 
### Black Knights of the Hudson

### Book I: Shadow of the Flags

### By Beverly C. Gray

Published by Beverly C. Gray at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Beverly C. Gray

This eBook is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

**Author's Note:** This work of historical fiction is intended for mature audiences and contains adult language, graphic scenes of battle, and adult situations.

In loving memory of the Colonel and His Lady

### Chapter 1

### Virginia, July 1860

Half a lawn, half a lawn,

Half a lawn forward,

Here in the bosom of kin

Rides the bold grandson.

Timothy chuckled to himself. The scheme, concocted by himself, Fitzhugh Lee, and Harry Randolph, was a fitting start to his Army career. As he prepared to execute that plan, he continued to paraphrase Tennyson's _Charge of the Light Brigade_.

Family to right of him,

Family to left of him,

Family in front of him

Gathered and gossiped;

Faced with his trust,

Boldly he'll ride and thrust,

Into the sea of kin,

Forward and through the dust,

Rides the bold grandson.

Fireflies vied with flickering lanterns as guests congregated on the wide expanse of lawn near the James River. Over three hundred family members and friends had gathered at Rose Hill to celebrate the sixtieth wedding anniversary of Timothy's grandparents, John and Catherine Randolph. There were so many guests in attendance that the bulky, Georgian house was bursting with visitors from as far away as New Orleans. Neighboring estates accepted the overflow willingly as their contribution to the weeklong celebration. Smudges were going full strength to discourage the mosquitoes and chiggers while the Randolph servants assembled a buffet in a well-lighted area of the lawn.

Under the direction of Peter, the butler who had trained two generations of Randolph servants, the long table was laden with food. At a curt nod from the austere black man, two younger men carried out a magnificent tiered anniversary cake in the style popularized by the recent wedding of England's Princess Victoria. Guests held their breath as the sweating men eased their precious burden onto the center of the table. Both were perspiring; more from fear of what Peter would say if they dropped the cake than from the physical effort required to lift it.

"Supper is ready, Miss Catherine," announced Peter.

"Just a minute, Cousin Catherine," Fitzhugh Lee, who had followed his uncle Robert E. Lee into the Army, bounced over to them with the high-spirits of a circus ringmaster. "Some of us have arranged a surprise for the anniversary couple. Cousin Catherine, Cousin John, Ladies and gentlemen. I give you the newest pride of the Cavalry, Lieutenant Timothy MacKendrick."

Puzzled, the guests turned their attention to the top of the hill where Timothy was mounted upon his dainty bay mare, Firefly. The young officer lifted his hat to acknowledge his introduction and then rode down the slope in a controlled canter; straight at the magnificent cake. Frail John Randolph seemed the first to get an inkling that his grandson was not intending to stop. Others soon realized the young man's intent and a tremendous chorus of "oohs and ahs" came from the ladies punctuated by a few "Good Lords" and "by damns" from the men. Peter stared in open-mouthed disbelief as Firefly sailed over cake and table.

Timothy, flushed with pride for his horse, bowed before his grandfather as if he was a king on a throne instead of an old gentleman in a wheel chair. "Happy anniversary, Sir."

John's eyes glinted although the stroke, which had marred his features, prevented his mouth from echoing his pleasure and robbed his voice of its former heartiness. "Scamp."

"Happy anniversary, Grandmother."

Catherine eyed Timothy with a bit less enthusiasm. "I suppose it could have been worse. You and that fool horse might have landed in the cake."

Timothy shook his head. "Rose Hill thoroughbreds are the finest in Virginia or Maryland or anywhere. There was no chance that Firefly would miss that jump. Cousin Harry, Cousin Fitz, was that to your satisfaction?"

Lee banged Timothy enthusiastically on the shoulder and snickered at James MacKendrick, who was standing near Catherine. "What do you think of your gallant brother?"

James spat the remnants of his cigar onto the ground. He had bitten it in two when Timothy flew over the cake.

~~~

Colonel Lafayette Randolph accepted yet another jovial comment about his dashing nephew but kept an eye out for the three miscreants. Tickled as he was by the prank, which was something he might have attempted himself twenty odd years before, a stern chiding was in order. The actual deed did not concern him as much as the fact that his nephew had allowed himself to be dared into attempting it. Timothy, while prone to impulsive boyish scrapes at times, just did not possess the sort of devious mind that would have come up with that little tactic. Lafe also discounted his other nephew, Harry Randolph, as being too guileless for such business. No, this entire affair bore the imprints of Bob Lee's nephew for Fitz Lee's larks at West Point were still the talk of the Academy.

James MacKendrick joined Lafe; his lips compressed in fury under his trim mustache. "You are going to speak to Timothy."

"I was thinking on it."

James' gray eyes narrowed and he brushed an impatient hand through his dark hair. "I should hope so! Good God, Lafe, he's not a boy now. He's an officer in the United States Army and..."

"I'm well aware of that fact, James. However, you should be able to remember the elation of changing the 'Kaydet Gray' for 'Army Blue' and putting on the gold bar for the first time. It's pure high spirits."

"As a matter of fact, I do recall how it felt to graduate but it certainly did not compel me to jump a damned horse over a table filled with food!"

"No, but you're a different man, James. Even when you were a boy you were a responsible..."

"Precisely," James pounced on the word. "I was responsible which Timothy is not. Can you imagine what General Scott would have said to such an outrageous display?"

"Depending on the state of his gout, he would either have had apoplexy or hallooed the boy on. James, it's different for Cavalry officers. They're always more flamboyant than the rest of us and we always make allowances for them."

"I won't make allowances for Timothy. He is an officer now and he can damn well grow up!"

Lafe sighed as James stalked off. James' sense of honor was matchless but he lacked tolerance for those who did not measure up to his own exacting standards.

Gareth MacKendrick and Lafayette Randolph had been roommates at West Point and the bonds of friendship sown in those four years had grown deep. Both were Southerners; Gareth from Charleston and Lafe from Virginia. When they graduated way back in '32, Gareth had married Lafe's favorite sister, Phoebe. Lafe had returned the compliment and wed Gareth's younger sister, Dorothea. Gareth was killed during the War with Mexico. Within the year, his widow died as well and left behind James and Timothy. Lafe and Dorothea had taken the two orphans and raised them as their own. While Timothy enjoyed hearing stories about his real parents, it was Dorothea who had seen him through his childhood falls and fevers while Lafe had administered praise and discipline with a strong, paternal hand. For Timothy, Lafe and Dorothea were his father and mother. James clung to the memory of his true parents and seemed to measure everything against that memory.

Merry voices interrupted Lafe's ruminations. He stood with his hands on his hips as Timothy, Fitz, and Harry sauntered down the slope. Firefly had been pampered, as only two Cavalry officers could pamper a horse, and left to munch some well-deserved oats. Having seen to the mare's comfort, the trio was on a mission to see about some supper. Like James, Timothy had entered West Point at sixteen and didn't seem old enough to be wearing that dress blue uniform. Young Harry, just eighteen and out on a very special furlough, was getting ready to start his second year at the Virginia Military Institute.

Lee caught sight of the Colonel first. "Uh oh, better try an evasive maneuver, Boys."

"Halt," Lafe ordered as they prepared to break ranks and bolt.

Fresh out of West Point, Timothy snapped to attention with gratifying speed; followed a split second later by Harry.

Lafayette's temper was famous and only Fitz Lee was slow to obey. "Oh, now, Cousin Lafe, why did you want to go and do that? You scared both these boys stiff with that bellow."

Lafe fixed Lee with a steely eye. "I was under the impression that my eagles still outrank your bars, LIEUTENANT."

Fitz braced immediately.

"Much better," Lafe purred as the threesome dressed ranks. "Now then, whose idea was it to jump over the cake?"

Silence greeted him.

"Well?" Lafayette peered into each young face. He was not a small man but he had to tip his head back considerably to compensate for Timothy's sky-raking six-foot three.

"Mine, Sir," Timothy answered.

"YOURS!? But, I was sure that...I mean, dammit, Lee does have a reputation."

Fitz grinned widely. "He's a real joy, thought it up all by his lonesome."

"No doubt with some encouragement from you. Very well, Harry, Fitz, you're dismissed. Timothy, I want a word with you."

"Can't it wait, Lafe? I'm hungry!"

"Don't worry, 'Mothy," Fitz called consolingly. "Harry and I will save you some vittles."

Harry nodded solemnly. "A very small sum."

"Was it really your idea?" Lafe inquired.

"We were admiring Firefly. She's so beautiful, Lafe. I didn't expect a present like her," a lantern overhead turned Timothy's thick light brown hair the color of old gold.

"You've worked hard these past few years and I wanted to give you something special to take to the Cavalry. Now, does this have anything to do with that stunt you pulled or are you trying to distract me?"

"Harry, Fitz, and I were admiring her and Fitz said it was a shame that it was too late to take her out and see how she jumped. Then Harry said that the moon was full tonight and I noticed all those lanterns. Well, one thing led to another and I suggested that I try her over the table. Fitz pointed out that a good Cavalryman never hesitates to show his mount to its best advantage and that it was just the kind of thing his friend Beauty would appreciate."

"Beauty?"

"Lieutenant Stuart. He's with the 1st Cavalry Dragoons too and Fitz said he'd write to him that I was a credit to the memory of my gallant father. Fitz is going to the Academy to teach Cavalry tactics, you know. That assignment, along with his service with the 2nd Cavalry in Texas, means his opinion will carry weight with another Cavalry officer."

"My real concern is that you might have damaged the mare or yourself, Son, or collided with one of the guests."

"Oh, that wasn't likely. Didn't you notice that Fitz and Harry kept a corridor clear for me?"

"Now that you mention it, I do seem to recall Lee shooing some people aside. However, you were still risking your idiotic neck."

Timothy's gray eyes sparkled with the confidence of youth. "No, I wouldn't have tried it if I'd had any doubt that she could jump it. I had her over the hedge down by Craney Brook this morning and that's nearly six feet."

"I just want to say one thing more and then we'll close this discussion. You did well at the Academy and got by with a minimum of demerits. I'm proud of you for curtailing your natural exuberance there but you're going out to the frontier, Timothy, as an officer in the United States Army. Boyish escapades are all very good and well but out there, you run the real chance of getting killed or of getting your men killed. Don't forget that you will be responsible for men's lives."

"I know. The old sergeant, who runs the stables at the Academy, gave me the best advice of anyone the day before graduation. He said a good second lieutenant, and one that's apt to survive to become a first, keeps his mouth shut and listens to his senior non-commissioned officers."

"I'm not sure that I agree with that entirely although there is a grain of truth to it. Granted, your non-commissioned officers are going to have the experience you lack but never forget that you are their commanding officer. Listen to them, by all means, but make your own decisions. You're a fine man, Timothy, and you proved that by making it through one of the most difficult institutions in the country. Never, never let anyone, be he a subordinate or closest friend, make the decisions which are yours to make."

"Such as Fitz Lee shaming me into jumping my horse over a table?"

"Exactly so," Lafe grinned and tousled Timothy's hair as if he was ten again instead of twenty.

"Can we go now, Lafe? I'm very hungry."

Arms linked affectionately, the two blue-clad officers ambled over to the table.

Peter saw them coming and moved to bar Timothy's approach. "You wait here, Mister Timothy. I'll fetch your plate. I won't let you anywhere near my table!"

~~~

Early the next morning, while his various kith and kin pursued their own entertainments, Timothy strolled over to Rose Hill's kitchen to bribe the cook for a picnic basket. Myra, overseeing the preparations for the mountains of food necessary to feed so many people, was not pleased at being pestered; even by one who as a small boy had captivated her ample heart with his sunny disposition.

Like all the other servants at Rose Hill, Myra had been freed almost forty years before at the death of John Randolph's father. The senior Randolph, following the example of George Wythe, had manumitted his slaves by the terms of his will. Rose Hill had suffered financially from the arrangement for the first ten years but the Randolphs bore it with stoic tolerance. They were not Abolitionists in the real sense of the word nor did they advocate the immediate freeing of other peoples' slaves. The idea of freedom was a question of conscience and could not be imposed upon other citizens of the South. The Randolphs believed that slavery would eventually die a natural death as more Southerners realized that it was unnecessary in the long-term. Just as the African slave trade had outlived its usefulness and been outlawed, they were convinced that slavery itself would eventually be abolished. There was already discussion in the Virginia legislature regarding that very thing.

