The Mountain: An Event Group Thriller (4 page)

The soldier across the river seemed to break the statuesque spell he had been under and then turned his horse away and bounded up the muddy bank of the Rappahannock. Jeb Stuart could see the gold piping running the length of the man’s uniform pants. He knew then that the visitor was a Union cavalry officer. Horse and rider vanished into the trees on the far side. He knew without turning around in his saddle that his small unit of men were now preparing for any nasty surprises that might arise from this highly unusual and clandestine meeting.

The rain seemed to diminish as the rider returned, this time in advance of an ornate carriage with oil lamps illuminated on each side of the driver who sat atop it. The officer upon the mount took hold of the lead horse of the six that drew the carriage and eased them and their charge into the fast-moving waters of the Rappahannock. The horses flinched at first but Stuart could see that the rider had a calming effect on the team as they eased into the river and made the crossing. The horse and rider then allowed the carriage to cross as they made the far side. The cavalry officer easily approached Jeb Stuart when the carriage finally battled its way up the bank.

Stuart waited. What they were doing this dark night was far beyond the pale of Stuart’s understanding. General Robert E. Lee had ordered that he meet and safely escort the envoy directly into the camp of the Army of Northern Virginia. Stuart had the feeling that President Lincoln was asking for a truce so Lee could consider the surrender of the army to General Meade, who had failed to destroy Lee at Gettysburg. This was the reason Jeb Stuart was tempted to end this little meeting right now. He kept his hands on his saddle as the Union officer approached until their two horses were nose to nose. The man raised his right hand into the air and brought it to the brim of his dripping hat.

“Lieutenant Colonel Hines Jorgensen, First Division of General Buford’s Corps, at your service, sir.”

Stuart was hesitant in returning the military respect accorded by this officer, but in the end Stuart’s West Point training kicked in as if he had never left the service of the United States Army. The salute was returned.

“General J. E. B. Stuart, at yours, sir,” he said, and then bowed and amazingly his horse did also, allowing its right foreleg to stretch out and its left to bend. The Union officer was impressed, but then the man had seen this Confederate general do some amazing things on the field of battle, as he was a rebel that every cavalry officer in the United States knew on a level they wished they didn’t. Horse and rider straightened and then Stuart gestured toward the trees behind him as his small unit of cavalrymen made their presence known. Jeb Stuart turned back to the Union officer and held the man’s eyes.

“You were supposed to have only you and one other,” the Union man Jorgensen said, “not an entire unit.”

Stuart smiled for the first time in what seemed like months. “These men are not a unit, sir, they are my personal guard. It would be somewhat of a personal embarrassment if Mr. Lincoln’s mysterious envoy turned out to be an assassin, now wouldn’t it?”

“Mr. Lincoln is far above such intrigues and you of all soldiers should know that, General. He wants this foolishness to end and end soon.”

“That, sir, is not up to me.”

“Then may I suggest that you take us to the man that it is up to?”

Stuart didn’t say anything in return but instead spurred his large horse and made his way to the carriage where he stopped and looked up at the carriage driver. The man had a set of three stripes up and three down, and the single star in the middle told Stuart all he wanted to know. His eyes roamed to the man’s face and then recognition struck his memory like a hammer slamming home upon a nail.

“Sergeant Major Wilkes, it has been a long time. I think it was on the Cimarron I saw you last.” Stuart smiled at the memory. “I think a wild Comanche was attempting to fill your hindquarters with arrows. How have you been, Sergeant Major?”

The bearded soldier sitting atop the carriage kept his eyes straight ahead. Stuart felt his horse move as he waited for his old Indian-fighting comrade to respond.

“Sergeant Major? It’s me, Captain Stuart,” he said, refreshing the sergeant major’s memory with the rank he had at the time they served together in Texas.

“I know who you are, sir, and I wish to gather no memory wool with you.” The sergeant major finally looked down at the general. “Nor do I wish to recall our past service together, sir. The captain I served with was a United States cavalry officer. The man who stands before me here on this dark night is a traitor”—the sergeant major looked away—“to not only his country, but also to the men we buried along those dry riverbeds in Texas.”

