Ghosts of Time (20 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“Yes,” Kyle Rutherford assured the two men seated across his desk, “Dr. Frey is going to be all right. As you surmised, her wound was superficial.”

“Good,” said Jason and Mondrago in unison, the latter in what seemed an especially heartfelt tone.

Jason’s eyes and Rutherford’s met. No words were necessary for Jason to know it was
his
wound—the one inside—that worried the older man.

He had submitted a pitilessly honest report of the expedition. Rutherford hadn’t reprimanded him for recklessly delaying their retrieval. (Maybe the priceless imagery of the death of Port Royal downloaded from his recorder implant had helped.) But his silence at Jason’s attempt to prevent Zenobia’s death had been harder to take than the outburst Jason had feared. Now the director looked at Jason in that same kind of silence.

“I’m fine, Kyle,” he gruffly answered the unspoken question. “I just need to keep busy. Specifically, I need to start preparing for our mission to Richmond in April, 1865.” His face formed the first smile it had worn since his retrieval from wrecked Port Royal. “After what he went through last time, I was surprised Carlos Dabney volunteered to go again.”

He had asked for the historian despite his dislike of having to worry about keeping civilians alive on Special Operations missions, for Dabney’s in-depth knowledge of Confederate Richmond might prove invaluable. And Rutherford made no attempt to conceal his tight-lipped disapproval of sending Dabney to a milieu where he would be temporally coexisting with the slightly younger version of himself that had gone on Pauline Da Cunha’s expedition. But Jason had reminded him that he had been prepared to do just that, before they had been imprisoned in Stoneman’s reverse-stasis field. And besides . . .

“Yes,” Rutherford nodded. “I had my misgivings. But I must approve anything that may enhance your chances of success. It is imperative that we deal with the remaining cache—the one of which Inspector Da Cunha became aware—after the Observer Effect ceases to preclude our doing so.”

“Assuming that it’s the
only
remaining one,” Jason cautioned. “As I told Angus Aiken when I last saw him, we have no real justification for such an assumption. Stoneman and his crew might have already emplaced another . . . or they may have sent yet another expedition back, as a result of a message drop from Stoneman alerting them to the destruction of their fallback cache by Angus and Gracchus.”

“Ah, yes.” Rutherford sounded gloomy. “From what this, ah, Stoneman told you, there is no denying that the Transhumanist underground has made more imaginative use of the message drop system than we ourselves have.”

Mondrago spoke up thoughtfully. “I guess that’s only to be expected. They get more chances to practice with it. Our research expeditions, by their very nature, have always gone to milieus where something historically important or interesting was happening, so they’ve been sort of in the thick of things. This has always made it difficult for us to find locations that are both accessible and so out-of-the-way that messages can lie undisturbed for centuries. But the Transhumanists are deliberately dealing in the ‘blank spaces’ of history, so they normally operate away from the hustle and bustle.”

“The point is well taken, Superintendent,” said Rutherford ponderously. “But the fact remains that they have an advantage in tactical flexibility, and they may have used it. So a great deal depends on Constable Aiken.”

“Right.” Jason did a quick mental calculation. Their preparations for the Caribbean expedition, and the expedition itself, had taken seventeen days, while the “linear present” had marched on. “Where Angus is, it’s now February 18, 1865. I wonder what he’s doing?”

Dark as it was in the concealed space behind the wall panel, Angus Aiken was sure he could see Dolly Richards’ grin. He could certainly smell Hern, wedged in as the three of them were. And he himself was definitely grinning as he listened to the choleric curses of the Yankees ransacking “Green Garden,” the Richards family home.

Sheridan’s latest Ranger-hunting expedition from the Valley had shown that he was finally learning Mosby’s methods. He had sent Major Thomas Gibson, 14th Pennsylvania Cavalry, through Ashby’s Gap into Fauquier County with 237 men, guided by two deserters and moving under cover of darkness without clanking sabers or wheeled transport. At Paris, Gibson’s command had split into two columns, with Captain Henry Snow, 21st New York Cavalry, leading the second one and heading due east to Upperville. Searching every “safe house” in their path, Snow’s men had netted three Rangers. But by the time they had surrounded “Green Garden,” Richards had been warned and concealed along with his two companions.

“Captain Snow, sir,” came an out-of-breath voice from beyond the paneling. “The men back in town have gotten into two barrels of whiskey. About a third of them are drunk.”

