January 29, 1863
Middleburg
“They won’t be hauling you off, will they, Annie?” Her little cousin Will looked up, his huge eyes agleam with worry.
“No, darling.” Annie leaned down so that their faces were very close. “Even the Yankees haven’t sunk to that level. I’m not going to leave you.” She squeezed the little hand that lay in hers.
Annie had ridden into Middleburg, hoping to purchase medicine for her mother. Miriam was suffering terrible headaches that seemed to shove her heart into convulsions. Before dawn, Jamie had gone out deer hunting with Isaac. It had snowed recently. The animals’ tracks would be easy to find and follow. They were running dangerously low on meat and had to keep the livestock alive somehow through the winter to breed babies in the spring. If Jamie could kill a deer, the venison would be a welcome relief for the twelve hungry people living at Hickory Heights.
Since Jamie couldn’t accompany her to town, Annie had brought Will along, just for fun. The boy had been so quiet and skittish since arriving at her home. He’d begun to shadow Annie everywhere. One night she’d even awakened to find him curled up at the bottom of her bed. He told her he’d had a terrible nightmare, that Bull Run skeletons had him by the throat. Annie had thought coming into Middleburg might show him that life was still going on, was still safe even with the Union army ranging so close.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
Two hundred New Jersey cavalrymen had galloped into Middleburg under Colonel Percy Wyndham. They were hot after Mosby and anyone helping him.
Mosby had begun his midnight raids on Union encampments with a vengeance. In the past ten days, he’d snatched horses, food, ammunition, and officers from Herndon and Chantilly. These were picket posts along the chain of Union camps that stretched in a protective arc from the Potomac River west of Washington, D.C., south to the Potomac River east of it. Along that line were 3,300 Union cavalry. Yet, with his minuscule band, Mosby had slipped through the night, struck, and then melted back into the darkness. Already he was being called the Gray Ghost.
But Union commander Wyndham was not going to be undone by this sneaking, upstart rebel. Wyndham was an English mercenary, knighted in Italy for his distinguished military service. Mosby was besmirching his honor, his reputation. He was going to harass the locals until they gave up Mosby.
“Search every building,” the Englishman shouted.
The Federal cavalrymen dashed into houses, overturned beds, ripped clothes out of closets. They found no Mosby riders. Instead, they rounded up the twenty-one male civilians, mostly ancient, still in the village.
Unaware of the turmoil, Annie and Will had ridden up Ashby’s Gap Turnpike toward the outskirts of Middleburg, loudly singing:
“In Dixie’s Land where I was born in,
Early on one frosty morning,
Look away! Look away! Look away,
Dixie’s Land!”
Two bluecoats posted on the town’s perimeter cantered out to meet them and roughly ordered them into town. “Why are you coming into the village?” one asked.
“For medicine,” Annie answered truthfully.
“Do you have knowledge of the whereabouts of Mosby or his men?”
“No, sir.” Again, the truth. She hadn’t seen Mosby since before the New Year.
From his horse, the man then loomed over Will, setting him atremble. “What about you, boy? Know anything? If you lie, we’ll find out.”
Will’s eyes welled up with tears.
“Shame on you,” Annie blurted out. Will was already broken up by what he’d seen at Manassas. Annie jumped off Angel and went to hold the reins of the small old mare Will sat atop. “Are you Federals so afraid that you must terrorize a child?”
The Union man sat back. “Stand over there,” he grunted, and rode back to his position.
Annie and Will took their places beside the wives, sisters, daughters, and mothers of the arrested men as the Federals herded their prisoners to the middle of Washington Street.
Sitting erect in his saddle, Wyndham shouted at the citizens. Mosby was a coward, a horse thief, he said, and would be treated as such. “If these raids continue,” he warned, his horse pawing and pacing, “I will burn this village to the ground.”
Then he left, carting off Middleburg’s men. Women sank to their knees, crying, praying, asking dozens of unanswerable questions of one another.