"What do you want, Mister Timothy?" Myra demanded.

"I was hoping that you could fix me a picnic basket."

"I don't have time."

"Just a few crumbs and it won't take you a minute or, you could give me the basket and I'll fill it. Ow!" Timothy snatched back stinging fingers which had drifted a bit too close to one of Myra's fresh cookies and thus into the range of a long wooden spoon.

"I heard what you did last night and I'm not wasting my time fixing a basket for you and those other trouble-makers."

"I'm not taking Fitz and Harry on a picnic."

"No?"

"I'm taking Dolly."

Myra's face broke into a wide smile. "In that case, I'll fix you a basket, Mister Timothy. Come back in twenty minutes."

"Thank you, Myra."

He raced up the stairs and entered a cheerful bedroom. "It's all set. Myra is fixing us a basket."

Dorothea MacKendrick Randolph glanced up from the sock she was darning for Lafe. "That is good of her, as busy as she must be."

"She wasn't going to at first because she figured it was for Fitz, Harry, and me. The minute she heard that it was for you, she agreed."

"Are you sure that you want to go picnicking with your old Auntie instead of one of these lovely belles?"

Timothy put his arms around Dorothea. "I will be taking the loveliest belle here, Dolly. Besides, we haven't seen each other for so long and I'll be leaving for Kansas soon. There's so much I want to tell you."

Dorothea, who had been his confidant for most of his life, returned his hug. Timothy had been just five when his mother had brought her sons to Washington for a visit while Gareth went south with the Army to fight in Mexico. It had been love at first sight for both of them. She had no children of her own and, when his parents died, Timothy became her son in all but birth. She had always been so quick to show delight in his clothes, from his first long pants to his cadet gray.

"How handsome you look. I do believe you're taller than James now and he always scraped the sky. You're all grown up, Timothy. Hard to believe that you're fair game to the very girls who complained about you teasing them a few short years ago. Why, I'm not worried about Indians at all. Seems to me your real peril is the regiment of belles here at Rose Hill. By the way, that was quite a prank you pulled last evening and your grandmother isn't very pleased with you."

"Neither was Peter. Did you see him at breakfast? He guarded the side board as if it was the Holy Grail."

"'Darling, you really shouldn't make fun of Peter. It's one thing to play pranks on Gerome. He helped raise you and he's as apt to enjoy your nonsense as your Uncle Lafe. Peter is an old man and he doesn't have the sense of humor that Gerome has. In all innocence, you might hurt his feelings dreadfully."

"You're right, Dolly, I'll behave."

"That's my boy. Now, let's get started, shall we? Lafe has gone off with your Uncle Clay to tour the plantation so he'll be gone for hours."

"Is James around?"

"He went with them."

Aunt and nephew headed for a pleasant spot near the river where a stand of willow trees provided shade from the sultry summer sun. As the young man recounted his adventures at the Academy to his attentive aunt, he found himself listing all the things he loved best about Dorothea. Her seal brown hair had only a few silver threads running through it; making it hard to realize that she was in her mid-forties. Her eyes were the MacKendrick gray but in her case they held the softness of a summer mist. She had long, curving lashes that were so heavy they seemed to weigh her lids; giving her the appearance of a drowsy child. Timothy had never heard her raise her voice in emphasis and the cherishing she received from her devoted husband enhanced her inborn serenity. Tranquil as a calm sea at sunset, Dorothea was the center of her little family's life. It was she who calmed the temperamental Lafayette and soothed James and Timothy during their boyhood peccadilloes.

Munching away on a piece of chicken, while he described the past year to her, Timothy ventured into the thing that had been troubling him since his arrival. "I didn't realize that James' wife was so young."

"She's seventeen. I was that age when I married Lafe."

Timothy worshipped his elder brother but could still see the difference between Lafayette and James. A woman would have had nothing but tenderness with Lafe who was famous even amongst Virginians for his gallantry; and Virginians had raised gallantry to an art. Timothy was perceptive enough to realize that his brother might not have the patience to be quite so careful of a young bride's sensibilities.

"James and Marietta seem quite happy together," Dorothea continued.

"Yes, she was quite radiant when I met her the other day. I was hoping to spend some time with James last evening. I reckon he's still busy being the happy bridegroom."

They were almost finished when their picnic was disrupted by the arrival of pests.

Dorothea's serene brow wrinkled slightly. "Ants I can deal with. However you two..."

Fitz and Harry had arrived on horseback, leading Firefly.

Timothy hesitated, torn between the desire to spend more time with Dorothea and a chance to ride his horse.

Dolly started to pack up the picnic basket. "Run along, Darling. I want to spend some time with Marietta, anyway. She's my first chance at having a daughter, you know."

Timothy gave his aunt a quick peck on the cheek and swung onto Firefly. The girth slipped and Timothy sprawled on the ground with one long leg thrown over the upended saddle. He eyed the innocent-looking Fitzhugh Lee. "Very funny."

"Why 'Mothy, what are you doing down there?"

Harry laughed so hard he very nearly joined his cousin on the ground. Dorothea dissolved into giggles.

Lee continued to regard Timothy from his lofty position atop his own mount. "Hurt your fan...self?"

Timothy untangled himself with as much dignity as he could muster and got to his feet. "Certainly not, you know as well as I do that Cavalrymen always bounce on landing."

He got the saddle over Firefly's back and fastened the girth while the mare nibbled at his hat. Her limpid eyes were fastened on her master as if she was a bit puzzled as to why her saddle had misbehaved. Before Harry or Fitz realized he was even aboard, Timothy tightened his knees and Firefly shot forward.

"Blast. I keep forgetting he actually knows one end of a horse from another. Come on, Harry."

Harry guffawed as he followed after Lee.

~~~

Everyone said that it was the nicest ball they had ever attended. Two huge chandeliers illuminated the ballroom so that it sparkled as impressively as Versailles. Myriad lanterns turned the garden into a fairyland that beckoned to the young cavaliers and their fair ladies while notable families vied as to who had the loveliest daughter or most chivalrous son. The prank by Timothy, Fitz, and Harry on the first evening had gotten the anniversary celebration off to a fine start and the past five days had been marked with fun. This grand ball was the culmination of the festivities. Earlier that day, there had been a mock tournament in which the exuberant young men had strutted about in pasteboard armor and had charged each other with wooden lances. No one was seriously injured, although a few gallants had sustained bloody noses and bruises which required the instant solicitude of their fair ladies. Chivalry ruled the day as all tried to emulate the limpid language that was characteristic of Sir Walter Scott's famous romances. The young women and girls had been in ecstasy over their sumptuous gowns and trailing veils of a bygone era and presented their silken scarves as favors to their chosen champions.

Several of these gentle damsels, now attired in pastel ball gowns draped over wide hoops, watched enviously as one of their number whirled by in the arms of the victor of the tournament. Each belle sighed as light from the twin chandeliers made the buttons on his dress blue uniform and the single gold bars on his broad shoulders sparkle. He was so tall, so gallant, so handsome!

Young men viewed the brand-new lieutenant and his rapturous partner with varying degrees of amusement, sourness, or open jealousy.

"Look at Sally Lee. She's so wrapped up in MacKendrick, I'm surprised she hasn't _swoooooned_ on the spot," Sally Lee's intended grumbled into his punch cup. "What's the matter with 'em? You put a sword and brass buttons on a man and they immediately fall all over themselves."

"Never mind, have some more punch. He can't dance with every girl all night."

Timothy, unaware of the ruffled feathers, escorted his partner back to the flock of girls and claimed a dance with his brother's bride. In the past few days, he had formed a strong attachment to Marietta whose butterfly nature found a sympathetic echo in his own. She was an ideal sister. He guided her around the floor as the orchestra played one of Strauss' cheerful polkas. "Are you enjoying the ball?"

"Oh yes, I adore balls. I am rather hot though," she flicked her yellow fan open and waved it rapidly over her flushed face.

"Say no more," Timothy steered her to the wide verandah doors.

~~~

Near midnight, James realized that he had not seen his bride in some time. A quick glance about the ballroom ascertained Timothy's absence as well. James went in search of the missing pair and found them, arm-in-arm, rambling through the garden. James' step quickened as they paused near the fountain. If Timothy dared to take her into his arms...it was obvious there was a mutual attraction between his dashing brother and impressionable wife.

"So, there he sat," Timothy's light, lilting baritone stopped him. "Covered from head to toe in thick Virginia mud. I can still see the expression on his face. James hasn't liked horses since."

"At least it explains why he won't go riding with me. I thought maybe he didn't like my company anymore," Marietta smoothed a wrinkle in her soft yellow gown.

"Why Marietta, what a thing to say! Of course James likes your company! He loves you very dearly."

"Really?" Marietta's smile broke like the sun through a cloud. "It's just that he spends so much time with the other gentlemen."

"James hasn't seen much of them lately. You know what the Army's like. I reckon it has been pretty hard on you being thrown in with all this family business. Shall I say something to James for you?"

"Oh no, I don't want him bothered with this."

"It isn't any bother."

James coughed to alert them to his presence and to stifle his unwarranted suspicion. "So it's you, Timothy. I figured I'd have to call someone out."

"I was just getting acquainted with my new sister. I was telling Marietta all about you and she was telling me about her escapades."

Marietta's curls danced as she shook her head at Timothy who did not notice.

"What escapades?"

"Climbing trees and so forth. Do you suppose there is any food left?" apparently unaware that he had given any secrets away, Timothy headed back to the ballroom.

Silence remained behind him as James gazed down at his little wife. Marietta refused to look at him but wound and unwound the long end of her sash.

"Marietta?"

She became more engrossed in the sash

"Marietta, look at me."

When she still refused, James slipped a hand under her chin and tilted her head up so that her eyes were forced to meet his own. "Now what is this about escapades?"

"It was only a small tree, James. No, that isn't true, it was a very big tree but no one saw me. It was at Saratoga Springs on our honeymoon and this little girl's kitten had gotten stuck in the tree. She was crying, James, and there was no one else nearby so I had to go up after it," her voice faltered as his jaw clenched.

James stifled the laughter before it could boom out of his lungs. While Timothy's exploit with the cake was unforgivable, an innocent tomboy lark by his pretty young wife was another matter entirely. The silver moonlight glimmered in Marietta's dark curls and her sweet little bosom peeped above the cluster of lace at the low-cut neck of her bodice. "You are adorable, Mrs. MacKendrick. Have I mentioned yet how lovely you look tonight?"

Marietta's eyes widened. "Aren't you going to scold me? Oh my!"

James' mouth covered hers with crushing force.

"Figured you might be hungry too...uh, I can come back later," Timothy grinned as Marietta backed away from her husband.

"No, I really should go back in. We've been out here ever so long!" face crimson, Marietta fled for the sanctuary of the ballroom.

"Your timing leaves much to be desired, Timothy," James snapped.

Timothy offered James one of the plates he was carrying as a peace offering. "I'm sorry, James, I didn't mean to interrupt. Would you like me to go after her? I could apologize."

He looked so crestfallen that James could not maintain his irritation. "No, it isn't your fault. Marietta is still a bit shy about being a wife."

"I'm happy she's a bit shy. This way, I can spend some time with you. We haven't had a chance to talk at all," Timothy declared.

James sat on a bench and stretched out his long legs. He lighted a cigar and considered his brother. Timothy was gazing dreamily about the garden; apparently reacquainting himself with the maze of roses that had been their favorite haunt on earlier visits. Once it had served as a dragon's lair, another time it was Brandywine and, still another, Waterloo. The games were always Timothy's with his elder brother cast in the role of the hero: King Arthur, the Marquis de Lafayette, the Duke of Wellington...whatever soldier caught his boyish admiration. James had indulged the youngster's imagination and accepted the proffered adoration as his rightful homage.

"What are you doing out here anyway?" James remarked. "Aren't you supposed to dance with all of the gentle damsels and choose the one that fits the glass slipper?"

