Storm Clouds Rolling In & On To Richmond (Books 1 & 2 in the Bregdan Chronicles) by Ginny Dye - HTML preview

Chapter Twenty-Five

January 1, 1862 dawned clear and unseasonably mild in Winchester, Virginia. Robert stretched as he came out of his tent, taking deep breaths of the fresh morning air.

All around him there was movement as the eighty-five hundred men Jackson had mustered for his winter campaign prepared for the march to come. Spirits were high and confidence was strong that their campaign to take control of the western portion of Virginia would be successful.

Robert dashed water onto his face to wake himself up and then moved over to the cooking fires. It took him only a few minutes to cook a piece of beef on the tip of his sword. Hardtack and a cup of coffee finished his breakfast. As he ate, he pondered what was to come.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” a voice said cheerfully.

“Good morning, Hobbs.” Robert had been pleased to discover Private Hobbs had been assigned to his regiment. His wounds were completely healed and he was still as dedicated to the cause as ever. He had proudly informed Robert that he had signed up for the duration of the war.

“Hey, look, Lieutenant. I won the contest this morning.

I got me three.” Hobbs lifted his coffee for inspection.

Robert grimaced as he walked over and gazed down into the murky liquid. He knew the men had competitions each morning to see who came up with the most weevil larvae from the hardtack. Hobbs had three floating at the top of his coffee.

“This hardtack really been around since the Mexican-American War?” one of his other men asked. “We’re eating grub that was made in 1846?”

“Sheesh!” Hobbs exclaimed. “That’s sixteen years.” He held up his hardtack and looked at it with astonishment.

“Somebody made this stuff the year I was born.” He reached down with his knife and skimmed the larvae off

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the top of his steaming liquid. “I reckon it’s all right now,”

he said.

Robert smiled as most of the soldiers followed suit.

They were good men, doing their best to find humor in their hardships. He knew they dipped the rock-hard biscuits in their coffee to soften them, but also to dislodge any insect infestation caused by improper storage. The army was making the most of every provision they had—

including hardtack baked for earlier military use.

“This campaign should be a cinch after the first one we fought together,” Hobbs remarked.

“I certainly hope so,” Robert replied. “A lot hinges on this.”

Hobbs nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “I reckon it won’t be too hard to regain control of western Virginia. I hear tell the Yankees are going to be powerfully outnumbered by us. They’ll probably run when they see us coming.”

“If they know what’s good for them they will,” Robert agreed. His face hardened. He knew more hinged on this than his men were aware. President Davis had told him Jackson’s full intent during a strategy session.

Jackson’s plan was to concentrate his entire force on Romney in order to drive the enemy, about six thousand strong, from the South Branch Valley. He hoped his thrust would lure the North’s General McClellan out of his fortifications around Alexandria where he was opposed by General Johnston. Then Jackson would move with his troops to reinforce Johnston and secure a victory. Jackson deemed it of great importance that northwestern Virginia be occupied and controlled by Confederate troops this winter. President Davis had rejected a proposal by General Beauregard to invade Maryland. Jackson’s plan, he approved.

The day for action had arrived. Fortune appeared to be on their side, as the warm weather lifted everyone’s spirits and made the idea of a mere forty-mile march seem like a picnic.

Robert was ready with his men when the call came to move out. “Let’s go get them, men!” he called loudly. He

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urged his horse forward as his men stepped out behind him.

Excited talk and laughter filled the air for the first part of the march, but then the wind shifted and began to blow from the north. The week of mild weather ended abruptly as a strong front blasted its way toward them. Robert looked up at the sky in concern. He had been aware of the dangers inherent in a winter campaign, but he had hoped somehow they would not have to deal with them.

He had also received information earlier that concerned him greatly. Even though Romney was Jackson’s ultimate goal, the general had decided on a circuitous route that would more than triple their distance to Romney. Robert was afraid the men would not be able to hold out that long on foot in bad weather, but it was not his decision. All he could do was follow orders.

He had grave misgivings about the men’s capability to do what they were being asked to do, but he understood why they were being asked. Had General Jackson gone straight toward Romney, he would have left a larger force hanging on his right flank than he cared to worry about.

At the same time, he would have left Union forces free to communicate on their Romney relief efforts. Instead, he had decided to march straight for Bath, scattering the force on his right before striking west toward his real goal.