Annie watched the Federals thunder past the row of brick houses, climb a hill, and then disappear on the other side. Anger and disgust welled up inside her until she felt as if she would vomit. She helped lift a few of the elderly women to their feet, dusted off their dresses, and then turned to Will. “Let’s see if the doctor still has some powder left.”
One of the ladies she had helped turned to her. “He’s gone, honey, carried off.” She nodded toward the east.
Annie fought off a most unladylike curse. No telling when the bluecoats would release the doctor. They would eventually, but how long would Miriam have to suffer before he’d be back? And would he even have anything left in his saddlebags then?
Annie felt a tug at her skirts. Will was looking up at her again, with those huge eyes of his. He looked more and more like a startled kitten. “Ma knows,” he whispered.
“Aunt Molly knows what?”
“How to chase the Devil away from your head,” Will said with a solemn nod.
Annie looked at him skeptically. “You mean she prays?”
“Naw.” Will shook his head. “She mixes the bark of willow and dogwood trees into shrub.”
Shrub was a drink of vinegar and fruit juice given to the sick. “Does it work?”
“Rightly so. Most times,” he said.
“Why didn’t she say so and save us this trip?” Annie asked with annoyance.
“She’s afraid of the black witch,” Will parroted his mother.
“Aunt May,” Annie corrected him. She frowned. Her blood aunt was becoming a real nuisance.
“Well, let’s go home then.” As she started to get back on Angel, there was a popping sound.
Not again, she thought.
Pop-pop-pop. Pause. A riot of blasts sounded.
The Federals were fighting someone.
Evidently, Mosby had been at a nearby house. Alerted by a servant, he had managed to collect a handful of his riders and was charging after the Federals.
“Oh, he can’t be that reckless,” breathed Annie. “He’s got to be completely outnumbered.”
Within moments of the crackling exchange of guns, Annie could hear the sound of a horse thundering up the road from the east.
Pop-pop-pop.
“Oh, hurrah, our boys are coming!” cried the women.
Yes, at a gallop, thought Annie, and running hard from something.
Pop-pop-pop.
Rifle fire sounded closer.
Annie grabbed Will’s hand and the reins of both horses, setting Angel into a fit of whinnying and dancing. “This way. Hurry!” Annie shouted.
Just in time, she darted around the corner of a building.
In rode Mosby, barely controlling his frothing horse. He wheeled the horse around and shouted toward the east, shaking his fist. “I dare you to shoot at me!” he cursed the bluecoats.
They did, sending bullets winging down the village. Mosby turned again and fled west, out of town.
A few more gunshots. Then silence.
Finally, Annie emerged from her hiding spot, still keeping Will behind her.
Mosby had disappeared. Annie wasn’t so certain that this was the Confederate savior they’d hoped for.
Two weeks later, though, Annie wouldn’t stop to question Mosby’s methods or benefits to her community. She was again trying to find medicine for Miriam. Aunt Molly’s home remedies had only twisted Miriam’s stomach into spasms. She’d heard that a doctor who lived just south of Aldie might have supplies. She was thinking about begging him to come see her mother. In any case, it was going to be a long ride east from Middleburg. The roads were hard and icy in spots, crusted with mid-February snow that refused to melt. She’d stopped with Jamie at the mill in Aldie to warm up a bit. The miller had kindly given them a cup of hot coffee. It wasn’t real coffee, of course, just ground-up chicory, but the hot liquid felt good going down.
“Hey,” said Jamie, who’d been pacing at the window. “What’s that coming?”
Annie and the miller joined him. On the road was a line of six covered wagons, slowly rumbling along the frozen dirt. Escorting it were eighteen Union cavalrymen.
“Supply train,” said the miller, who’d gotten accustomed to the comings and goings of Union men in front of his mill. “Wonder where it’s heading.”
“Who’s that in the lead?” Annie asked, pointing.
The miller rubbed the window glass clean with his shirt sleeve and squinted. “Humpf,” he grunted.