"Am I?" Timothy draped an arm around the alabaster shoulders of a half-naked Aphrodite.

"That seems to be the general consensus of the young ladies."

"Then they are going to be disappointed. I've just spent four years barricaded by rules so I'm not going to turn right around and fence myself in with a wife."

"Wise man, at least have the sense to wait a year before committing yourself."

"Why did you grow a mustache, James?"

"You ought to raise one yourself, Timothy."

"Huhuh, remember, ' _no horse, no wife, no mustache_ '."

"That's just for cadets. Now that you've traded in 'Kaydet Gray' for those pretty gold bars, you can break all three of those little rules."

"Just the first one, thanks. Isn't Firefly beautiful? She's got the nicest legs on her that I've ever seen and a mouth like a velvet glove."

James only half-listened to his brother's eager summary of the mare's points. Yes, Timothy had grown a great deal in the last few years; bearing out the things that James had heard about his triumphs at West Point. As difficult as it was to come by promotions in the Army these days, the older man had been concerned that his charismatic younger brother might pose a threat to his own ambitions in the Army they both served. He loved the boy, for all that Timothy irritated him at times, and he did not relish being rivals. James was relieved to note that Timothy still had a vital, boyish quality so was unlikely to inspire a superior's confidence. He relaxed as he realized that his brother would not pose a threat to his own military ambitions.

James put out the cigar and stood up. "I'm going to dance with Marietta. I'm sure that I can convince her current partner that I have a prior claim. By the way, I hear that you're joining the 1st Cavalry Dragoons."

"I am indeed!"

"How many strings did Lafe have to pull?"

"I have no idea, but I'm glad he did."

"Well, you always wanted it, success."

~~~

As the first hour of the day chimed on the grandfather clock in the hall, the older couples drifted away and left the younger folk in exuberant possession of the ballroom. James took his wife's arm and began to make his own goodnights.

Marietta was hesitant to leave the room that was filled with merriment. The kiss in the garden still rankled. _Oh, how could he? Kiss me like that where anyone could see. Bad enough that he paws me in the privacy of our own room! Papa never kisses Mama that way in PUBLIC! He just gives her a little peck on the cheek. Even though we're married, it doesn't give James the right to treat me like...like, well, like a fancy woman!"_

Normally, Marietta was as joyous as a sun-speckled butterfly. Her frivolous dark curls and enormous honey-brown eyes had made her a general favorite at Carlisle Barracks. Small, her eighteen-inch waist the envy of other girls, Marietta had been the belle of the Fort during her first heady season. Young officers had flocked to her father's quarters and she had lapped up the attention like a purring kitten. At the last Christmas ball, she had met Lieutenant James MacKendrick. When the lieutenant had begun to pay court to her, Marietta fell head over heels in love with him. For his part, James was quite taken with the merry girl. She was pretty and came of good family. Her father, a colonel in the Engineers, had a number of contacts in the higher ranks that could be put to James' own advantage. Marietta's mother and father approved of the young officer who had been top of his class at West Point. During their giddy courtship, James had made her the center of his world. Then, after his almost chaste courtship, had come the wedding night and the shock over what a husband's marital rights actually meant. At night, when James slipped into bed beside her, she still had to grit her teeth to hide her loathing. Marietta, typical of the flirtatious belles of her generation, knew all about the games before marriage but was woefully ignorant with regard to the reality of the bedchamber. James, wrongfully assuming that her coy wiles were evidence of a knowledge she did not possess, had entered into his husbandly prerogatives enthusiastically. Consequently, he did not woo as much as seek to conquer his new wife and did not realize that he was terrifying her. It did not occur to Marietta to mention her discomfort to her husband. Her mother, in the brief, confusing talk the night before her wedding, had stressed the point that James had certain rights to which she must submit. So, night after night, Marietta submitted to his passion and hated it more and more.

Later, as she lay in the possessive curve of James' arms, she tried to ignore his intense lovemaking. He was even more demanding than usual; dominating her and pressing his tongue into her mouth so that Marietta found herself trembling. Dutifully following her mother's advice, Marietta contemplated how she was going to decorate their quarters when they returned to Carlisle Barracks while she tried to ignore the strength of his thrusts.

I will not cry. I will not. I mustn't let him see that I mind. I love him all the rest of the time so why does this have to be so awful?

~~~

After the successful re-conquest of his bride that was designed to obliterate from her mind all the gallants with whom she had danced that night, James stretched out beside her. A tiny sob pulsed from her lips. He propped himself on an elbow and was appalled to see that her eyes were closed tightly. Tears streaked her vivid little face. It had never occurred to James that she disliked his lovemaking. She had never said a word and, though he had noticed her lack of enthusiasm on previous occasions, he had simply assumed that it was because of her inexperience.

"Damn," James said without heat. "Darling, why didn't you tell me?"

Marietta exhaled with a tearful hiccup. "Mama says a woman is supposed to submit to her husband; that it's her duty and..."

"Marietta. I like your mother but she had no business telling you such a thing. You are my wife, yes, and I do have certain rights. But it is hardly pleasurable to exercise them if you're weeping."

"I'm s...sorry, James. I'll try to do better."

"Now don't cry...Marietta, stop that at once."

She didn't stop. In fact, she cried even harder. James was baffled for he had never hurt her intentionally. Marietta was now in such a state that she would not listen to him so, after another unsuccessful effort to quiet her, he admitted that the problem was beyond him. He left her face down across the bed, her small fists pounding the pillow, and hurried to Lafayette and Dorothea's room. He was surprised to note that a light still shone from the crack under the door. Heartened by that evidence that his aunt and uncle were still awake, he tapped softly at the heavy oak door.

"This seems to be our night," Lafe chuckled. "Timothy left only a few minutes ago."

"Dolly, could you come see to Marietta? She's crying fit to be tied and I can't make her stop."

"Of course I'll come. Do you know why she's crying?"

James turned an uncharacteristic crimson. "I didn't know how she felt these past couple of weeks. I feel like a cad."

"Stay here with Lafe while I go talk with her."

Twenty minutes later Dorothea was back.

"Will she be all right?" James catapulted off the window seat as she closed the door.

"Of course, if you can remember that she is a woman and not a military objective."

"What!? I've never brutalized her! I've always been gentle."

"James, Darling, you are married to a very young wife. One who has been told all sorts of nonsense by a doting mama who probably does not love the doting papa."

Belatedly, James realized that he had been too ardent with his bride and that he would have to start courting her all over again.

When he slipped into the bed beside her, Marietta's crying jag had diminished to shaky sighs. "I'm sorry I was so babyish, James."

"It was my fault. I should have realized sooner that I was rushing you. We'll just take things more slowly in the future, hmm?"

For those few remaining hours before dawn, James held her in his arms; cuddling her and doing nothing more alarming than stealing an occasional kiss while she nestled like a drowsy kitten.

### Chapter 2

### Kansas, August 1860

Timothy breathed the heavy dust as he entered Fort Riley, home of the 1st Cavalry Dragoons. First Lieutenant James Ewell Brown Stuart ambled over to the newcomer. "Fitz Lee has a high regard for you, Lieutenant. I'll be delighted to show you around."

Timothy liked Fitz's friend immediately, although he was a bit puzzled by Stuart's Academy cognomen of "Beauty". Stuart was far from that although he had brilliant blue eyes and an undeniable charm. While taking furtive glances at his new home, he tried to answer Stuart's flood of questions.

"Yes, I'm a Virginian. Even though my Father came from Charleston, my Uncle Lafe Randolph raised me. You know, one of the Randolphs from Rose Hill on the James River? No, the Academy hasn't slipped at all. It is still a fine institution. I don't think it has changed much in the six years since your own graduation, Sir. No, I haven't settled on the future Mrs. MacKendrick as yet. Yes, indeed, a good woman is hard to find. If it is no trouble, dinner with the Lieutenant and Mrs. Stuart will be most welco...Who is that sergeant over there? The one that's starting at us?" blurted Timothy.

"Not us, you. That's Command Sergeant Major Kurt Wolfenbuttle. The meanest, hardest riding soldier in the Army. He is the right hand of Major Howard and is the bane of officers and enlisted men alike."

"Command Sergeant Major Wolfenbuttle! He served with my Father!"

"He and the Major have both been waiting for you," Stuart paused so that the sergeant could join them.

Wolfenbuttle marched grandly past them. Timothy had grown up on stories about the German; stories written to Lafe by his lost father and later retold beside warm winter fires. It had not occurred to him that there were people with the dragoons who had known the father he barely remembered.

Stuart, his last three questions unanswered, poked his silent companion. "Inattention to superior officers is a very undesirable trait, Lieutenant."

"Sorry," Timothy started out of his reverie. "I just suddenly realized where I was. I'm finally with the 1st! When I was little, I had some tin soldiers and I called my favorite Captain Cooke. He was my Father's friend back in the old days when Colonel Kearny commanded the 1st Dragoons."

"Colonel Cooke is my Father-in-law."

"Is he really? You mean he actually has children?"

"Some men do. I have some of my own."

"Colonel Cooke's been so much a part of the Cavalry that I can't picture him existing apart from it or even off of a horse."

"Young 'Mothy, you have a severe case of hero worship," Stuart used the younger man's West Point name without hesitation.

"'Deed I do. St. George Cooke MADE the Cavalry."

"He certainly had a lot of impact on it. There ain't anyone quite like Flora's Pa. We miss him around here."

"You mean he isn't with the 1st anymore?" Timothy couldn't keep the disappointment out of his voice.

"Nope, he took a detachment to the Northwest territories. Don't fret, though. He's bound to come back soon, maybe for Christmas with the family. Flora's been pestering him and we'll make sure you get to meet him."

Several grizzled troopers lounged near the large wooden door that led to the Major's office.

"Wal, what have we here? Some new blood from that place back East. What's it called now? I recollect, West Point."

"You're plumb right. It must be from West Point. Uniform's too new and fancy to have served anywhere in the WORKIN' Army."

Timothy faced the five loungers with some misgivings. He had never been a martinet but there were certain proprieties to be observed in the relations between officers and enlisted men. He had heard whispered scare stories about second lieutenants and their horrible experiences with new commands. _I reckon these men are somehow testing me, but couldn't they have let me unpack my kit first?_

"My, my, don't he look nice and soldierly. 'Spose he can manage a horse?"

"Looks like he could talk a horse's language, 'sides, he's got the right bloodlines for it. I seed his Pa ride a Comanch' mare bareback all the way to Fort Leavenworth. Welcome to the 1st, Lieutenant. I reckon you don't remember us; you was just a little tyke when your Ma took you back East. We were with Captain MacKendrick in D Company."

The five men snapped to attention. Delighted, Timothy returned their salutes in his best West Point manner. Then, he smiled and offered his hand to each of them; a few happy minutes spent hearing their personal reminiscences about his father.

A gruff throat clearing put an end to the greetings. Command Sergeant Major Wolfenbuttle stood in the doorway.

"We'll talk some more later, Sir."

"Glad you're with us, Sir."

"See you, Sir."

They filed out respectfully; only their broad grins revealing their pride and joy that MacKendrick's son was with them at last.

Timothy faced the still-staring sergeant as vague memory stirred at the back of his mind of a huge laughing giant and heavy rain splashing about his knees. Timothy had ridden James' pony. It was too big for him but he had accepted a dare from another child and had clambered onto the animal's back. A clap of thunder scared it and it raced away; with the child clinging stubbornly to its mane. Then the pony shied violently and Timothy tumbled into a deep puddle.

Two huge hands plucked him from the muck and set him on massive shoulders. As he was carried, like a victorious emperor instead of a very muddy little boy, a trusted voice boomed, "Horse-soldiers always fall off, ja? Even your Papa falls off once or twice. We take you home now so Mama doesn't worry."

"You carried me home in the rain," Timothy exclaimed to the giant who was now only a couple of inches taller.

"Ja, ja! You can remember this?" Command Sergeant Major Wolfenbuttle's seamed face split into a wide grin.

"I'm so very glad to see you again, Sergeant Major!"

Wolfenbuttle turned from the room as a tear glinted in his eye.

