for food. If men couldn’t have a woman after a battle, they’d settle for biscuits.

“Miss Wright? Rebecca Wright?” He saw by her eyes that she was the girl and didn’t wait for an answer. He removed his hat. “General Sheridan, ma’am. I believe you know the gentleman behind me.”

Lifting the lantern, the lass peered over his shoulder.

“Miss Wright,” Crook said, stepping forward.

Instead of appearing reassured, the girl looked almost frightened.

“Come in, come in. All are welcome.”

After Sheridan and Crook entered, a few more officers thrust themselves in behind them. As quickly as she could, the lass shut the door, though. The house smelled of baking and lavender, of women living together without men.

Hat in hand, Sheridan said, “I’ve come to thank you, Miss Wright. Your Union has enjoyed a splendid victory, a triumph. Thanks to the information you sent by that slave.”

The young woman stiffened. “He is no slave. Thou shouldst know we keep none.”

“Of course, of course. Nonetheless, Miss Wright, you’re the heroine of the day. I just wanted to pay my respects, to thank you.”

The lass had gone from pale to paler. When she spoke again, her voice quavered. “I beg thee … thou must not speak so. Swear on thy sword thou willst not. I beg of thee.”

Sheridan raised an eyebrow. Calling his thoughts to order. He had thought that Quakers didn’t believe in oaths.

“If word were to spread,” she explained, “my family’s lives would be worthless. Thou knoweth not the hatred in these hearts.”

Sheridan recalled that the young woman was a schoolteacher. He wondered if the children she taught had to endure her “thees” and “thous,” or if she spoke plain English in her classroom.

He placed his hand on the grip of his sword. “Yes, of course. I swear that I will not compromise your family. None of us will. My apologies, Miss Wright.”

The tension drained from the air.

“There is milk. And fresh bread,” she told her guests. “And butter.”

Sheridan smiled. “I don’t doubt that my companions will partake, but I would be grateful if you led me to a desk or a table. I have messages to write.”

McKinley. That was the name of Crook’s new aide. The boy mooned over the Quaker girl the way a dog eyed a beef roast.

She led Sheridan through a hall and into a compact schoolroom. Lighting another lamp, she said, “I am glad our flag has returned.”

“It’s back to stay this time.”

She set out pen, ink, and paper, aligning them neatly on her schoolmarm’s desk.

“Willst have anything else?”

Sheridan shook his head. But then he said, “Water. Just water, please. And keep the rest of them occupied for ten minutes.”

When she closed the door behind her, he began to write to Grant:

Winchester, September 19, 1864—7 p.m.

I have the honor to report that I attacked the forces of General Early on the Berryville Pike at the crossing of Opequon Creek, and after a most stubborn and sanguinary engagement … completely defeated him.

Midnight

The Valley Pike, Middletown

Early had kept his rage inside for hours, breaking out now and then in minor snarls, but letting his insides burn as hot as pitch. Didn’t want anything to do with any man. Fools, all of them. Starting a war they were never going to win, then leaving him to fight it, because that was just the goddamned way men were, a damn-fool, worthless species, a blot on the earth.

He bore a great deal of blame for the day’s debacle, he knew it plain, but he wasn’t ready to face up to that yet. Low enough as it was. Would’ve had every last cavalryman whipped, though. Every last one of them. Starting with that highborn ass Fitz Lee, wounded or not. Nothing more convenient than a wound. Now was there?

Breckinridge had insisted on riding beside him. Making their way south, already fixed on Fisher’s Hill, a position of refuge, a natural fortress that had never been taken. Rest up there, fit up. Bring in the stragglers. Then see what might be done.

Breckinridge. With those damned mustaches.

The night was clear, but dark. Whenever he spotted a campfire beyond the roadside, he dispatched a party to kick it dead. Men had to march on, not laze about and wait for the damned Yankee cavalry.