“That’s Yankee Davis. A Union sympathizer who lives just up the road.” The miller scowled. “I swear I’ll never sell that man another grain of flour, even if he pays for it in gold.”
Jamie was still glued to the window. He whistled. “Wouldn’t that be a prize for old Mosby. Yes, sir. He’d swoop right down on that, I bet, like a hawk on a field mouse.”
Annie looked at her brother and then back out at the train. Something about it bothered her. As she watched, the final wagon hit a huge hole in the road and swayed violently, rattling the canvas cover. For a split second, the barrels of two guns lurched out the back, and then, just as quickly, were pulled back in. Annie leaned forward, breathless, and studied the wagons hard. She saw nothing else poking out. But as the wagons struggled up the road, she noted how weighed down they seemed.
Then she thought about an ambush she’d heard Wyndham had set for Mosby several days before that the Confederate had thwarted. Annie swallowed hard. She recognized a Trojan horse when she saw one. And it made her furious.
She grabbed Jamie’s arm. “Jamie,” she blurted, “you finished the Aeneid, didn’t you?”
“Aw, for pity’s sake, Annie, don’t be pestering me about books now.”
She couldn’t help shaking him slightly. “Think, Jamie. Think of how the Greeks got into Troy and destroyed it. Remember they built a huge wooden horse and stuffed it full of their warriors, who couldn’t be seen from the outside. A wagon train like that looks mighty tempting to Mosby, just like that wooden horse looked like a tribute to the Trojans. That’s a trap the Yankees are setting, for sure.”
Jamie smirked. “You’ve been reading too much, Annie.”
Annie huffed in frustration. “I saw rifles pop out the back when that wagon seesawed. Didn’t you?”
The miller interrupted. “I thought it was just my old eyes playing tricks on me. I don’t know anything about a Trojan horse, but I think you’re right about it being a trap. And if old Davis is with them, there’s something rotten about it.”
“Do you know where Lieutenant Mosby is?” she asked.
The miller shook his head. “I know the rendezvous point for his men now is Rector’s Crossroads. And sometimes he stays at Lakeland or Rockburn or Heartland.” All were manor homes near Hickory Heights. Annie knew and trusted the families. Getting to all three of them, though, would take a hard, fast ride. Rector’s Crossroads was just on the western side of Middleburg. To cover every point, both she and Jamie would need to ride.
Annie turned to Jamie. “You need to ride to the houses and see if you can get word to Mosby. Be careful who you talk to, Jamie. I’m going to head straight to the crossroads, in case they’ve gotten wind of the train and are gathering to attack it.”
Jamie’s face lit up with joy. Without a word, he buttoned his coat and ran out the door.
The miller caught Annie’s arm as she tried to follow. “That’s not a job for you, missie.”
There was no time for this. The wagon train was already down the road. “Do you have a horse?” Annie asked him urgently.
The heavyset man shook his head.
“Then let go of me, because Angel would never carry you.”
The miller looked shocked by her bluntness. But he released her.
“Warn anyone else you can think of,” Annie called as she dashed out the door.
This ride would be different from the helter-skelter one she’d made with Cousin Eleanor’s old carthorse in Lewinsville. This was Angel. This was Annie’s territory. She knew the way and she knew the horse and she knew why she was riding. It had nothing to do with politics or philosophies that now she wasn’t even sure she agreed with. No, Annie was tired of the gunfire, tired of her county being ransacked and threatened. She might not admire Mosby or his methods the way she did Stuart. But Stuart and Laurence were across the Rappahannock River, far away. Lee’s armies had abandoned them. Mosby was here.
Annie lit out across the fields. She’d have to avoid the turnpike, and she’d have to keep Angel at a slow canter, no faster, because of the slippery snow that dusted the rolling hills. Angel tossed her head, fighting the bit, wanting to stretch out in a run. She snorted, and white puffs of her breath wreathed them as they flew.