Stuart lowered his eyes and his head and moved his horse to the carriage door and then leaned over and pulled the door’s handle. He looked down and inside the dry compartment and his eyes widened, and he hated himself for allowing the man to see his surprised expression.

“Young man, you are allowing rainwater to enter my carriage, so if you would not have me drown, may I suggest you close the door and get me to the man I came here to see. I’m rather chilled to the bone and my whiskey flask is running dangerously low.”

Jeb Stuart closed the carriage door and then straightened in his saddle. He turned to his second-in-command and nodded his head. The captain eased his horse up to face the carriage driver but the sergeant major kept his eyes straight ahead. Stuart watched the exchange.

“You will follow these men closely. Any variation in our route that is not initiated by my men, and you will be shot as spies. Do I make myself clear, Sergeant Major?”

“The sergeant major knows how to follow orders,” Stuart said as he sadly turned away from his old friend, knowing that no matter the outcome of this war, it would take years to heal the wounds of the country. Stuart guided his horse back to the driver of the carriage.

“I’m glad you’ve survived thus far in this insanity, Sergeant Major. So few of us have,” he said and then eased his horse into the trees and vanished.

The small but stout sergeant major watched his old commanding officer leave the clearing and then he lowered his eyes.

“He’s tired. The war is finally getting to his conscience, I believe,” the captain said by way of explaining Stuart’s behavior.

Finally the bearded sergeant major broke his spell after the shock of seeing the one-time U.S. Cavalry officer in the garish gray uniform of a Confederate general, and slowly glanced down at the captain and, with rainwater flooding from the leather bill of his cap, cleared his throat.

“That man was born to fight and he won’t give a good goddamn for his conscience until one side or the other wins. No, Captain, that is a soldier,” he said and then took the reins and whipped them upon the team, drawing the carriage forward to follow his old friend who was now his bitter enemy.

The Confederate captain watched the carriage vanish into the line of trees with his men closely following. He was amazed to hear the sergeant major describe Stuart as a traitor complete with hate-filled eyes, and then to hear the same man turn around and praise his old commanding officer as a friend would have.

The war was taking a toll on the very fabric that made the country great—the division of brother against brother and friend against friend would be the death of the dream.

The war had to stop and stop soon.

HEADQUARTERS, ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA

The old man saw the wagons overflowing with wounded as they slogged their way through the rain-soaked, tree-trunk corduroy road the engineers had laid down just a few weeks before when the intact Army of Northern Virginia headed headlong into the disaster that had become Robert E. Lee’s only blemish on his Confederate war record—Gettysburg. The lone passenger inside the dry interior of the ornate carriage saw the misery that had become the new face of Lee’s undefeatable army. He leaned back in his seat and knew that the South would never smile again after Pennsylvania. He tipped the open flask of whiskey to his lips and drained the contents that eased his mind at seeing this great travesty firsthand.

The faces that stared back at him and the sergeant major were not in the least hostile, but rather offered expressions of utter disbelief at what had happened just two weeks past in that small college town across the river. The men did not have the look of defeat on their tired, muddy faces; instead, those faces held the belief that Lee would see them through. No, the man thought, this army was far from defeated and he knew that was why he had been sent—for that day when this madness would finally end.

The carriage was brought to a stop but not before the man inside saw the armed guards just outside his window. He braced himself as the door opened.

“Sir, I trust you will comport yourself as a gentleman during this meeting. I do not believe I have to offer any dire warnings if you do not,” Jeb Stuart said as he took a quick step back and then nodded for an aide to take his place as an umbrella was held out for the occupant of the carriage.

As the guest of the Army of Northern Virginia exited the carriage to curious looks from every man in view, Stuart tipped his hat and then turned to leave, his knee-high boots splashing through the water.

“General, sir,” the sergeant major called out as he tied off the carriage’s reins on the seat and then expertly hopped down from the bench in a graceful leap. He adjusted his blue and gold cape and his uniform tunic as he waited for Stuart to approach.