"I look forward to speaking further with you, Sergeant Major," Timothy called after him.

"That was a kind gesture, Lieutenant, saying that you remembered him," observed Major Howard from his desk.

"But I do, Sir."

"Still, it was kind of you to mention it to him. He worshipped Captain MacKendrick, as did we all."

"I'm not sure what to say, Sir, I can't really remember my Father," _my God, I didn't know Father was such a hero to these men. I'm not sure that I'm even fit to join his old command much less measure up to those memories. Maybe I should have tried for the 2nd Cavalry instead of the 1st._

"He was a quiet man who inspired incredible loyalty from all of his men. He and Mrs. MacKendrick were very kind to a young lieutenant and I'll never forget how pretty your Mother was. I was sorry to hear that she had died also. It was within a year of his death, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Sir, she caught some sort of fever."

It was one of Timothy's vivid childhood memories. He could still see his mother, wasted and white in the big bed, while he clung to Dorothea's hand. He had seen so little of her that last year; she was always ill and he spent most of his time with his aunt and uncle.

"So pretty," the Major repeated wistfully. "So, now you are here and raring to go."

"In all honesty, Sir, I can't wait."

"Fine, fine, I've put you in D Company. Captain Clay is in command and you've also got a fine non-commissioned officer to help you get off on the right foot, Sergeant Wallace. He's a bit of a character but you'll get along. He joined us a few years ago."

"Then he did not know my Father, Sir?"

Tom Howard smiled in genuine sympathy. "I made sure of that, Lieutenant. Clay never knew him either. A new command is hard enough without being compared to a dead legend, no matter how well-loved."

"Thank you, Sir."

"I imagine you'd like to find your quarters now."

"Is there anything else, Sir?"

"No, no Lieutenant. We'll wait until tomorrow to go over your duties and what I expect from my officers."

### Chapter 3

### Pennsylvania, December 1860

Abraham Lincoln was elected in November. Tensions flared and the South, led by a vocal South Carolina, made certain declarations from which they could not back down. By December, the situation was deteriorating rapidly and many began to realize that the trouble was far more serious than the usual election rhetoric.

Heavy snow blanketed Carlisle Barracks on the 15th of December. As James made his way home, the obtuseness of the military mind astounded him. A crisis was developing and most of the higher-ranking officers would not or could not see it. Well, yes he could understand such stupidity in Colonel Abernathy. Marietta's father was an affable, portly soul who would not recognize a potential disaster if it happened under his very nose. However, it was inconceivable that Major Buell, whom he had always considered an intelligent man, was unconcerned over the blazing rage into which Lincoln's election had plunged the South. _How did that black Republican ape obtain the Presidency anyway? It's a sorry thing indeed when an uneducated prairie politician can sneak past the statesmen of the day into the White House_!

James turned his disgruntled thoughts to something more pleasant...Marietta. _When I get home, she'll be in one of her soft, velvet gowns, perhaps the dark green. She'll be sewing by the fire...umm...knitting. Her delicate white hands will make the needles sparkle in the firelight while her dark curls will shine like satin. I'll gather her into my arms for a long embrace. Then we'll have dinner...probably a roast...and retire early to our bedroom. I'll hold her and cherish her and..._

A very wet snowball slammed into his face while five loud voices claimed victory as six equally loud voices disputed the claim. James eyed the combatants with substantial misgivings as he recognized the Alabama drawl of one of the so-called victors. She wore a simple dark-blue wool dress and her hands were encased in bright-red mittens. A huge, soggy snowball was firmly grasped in one little hand while the other clung to the gate for support. Her curls were a sodden clump about her face. She looked at him with alarm and lost her precarious grip on the gate. She sat down in an obliging snowdrift.

"Why, James, I didn't expect you until later," Marietta tried to regain her rebellious feet that slid out from under her for the second time.

James extricated her from the deep snowdrift while the rest of the troops dispersed to their respective homes. Gravely, his disciplined face reflecting nothing, he escorted her into the house where the aroma of roasting chicken filled their quarters.

"Are you very angry with me, James?"

"Of course not, Honey, why would you think such a thing?"

"I know officers' wives are supposed to be dignified all of the time, but when I heard those children having such a lovely snowball fight, I just couldn't resist."

"I think it is delightful that Mrs. MacKendrick can forget her dignity on occasion. However, if you're going to make a habit of throwing snowballs, you'll have to learn how to pack them better. Is something burning?"

"My chicken!" she emitted a little shriek and ran into the kitchen.

Wistfully, James followed her. The cozy evening he had envisioned was not going according to plan. Marietta flitted back into the room like a stray sunbeam and collided with him. His arms went firmly around her tiny waist.

"The chicken is just right. It isn't burned a bit. I TOLD you I'd learn how to cook!"

"Where is Essie? Didn't she cook dinner?"

"She is helping Mrs. Carleton today. They're having a dinner party and Mrs. Carleton is still feeling weak from having her baby. So I lent her Mammy Essie. Now, let me go and I'll get your dinner."

"Essie isn't here, hmm, and the chicken is just right?"

Marietta tried to wriggle loose. "It's PERFECT."

James's arms formed a barrier around her.

"Do let me go or it will get cold."

"I've always liked cold chicken," he murmured against her hair. "It always seems just like a picnic when you get around to eating it."

"Get around...you mean you want to eat later? James, what if Mammy Essie comes back while we're..." his mouth on her lips stifled her question. "I suppose she won't come home until late...Mrs. Carleton's dinner parties ALWAYS go on forever. JAMES, aren't we even going into the bedroom!? Ooo...well, perhaps it is cozier by the fire..."

~~~

Christmas of 1860 was strained and bleak. Part of the 1st Cavalry Dragoons had been dispatched to build a fort along the Arkansas. On New Year's Day, the dreadful news arrived at Fort Wise with an exhausted rider. South Carolina had thrown down the gauntlet. On the 20th of December, the South Carolina legislature voted unanimously to dissolve her ties with the Union.

"But what does it all mean?" demanded Lieutenant Manton as the officers gathered to usher in the New Year with suitable good humor and liquid embellishment.

"It means that South Carolina has seceded," snapped Captain Clay to the youngster from Vermont.

"But she CAN'T?"

"Why not?" demanded the Alabamian Clay.

"Such an act is illegal and against the Constitution."

"Where does it say that?" Clay winked at Lieutenant Blyth who was from Texas.

"The President won't let South Carolina get away with it."

"What did you say, Lieutenant?"

"I said that the President won't allow it. He'll force the slave-holding scum to come crawling back."

Clay lunged and his hands closed around Manton's throat before anyone could intervene.

"Can't you boys save that rough house for outside?" demanded Stuart.

Manton managed to break Clay's stranglehold and was pummeling the Southern officer unmercifully. It was just what could be expected after the amount of alcohol they had consumed and Stuart, a teetotaler by virtue of a vow he had made to his mother, had no patience with such behavior. Timothy hovered at the side of an overturned chair. Three others had joined Clay and Manton's fistfight. Stuart headed for the door.

"Come on, 'Mothy, let's leave these sodden idiots to their dubious pleasures."

"Shouldn't we stop them?" Timothy inquired, with a backward glance at the now-sizable brawl.

"Let 'em beat each other black and blue. It's their privilege to bring in the New Year anyway they see fit and it is not our concern."

"Isn't it?"

"Nope. South Carolina's been spoiling for a fight for years and it'll all blow over before spring, you'll see," Stuart ducked into his quarters and sprawled comfortably on his cot.

"They seemed angry to me, Beauty. If this can turn brother officers against each other..." Timothy slumped on the wooden chair near Stuart's field desk.

"Come now, 'Mothy. Stop fretting."

"How serious is this secession business, Beauty?"

"Hard to say, but it depends on what the President does. He can try to force South Carolina back into the Union but he won't get far. Most likely, he'll give in to their demands to avert disunion."

"Would he send troops down to force South Carolina?"

"Not likely. I say it'll blow over just like that John Brown business did."

"I reckon you're right. I never did pay much attention to politics."

Stuart stretched. "It won't come to anything, Timothy. Tension between North and South has been boiling for years. We've weathered Harper's Ferry, Dred Scott, and Bleeding Kansas. We'll survive this little crisis in Charleston."

~~~

Within four weeks, it was obvious that the secession of South Carolina was not just a "little crisis". By February, six more states had followed her out of the Union. Officers from the renegades began to resign while Timothy watched the exodus with stark horror. Any chance at reconciliation had been destroyed by the flaming rhetoric that scalded both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line. Stuart's optimism vanished when Alabama seceded. They returned to Fort Riley and, by April, it was obvious that Virginia and the rest of the Border States were in a terrible quandary. Through custom, family ties, and economic considerations, these States were bound, heart and soul, to their rebellious sisters. Yet the pride in belonging to the Union, as well as memories of Valley Forge and Yorktown, drove them to a nervous tendency to fence-sit. Things came to a head on the 14th of April when Fort Sumter surrendered to South Carolina. On the 15th, Abraham Lincoln called for the loyal States to provide volunteers to _"...suppress combinations and cause the laws to be duly executed..._ "

Three days later, Timothy waited for the doom to come chattering over telegraph wires. For the first time in his life, he was alone and there was no one in whom he could confide. Major Howard, while a decent commander, was a New Englander and could not comprehend the dreadful wrenching of loyalties that Timothy faced. Stuart was absolutely no help at all for his only concern was Virginia's fate. Where his state went, he planned to follow. No ifs, buts, or ands.

Timothy, while a Virginian by breeding, also shared his uncle's dislike of slavery. _I cannot conceive of going against the United States in order to preserve that hateful and demeaning institution. Slavery's wrong and everyone knows it. If war comes, will West Pointers have to face each other on the field? Will they WANT to?_ He shuddered back to his own irreconcilable conflict. _If Virginia leaves the Union too, I'll be expected to leave with her_. He glanced up to where the Stars and Stripes fluttered in the brisk breeze and watched the shadow it cast over the worried knot of soldiers standing by the telegrapher's office.

Major Howard stopped beside him. "Has there been any word?"

"Not a thing, Sir, after that telegram about the President's call for volunteers."

That's the worst. That call for 75,000 volunteers to preserve the Union. Virginia's expected to provide 8,000 of those men to bring the erring States back into the fold. They'll be fighting their own kin. How can the President even ask us to do that?

"These are dark days for all of us," Howard remarked. "You know how much I thought of your Father, Timothy. If I can be of help..."

"Thank you, Sir, but I reckon this is one decision that I'll have to make on my own."

A rapid series of clacks from the telegraph shattered the heavy stillness. A long moment passed and then the clerk emerged from his stuffy little office.

Tom Howard scanned the telegraph and then read it aloud. "The Virginia Legislature has passed the Ordinance of Secession."

Timothy's face paled several shades whiter. He stared at the flag, closed his eyes tightly for a moment, and then, hands clenched at his side, trudged off in the direction of Stuart's quarters.