He would cut telegraph lines and burn bridges along the way. It would at least delay the organization of any new force to harass him.

By nightfall, the threatening sky had erupted into a snow and ice storm. Jackson’s troops were in an uncomfortable bivouac, attempting to stay warm.

Hobbs smiled at Robert when he walked over to check on his men. “Fine night, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

“I suppose it is if you’re a bear, Hobbs. How are you?”

Hobbs shrugged. “I could be a little warmer, but I reckon I’ll make it. I used to go on hunting trips in the winter in these mountains. They can be pretty brutal.”

His face said much more than his words did.

Robert nodded in agreement as he gazed around at the hundreds of campfires battling the cold sweeping down on them. Men surrounded them, their faces pinched with cold as they wrapped themselves in thin, inadequate

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blankets. Supply wagons had not been able to keep up with the troops. The men were without food or shelter.

Wind raced over the hills, whistling through the trees, and whirling sparks and smoke into their eyes.

One young soldier caught his attention with his hacking cough. Robert frowned and walked over to where he was curled up on the ground with his back to the fire.

“That cough doesn’t sound so good, Clark.” The slightly built North Carolinian gazed up at him, but when he opened his mouth to speak another spasm of coughing erupted. “Get this man something hot to drink,” Robert snapped. If anyone heard him above the increased whistling of the wind, they didn’t acknowledge it. Their faces seemed frozen as they stared into the fire.

Robert growled, cursing under his breath the necessity of bringing these men out into weather like this.

He stalked over to one of the cook fires and poured some water into a pot to boil. It was twenty minutes before the water was hot enough to make coffee—just long enough to numb his hands and feet. He rubbed his hands together furiously, then made a large cup and carried it over to Clark. The man was still coughing violently, his body shaking with the cold.

“Drink this,” he commanded. He knelt down and put his arm behind Clark’s shoulders to support him while he drank the hot brew.

Clark sipped at the drink slowly in between coughs.

The shaking and coughing subsided somewhat, and he smiled up in gratitude. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Robert nodded and stood up, clapping his hands to get the attention of his men. “We’re in this together. All of us.

Nothing we do is going to change this night, so that means we have to make the best of it. And we have to help each other.”

His men looked at him dully. Robert turned, strode back to his tent, and grabbed up his blankets. When he returned, he put one around Clark, wrapped the other one around himself, and then sat down next to the fire.

Hobbs stared at him in astonishment. “You staying out here with us tonight, Lieutenant?”

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“I said we were in this together, didn’t I?” Surprised faces took on new life. “We’ve got to fight this cold,”

Robert continued. “That means we have to take turns keeping the fires burning hot.”

“I’ll stand the first watch,” one man volunteered.

“I’ll watch next,” another spoke up.

“It also means we have to keep hot liquids in us,”

Robert snapped.

Without speaking, two men stood and headed toward the cook fire. One piled on more wood while the other filled pots with water.

“And we have to share our body warmth,” Robert finished. Soon there were groups of four or five soldiers huddled together, offering each other protection from the wind, sleet and cold.

Robert looked longingly at the tent that would offer him at least some protection against the storm, but he turned away. He would stay with his men. If he expected them to stand together, he had to stand with them. He laid down as close to the fire as possible, pulled his blanket tightly to him, and tried to think of other things.

Carrie appeared, full-blown in his mind. He felt as if he could reach out and touch her glowing skin and sparkling eyes. Suddenly, the laughter in her eyes faded and was replaced by something else. Robert craned forward in his mind to determine what it was. And then he knew. There was a look of warm approval—even pride—on her face.

Strangely encouraged, Robert slept.

Five days later, Robert found himself wondering if he would ever be warm again. So far the campaign had been successful. The town of Bath had been easily occupied after a brief skirmish in which no one was injured. When Jackson followed the retreating troops to the town of Hancock, the Yankees had returned their fire with heavy fire of their own and refused to surrender. General Jackson had considered using his superior force to

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overwhelm the city but decided he would wait for his widely scattered troops to come back together. He had contented himself by ordering several shells lobbed into the town after giving Hancock time to remove their women and children.

“Lieutenant Borden.”

Robert spun around at the sound of the voice behind him. “Yes, sir, General Jackson!” he returned.

