Shades of Gray: A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia

Shades of Gray

Copyright
2010 Jessica James

This
book is available in print format at most online retailers.

Read
the new ending in

Noble
Cause

An
alternative ending to Shades of Gray

Shades of Gray

A Novel of the Civil War in Virginia

Or a

Tale of the War for Southern Independence

in the Old Dominion

Jessica James

Patriot Press

Chapter 1

“But one
of them would make war rather than let the nation survive;

and the
other would accept war rather than let it perish. And the war came.”

– Abraham
Lincoln

Northern
Virginia

1862

A piercing bugle blast preceded the sound of
galloping horses by mere seconds. Captain Alexander Hunter tore his eyes away
from the horse and rider he pursued and focused on the Federal cavalry unit now
pursuing
him
.

Blast it
.
Tricked again
.

This was not the first time the large black
steed with its agile rider had been spotted in advance of a Union assault—but
Hunter swore today would be the last. Signaling his men to scatter, he spurred
his mount toward the forest where his foe had disappeared. His band of warriors
took off in every direction, their escape aided by a roiling mass of
dark-bellied clouds that launched their own assault. With the storm as an ally,
Hunter knew the Federal cavalry would not long sustain the chase. He worried
not for the welfare of his men, who were familiar enough with the land to evade
the enemy no matter what the weather. He cared only to find the Yank who led
him into the trap and see him punished.

Punished severely.

Hunter lowered his hand to one of the revolvers
at his hip.
Damn that scoundrel.
The timely arrival of Union
reinforcements over the past few months could no longer be considered a mere
coincidence. It was time for this cunning adversary to pay for the disruptions
he’d caused.

Hunter guided his mare through the underbrush
and around fallen trees, but entertained little hope of finding his antagonist.
The rider possessed a habit of appearing, only to disappear into thin air. Even
today, when he’d thought the elusive character within his grasp, Hunter had
instead found himself in another trap.

The distinctive sound of running water replaced
the hushed patter of rain and called Hunter from his thoughts. “How about a
drink, ol’ girl?” He urged his mare forward, leaning low over the saddle to
avoid tree limbs, then jerked on the reins at the sight of a youth crouched on
the opposite bank gulping water by the handful. Hunter’s gaze shifted to the
horse hungrily grazing on green shoots at the water’s edge. Enormous and coal
black, its chest glistened from being ridden hard.

Hunter reached for his revolver and blinked to
make sure the fading daylight was not playing tricks on his vision. The scout
was smaller and younger than he expected. He cocked his weapon and shouted
across the fast-moving stream, “Don’t move!”

Startled, the youth stood and challenged him.
“What do you want?” he asked, holding nothing but dripping water.

Hunter’s confusion intensified as he stared at
his opponent. Dressed in an oversized coat, slouch hat pulled low, and baggy
trousers, the boy looked harmless enough.
Can this really be the Union scout
I’ve been chasing
?

One more glance at the horse answered his
question. Few such horses existed in this part of the country, certainly none
of such quality that had not already been confiscated by one or the other of
the armies. This was no guiltless civilian. This was a Yankee. And a cunning
one at that.

“I think you know what I want. It appears we’ve
spent the last week watching each other, and still have not been introduced.”

He urged his mare down the bank to a sandbar,
but hesitated. The creek was not wide, but the swift-running current and
slippery rocks made fording here treacherous.

“If I may offer you some advice, sir?”

“Begging your pardon, son, but I don’t think
you’re in any position to offer advice.”

“So it appears,” the youth replied, “but this is
not a safe place to cross. If you go right down there—” He pointed downstream,
but Hunter, blinking in disbelief at his audacity, interrupted.

“Thanks for the advice,” he sneered, urging his
horse forward in the ice-cold water, “but I’ll not go back without the
scoundrel who’s been reporting my movements to the Yanks.”