“God damn it!” exploded the young New York officer. “I’ll have their hides! Let’s get back immediately, Sergeant. We’re going to take our prisoners back to our camp in the Valley.”

“But, sir, aren’t we under orders to rendezvous with Major Gibson at Upperville?”

“No time! With my command in this condition, I don’t want Mosby’s men to have a chance to rally and cut us off. We’re going back without him.”

“There are half a dozen men I don’t think will be able to sit their horses,” said the sergeant dubiously.

“Then we’ll leave the damned drunks behind! Come on!” There was a clumping of boots and a jingling of spurs, then silence. After a moment, Richards’ father removed the trapdoor. They emerged gratefully, for the air behind the paneling had been getting stuffy.

“Are you all right, Angus?” inquired Richards. “Hern, I know you’re used to this kind of thing.”

“I’m fine, sir.” After Commander Thanou’s premature retrieval, Gracchus had slipped away to rejoin his comrades of the Order of the Three-Legged Horse. Aiken had managed to locate Richards, who had accepted his story that he had gotten separated in the night fighting on New Year’s eve. For the next couple of weeks there had been practically no Yankee activity. On February 8 the Rangers, claiming a need for recreation, had actually organized a foxhunt. It had been a new experience for Aiken. But, seeing these men riding through foot-deep snow, yelling in response to the baying of the hounds, he could sense that to them this was a way of reliving, if only for a fleeting moment, the life they had known before the war in a world that was so rapidly slipping away beyond their grasp.

But now the wintry idyll was over.

“All right,” said Richards, and his blood was up just as it had been for the foxhunt. “Let’s go, and get the word out to as many of our men as we can. Snow will be long gone before we can rendezvous, but I’ll bet we can catch Gibson when he’s going back through Ashby’s Gap. I’ll want those men who are in a good position to do so to gather at Paris and see if they can delay Gibson there. The rest of us will join them.”

“Gibson’s sure to have us outnumbered,” Hern observed.

“When did that ever stop the Colonel? And remember, he’s coming back in a couple of days to resume command. Do you want to be the one to tell him we were chicken? Now, let’s ride!”

It was 10:00 the following morning, February 19, when Richards and his following arrived at Paris, to loud huzzas from the Rangers crouched behind a stone fence on high ground. The smoke of their rifle fire was still in the air, and the last of Gibson’s column was vanishing in the distance into Ashby’s Gap.

In the course of their all-night gallop, Richards had gleaned intelligence through the usual sources. The Union orders had been confused, and Gibson had expected Snow to rejoin him at Piedmont, not Upperville. By the time he realized Snow had not received the changed orders and gone to Upperville, Snow had been two hours gone. All the random motion had delayed Gibson and enabled the Rebels to gather at Paris, but Gibson, deeming the terrain disadvantageous, had ignored their fire and proceeded on with his hundred and twenty-five Pennsylvania troopers and sixteen prisoners.

“My Jeremiah is one of ’em,” declared a disheveled young woman. “Jeremiah Wilson, my fiancé. We’re supposed to get married tomorrow, right here in Paris. I begged that Yankee major to let him go, but he wouldn’t even speak to me.”

Richards gave her a courtly bow from his saddle. “Rest assured, miss, I have every intention of returning him to you in plenty of time for your wedding. Hern, how many men do we have?”

“Counting the ones that just rode in with us, I count forty-three,” said Hern in his customary tone of dour skepticism.

“That will be enough.” Richards pointed in the direction the Union column had taken into Ashby’s Gap. “Knowing where Gibson’s base camp is, it’s my guess that after passing through the gap he’ll turn right onto Shepherd’s Ford Road at Mount Carmel Church. That road is so narrow, with the mountains on the right and a tangle of rocks and underbrush on the left, that the Yankees won’t be able to form a defensive line, much less turn around and counterattack. Now load both your Colts. We’re getting those prisoners back!”

The usual noise-suppression techniques of the Partisan Rangers brought them close up behind the Union column undetected. As they turned onto Shepherd’s Ford Road, Aiken remembered this landscape, for they passed the trail he and Gracchus had followed up the mountain to the Transhumanist cache beyond the ridge. But then the rear of the blue-clad column was visible ahead, and Richards gave the command to charge. With ear-shattering Rebel yells, the Rangers thundered into the surprised Union rear guard, which panicked and stampeded into the main body, spreading their panic. The Rangers were in among them, blazing away at close range, the crackling roar of the Colts mingling with the screams of wounded horses. The Union cavalry, unable to maneuver, tried to fire back, but they were armed with Sharps carbines, ideal for dismounted action but unwieldy to use from horseback. Under these conditions, Federal numbers only meant more targets. Within less than a minute, some of them were beginning to surrender, including those guarding the prisoners, while those at the head of the column were breaking off and fleeing down the road.

