Fields, roads, trees, and shrubs were alike clothed in the white robes of winter, and it seemed almost a sacrilege against the beauty and holy stillness of the scene to stain those pure garments with the life blood of man, be he friend or foe.
– Mosby’s Rangers, James Williamson
Winter hit northern Virginia with no warning and little mercy. Snow and sleet fell all day, putting down a cold blanket of discomfort that slowed the horses and froze in the beards of Hunter’s men. Although the enemy was in winter quarters, Hunter did not lessen his attacks. Nothing—not sleep, not exhaustion, and not the weather—stopped him or even slowed him down.
Hunter walked up and down the tracks in silence inspecting his men’s work while Dixie followed diligently behind. His Command continued to harass any Union soldiers who dared enter his territory, and his activities had become even more well known as a result. Many in his ranks were no longer boys, but officers who had resigned their commissions in the regular army for the honor of serving under him.
Satisfied with the job his men had done, Hunter became absorbed for a moment by the shrubs and bushes that glistened like rolling waves of whitecaps under the starlight. He thought how Andrea would enjoy the incredible scenery, then swore under his breath and continued into the pines.
Retreating a small distance from his men, Hunter pulled his buffalo robe from behind his saddle and laid down. The train would be another hour at least in coming. Despite the numbing fatigue that weighed upon his body, he feared he would not be able to rest. Ignoring the strange feeling of dread that had hung over him all day, he put his saddle blanket under his head, closed his eyes—and was asleep before taking another breath.
But sleep did not seem to last long. Hunter heard what sounded like a single horse coming at a trot, its hoofbeats muted on the frozen snow-covered ground.
Crawling to the edge of the pines, he listened as the sound grew closer to the bend in the road. He felt the anticipation of his men around him as they too hugged the ground and strained breathlessly.
Seconds ticked by slowly, painfully. Sweat trickled down his face, and his heart raced with anticipation. When a nearby branch gave way to the weight of its burden, his nerves reacted with a painful jolt.
Steadying his breathing once again, Hunter watched the shadowy image of a horse and rider appear from around the curve. A full moon shifted in the sky just then, casting a beam of light in front of the pair like an ethereal pathway.
Hunter’s pulse quickened at the sight. Somehow he had known, had hoped at least, it would be her. She rode perfectly relaxed, one hand on loose reins, the other on her thigh, seemingly oblivious to any danger.
Hunter watched mesmerized as she glanced up at the moon in all its glory, then reached down and patted the skittish horse on the neck as it shied at the strange shadows created on the glittering snow.
They were nearly in front of him now, so close he could see every detail—the frozen whiskers on her horse’s muzzle, the frost-steamed breath pouring forth from its nostrils. He stepped out onto the road to greet her, and thought how beautiful the night star looked shining its light down upon her.
Yet now the scene before him began to blur and move in slow motion.
The sharp crack of a revolver startled him. He saw her lurch to one side, then scramble to right herself. She looked down at her chest, her brow wrinkled in confusion at the redness blossoming there. Then slowly, in disbelief, she raised her head and met his gaze. She appeared bewildered, surprised for a moment. Then her eyes glazed over with the pain of recognition.
Hunter tried to go to her, but his legs remained planted where he stood. He wanted to tell her it was not him, it was not his shot, but he was left voiceless by the utter madness of the scene.
She continued to stare at him as she put her hand to her chest, and he stared back in utter confusion when it seemed to disappear inside her. She sighed heavily then, and the pain in her quivering eyes turned to sadness, betrayal, disappointment.
But even as she fell forward, she never removed her pitiful eyes from him. She held his gaze with a questioning stare, never blinking, yet seeming to accept the fate that had befallen her.
“Wait! Let me help!” Hunter thought he said the words out loud, but if he did, she did not listen. She slumped off the side of her horse to the crystal-laden earth, almost at his feet. He heard the dull thud when her body hit the ground, stared in awestruck horror at the scarlet-spattered snow all around her. He looked to her face, now devoid of all color, then to the brilliant green eyes that stared blankly at the full moon overhead.
“Andrea! No!” He knelt by her side in frantic horror, blinking in disbelief as he watched the light flicker and go out of those once-expressive eyes, just like a match suddenly extinguished.
“Can you hear me?”
But he knew she couldn’t. Couldn’t possibly. Not now that the green was gone. Gone! Melted away! Those beautiful windows to the soul were now two gaping, vacant orbs.