"Damn," swore Howard. "Damn those baboon-bottomed politicians who just cost the Army a brilliant officer."

~~~

"Well?" Stuart met Timothy in the parlor; his small daughter in his arms.

"Virginia has seceded."

"Has she, by God. Well, that decides it then," Stuart handed little Flora to her mother who carried the child into the next room. "Flora and I are already packed. We planned to leave immediately once we heard although we can delay long enough for you to get your things."

Timothy stood in the middle of the parlor; his world crumbled around his ears. "You said it was just a 'little crisis'!"

"Well, I've been wrong before. Things are different now. Virginia's seceded. That's all that matters."

Timothy stared at Stuart for a long moment while dizzy visions of West Point swirled around him. Tears filled his eyes.

"What is it, Timothy? What's wrong?"

"I...I can't. I CAN'T!" Timothy turned to the wall in anguish.

"Can't? Can't what? Make sense," perplexed, Stuart tried to peer at the younger man's face but Timothy resisted. "'Mothy, tell me! What is wrong?"

"How can you be so calm about this?"

"Of course I'm calm!" Stuart's voice raised several decibels. "But I'm not going to be much longer if you don't cut out this nonsense."

"I haven't seceded."

"What did you say?"

"I haven't seceded."

"Don't joke, Timothy, Virginia needs all of her sons!"

"I haven't made a decision yet."

"You haven't...MacKendrick! There is only one decision you can make! If you don't, you're a TRAITOR!"

"No matter which decision I make, I'll be a traitor to someone."

Stuart just stared.

"I need time so you'd best not wait on me."

Stuart's jaw tightened but Timothy put a hand on his arm to forestall further comments. "Please, Beauty. Please don't say anymore. Maybe by the next time we meet I'll have things sorted out some."

Stuart swallowed hard. His mouth was hard but his eyes seemed to hold a glint of his usual confidence. "You'll get it sorted out correctly, Timothy. I know you'll join us and I'll keep a place for you at my side."

Timothy returned to his own quarters, ignoring the jibes and comments from fellow officers he met on the way. Safe in his own room, he sat numbly on the bed as one alternative after another spun across his brain. _Which loyalty do I follow? Can I turn my back on all of my kin...my friends? Even if it means fighting to preserve something where people like Gerome are kept in bondage? Gerome's a person! He's more than Lafe's butler. They're friends. They grew up together at Rose Hill and he's almost like another uncle to me. A lot of folks like Gerome are slaves, though. But I'll bet they're people too. They shouldn't be property like horses or cows! You can't fight a war to keep them in bondage. It's wrong! How can Virginia...the Virginia that helped to create this country...how can she support this thing? I understand about States' Rights...I think. But the States can't survive alone. They have to have something to bind them together. To make it work for all of us. But, how can I fight my cousins and friends? What if I see Harry or Fitz on the battlefield? What if I run into Beauty? He's bound to be Cavalry; he's too good at it not to be. I'm Cavalry too. If I stay in the Army, I might have to shoot him! I can't do that. I CAN'T! What do I do? Honor my oath and do my best to help preserve the Union? What will James do? Lafe?_

Despondent, Timothy threw himself across the narrow bed and buried his head in his arms. _Oh God, I wish I was back at the Academy. There, even a fellow's thoughts are regulated by military doctrine and discipline!_

### Chapter 4

### Washington, April 1861

Lafe arrived home late in the afternoon and paused at the library's threshold. His only sanctuary in a troubled world had been invaded. "You should be at Carlisle, James. Has something happened?"

"In case you haven't noticed, a number of officers have been resigning in order to serve the Confederacy."

Lafayette, with some effort, remained calm. "Yes, I've been aware of the desertions."

"Honorable men have had to make the most difficult decisions of their military careers and YOU call it desertion."

"What other name can you give it, James? The seceded States are in rebellion against the Union. Those officers of the United States Army, who choose to follow, are committing desertion at best and treason at worst. They took oaths, James, and they are now foresworn. Now, sit down and let's discuss this."

Lafe was determined to keep a level head. He had seen James' disaffection coming as he had witnessed the tragedy of many lifelong friends turning heartbroken faces from the Stars and Stripes to embrace the new order. He was not going to make his nephew's difficult decision any more so by playing the heavy-handed uncle. He would provide advice and play devil's advocate to James' predicament. His own course had been chosen years ago when he went to the Academy instead of staying at Rose Hill. Lafayette did the hardest thing for him; he waited.

"I'm resigning my commission."

"Why?"

"It should be obvious but maybe it isn't for you. You've been pretty cozy here in Washington all these years," James' cool gaze flicked around the stately chamber of gleaming mahogany and glowing leather. "Not many soldiers have the luxury of time and space to build a collection of books like these or the kind of lush garden that requires years of careful tending. You reached Colonel and never took the field except for a few tours of inspection for the Engineers. I know General Scott views you as a strategic genius or something but never to have commanded in the field...how would you know how any true soldier feels?"

Lafayette's jaw tightened but he kept his voice mild. "We're not discussing my career. We're discussing yours. For years you claimed that all you wanted was to be a soldier like your Father. You did well at the Academy and achieved that goal. You gave your solemn oath to defend this country. Are you so easily swayed from commitment?"

"It isn't a lack of commitment to serve my homeland."

"I disagree. This nonsense of resigning, just because some hotheaded politicians rush a State out of the Union, strikes me as complete idiocy. I'm surprised that a man of your intelligence can't see that."

"I agree with the rest of our kin, Lafe. I stand with Virginia. It's time to put a stop to these opinionated busybodies in the North who insist on meddling into our affairs."

"So, you'd fight a war to keep someone like Gerome a slave?" Lafe's nose wrinkled at the stench of the idea.

"It's nothing to do with him or his people. I don't like slavery anymore than you and my Randolph cousins. After all, I made sure that Marietta's Mammy was freed before she came to us after the wedding. Had to pay a pretty price to Marietta's Father for the privilege. But it is for each State to make that choice. It is the right of each State to manage its own affairs without another State or region of States interfering."

"What of your duty, James, your oath? Your Father was a man of honor who..."

James interrupted sharply. "My Father never would have turned his back on the South. He would have been one of the first to resign."

"Your Father would never have gone against his oath. It is as unthinkable as Cousin Bobby Lee resigning."

"Are you so sure, Lafe?"

"He and Gareth were a great deal alike in their sense of duty and honor."

"You haven't heard, then, about Cousin Robert?" James paused for a moment; his eyes locked with his uncle's. Then, quietly, he exploded his bombshell. "Colonel Robert E. Lee resigned this morning."

Lafe exhaled in an unbelieving cry of denial.

"So, my dear Uncle, don't ever presume to speak for my Father again. I am leaving your house now and will offer my services to Virginia. They say great men often emerge from the anonymity of a battlefield and the fires of adversity. I was top of my class at West Point. I warrant a company and a captaincy, at the very least. Maybe even more. Colonel James MacKendrick has a nice ring, don't you think? Your Yankee friends can just try to force us back into the Union!"

After James stalked from the library, Lafe remained at his desk and stared at the portrait of Thomas Jefferson that hung above the mantle. _Lee resigning. Inconceivable. The man dubbed the 'Marble Model' for his excellence as a cadet. Bobby is the mark that all cadets hold as their ideal and strive to reach. I can't believe it. I can't...I can't begin to understand it! He's my kinsman as well as close friend. We've corresponded for years when military duty posted us to different parts of the country. Next to Gerome, Bobby is my closest confidante; both in military and personal matters. In those long monthly letters we discussed everything from engineering to our wives to our children. It's no good. I just can't wrap my mind around this now. Maybe it isn't true. Maybe James is wrong._

As for James...well I'm not too surprised. James is tough and ambitious. Oh, he talked a good story about his Virginia ties. He may even believe it. Deep down though, I can't help but think he's calculating military advantage here. He's West Point-trained and from an influential family. He may figure he'll have a better chance to advance in a new army than in the old one. Oh, I don't think it's that cold-blooded, not really. But, with the family connection, ambition may well have tipped the balance. But, God, why haven't I heard from Timothy. He's got to be wrenched by all this. I know what his oath means to him. But he's so close to Fitz Lee and if Bobby is going, Fitzhugh may well bolt too. I've sent telegrams and all I get back are single sentence replies. If I didn't have to support Scott, I'd be on the first train west so that I could talk to him...advise him...well, no. I can't any longer, can I? He's a grown man now. Hard as it is for him, Timothy will have to decide for himself. All I can do is wait...and pray...and....

A cautious knock finally roused him and Gerome poked his head around the door. "Colonel Lee is here, Mister Lafe. Should I show him in?"

"Good God, YES!"

Tall, weary, the graying Lee entered the room and Lafe held out a firm hand to draw Lee over to his comfortable chair while Lee looked around the cozy room. "I wasn't sure of my welcome, Lafe. Perhaps you haven't heard?"

"That you had resigned? Yes, I know."

"What about you, Lafe? Virginia is your home as well."

Lafe made a futile little gesture with his hands. "I cannot, Bobby. I don't believe in the Confederacy and I cannot sympathize with this absurd desire to preserve slavery at any cost. We both know it's wrong. As for this States' Rights issue...soon Alabama will want to secede from South Carolina and Texas will go off on her own again. We're a Union, dammit, a nation! If we permit this to happen, France, England, and those other European vultures will swoop down and rip apart the survivors."

"That is what concerns me as well, Lafe. Disunion is a terrible risk we take."

"Why was Virginia dragged into this foolishness? She helped create the Union and belongs with it! Do we turn our backs on Jefferson, Washington, and all of our other forefathers and what they accomplished in order to side with lunatics who want everything their own way? I don't understand how you can desert like this! I love Virginia, too, but she's wrong to join those irresponsible fools in the Deep South!"

"It was President Lincoln's demand that Virginia help furnish troops to crush the Confederacy that drove us out. I believe as you do and I've struggled with this decision for days but I could come to only one conclusion. The Army is my life, yes, and the flag is my duty, my conscience, and my pride. But Virginia...Virginia is my heart and my soul. I cannot do her harm. I must support her as best I can and I will not help Lincoln to destroy her. He offered me the command of the entire Army, did you know? Command of the force that is to invade Virginia," Lee's voice was heavy with grief.

"I knew that General Scott recommended you for the command. I didn't know that the President had offered it already."

Lee shrugged. "The decision was made when Virginia seceded. Lafe, I don't understand how you can ignore the needs of the State that bred you. Your home is there. All of our kin."

Lafayette, angered by Lee's breaking of his soldier's oath, started to snap out a sharp reply. Lee's haunted face and memories of Rose Hill surged in to clash with his sense of honor. For all his high-temper, Lafe was a fair man and his compassionate nature now extended to this destroyer of idealism who was, after all, his cousin Robert E. Lee. _No, I won't make this harder...for either of us. His decision is made. As is mine._ "I wish you God speed, Bobby. No matter the course of events, you are always welcome in my home."

Lee clasped his hand hard. "Thank you, Lafe, this means more to me than you can know. Now I have a train to catch. I wish you were coming with me," Lee started for the door and paused as something occurred to him. "It will be harder for you. You are still a Virginian and some will question your loyalty. I'll have things a bit easier than you will. I'll be just one of many who have followed the same course. Except to protect Virginia, I pray to God that I never have to draw my sword again."

As the spring twilight deepened, Lafe sat again at his desk. With a new wave of desolation, he wondered why there was still no word from Kansas.

### Chapter 5

### Kansas, May 1861

Timothy watched as the recruits tried to stay on their mounts. They had flooded into Fort Riley for the past month. Raw-boned farm boys, clerks from the towns, and earnest young husbands with one goal in mind: whip the Rebs. Timothy managed to keep his personal demons at arms' length since the dreadful day that Virginia seceded. Fitz Lee wrote to ask when he was coming and the news that James joined the Confederacy shook him to his very boots. Only the warm, supportive letter from Lafayette and Dorothea restrained him from following his brother, Stuart, and the Lees out of the Army. Still, he was tired of the sneers of these civilian recruits who scorned the Army to the South and boasted of beating the Rebels until they howled for mercy. Day by day, he became more isolated as his fellow officers, Northerners every one, avoided him. Only the men of D Company remained supportive of their commander and more than one fistfight was fought surreptitiously in defense of his name.

Timothy returned to the stables where he spoke gently to a spirited gelding that belonged to Captain Manton. The horse snorted and pulled away. _Even the horses are against me_.

He remained loyal to oath and country but no one seemed to care. Slumped on a bale of hay, Timothy reevaluated his decision. _I suppose I could still follow James and resign. But what about duty, honor, and country? I took an oath. Besides, I don't believe in this so-called sacred cause of the South. Still, if the others are going to call me a Rebel anyway..._ "I'm surprised I haven't been confined to quarters as a probable spy," he remarked bitterly to Manton's horse.

The animal flicked an ear and turned around so that its back was to the young officer.

"Now this is really TOO much," he glared at the horse's rump and swishing tail.

Timothy supposed that he really should stop hiding and get back to his command obligations. Running D Company still made him nervous, as did his sudden ascendancy to a brevet captaincy. So many senior officers resigned that the frantic Army was promoting the juniors. In his heart, Timothy knew he was still too inexperienced for such responsibility so he relied heavily on his senior non-commissioned officers. The result was an unusual rapport between Timothy and his men. He also did not have the problems that Manton and some of the other newly promoted captains had with discipline. The turmoil caused by so many resignations, as well as the influx of hundreds of raw recruits, taxed the once orderly United States Army. Timothy considered himself very fortunate to have Sergeants Wallace and Kent; although it never occurred to him that these wily veterans were so supportive because they recognized in him the qualities of leadership. Timothy never connected his West Point popularity or allegiance from his troops with any special attributes of his character. Men like James and Stuart were the born leaders and he did not count himself in their august company.

"We've been looking for you, MacKendrick," Tad Willingham, also a newly brevetted captain and former classmate, entered the stables.

"Have you?" Timothy asked warily. Willingham was one of his loudest detractors.

Two other officers flanked Willingham. Lieutenant Doane was a beefy newcomer who had come in with some Ohio volunteers and Lieutenant Lawrence was a rat-faced little man from the dregs of Pittsburg.

"We've decided to teach you a lesson, Reb. We're gonna' beat the shit out of you."

Too late, Timothy detected the liquor on their breaths. He had no time to defend himself as the three came at him together. In spite of the unexpectedness of their assault, the young officer did manage to sink a fist in Doane's fat belly and jab Lawrence in the nose. Then the trio swarmed over him...when light finally replaced oblivion, Timothy dragged himself to his feet. He had some nasty bruises and his left eye was swelling shut. Timothy had never been walloped before. Oh, there had been a few scuffles when he was growing up but those had been affairs of honor against a single opponent; not three fellow officers systematically beating him. Timothy returned to his quarters, sat down at his desk, and nearly knocked the inkwell off when he tried to open it with sore, shaking hands. Wretched, he took a clean sheet of paper and wrote out his resignation. _I know they were drunk but it doesn't matter. I've had enough. I'm going home...to my own people. I don't believe in their cause but I can still serve them. Beauty said he'd keep a place for me. I'm ready to claim it._

