Valley of the Shadow: A Novel (49 page)

Sheridan had to remind himself that he was no felon. On the contrary, he had given Stanton victories.

The secretary introduced a tiny sound, that of fingertips tapping a closed fist.

Sheridan met his stare, refusing to waver.

At last, Stanton spoke: “It’s a splendid thing, I suppose, to see oneself celebrated in all the newspapers.” He separated his hands. “No doubt, it’s a heady feeling, intoxicating.” His viper’s eyes fixed Sheridan. “Of course, you’re too sound a man to succumb to all that. You’re wise enough to know … that today’s hero often proves tomorrow’s fool.”

The slit of Stanton’s mouth shifted in what might have been a smile. “Poor George McClellan, for example. I recall how beloved the fellow was, adored by the men and women of the North. By children, too, for that matter.” He laid a white hand on his desk. “Who worships McClellan now? A handful of traitorous Copperheads, and even they have doubts.” The faint realignment of the lips recurred. “And he dreamed of becoming president? After the press had moved on to more promising men, after ridicule had begun to coil around him? Military men … lose themselves in the labyrinth of politics, a netherworld they find inscrutably foreign. McClellan never had a chance, he hadn’t the subtle mind such matters require. And now? He’s become a horse’s ass, a ruined man. The election hasn’t taken place and he’s already half-forgotten.”

This time, Stanton’s smile was unmistakable. “And what of the soldiers, I ask you? The men on whom he counted, whose hearts he believed he’d won for all eternity? Fickle as spoiled girls. Now that we’re winning the war, they’ll go for Lincoln. Little Mac never understood human nature.” The secretary tilted his head slightly to one side, just as Sheridan had seen rattlesnakes do. “He assumed that adulation doesn’t expire. But the affections of the herd are merely the froth on a pail of milk. The bubbles fade as you watch.”

Peering over his spectacles, Stanton’s eyes glowed from the shadows of his brow. “But you, Sheridan? I look at you … and I see a man of high talent, of eminent suitability for your profession. And, I hope, of commensurate sense.” The not-quite-smile flickered. “The esteem of the public can be destroyed overnight, you understand.”

Stanton sat up straight, changing his posture as he changed the subject. “You’re absolutely convinced that Early’s finished? What about that encounter a few days back?”

“Hardly more than a skirmish.”

“Our forces withdrew, though.”

“Hupp’s Hill has no value to us. Not now. Early was just trying to salvage his pride. What little remains of it.”

Stanton nodded. “I’m also told that your signalmen intercepted a curious message. To the effect that General Longstreet had arrived.”

The secretary’s knowledge startled Sheridan.

“I don’t believe it for an instant,” he told Stanton. “The Rebs would never let the cat out of the bag by waving signal flags in our faces. They’d throw away any chance they had of surprise.” He leaned toward Stanton. “And surprise would be their
only
chance. No, that signal was nothing but a ruse. Longstreet never came.”

“But to what purpose? This ruse?”

“Early’s afraid, that’s my guess. He’s trying to spook me, deter us from attacking him. He can’t afford another debacle.”

“He followed you down the Valley, though.”

“Matter of pride, all of it’s about their endless pride. Trying to show he’s active, doing something. He won’t last long. There’s not a crumb to eat between my army and Lexington, and I took most of his wagons. He can’t keep his men supplied right now, let alone as the weather worsens.” He met Stanton’s relentless stare again. “Early’s played out.”

“One hopes,” Stanton said. He rose. Again, he almost smiled. “My congratulations once more on your torrent of victories.” He made no move to come from behind the desk and offer a handshake. “I hope I shall never hear the usual calumnies leveled at you—journalists are unforgiving, mind you. Look at George Meade. It’s almost as if someone poisoned the press against him. Of course, you’ll always count
me
among your supporters, Sheridan.” He canted his head again. “But there’s only so much a single man can do.”

When Sheridan didn’t answer, Stanton added, “I believe you have a special train? Don’t let me keep you, General.”

Sheridan nodded. “I want to get back to my army.”

“You have concerns?”

“No. I’ve just never cared for the Cedar Creek line. I intend to fall back on Winchester. Better ground.” He gave Stanton hard eye for hard eye. “I was summoned to Washington before I could start my movement.”