Hunter’s gaze turned to the pure white snow that contrasted with the shocking red flow of gore that seemed ever spreading. He looked toward heaven, hoping for some refuge there, but now even the sky had turned to a crimson sea of horror, as if her lifeblood ebbed from her body to saturate the very heavens. Panicking, Hunter looked around for his men, but they had all vanished.
There was no movement. No sound anywhere. It seemed the world had stopped.
“Andrea!” He reached out to touch her, to somehow stop the vital current that continued to spurt like an endless fountain from her motionless form.
That’s when he noticed the gun, still smoking, in his hand.
No-o-o!
* * *
“Colonel. You all right?” Carter knelt beside his commander.
Hunter sat straight up, gasping for breath, his hands clenched into fists. “Is she dead?”
“Is who dead?”
Hunter appeared drenched, like he had been caught in a downpour. He rubbed his hand through sweaty hair, and looked over Carter’s shoulder apprehensively, as if expecting to find something there.
“You sure you’re all right, Colonel?” Carter put a tentative hand on his arm. “You kill someone we don’t know about?” He tried to make a joke, but he could see it was no laughing matter. He felt Hunter trembling through the heavy woolen coat, and his clothes were so damp with sweat they steamed in the cool night air. Hunter continued to stare into the darkness, breathing heavily, his face ashen and grave.
“Here,” Carter instructed, digging through a saddlebag. “Take a swig of this.”
Hunter accepted the small flask, but his hand still trembled so violently that the liquid within it sloshed out the top before he could bring it to his lips. He handed it back without drinking, exasperated. “I’m all right.”
“Umm, Colonel?”
“Yes, Carter, what’s on your mind?”
“Sir, you haven’t been to Hawthorne for more than month.” He tried to sound casual, though he’d been rehearsing the words all day. “The men are tired—and you’re in the saddle twice as much as they are. The enemy is in winter quarters. Perhaps it’s time for a rest.”
Indeed Hunter had not permitted his men to be idle for more than a day for more than two months. The ranks were shrinking with the wounded and those who could not keep up with the incessant pace. By Carter’s math, most of the men had been in some of the thirty-two skirmishes in the past twenty-nine days—and Hunter had been in all of them.
Hunter looked hard at Carter, but it was no longer the intimidating look of his old commander. It was the look of a man lost. A man in the very depths of an abyss of despair.
Carter cleared his throat in preparation for what he was about to say next. He dug a hole in the snow with the heel of his boot and then stared meditatively at it for a few long moments before having the nerve to continue. “I’m afraid, sir, that something is erasing your concentration. I think a short break would benefit you—and the Command.”
Carter knew damn well what that “something” was. There could, after all, be but one reason for a man to sit up half the night without speaking, his gaze lost in a campfire. Or for a man’s eyes to turn beseechingly skyward in those lonely hours just before dawn as if wishing to hurry the ritual of the breaking of day.
“I guess it has been a while since I’ve been to Hawthorne,” Hunter finally said.
Carter cringed at the answer. He knew Hunter had never been away from the estate for this long in his entire life, yet it appeared that returning to his homestead no longer held any temptation for him. The battle raging inside his commander was a severe one, paling in comparison to all of the other battles he had henceforth fought.
“The men are tired?” Hunter looked into Carter’s eyes, finally focused.
“Yes, sir. Horses too.”
Hunter nodded in such a way that made it obvious he had not noticed. He’d been trying so hard to keep his mind from going astray that he had not detected the horses’ exhaustion or the men’s discontent.
“It’s almost Christmas, sir.”
Carter watched Hunter’s eyes as he took in the information. He seemed surprised and confused by the revelation. Or perhaps he was just recalling what he had been doing exactly one Christmas ago.
“Very well. After this raid, tell the men to return to their homes. I’ll gather them in a couple of days.”
When Carter sighed loudly, he spoke again.
“Very well. A week.”
Carter waited, hoping Hunter would want to talk, but the sound of a train whistle in the distance brought the Colonel to his feet.
“Get the men ready,” was all he said, before walking stiffly toward his horse.
Carter’s gaze remained on Hunter as he strode silently across the moonlit field and went through the motions of preparing his mount. The man who had always possessed such extraordinary control over his feelings appeared distracted and hopeless, making it clear that a battle between the heart and mind—and regret and guilt—was being waged within.
War was usually good for taking the mind off things, but Carter could see not even that was sufficient to release his commander from the terrible turmoil within.