“How may I be of service, Sergeant Major Wilkes?” Stuart asked, slowly pulling off his gauntlets as he waited for the bearded sergeant to state his business. He was shocked when his old comrade came to attention in the driving rain.

“You have my apologies, General Stuart, for acting the boor, and for not conducting myself properly as a noncommissioned officer in the United States Army. I must state that our past association was …
is
 … far more relevant than I led you to believe earlier.” The sergeant major half-bowed and then returned to attention. The soldiers who witnessed this man, who only weeks before was more than likely trying to kill the very man he was saluting, were mindful of what was really happening inside the camp of Robert E. Lee.

The reputation of J. E. B. Stuart was that of a southern gentleman, and even back in his cavalry days in Texas he held firm that you always conducted yourself as such even when faced with adversity, and even defeat. All eyes widened when Stuart removed his famous hat with the ostrich feather cocked at the side.

“Apology accepted, Sergeant Major,” was all he said, and then turned to leave, replacing his hat. It had been as if he had no response to his old friend.

“Jeb?” the sergeant major said before Stuart could get too far in the rain.

“Sergeant Major Wilkes?” he said as he slowly turned back to face the Union noncom.

“You watch yourself and get through this, you hear?”

“Always bossing me around and never knowing who outranks who,” Stuart said, but with a smile. He then straightened to the posture of a ramrod and brought his hand up to his hat to salute his old friend. “When this is over I’ll continue to teach you those etiquette lessons I started on the Rio Grande a million years ago.”

The sergeant major slowly lowered his hand and watched his old friend walk into the rain-soaked world and into American history.

As he turned, Sergeant Major Wilkes was confronted by three men. He came to an abrupt stop and then relaxed when he saw one of the men with as many stripes as himself holding out a tin cup of steaming liquid.

“T’ain’t no South American coffee, only chicory,” the sergeant with the graying beard said as he held out the cup.

“It would curl your hair to know what Captain Stuart and I had to drink hunkered down fighting the Comanche in North Texas, I ought to tell ya,” Wilkes said as he accepted the hot tin cup with a nod.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re a’ goin’ to tell us anyway, Billy Yank?”

*   *   *

The Union civilian was hunched over with his cloak protecting him from the downpour of rain that had Lee’s camp swimming. The fires were built high and then he realized why—the Army of Northern Virginia was getting ready to move and the high campfires would tell the Union sentries across the river that they were hunkering down for the night. The old man’s eyes saw the wagons being hitched and the wounded being loaded. Yes, the army was making a run for Richmond and the embrace of Jefferson Davis and his Confederacy.

Two well-appointed guards stood on either side of the door fronting a modest home. An old woman sat in a rocking chair darning as the two sentries kept their rifles straight. When the guest stepped onto the porch, the one on the right eased the door open as the guest removed his hat and sloughed off some of the rain.

“Thank you, young man,” the guest said as he stepped into the warm house where he was greeted by a dark-haired major with a beard that was thin enough for a lad of fifteen.

“Sir, I am Major Walter Taylor, steward to General Lee. May I take your cloak and your hat, sir?” the man with the sparkling uniform asked as he half-bowed to the much older man.

“You can do more than that, young man. You may offer me some libation to warm these old bones, as I have seemed to run out of my own supply while wading across that damnable river.”

The major seemed uncomfortable as his reach for the hat and cloak faltered momentarily.

“Sir, we carry no such refreshment at headquarters. I’m afraid the general—”

“—will have to assign the major another dangerous mission to find our guest his whiskey. After all, his reputation very much precedes him and thus we should have been far more prepared.”

The old man turned and saw a somber soldier with white hair and even whiter beard step from the back of the small house. The eyes were dark and they looked as if they had not closed in the days since the common massacre in Pennsylvania. The man looked as if he was no longer invincible—just the way the visitor wanted him.

“Perhaps our host, Mrs. Gandy, has a supply of medicinal whiskey in the house that you haven’t found and destroyed, Major.”