“Take a unit of your men to guard against any curiosity the Yankee cavalry might have to investigate us tonight.” The general issued the orders in his usual quiet voice then turned his mare, Little Sorrel, back toward his tent.

Robert watched him go, amazed once again at how unlike a general he appeared. His other Confederate counterparts were all pomp and circumstance. From the beginning, Jackson and his cadet aides were content to go about their duties clad in the plain blue uniforms of the Military Institute. His seat in the saddle was rather ungraceful. His threadbare cadet hat, worn even in this cold, was always tilted over his eyes. He spoke only when necessary, and he seldom smiled. Yet, the loyalty of his troops was wholehearted. To a man, they would stand with him.

Robert had watched as the misery of the troops intensified. Today was the first day of a break in the weather. There was plenty of grumbling and complaining, but he had heard no one suggest they turn back. The men would continue to press forward to Romney. That is, if any were healthy enough to stand. Robert frowned at the wave of hacking coughs that rolled toward him. Many of his men were sick, wracked with fevers and coughing.

Once again, Carrie’s face rose to his mind. What he would give to have her here to care for his men. Then he shook his head. He could not imagine Carrie being in a place like this.

“Hobbs!” he called as he turned toward his men.

Immediately, the freckle-faced mountain boy was at his side.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

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Robert smiled at the lad. Hobbs and his constant good cheer had become indispensable to him. “Select fifty of our men and tell them to prepare for a little scouting trip.”

He paused. “I want fifty healthy men.”

Hobbs hesitated for a moment. “I will do my best, sir.”

“It’s that bad?” Robert asked with a scowl.

Hobbs shrugged. “It’s not just our men, sir. The troops are sick everywhere. I’ll find the fifty healthiest men I can.”

Robert nodded and turned away to gather his own gear. This blamed winter would have to end sometime.

The thought of the long weeks stretched out before them were daunting, but there was nothing to do but endure.

Robert talked briefly with the cavalry detachment that rode out to meet him. “I have orders to stand watch against the Yankee cavalry,” he said to the captain who rode up to confer with him.

The middle-aged man regarding him answered with amusement. “You ain’t got nothing to worry about, Lieutenant. Them Yankees ain’t coming out to look for no trouble tonight, and my boys are keeping a sharp eye on them.”

“I have my orders,” Robert said.

The captain shrugged. “Suit yourself, Lieutenant. We can all watch nothing happen together.” He paused. “Or you can let your men get some sleep. Looks to me like they need it.”

Robert knew he was right. Hobbs had tried to pick fifty healthy men, but that was simply asking too much of a unit decimated with sickness. “Let me know if you have need of our services,” he said, relaxing. Then he turned and waved his men back.

Robert searched until he found an area he was convinced would be safe—an open field that commanded an advance on either end. They would have time to take action if the enemy tried to surprise them during the night. After telling his men to get some sleep, he wrapped up in his blanket and laid down on the cold ground. He looked up into the sky for a few moments. It was cloudy, but not nearly as cold as it had been. Within minutes he had fallen into an exhausted slumber.

“Great Jehoshaphat!”

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A loud, startled voice snapped Robert from his sleep.

Just as quickly, he was aware of an oppressive heat. He threw off the blanket with which he had completely covered his head during the night and was amazed to see snow flying in every direction.

“Look at that, Lieutenant!”

Robert gazed in the direction Hobbs was waving his arm. The scene stretched out before him was a strange one. The field, blanketed under five inches of snow, looked to be the home of great fallen logs. As he watched, one by one, the “logs” came to life and sent snow flying in every direction.

“First good night’s sleep I’ve had since we started this crazy march,” one voice called. “I was warm as a pup all night long!”

Choruses of assent rose around him. Robert smiled, realizing now why farmers in the mountains and in the North prayed for a deep layer of snow to protect their wheat from intense cold. He jumped up, gave orders to the men to prepare breakfast, and then rode up to check with the cavalry unit.

“Still as a church mouse around here,” the captain reported. “You can tell Jackson these boys ain’t gonna cause no one any trouble.”

A horse galloped up and skidded to a halt where they were standing. “What is it, Smith?” the captain asked sharply.

“Reinforcements, sir. There are a large number of reinforcements marching into Hancock. I don’t reckon they intend to give it up.”