~~~

"Capn' MacKendrick?" Corporal Tom Simmons, a lanky individual from eastern Kentucky, poked his head into the room. He peered at Timothy's swollen face in consternation. Like most of the older troopers, he was protective towards their young captain. "Gawdamighty! Sir, what happened to you?!"

"Firefly threw me."

"Beggin' the Capn's pardon, I don't believe it. That little mare is too much of a lady to throw anyone."

Stifling a groan, Timothy fumbled over to his bed. "You don't like that explanation? Very well, I ran into a door."

"Someone beat the daylights out of you. Who was it, Sir?"

"It doesn't matter, Simmons."

"Of course it matters, Sir! Tell me who it was. The boys and me'll go have a little talk with the son of a..."

"Drop it, Simmons."

"But, Sir..."

"There's a letter on my desk. I'd appreciate it if you'd take it to the Major."

"Sir, the Major sent me to tell you that..."

"Just take the letter, Corporal."

"I'll be back as soon as I can, Sir."

~~~

Major Howard waited in his office. He glanced at the formidable man who stood by the window; clasping and unclasping restless hands. "I'm sure that MacKendrick won't be much longer, Colonel, he's usually punctual. I must say, this is a poor time for him to break the habit."

"How does he look, Kurt?" demanded the Colonel; discounting and talking past Tom Howard to Command Sergeant Major Wolfenbuttle. Even after 30 years in the West, his booming voice still held a tinge of Virginia.

"Very like his Father, Sir, but with the light brown hair and smile that come from his Mama," Kurt's ice-blue eyes gleamed a bit as the Colonel smiled briefly at the description.

"How I remember. When Phoebe smiled it was like the sun lifting over the horizon and her hair looked like spun gold when the light caught it. I assume he is doing well with the 1st, Tom?"

"Very well, Sir."

"How are his spirits?"

"His spirits, Colonel?"

"His spirits, Man, his morale! How is he handling the disaffection of the South?"

"He stayed, Sir."

"Well, of course he STAYED! He's Gareth's SON! That doesn't mean he's not been torn in two by all of this."

"There was some difficulty for him at first; especially when Lieutenant Stuart and some of the others pressured him to leave. That's in the past, however."

"Kurt?"

"He is unhappy, inside, but he lives with it," Wolfenbuttle supplied.

Further discussion was curtailed when Simmons arrived. The Corporal, his pale brown eyes burning from anger, saluted and handed Timothy's envelope to the Major.

"God damn!" ejaculated Howard. "Simmons, what brought this on? Did Captain MacKendrick say?"

"No, Sir, the Capn' wasn't talkin' any too good. Someone beat the tar outta' him, Sir."

The Colonel leaned over and read the slip of paper over Howard's shoulder. Adroitly, he snatched it from the other's fingers; tearing it once across and then again. "I'll take care of this matter, Tom, since MacKendrick and D Company are in my command now. Oh, by the way, I'll need Kurt as well. My best sergeant major was from Texas and lit out two weeks ago."

"But Colonel, you're stripping me of my best men!" Major Howard's face shifted to outraged schoolmarm.

"Can't be helped, Howard. I need to put a veteran command together. Besides, Kurt was with us at the beginning under Kearny. We have a lot of reminiscing to do."

~~~

Simmons showed the newcomer to Timothy's quarters. When they entered, the young officer was lying flat on his back; his arm across the upper half of his face.

"It's me, Capn'."

"Did you give the Major the letter?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Thanks. That will be all, Simmons."

The Colonel nodded and Simmons, his anxiety obvious, departed. Glancing around the room, the Colonel spied a pitcher of water and a basin. He collected these and set them on the small bedside table. To assess the damage, the older man laid hold of Timothy's arm and pulled it away from his face.

Timothy moaned and tried to turn into the pillow.

"Now, now, let me see 'Mothy."

At the sound of an unfamiliar voice using his nickname, Timothy squinted up at the face looming above him.

"Hmm, did quite a job on you. Do you know who I am, Son?"

Timothy gazed up at him with tired disinterest. He saw a tall, distinguished, middle-aged colonel with flashing eyes and a hawkish nose. Disillusioned by the events of the past month, Timothy did not care one way or another. "I'm afraid I don't, Sir. Should I?"

"You should. I'm St. George Cooke. I'm one of your Godfathers."

_Philip St. George Cooke!_ _Father's old comrade and my own boyhood hero! A man who is also a Virginian! I'm not the only one to stay in the blue after all. I'm not alone in the land of the Yankee!_

"I'm on my way to Washington. I'm taking part of the 1st and 2nd with me and your D Company has been transferred to my command."

Elation was quickly dampened by a dreadful recollection. "But, Sir, I just resigned."

"I tore up the paper."

"Oh," Timothy tried to smile but his face was too sore to cooperate.

Cooke's grin was broad enough to serve them both.

~~~

War proved a major disappointment for James MacKendrick. The welcome he envisioned as an experienced officer had not been forthcoming. He was shunted into minor duties in Richmond; just like Robert E. Lee. Rumor claimed that Jefferson Davis, himself a West Pointer, was jealous of Lee and many believed that the President would keep Lee in Richmond for the duration. James tried to join several Virginia regiments; only one of which offered him a junior officer's rank. It did not ease his frustration to learn that many former classmates and younger officers received rapid promotions in the Northern Army; including his brother.

In late May of 1861, James entered the Mechanics' Institute where he discovered his cousin Robert Lee; half-buried under paper. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Sir. However, I need some help."

Lee looked up from his papers and waved vaguely at a chair.

"I want to get into the field."

"Aren't you attached to the Quartermaster?"

"Yes, Sir, you know my capabilities and must realize that I am wasted in that capacity. Surely, you can get me out of Richmond."

Lee's tired dark eyes studied James. He had been the Superintendent of West Point during the young man's cadet term. For the sake of his friendship with Gareth and close family ties to Lafayette Randolph, Lee had tried to be more than just a superior. The boy was very like his father, yet Gareth had possessed a glancing humor that kept him from seeming overbearing. Gareth's gentle pride was transformed into arrogance in the boy and Lee knew that such arrogance could be fatal in the field. Timothy was far different and Lee had watched the younger MacKendrick's cadet career from afar with the same keen interest as Lafe and others who remembered Gareth. "Where is Cousin Timothy serving?"

"He's still with the 1st Cavalry."

"Then your brother stayed with the Union?"

"I'm really not interested in discussing Timothy's traitorous decision, Sir. I've had enough of that already. Cousin Fitzhugh stopped by to ask when Timothy was coming and his disappointment seemed completely disproportionate to the situation. Stuart damned Timothy in the same breath he damned his Father-in-law, St. George Cooke. I don't understand why everyone is so upset that Timothy isn't joining us."

"Don't you, James?"

"No, he's my brother and I'm sorry but, after all, Timothy is just another inexperienced officer. It's not as if his loss will harm our endeavors."

Robert E. Lee didn't think he could explain it to James. If the elder brother could not see the quality of the younger, no discussion would clarify the matter. Instead, Lee considered the monumental task of convincing the exuberant Virginian cadre to admit one James MacKendrick into their ranks. As far as Lee knew, young MacKendrick never even received a nickname at the Academy and that omission was, in itself, significant. It was not all bad, though, for James was respected as a superior student of warfare. Even Robert's nephew, Fitzhugh, who had no affinity for James as a person, held him in high esteem as his most able classmate for soldiering skills.

"You must realize that my own influence is extremely limited. Perhaps Stuart might..." he paused as a grimace flicked across James face. "No, I suppose not. I might be able to get you to General Jackson."

"I would be most appreciative, Sir, thank you."

Lee dashed off a quick note and handed it to him.

James executed a smart about-face and left; holding the note tightly. Lee went to the single, tiny window that graced his office. _It is a dirty trick to saddle Thomas with that young man. However, Jackson will brook no nonsense from the likes of him and time in the field may knock that sizeable chip off those shoulders._

### Chapter 6

### Virginia, July 1861

Sinister rumbles rolled in the dust-obscured distance while the Brigade hurried forward. They had travelled hard by rail and road for twenty-five hours and covered fifty-seven miles to reach a hill near the stream named Bull Run. James quivered with anticipation as the regular boom continued to shatter the morning stillness. Although it was still early morning, the sticky July heat, mingled with the fine dust, turned the uniforms of Jackson's Brigade a muddy, nondescript brown. James was with his company for nearly a month and learned the difference between an Engineer in the peacetime Army and an Infantry officer with a rag-tail wartime force. Now, the steady crump of artillery made him wonder just how much courage he actually possessed.

"The Yankees are givin' somebody hell this mornin'," remarked a lanky officer from southern Virginia. "You 'spose they'll wait to run away so we can have some fun too?"

"I don't think that they'll break before we get some action," James responded.

Through the dusty haze, James viewed Jackson's objective, a flat-topped hill behind Mrs. Judith Henry's house. Brigadier General Irvin McDowell attacked General Beauregard that morning, with a murmur rather than the expected roar, and whittled Beauregard's left flank with a single regiment at a time. This gave the Southern general ample time to re-deploy ten regiments to form a second defensive line. Henry House Hill sloped gently upward as Jackson hurried his brigade to their positions.

"Captain MacKendrick," Brigadier General Jackson ordered in a calm voice. "Get your men positioned in the ditch. They'll be protected from the enemy's artillery there and will still be able to control the crest."

"Captain, when do we fight the Yankees?" a youth of about eighteen plucked at MacKendrick's sleeve.

Even a week before, James would have resented such familiarity. However, after the grueling march to reach Beauregard at Manassas, he developed respect for the men in his command. Most of them were barely literate farmers: undisciplined and rough mannered. Yet they held up under the daylong journey and seemed as eager to shoot Yankees here as they had been in Richmond. Most of them were fighting to defend hearth and family from the aggression of their northern neighbors. For these Virginians, the war was not about slavery; few of them even owned slaves. They fought for the broader principle of States' Rights; viewing the Cause in the same light as their grandfathers and great-grandfathers had viewed the Revolutionary War. More than one had likened the Yankees to the British and believed passionately that they must win this second war for Independence.

James shrugged toward Jackson. "The General will let us know when we're supposed to attack."

General Jackson strode by on inspection to ensure that his brigade was placed as ordered. He nodded stolidly at James and continued around the hill. James interpreted the nod as an indication of satisfaction with his performance. As he settled comfortably into the shallow ditch, one of his men offered him a chaw of tobacco. James declined with a fastidious shudder. Almost immediately, loud gunfire broke the anticipated wait. A wave of struggling bodies broke through the dust to the northwest as Union forces pushed the Confederates from their position by the Matthews' house. Panic-stricken Rebels fled toward Henry House Hill with the Union troops in jubilant pursuit. Below James, three brigades led by Barnard Bee streamed past the hill. Impatiently, the young captain watched General Jackson for the signal to charge but, to his growing frustration, Jackson did not give the signal. Barnard Bee wheeled his horse in front of Jackson's position and pointed to the gray and blue tide that threatened to overrun the hill. Jackson scratched an ear and made a sharp downward gesture. Bee stared at him for a moment; then swept down the hill calling to his men.

"Look at Jackson's Brigade; it stands like a stone wall! Rally behind the Virginians!"

Terrified troops complied though James suspected that they were seeking the security of the woods behind him rather than having any confidence in Jackson's stonewall stance. Blue-clad soldiers paused for a short breather and then nearly ten thousand of them surged towards Jackson's men. James' annoyance with his commander disappeared as he finally found himself in battle and saw Bee knocked from his horse in that first shock of contact. James drew his saber and began hacking at anything in blue. The farm boy fell against him; a gaping black hole where his mouth had been a moment before. The stench of blood, sweat, and smoke nearly choked James as the battle raged around him. War became a noisy, filthy, frightening reality while his military training and knowledge of tactics dissolved before the Infantryman's struggle for simple survival. A stinging pain seared his left hand as a musket discharged practically on top of him. Startled, James skidded and fell heavily. A hand yanked him to his feet and hauled him to a tree where the fighting was not as intense. James stared at the smoke-blackened face of the man who had offered him the tobacco.

"Sorry about your hand," the soldier grunted as he tied a filthy handkerchief around James' burning fingers. "I kinda' figured you'd prefer riskin' a bit of powder burn to a Yankee puttin' a sword through ya'."

James had lost his sword but soon found a musket beside a man who had no more use for it. The weapon was an ancient muzzle-loader that, he suspected, had served George Washington. It was nearly impossible to tell friend from enemy; for the dust that coated everything in that little corner of hell that day, turned blue and gray uniforms to the same dull color. James had no way of knowing how the battle fared and was unable to tell if they were winning, losing or if everyone else had withdrawn to play a lively game of horseshoes. His entire sphere had shrunk to the inferno of that tiny piece of terrain. He became aware of a lessening of turmoil; of fewer blue coats trying to kill him. Surprised, he realized that the sun, which had been high minutes before, was now low in the western sky. He paused to take his first close look at his surroundings and discerned that his little company was about where they had dug-in that morning. The Union troops were retreating hastily to the northeast but James hesitated. Instinct ordered him to harry the fleeing enemy but it was not a decision he wanted to make and, suddenly, it became very important to him to find a senior officer who could take the burden of command. On the heels of that impulse was deep shame for such a cowardly wish. He was in command of troops in battle; just as he'd always dreamed. He shook his head in an effort to clear it and set about reorganizing his troops to pursue the fleeing enemy. His men fell in behind him, weary but game, as he started down the hill. A lone horseman shot forward to cut them off and James looked up into Jackson's face.

"I sympathize with your desire to pursue the enemy, Captain. Unfortunately Generals Beauregard and Johnston do not share our enthusiasm. They say we've fought enough for one long day. Did you come straight down that hill, Captain?"

"Yes, Sir," James squinted up at his commander.

"Wasn't that where you were positioned this morning?"

"Yes, Sir."

Jackson nodded his head in slow satisfaction. "Well, it seems that I'm not the only stone wall in this Army. Get your men bedded down, MacKendrick, then drop by. I want to hear your impressions of the battle. You have the makings of a good Cavalry soldier."

"With all due respect, Sir, I'd prefer to stay with the Infantry."

"So you shall, James, so you shall. I was referring to the 'foot cavalry'."

"I don't recall hearing that term at the Academy, General."

"I made it up," Jackson rode on to find the rest of his brigade.

James, his face smoke-blackened, glanced around at his men.

"Care for a chaw, Sir?" the lanky soldier who had bandaged his hand earlier in that eternal instant of battle held out a grubby piece of tobacco.

Absently, James took the quid and turned to watch as the last of the blue-coated figures disappeared into the distance.