Hunter attempted to keep his eye on the enemy
while guiding his mount through the maze of rocks in the stream bed. About
halfway across, he saw the youth bolt to his grazing horse and gather the
reins. Reacting instinctively he fired a shot, causing his mare to lose her
footing and plunge to her knees. The panicked animal struggled a moment before
bounding up with a great surge of strength, knocking Hunter off balance. As he
tried to regain control, the mare lunged again, this time unseating him and
sending him sailing backward. Hunter felt himself falling, seemingly in slow
motion, until there came a skull-cracking thud and a blinding flash of light.
Then nothing.

* * *

Andrea Evans waited breathlessly, fearing a
trick, before leaping into the cold water. The Rebel floated face up, yet the
red froth swirling around him made his injuries appear serious. She grabbed him
beneath his arms and backed toward the bank, slipping, falling, spitting
mouthfuls of water as she fought the current and struggled with the man’s
weight. By the time she dragged him onto land, her legs trembled from
exhaustion and her lungs screamed for air.

“Dammit, I told you not to cross there,” she
groaned between teeth chattering from the cold. Leaning down to get a closer
look at his injury, she shook her head. “Now what am I to do with you?”

Without warning the man’s eyes flew open, and
his hands grabbed her arms like a pair of steel vises. “The question is, what
am I to do with you?” he snarled, rolling her onto her back. He straddled her,
pinning her to the ground with the strength of an angry bull.

Andrea
clenched her teeth and studied her dreaded foe. He did not speak; his eyes did
the talking—and what they said drove through her like a ramrod. “I should have
left you to die,” she spat, regretting her impulsive decision to rescue him.

“It’s your undoing that you did not.”

As the
soldier scrutinized her face, Andrea began to kick, push, and squirm beneath
him in a violent but futile attempt to escape. Pushing with all her remaining
strength, Andrea grimaced at the uselessness of the effort against his powerful
arms. Resigned to her fate, she relaxed and looked up into eyes that now
appeared glazed and unfocused. She felt his grip loosen, watched him blink and
sway before groaning and collapsing to one side. Andrea remained on her back
for only a moment, sucking in air and listening to the chaotic pounding of her
heart. Then she rolled out of his grasp and stared at the unconscious form.

She knew this was the notorious Captain Hunter,
a man the North feared as a calculating guerrilla leader and the South
glorified as a knight. He was a legend for his ability to keep the Federal army
on constant alert and in a continuous state of panic. His unorthodox methods of
warfare left Union troops wondering when to expect him—and dreading what to
expect.

Even unconscious
he appeared a formidable image of strength and power, making Andrea fear that
the muscular frame beside her would rebound with the force and vitality for
which he was so well known. She crawled another arm’s reach away, but not
before catching a glimpse of the gash, still seeping blood, from beneath a mass
of brown, wavy hair. She closed her eyes to quell the chill of fear inching its
way up her spine—not sure if it was from the fear that he might be dead or the
fear that he might suddenly awake. Although death had surrounded her for
months, she never anticipated actually being the
cause
of it.

A voice in the woods behind her jolted Andrea
from her thoughts. She swore at herself for losing another opportunity to
escape.

“The gunshot came from over here,” yelled
someone with a distinct Southern drawl.

Lantern light reflected off the leaves, casting
shadows on her and her unconscious companion.

“Over here! I found the Cap’n’s horse,” another
voice shouted.

Andrea held her breath. With no sign of her horse,
she slipped into the darkness, hoping the soldiers were too busy searching for
their leader to hear.

“Over here! I found him!”

Light flooded an area not forty yards downstream
and a dozen Rebels descended from the tree line. Andrea decided it was time to
run, and run she did, cutting away from the bank and into the temporary safety
of the trees. More concerned with speed now than caution, she sprinted through
the woods, pushing blindly through the profuse underbrush into the awful
blackness beyond. It seemed the trees tried to stop her, reaching out with
spear-like branches to snag her clothes and hold her tightly in their gasp.
Long, prickly limbs appeared out of nowhere to tear at her cloths and lacerate
her skin. She whimpered at their savagery, but fear of capture inspired her
legs to move faster.