Robert listened as the young scout revealed all the information he had and then turned to race back in the direction he had come from. “I will take this information back to General Jackson,” he snapped.

Later that afternoon, General Jackson withdrew his troops and once more continued on his way to Romney.

He had abandoned his idea of crossing the Potomac and raiding north. His efforts in taking Bath had not been in vain, however. He had accomplished his primary objective. Earlier that morning, he had sent a command of men to destroy the Big Cacapon Bridge over the

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Potomac River. They had driven off its defenders and decimated it with their artillery, before proceeding to rip down telegraph lines as far as they could go.

Carrie stopped her work long enough to straighten her shoulders and stretch in an effort to bring relief to her aching muscles. Not even she knew why she was working so hard at the task she had set for herself. She stepped back from the table she had erected in the basement of the house and reviewed her work. Bottle after bottle lined the table in front of her, as well as the shelves surrounding her. Their carefully prepared labels proclaimed their contents. Yarrow, mistletoe, onion, mint, poppy, broom, thistle, dandelion...

Carrie gave a sigh of contentment as she looked at how the supply had grown. There were still bags of herbs and plants to take care of, but she was making progress. The idea had come to her late one night when she was poring over the medical books Aunt Abby had sent. The long winter nights had given her an abundance of time to study them. The more she learned, the hungrier she became to know more.

One particular night, as she read through the volume about medicine and its uses, she had a sudden vision of the crowd of Union gunboats choking the Virginia shoreline. The citizens of Richmond were already feeling the results of the blockade. What would happen if medicines started to run short when the need was the greatest? That vision had started her on her current mission. She was sure she would be laughed at if the medical community was ever to see her growing store of herbs, but she didn’t care. Even if she only had opportunity to use it for her people here on the plantation, it would be well worth her efforts.

The door above her cracked open, and Sam called down to her. “You plannin’ on eatin’ sometime today, Miss Carrie?”

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“Is it late, Sam?” she called back.

Sam chuckled before he answered. “It be almost four o’clock, Carrie girl.”

“Four o’clock,” Carrie gasped. No wonder she was beginning to feel faint. She had been down here since ten o’clock that morning. She brushed her hands off on her dress, reached forward to cork the last bottle, and quickly climbed the stairs. “I’m starving,” she announced when she reached the top.

Sam chuckled again and pulled out the plate he had been holding behind his back.

Carrie smiled when she saw the steaming bowl of soup surrounded by thick slices of fresh bread and butter.

“You’re an angel,” she exclaimed. Her stomach chimed its agreement. She took the plate and walked past the dining room straight into the parlor, sinking down into the chair pulled closest to the fire. A sharp, cold wind blew outside, making the heat from the fire even more welcome.

Branches smacked against the windows of the house, reminding Carrie she needed to have some of the men cut them back for her.

“You need anything else?” Sam asked from the doorway.

Carrie shook her head as she dipped her spoon into the fragrant brew. “This is wonderful. Thank you.” She sighed as the first spoonful of soup warmed her all the way down to her stomach. When she finally put her spoon aside, she could feel the strength returning to her body.

Sam reappeared at the door to the parlor, a wide smile spread across his face.

“Yes, Sam?” Carrie asked, returning his smile. “What is it?”

Sam walked forward, holding something in his hand.

“We had company,” he announced, his eyes sparkling with joy.

“I didn’t hear anything.” Carrie frowned. “What in the world is someone doing out on a day like this? It’s almost dark.”

“They didn’t come to the front door,” Sam announced, still wearing his smile. “They done come to the back door.”

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Carrie, confused, sat back in her chair. “Will you please tell me what you are talking about? Who came and why were they at the back door?”

Suddenly, her eyes opened wide. She could think of only one reason someone would be out on a night like this and appear at the back door. Someone connected with the Underground Railroad had made a delivery.

“Sam…?”

Sam nodded and held out the envelope to her. He held up another one, already opened. “I got me a letter, too,”

he said proudly. Only then did his eyes mist over. “I’ll leave you to read.”

Carrie, her heart pounding and her hands trembling, quickly opened the envelope and pulled the thin letter out.