Over a fence. Down a slope, up again. Through a sleeping cornfield. Across a tiny sliver of stream, where the earth had opened itself up a crack to let water pass, bringing green, bringing life. Annie crossed one slippery lane, another, and another. She was close now.
Annie brought Angel down to a trot, prayed that the cold and the long exercise would not break her lungs. She patted Angel’s neck, stroked her soft mane, and brought the panting mare to a walk, then to a stop atop a hill. From her vantage point she could plainly see Mosby’s meeting point, where the Atoka Road crossed Ashby’s Gap Turnpike. This was only a mile or so from Hickory Heights. She knew the terrain well. She scanned the horizon, first north, then west, where the Blue Ridge Mountains crested along the earth, disappearing here and there in the clouds, their hazy purple line like the parapets of a castle. She saw no riders.
Frustrated, Annie let Angel trot around in a circle to keep the mare’s muscles warm. She’d need to take Angel home if she didn’t spot Mosby soon. She’d pushed the horse hard to cover close to ten miles in an hour. As Angel turned, Annie continued to search.
“Are you looking for me?” a voice suddenly called along the cold air from a grove of trees.
Annie whirled, her heart thumping at the sound. Someone had been watching her. What should she answer? She started to reply that it depended on who he was. But then she realized if the voice belonged to a Federal picket, that would open her to the question of just whom was she seeking. No, better to use arrogance as a shield. At least she had learned something about tactics from all the stories Laurence had told her about Stuart bluffing the enemy.
“Show yourself, sir,” she called back. “I’m not in the habit of shouting to bushes.”
Three riders emerged. They were bundled in Yankee blue!
Annie sucked in her breath, the frigid air bracing her. Think, Annie. Think. Why would you be out riding in such cold, in such a hurry? Think!
The blue-clad riders sat waiting. Annie felt herself begin to tremble under her layers of wool. Ride it out. Don’t say anything until they do.
The four sat silently, eyeing one another. It felt like an eternity. Annie steeled herself to stare at them defiantly, even haughtily, as if their presence was a mere annoyance to her. Then she began to look at the one in the middle more carefully. He was thin, almost frail, clean-shaven, familiar-looking. Could it be Mosby? Dressed in a Federal overcoat?
The horsemen clearly weren’t going to speak—it was part of the game played across picket lines every day during the war. If she said the wrong thing, she’d set and spring her own trap.
Suddenly Annie thought of a safe way. “I’m Annie Sinclair,” she said with as much disdain and superiority as she could manage. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
The middle rider clucked his horse forward. He nodded at her. It was he—Mosby.
Annie told the story of the wagon train hastily. She saw Mosby poke out his lower lip and nod approvingly when she described it as a Trojan horse.
“Obliged, Miss Sinclair.” Mosby tipped his hat in thanks. “Gentlemen,” he said to his companions as he turned his horse. Off they rode, with no other words.
Annie watched them disappear into the cover of a glade and then emerge on the other side with about a dozen riders. They headed east, toward Middleburg.
He’s going right for it, thought Annie, shaking her head. Just like Stuart.
Well, she’d done her part. She’d warned them. She headed for home.
That night, Jamie returned afire with news. Just as the Trojan horse wagon train neared Middleburg, fourteen of Mosby’s men charged it, attacking the cavalry bluecoats who were riding far in front. They had panicked and galloped back toward the wagons. The Federal soldiers hidden inside heard the frantic hoofbeats. Blinded by the wagons’ covering, they assumed it was Mosby. The Yankees threw back the canvas and began shooting—at their own riders. Mosby captured most of them.
Jamie had a new prize, an advanced Spencer seven-shot repeating rifle that the “Trojan” soldiers had been carrying. He showed it to Annie and then danced around the room.
Annie waited for elation, the triumph she had expected to feel for successfully warning Mosby. This time she had made a difference. This time she had known exactly what to do and how to do it. And yet she felt no joy, just a cold, clammy sense of responsibility. She didn’t ask Jamie if any of the men had died. She didn’t want to know.