~~~

Bull Run proved to North and South alike that the struggle would not be brief or painless. The picnic air, which prompted many Washington notables to drive out in private carriages to witness the routing of the upstart Rebels, vanished brutally in the face of actual war. War, the frightened civilians discovered as their own Army galloped past them in terrified retreat, was neither glorious nor jolly.

"War is bloody dangerous!" sputtered a British visitor; who attended one of the Randolphs' dinner parties a few nights after the catastrophic defeat.

"My dears," said the wife of a Congressman from Illinois. "It was simply dreadful. Why, I saw some of our soldiers, OURS, actually take horses and carriages away from helpless women in order to flee. Can you IMAGINE? Those Rebel soldiers YELL so horribly. They're nothing but barbarians, brutes; not even human. Don't you think the Rebels are horrid, Dolly?"

Dorothea put her napkin on the table and rang a small silver bell. "Ladies, we'll withdraw so that the Gentlemen can enjoy their cigars and brandy."

Two bright spots of color glowed on her cheekbones and her drowsy eyes had a sharp glint in them. Gerome, hovering near the sideboard, exchanged concerned glances with Lafayette and set out the decanters for the gentlemen. Lafayette, troubled by Dorothea's increasing aversion to tactless Northern females, devised plans to shorten the evening as he endured the graphic description of Bull Run that his guests insisted on interjecting into the evening. He had not joined the throng that had taken hampers and other holiday paraphernalia to watch the battle; for, with sickening foreboding, he had known that the battle was going to be nasty in the extreme. His long service at the War Department had made him privy to information of which the average citizen was not even aware.

While it was true that the South was outnumbered and out-gunned, it was also true that the Northern chain of command was in shambles. One needed veterans to win battles or at least solid veteran commanders who could train raw militia. Too many had answered the South's siren call and the Army left to defend the Union was a pitifully tiny force; augmented by untrained civilians. These overeager souls were convinced they would whip the Rebs in an afternoon and then go home to show off their pretty uniforms to the gals. Bull Run had shown them the error of THAT kind of thinking. Lafe did not agree with General Winfield Scott's determination to keep the few veteran units intact and he was one of several who pleaded with Scott to dissolve the units in order to provide an experienced pool of officers and senior non-commissioned officers to newly forming regiments. Scott, suffering an attack of gout, had been in no mood to listen to opposing suggestions from his Staff, thus, Bull Run had ended in a fiasco of terrified defeat.

Lafe suffered through a lengthy discussion of Bull Run where the guests gleefully picked General McDowell's effort to pieces. The argument grew heated between the Englishman and the military attaché at the French Embassy as they could not agree as to whether the general had moved too soon or not soon enough. Finally, the last cigar finished, the gentlemen rejoined the ladies and Lafayette went straight to Dorothea's side. She was knitting some socks for Timothy and the needles flashed in her hands as she looped and pulled the yarn in sharp yanks. The other ladies were giving tittering little accounts of the battle they had witnessed; certain that Dorothea wished to hear every single, breathless detail. Dolly, who had seen the aftermath at the Georgetown hospital, could have done without the gruesome anecdotes. The guests, enjoying the famed Randolph hospitality, failed to notice the slight frost that radiated from the couple although the Congressman's wife later remarked that both Lafe and dear Dolly showed a suspicious lack of enthusiasm for the war. After all, wasn't the elder nephew with the renegades of the South?

Once the last couple had departed, Lafe poured himself another brandy and stared moodily at the glass.

"You're drinking a lot of that these days," observed Dolly, as she turned the heel of the sock.

"It helps."

"Does it?"

"Yes, it helps me to put up with the kind of asinine folderol to which I was subjected to tonight. Dear God, sometimes I wonder why we even bother."

"I wonder why you have gotten so selfish all at once." Dorothea kept her eyes on the needles in her hands.

"Selfish? Me?"

"I get tired of the cackling of these hens as much as you get tired of their husbands. Doesn't it occur to you that I might need some solace too or that I want to get blind drunk sometimes..." her voice broke and he saw a bright drop fall on the wool.

"Dolly! Darling, no, let me see."

His strong, blunt fingers caught her chin and forced her head up. He was prepared for tears but not for sheer, overwhelming anger. Her soft, gray eyes were as tear-bright as a frustrated child's. Her lovely mouth was tight with unvoiced fury and the volatile Lafayette was taken aback. He got to his feet, picked up the decanter, half-filled a large goblet, and pressed it firmly into her hand.

Dorothea took a long sip and wrinkled her nose. "I LOATH brandy," embarrassed, she met his anxious eyes with a winsome smile. "Sorry, temper."

"Don't apologize, Darling, it is pretty dreadful for us. Are you sorry I didn't resign like Cousin Bobby?" he fiddled with the rings on her hand. "It never fails to enchant me that you are as slim as when we married or that your rings are still loose enough to turn."

"It is so hard right now, Lafe. All of our people are on the other side so that we're enemies. Are you sorry?" she sat very still waiting for his answer; the knitting languishing in her lap since her hand was held captive.

He drew a deep, troubled breath and lowered his head against her lap, resting his cheek against their linked hands. "Cousin Bobby was right, they don't trust me entirely. I don't know what other course I could have followed, though. You're wrong about one thing, Dolly; all of our people are NOT our enemies. The most important one is still wearing blue," Lafe clenched the half-finished sock like a talisman.

"I'm beginning to wonder if Timothy ever bothers to wear boots," she murmured. "Every letter, he tells me he's in need of socks because they all have holes."

"People shouldn't have wars in the same world as you," Lafe stated angrily. "It should never have been allowed to happen."

"I reckon we'll always have them. War seems to be a favorite past-time for many people."

"Politicians and newspaper scum."

"Men like playing soldier, Lafe, even the best of you. Nothing absorbs a little boy's attention quite so much as a tin soldier in a brightly painted uniform. Never mind that the uniform becomes dingy or the soldier dented. Do you remember Timothy's toy soldiers? His favorite was so battered that it was almost impossible to tell where 'Captain Cooke' left off and his three-legged horse began. There were so many times I wanted to get him a puppy or a fishing pole in the hope that he would put aside his Army and follow a peaceful path."

"Why, Dolly. I never knew you felt this way. Have you always disliked the uniform I wear?"

"Of course not, for in spite of our horror of war, we women find the uniforms and their gallant wearers irresistible."

They sat in silence for a while; trying to find words to comfort each other. Lafe was just about to suggest that they retire when a carriage stopping outside forestalled him. "I'll wager it's that idiot Davidson wanting to tell me something critical; such as McDowell having bedbugs in his cot!"

They listened as Gerome passed into the wide entry to answer the knock at the front door. They heard the door open and then silence. Gerome, dark face impassive, stood in the doorway of the drawing room. "There's a soldier out here, Mister Lafe. He says he's come about a room."

"That's ridiculous!"

"That's what I told him. Seems like he heard we had a room he could stay in."

"You tell him he heard wrong and go camp at the War Department. I never heard of such gall!"

Dorothea observed placidly into his seething irritation. "It is crowded these days, Lafe. Abby Jordan says that they're sleeping five to a room at Willard's."

"I don't care if they're stacked in the lobby! Be good for some of those fancy-pants officers to face a few hardships. Well, don't just stand there, Gerome, get rid of that soldier."

"Yes, Sir, are you sure now? Maybe we could put this one up...yes, Mister Lafe," Gerome returned to the entry.

Two minutes later, he was back. "He won't go, Mister Lafe. He says that you're not helping the war effort at all. He says you haven't got any sympathy for a tuckered out Cavalryman who's just spent days and days on a crowded train from Kansas."

"Kansas! Oh, my blessed boy!" scattering sock, needles and basket, Dorothea sprinted for the entry.