“Ah, yes. Conflicting demands, the vicissitudes of generalship.” The secretary took up a paper from his desk, as if it suddenly needed his attention.

Sheridan saluted. Stanton chose not to notice.

His ordeal in the city he hated wasn’t over. Halleck lurked mid-hallway. He had two colonels with him, one detestably fat and the other skeletal.

“Sheridan!” the chief of staff called in a mighty whisper. “Unfinished business, if you please.”

Christ, what now? Sheridan wondered.

“These men … my engineers … they worked on the fortress plan. Splendid work, you saw the drawings yourself. I thought they might go with you to the Valley. Men of such caliber might be a help in siting your lines for the winter. You can show them the ground around Winchester yourself,
en route
to your army.”

When Sheridan hesitated, Halleck added almost pathetically, “It’s the least you might do.”

“Of course,” Sheridan said instantly. “They’ll be a great help.”

“Good, good. That’s all.
Bonne chance.
Splendid work. Proud of you, Philip. I always could spot ability, you know. You, Grant. Had to protect you both from the wrathful powers.…”

“My gratitude,” Sheridan said, “can’t be put into words.”

October 17, 3:30 p.m.

Three Top Mountain, Signal Knob

Words failed Gordon. Of all the opportunities he had witnessed—and seen squandered—nothing approached this, not even that dangling Union flank in the Wilderness.

“My, oh, my!” Clem Evans said. It was the third time in as many minutes that Evans had used the expression.

“Indeed,” Gordon commented. On a rock above them, a signalman waved his flags.

“I told you,” Hotchkiss said.

Far below, arranged like toys on a tabletop, Sheridan’s army revealed itself. The unaided eye could detect not only division encampments, but brigade allotments and regimental tent lines. With field glasses a man could spy the different uniform facings, the red of the artillery, cavalry yellow, and the pale blue that condemned a man to the infantry. Gordon could count every gun and every wagon. He could even confirm the report that the army was headquartered in the Belle Grove plantation house, busy now with the comings and goings of couriers and staff men.

Done right, a surprise attack might capture Sheridan.

“Beautiful, too,” Clem said. “Fair as the rose of Sharon.” And he was right. The Valley and its guardian mountains flamed, but with autumn reds and oranges, copper and gold, and not because of Sheridan’s pyromania. The air was bracing and clear as a maiden’s conscience, and down below—at a bruising climb’s remove—the Shenandoah gleamed as it ran northward, clinging snugly to the mountain’s base.

But Gordon had a poor eye for nature this day. His interest lay in Sheridan’s lax dispositions.

“I make it two to one against us,” Hotchkiss said.

“I like that better than three to one,” Gordon told him. Still a tad short of breath, he sighed. “Well, we know where he expects us to attack. To the extent he’s worried about an attack at all.”

“Cavalry massed on the left,” Hotchkiss agreed. “Just where General Early’s minded to go.”

“Not sure we’d even get across the creek, not over there. Not without paying a price we can’t afford.”

“I make that the Sixth Corps back toward Middletown, to the rear,” Evans put in.

“Army of the Potomac arrangement, unmistakable,” Hotchkiss said.

“Makes sense, putting them there,” Gordon told his companions. “Their best corps behind the cavalry, positioned to move to the south or west.” He passed the glasses back to Hotchkiss. “What I
do
find interesting is the rest of that army. Why on earth place a lone division off by itself, a mile to the south of its nearest support?”

“Looks flat from up here, I know, but they’re on high ground. Overlooking the creek bend,” Hotchkiss explained.

“I understand that,” Gordon told him. “What I
don’t
understand is why they’re all but abandoned out there. Just begging to be snapped up.”

“Bait?” Hotchkiss asked.

Gordon shook his head. “Can’t see how they’d spring the trap, the way the camps are disposed. And look behind them, up at the middle encampments. They’ve dug their earthworks, piled up their share of dirt.” He turned to Evans. “But what do you see? What do
you
see, Clem?”

“They all face south, every one of them. And the Sixth Corps hasn’t really entrenched at all.”

“Exactly. I don’t see a single stretch of fieldworks facing east. Not even southeast. Not one.”

“Problem,” Hotchkiss said, “would be getting there. Take the Front Royal road out of Strasburg to get up on that flank and they’d spot us, day or night.”

Gordon ignored the caution. “Any fords up there?”