Dearest Carrie,

I am limited in what I write in case this letter falls into the wrong hands, but I wanted you to know we have safely reached our planned destination. Our hostess sends her deepest heartfelt love to you. Our journey took us longer than expected, but we reached our destination at the end of October. We are both doing well. Our hostess is taking good care of us and opportunities are opening up.

Our hearts are with you, and we think of you often. We miss you greatly and long for the day we can all be reunited. Thank you for making all this possible. We will never be able to fully express our gratitude. Please take good care of yourself.

Love,

R & M

Quiet sobs shook Carrie’s body. Rose and Moses had made it. They were safe in Pennsylvania with Aunt Abby.

Relief flooded her as visions of them struggling through months of winter cold vanished from her mind. It had taken the Underground Railroad over two months to deliver the letter, but there was no telling what route it had been forced to take.

Contentment filled Carrie as she stared into the flames of the fire. Rose and Moses were safe. They had

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accomplished the first step toward fulfilling their dreams.

Unbidden, her thoughts turned to Robert, but it wasn’t the longing for him that shook her to the core. It was the sudden intense feeling that he was in danger. Gasping, she gripped the letter tighter and stared out the window, shaken with the knowledge that something horrible was happening to Robert.

She slipped to her knees and buried her head in her hands. Quietly, she began to pray.

Robert had never been as miserable in his life as he was now. After the successful moves to cut the North’s communication lines, General Jackson had ordered the troops to move on to Romney. They had marched headlong into the worst weather they had encountered to this point. The temperature plunged dramatically, while snow and sleet pelted them and coated their bodies.

Underneath their feet, the sleet transformed itself into a solid sheet of ice.

The first steep incline had forced them off the roads and into the ditches and open fields. It was the only way they could make any progress.

“Look at that, Lieutenant,” Hobbs yelled, pointing back toward the road as Robert’s troops scrambled to gain footing on the steep hill.

Robert glanced back. “Good Lord,” he muttered.

“They’ll never make it.” He stopped and watched as the first of the supply wagons reached the hill. The smooth-shod horses were doing their best to haul the wagons, but the slippery road was too much for them. Robert groaned as he watched their struggle. One slipped, fell, and fought frantically to regain its footing as the other horses slithered around it. The shouts of men filled the air as they encouraged the horses and tried to force them to move forward.

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Robert watched for several long minutes. “Come on, men. We have to help.” Silently, his men turned and followed him.

Robert sized up the situation and stationed his men behind the wagons. “We have to help the horses. They can’t possibly pull this up, but if we put our weight into it and push, the combination of our efforts may make it possible,” he yelled over the commotion. He was the first to put his shoulder into the back of one of the wagons.

The men around him sprang into action, grunting as the heavy weight of the wagon pressed back against them.

Encouraged, the watching wagoners cheered as the wagon began to move forward slowly.

Robert was gasping for breath when they reached the top of the hill, but at least he wasn’t cold anymore. Sweat poured from his body, even as ice caked his beard. He peered down the hill in front of him. The driver lifted his reins to send the horses on, but Robert reached out to stop him. “You’ll never make it,” he snapped. “The wagon will slide right over the horses. They won’t be able to stop.”

The driver glared at him, obviously short-tempered.

“What am I supposed to do?” he growled. “Perch here on the hill? I got other wagons coming up behind me.”

Robert thought quickly. An idea came to mind. “Do you have rope in here?” he asked.

The driver nodded and rummaged behind him, pulling out several long coils.

Robert grabbed them and tied four lengths to the top of the wagon. He handed the ends to the four men standing with him. “Spread out to the sides of the road where you have some traction. Use trees for leverage wherever you can. Just keep the wagon moving slowly,”

he shouted. The four men sprang into action, and with a look of surprised admiration, the driver once again lifted his reins.

Robert stepped back to watch. Would his idea work, or would the four men plunge down the hill after the horses? The wagon began to move. Cursing and shouting filled the air as the men struggled to hold its weight back.

There were moments when it seemed the wagon would slide right off the road, taking the horses with it, but

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finally it reached the bottom of the hill. Not too far ahead, another hill loomed.

“It’s going to take us until spring to reach Romney.”

Robert turned and smiled weakly at Hobbs. “I’m afraid you might be right.” He shrugged. He was aware of the discontent brewing among the troops. “We have one order—to move forward. Somehow we have to figure out how to do that.”