Aiken, caught up in the swirling mêlée, found himself face to face with a Union trooper, awkwardly trying to control his half-panicked mount and aim his carbine at the same time. He managed to get off a shot, but Aiken ducked, leaning down on his horse’s other side and firing from under its belly. Blood spurted from the base of the man’s throat, under his beard and just above his yellow kerchief, and he toppled from his saddle. Aiken heaved himself back up into a sitting position and rode on. Then another Yankee was ahead, turning his horse’s head to join the men up front who were escaping. As he did so, he momentarily turned. His eyes and Aiken’s met.

For a split second, Aiken failed to recognize Stoneman in a blue uniform.

That hesitation allowed the Transhumanist to finish his maneuver and gallop off down the road with the other fleeing Federals. Aiken started to spur his horse in pursuit, but at that moment Richards shouted the recall. Reluctantly, Aiken turned and rode back through the dissipating smoke.

Often, when the Rangers had emptied their revolvers in battle, they grasped them by the barrels and used them as clubs. This hadn’t lasted long enough for that. In mere minutes, twenty-five Federals had been killed or wounded and sixty-four captured, including Major Gibson himself.

“And we only suffered two casualties,” Richards exulted. “John Iden was killed and Richard Sowers was wounded. But we got all the prisoners back.” He turned to the latter. “Jeremiah, let’s get back to Paris. I believe your fiancée is waiting!”

A scene of cheering jubilation greeted them when they rode back into the hamlet with their prisoners (who outnumbered them by a factor of almost one and a half) and the sixteen liberated men. The cheers rose an octave when Jeremiah Wilson embraced his intended. But Aiken slipped away, unnoticed in the revelry, and walked up Paris’ one “street” to a side alley between two houses. After assuring himself that no one was watching, he passed between the houses and crossed a short stretch of ground to a row of shanties, with one of which he had become familiar. He gave the rickety door a certain combination of knocks. It creaked open and a middle-aged black woman gazed out.

“I need to have a message delivered to Gracchus without delay. It’s about Stoneman. He’ll know what you mean.”

Two days later John Singleton Mosby, now completely recovered though seemingly even thinner than ever, and sporting a full but neatly trimmed light-brown beard, arrived to resume command. Aiken was in the vociferously cheering throng as he greeted Richards.

“By God, Dolly, you’ll put me to shame!” exclaimed the colonel. “That action of yours at Mount Carmel Church day before yesterday was as brilliant as anything the Rangers have ever done. You and your battalion don’t even need me.”

Aiken knew it wasn’t false modesty. One of the most striking things about the 43rd Virginia Cavalry, formerly 43rd Battalion Partisan Rangers, was its depth of leadership, almost reminiscent of Nelson’s “Band of Brothers.” Daring young officers like Richards and William Chapman and others had so completely assimilated Mosby’s techniques and style that their victims often mistook them for Mosby himself, even in official reports. And Mosby had always taken full advantage of this, effectively cloning himself and sending small raiding parties to widely separated targets simultaneously, so that it seemed he could be in two places at once. It enhanced the Union troops’ almost superstitious fear of the “Gray Ghost.”

“We know better than that, Colonel,” Richards demurred with a grin. “And so do the governor and the House of Delegates, judging from the honors they paid you earlier this month in Richmond.”

“Yes. It was most gratifying. But,” Mosby added, his expression darkening, “they made me pose for an official photograph holding binoculars, as though I was still a regular cavalry scout, and carrying a
saber!
”

Richards smothered a laugh. “I can imagine the scene that ensued.”

“I argued myself hoarse with them about that saber. I told them it was a useless piece of tin that I never carry. But they were adamant, insisting that people expect it.” Mosby gave his head a shake of resigned exasperation. “Ah, well, on to more important matters. I believe our chief focus for now must be the gathering of forage in Loudoun County—Fauquier is pretty much stripped bare for now. For this purpose, we need to divide our companies into ten- and twelve-man detachments.”