“On the creek? Or the river?”

“The river. East of the mouth of the creek. A ford where we could get ourselves on their flank.”

“Find a farm by a river, find a ford. Wouldn’t solve the problem of getting there, though.”

“We’ll have to move along the side of the mountain. In the trees.”

Gordon saw Clem Evans lift a hand to his side, his wound. Clem had been game, but the climb, for which their riding boots had not been suited, clearly had pained him. Hellfire, it had been the Devil’s own ordeal for all of them, scrambling over rocks on all fours and forcing their way through thickets for hours, then tracing the ridgeback, thirsty and exhausted. Gordon had felt the strain of his own wounds, healed years before.

Worth it, though.

“Don’t see how,” Hotchkiss said. “River hugs the mountain tight as a corset.”

“Crook’s boys did it to us at Fisher’s Hill.”

“Smaller mountain,” Hotchkiss said. “And there wasn’t a river to be crossed twice, once when we set out, then right under Sheridan’s nose.”

Burning with visions of how a splendid battle could be won, Gordon let impatience rule his voice. “For God’s sake, Jed!
You’re
the one who wanted me to climb up here.
You
knew Early’s scheme wouldn’t work, before we saw all this. And here before us, welcome as revelation, is a potential Marathon, a Plataea. And you’re a naysayer?”

“Not a naysayer, General. Just raising a few details. Details do have a way of troubling plans, seen enough of that.” He kicked a disguise of leaves away from a rock. “I agree this has a beckoning look. I just don’t see how to get where we need to go.”

“Got to be a way,” Clem Evans said. Fire had kindled in his voice, too.

“We’ll
find
a way,” Gordon insisted. “Jed, we’ll find a way, you know we can. But you need to be with me, locking arms, when we put this to Early. If it’s me alone…”

Hotchkiss nodded. “I’m with you. That’s not the question.”

“What we need,” Gordon told them, “is one more day. Early’s impatient, we all know rations are short. But we need a good stretch of daylight to find a trail, a back road, anything. Find a way to pass Strasburg without being seen. Then find a ford that can cross, say, half the army.”

A fusillade of yellow leaves crackled toward them.

“I’ll pray on it,” Evans said.

October 17, 8:00 p.m.

Belle Grove plantation

“It’s the right thing to do,” Emory insisted. “Early’s no threat, he’s finished.”

Horatio Wright was doubtful. Sheridan had left him in command for the duration of his hasty excursion to Washington. The responsibility weighed more heavily than Wright had expected.

“What do you think, George?” he asked Crook.

Crook lowered a near-empty glass. Taking their ease at the day’s end, the generals were sharing a dose of whiskey. None drank heavily, and Wright only sipped his ration.

“Well,” Crook said, “I suppose I have no objection. The men are tired. Lord knows, they’ve done good service.”

“If I saw the least danger, I’d be the first to oppose it,” Emory argued. The firelight glinted orange in his red hair.

The fire was welcome: The nights were growing cold.

And yes, the men were tired.

“I’ll have the order published in the morning,” Wright told them. “Too late tonight, we’d just make a hash of things.”

“They’ll be grateful, the boys,” Emory assured him. “Standing to their weapons at two a.m. was the sensible thing a month ago. Not now, though. Campaign’s over.”

Crook had another taste of Virginia whiskey, the last wealth of the plantation’s looted cellar. “I suppose we can let the men sleep,” he said with only a slight hesitation.

October 17, 8:00 p.m.

Fisher’s Hill

“God almighty, Gordon,” Early said. “If I offered you angel’s wings, you’d cuss the feathers.”

Lit by a pair of candles, the cold room reeked. An orderly had tried to build a fire, but the chimney refused the smoke, driving out the staff. Cackling at the weakness of his subordinates, Early had declined to move his headquarters.

“I wish you could have seen it for yourself.” Speaking, Gordon studied the big, bent-over man, whose rheumatism had forbidden the climb. “If Jed and I find a route for the approach march, we could hit them just before dawn day after tomorrow, run right over them. Half their divisions aren’t in supporting distance of one another. And every last one is facing the wrong way, the way they expect us to come. They’d go down like dominoes.”

“You say.” Early spit tobacco juice into the blackened fireplace. “Haven’t seen them go down like dominoes yet.”