Hobbs moved to the back of the next wagon and attached the ropes Robert handed to him. “We’re ready, sir,” he finally called.

“Move on,” Robert called to the driver.

One by one, the ammunition and supply wagons, as well as the ambulances, slithered their way to the top of the hill. The last one was on its way up when one of the men fell and refused to move. His eyes were glazed with pain, fatigue and cold as he stared up at Robert.

“I done brought five wagons up this hill, Lieutenant,”

he said faintly. “I ain’t got nothing left.”

Robert helped him to his feet and led him to the side of the road. “You did great work, Clark. Rest here. I’ll take your place.” Robert leapt over to the wagon and threw his weight into it.

They were almost to the top when it began to slide sideways. The driver cursed and snapped his whip, calling encouragement to his struggling horses, but the ice had continued to thicken, and there seemed no way to stop it.

“Hold it men!” Robert cried, stepping more to the side and throwing his weight into the wagon to stop its slide.

A quick glance across his shoulder revealed a gaping ravine yawning just feet from where he stood.

“We’re not going to stop it, Lieutenant!” one of the men cried. “It’s going!”

Robert shook his head. “No!” he yelled. “This wagon is full of food. Keep pushing!” Every muscle in his body screamed in agony as he fought to stop the inevitable.

Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath him. He reached for the wagon but missed. Robert slid down the ditch, grabbing for something to stop his fall as he stared

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up at the wagon teetering on the edge above him. He crumpled into a heap at the bottom of the ravine.

“Lieutenant!” he heard a voice scream.

Robert stared upward, his energy and strength spent.

So this was how it was going to end. There was no glory in being crushed by a wagon. A picture of Carrie flashed in his mind, and searing regret shot through him that he would never see her again.

Move!

The word exploded in his head as if he had received a verbal command.

Move!

From somewhere, Robert found the strength to stand and lunge for the top of the ravine. His wildly groping hand found a root. Groaning with the effort, he pulled himself up. His shoulders had barely cleared the top when he heard a yell behind him. There was a scream as the horses lost their fight and the wagon plunged down the slope, carrying the horses with it. Robert felt the wagon brush his leg as it crashed into the bottom of the ravine, but his grip on the root held.

Robert’s men rushed over to grab his hands and haul him up the rest of the way. He collapsed at the top, gasping for breath.

Finally, he looked down. Three of the horses were still thrashing, one was ominously still. Robert felt sorry for the three—at least the dead one was free from struggle.

Then his breath caught. What had happened to the driver? A quick glance reassured him. The driver must have jumped just as the wagon plunged over the edge.

Jackson was there, staring down at the wagon. His voice was sorrowful. “The wagon is done for, men, but we have to get that food.” His voice hardened as if he were trying to fight his own feelings. “Cut the horses free.

There is a place about a hundred feet up where you can lead them out. If any of them have broken a leg...” He didn’t finish his command. He didn’t have to. The men knew what they would have to do.

Jackson looked over at Robert. “You all right, Lieutenant? The men told me you are responsible for moving the wagons. Thank you.”

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Robert nodded and raised his hand. “I’m fine, sir.” But he didn’t move. His close brush with death had left him dazed.

Clark led a group of men down into the ditch. Several minutes later, the men led a pair of horses away and out of sight. Robert closed his eyes as two shots rang out.

It was almost dark when the wagon was completely unloaded and the food transferred to another. The men spread out into the surrounding field and settled in for another long, miserable night.

Robert crawled into his tent and listened to the wind and sleet assaulting their position. He knew how close he had come to dying. He had been sure when he saw the wagon teetering above him that it was all over. Then the voice had surged through his being, giving his body a strength he didn’t know he possessed.

He had tried to fight the knowledge ever since, but here alone in his tent he faced the truth. It had been God who saved him. God who shouted the command. God who had infused his body with strength.

God had always been a thing to know about. A thing that preachers talked about. A thing that he thought about when he went to church, which had only been on rare occasions. He had always believed in God, he supposed. It had just never touched him.

Now he knew God was real, and for some reason God must want him alive. For the first time in his life, Robert felt the warmth of love in his heart. Not the kind of love one sent, but the kind of love one received. The thought both scared and exhilarated him. What was he supposed to do with this new knowledge? The question was still spinning in his brain when he fell into an exhausted sleep.

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