She reappeared; clinging tightly to Timothy's arm and talking so fast that no one could get a word in between her breathless oratory. "Why didn't you tell us? How long can you stay? Are you hungry?"

"I could manage a bite of supper."

"Gerome."

"I'll see to it right away, Miss Dolly," Gerome, face beaming, patted Timothy's shoulder as he went past.

"Now, would you like a wash before you eat?"

"Please, I'm all over cinders from the train."

Dorothea accompanied him upstairs; claiming the first moments of his homecoming for herself. Lafayette did not mind for it gave him a chance to ponder the changes he'd seen in the boy's face. There was a strained look around Timothy's eyes. Lafe had also noticed what appeared to be faded shadows; although the faint stains could have simply been dirt from the journey. A short time later, as if by prearrangement, Timothy joined him in the library.

"Would you like a whiskey?"

"I'll have bourbon. I've acquired a taste for 'Old Crow' out in Kansas."

"I have some fine stuff from Kentucky. I've been saving it for a special occasion."

Timothy prowled a bit as he reacquainted himself with the room that had always been his favorite in the house. Lafe was concerned that the shadows were still visible. Not dirt after all but silent evidence of a severe beating.

"Where's Dolly?"

Timothy settled in one of the fine leather wing chairs by the cold fireplace. "She wanted to get my bed made up and supervise the final preparations of the fatted calf."

"Looks like you've seen some action already," Lafe handed Timothy a glass and nodded at his face.

Timothy swung a booted foot onto the fender and took a solid swig of the bourbon. "How are things with you, Lafe?"

_Hmm, the boy's not ready to talk about it. It is serious then_. "It depends on what you mean. Health wise, your Aunt and I are in fine fettle."

"I suppose the weather has been hot and sultry. How are the other officers treating you?"

"Mostly as usual although a few suspect I'm a spy for the Confederacy," _so that's it. Timothy's burdened by his divided loyalties. God knows, I can sympathize fully with that!_ "Is that what happened, Son? Someone beat you? Don't look at me like that, Timothy, the marks are still on your face."

Timothy snorted and gave Lafe the whole sad story. "Now that we've reached Washington, St. George has been shunted into some sort of recruiting duty. I wondered if it might be because he's a Virginian too."

"It may well be. You must realize how upside down things are right now. There ARE spies in Washington and we did lose a major battle."

"Bull Run, yes, I heard about that."

"What about you, Timothy? Surely you aren't being put into recruiting duty."

"I don't know. A brass-plated major told me I was still in command of D Company and to hold them in readiness. Then a colonel, with a loud voice and bigger belly, said that I would be sent to the Academy as an instructor. A very important little man with one shiny star then informed me that all officers, regardless of rank, who had even a suspicion of Southern loyalty, were going to be expunged, expelled, and obliterated from the officer corps of the United States Army."

"Then what did you do?"

"I left D Company in the capable hands of Sergeant Kent, advised all three of those bas...gentlemen where they could find me when they'd made up their minds, told St. George Cooke good-bye, and came home."

"I'll see what I can find out in the morning. If someone is going to 'expunge' all remaining Southern officers, I hope he informs General Scott. That's one he hasn't heard yet."

"Lafe, it will be all right won't it? The rest of the Army won't be suspicious of us forever, will they?"

Lafayette looked at Timothy in profound compassion. It was a question he'd asked himself every day since the sorry business began. "I don't know, Son, I just don't know. Our brother West Pointers tend to be sympathetic and supportive of us. But the new-made officers from civilian life, the Congress, and the heads of the government agencies aren't so sure. The recent defeat so close to Washington has thrown them into a panic and they're quite vocal in their disapproval of any officer with a hint of Dixie in his voice."

### Chapter 7

### Virginia, November 1861

Cold rain drenched Richmond's inhabitants as they neared the end of the first year of war. Except for the very poor, few were experiencing any particular hardships. Food was plentiful, if expensive, and spirits were high. General Johnston was having modest successes and the Yankees, although not licked in the expected two months, were not faring well against the superb efforts of the men fighting for their Sacred Cause. The Yankees were still disorganized and smarting from their drubbing at Manassas; the battle they called Bull Run.

Marietta watched as a ball of yarn bounced merrily under the table and stared at it in the vague hope that it would somehow reverse its course and return to her lap. When it became obvious that such a minor miracle was not going to transpire, she tried to nudge it back with her foot; succeeding only in pushing it further out of reach. Wearily, she put down her knitting and rested her head against the back of the chair. Her swollen body ached and she was sick to death of it. She was still grateful that she was in such a charming home in wartime Richmond. It had been a Godsend when James' Aunt Hannah had invited them to stay in her mansion on Franklin Street for there were very few rooms available in crowded Richmond. Even the elegant Spotswood hotel had more people than it could hold comfortably. Her only distress lay in the fact that she did not think that Lafayette's sister, Hannah, liked her very much for she was rather heartless about Marietta's discomfort. Having had her own child with astonishing ease, Hannah had no sympathy for the girl who suffered miserably throughout her entire pregnancy.

"Weren't you knitting?" Aunt Hannah remarked from the drawing room door. She was a striking woman in her early fifties and her golden hair was turning a lovely shade of silver.

"I dropped my yarn."

"Perhaps you would be more comfortable in your room, Marietta, since you are not feeling well. I have some people coming for tea and I'm sure the officers won't be interested in such domestic tragedies as dropped balls of yarn."

Marietta continued to sit in the chair while her big eyes filled with tears. Every time Aunt Hannah's officer friends visited, Marietta was banished to her room. The only happy times were when James' letters came. He wrote her every day although the letters tended to arrive in batches and not always in the order written. Marietta, the tears spilling over and catching on her lashes, lifted her head at the quick solid step of booted feet. He stood in the door; framed behind by light like an angel. A heavy, trim dark beard covered the lower part of his face and his gray eyes were a bit tired looking. Then he smiled and the months fell away until it was summer again. "James. Oh James!"

In one move he reached her side, gathered her into his arms, and cradled her while she wept with relief. _He's home. I can bear anything now that I know he's safe._

~~~

"Why James, Honey, how nice to see you," Aunt Hannah entered the drawing room in a silken glide. "Marietta has missed you dreadfully and I'm afraid I'm not the best of company for her."

James regarded his aunt with that grave appraisal that seemed to see right through one. "I was sorry to hear about Mr. Claridge."

The Englishman, Hannah's fourth husband, had been killed at Manassas. "Thank you, Dear, however, I am not the only widow in Richmond."

"Perhaps not," James thought in wry amusement. _Certainly, she is one of the most attractive. Hannah is still a professional belle, even at her age, and the black of mourning only enhances her charms._

"Now, I know you want to have Marietta all to yourself. Supper is at seven."

James slipped his hand around his wife's shoulders and guided her towards the stairs. The front door opened and two bearded figures clanked in.

"Hello James. Good day, Cousin Marietta," Fitz Lee exercised his rights of kissing kin and gave Marietta a big hug and buss on the lips. "You know Beauty, don't you?"

James offered his hand. "Of course. It's good to see you both."

"Cousin Fitzhugh, how lovely to see you again. Good afternoon, General Stuart," Marietta, unable to manage a curtsey, inclined her head graciously.

"Miss Marietta and I are old friends," Stuart reminded her. "Her father was an instructor at the Academy when I was a cadet. Tell me, did you ever solve the dilemma about the tree and your bonnet?"

"No, General. The bonnet, so far as I know, still rests in the large maple by the Superintendent's quarters."

"At least it was the proper color, Ma'am. Cavalry yellow," Stuart chuckled with a sly look at James.

"Marietta outgrew that childish color some time ago, General. Her favorite color is now Infantry blue," James said with a glint in his eyes.

"James, you wound us to the quick."

Fitz interrupted eagerly. "Have you heard from 'Mothy? Is he ready to stop his foolishness and come home yet?"

"We must not keep our hostess waiting," Stuart's jovial voice changed to ice. "I'm sure that MacKendrick has had no word. A loyal officer of Virginia won't have communication with an avowed traitor."

"I don't agree with Timothy's decision, Stuart. However, I respect his loyalty and have some idea of what that decision cost him," James retorted. _Good Lord, am I really defending Timothy against Stuart? Still, right or wrong in his allegiance, he is my brother and I won't have anyone call him a traitor. It can't have been easy for him. Not even with Lafe still in blue._

Stuart snapped in annoyance. "Virginia has need of ALL her sons, MacKendrick. Your brother is a traitor and worthy only of contempt."

"I don't agree with you, General. Timothy simply viewed his loyalty to his flag and oath as of greater importance than his duty to Virginia."

"I've heard the excuses made for men like him and my wife's Father, MacKendrick. I promise you this. If I meet him in battle, I will take great pleasure in sending him to..."

"Oooh..." abruptly, Marietta doubled up and sank down on the step.

"Marietta!"

"Cousin Marietta?"

Stuart seemed to comprehend the meaning of the young woman's distress. "We'd best get her upstairs, James. Fitz, you help him while I tell Mrs. Claridge to send for the doctor."

"Doctor?!" James moved to shield his little wife.

"I'd say you're about to become a pappy," Stuart grinned.

Marietta lifted a white, terrified face. "James."

"I'm here, Honey. Shall we carry you?"

"I can walk," bravely, she clung to him while they went up; Fitz Lee in conscientious attendance at the rear.

For hours, James huddled in the drawing room. Stuart and Fitz volunteered to provide moral support for the ordeal of incipient fatherhood. More help arrived in the person of Harry Randolph who was full of news. His brother Jared, who had lost an arm at Manassas, was now in full charge of the plantation while their father was off with General Johnston. Harry himself was in Rooney Lee's command in Stuart's Cavalry although there had been considerable argument against that as the family wanted him to stay at school. Ned, the second eldest of the Randolph brothers, was with Magruder near Fortress Monroe. Harry's mother, the younger children, and their grandparents were safe at Rose Hill.

"What's taking so long?" James demanded as the long night dissolved into dawn. The doctor had refused to let him even see Marietta and he had been banished to the no-man's land of the drawing room.

"It always seems to take forever," Stuart soothed as he nibbled on a hot biscuit a maid had just carried in with a steaming pot of coffee.

"It has been all damn night!"

"It could take another day. Don't look at me like that, James. I didn't make the rules! You can't hurry babies; they take their own sweet time. I remember when little Flora was born. My poor wife coped with her for a...sweet Mother of God."

An inhuman wail reverberated through the house.

James stood stock still as another scream shattered the dawn air. He went white as the third anguished cry called his name and then bolted for the door. He almost made it but the other three wrestled him into a chair.

"Stay here, James," Stuart hissed between his teeth. "Stay PUT! You can't help her right now."

James struggled as the screams continued. Then, when they ceased as abruptly as they had begun, he hid his face in his arms. Harry eased off his lap and Fitz took his arm away from the hammerlock on James' throat. In the awful silence following the screams, a light footstep sounded on the polished hard wood step. James looked up fearfully as Hannah entered the drawing room.

She went straight to him and put her arms around him. "It's all right, Honey, she's holding her own."

"It isn't over yet? Can't I see her? Even for a minute?"

"Not until the baby comes. Now, you try to get some sleep."

Stuart followed her from the room. "How bad is it?"

"I think she's dying," Hannah said bluntly. "Something has gone wrong and she's just too weak now to get through it. Do what you can with James. Sit on him, get him drunk, sing him a lullaby, but don't let him...God's teeth."

James stood frozen in the doorway. He tore past the others and was nearly to the top of the stairs when a new wail echoed. This was different though and came from a newborn set of lungs. James nearly knocked Essie over as he charged into the forbidden room. Marietta lay limp in their big bed. Her riotous curls had been pulled into two long plaits and lay heavily on her small breast. "She's dead," his brain decided. "She's so still!"

Then he saw the shallow pulse beat in her throat and, with a sound of pity, James fell beside the bed. Gingerly, he took a fragile hand and held it as if it would break in two. "Marietta," he whispered.

Her heavy lids lifted slowly and she focused with difficulty. Dark smudges under her eyes showed starkly against her ravaged face.

"James..."

"Don't talk, my little love, I'm here. I won't leave you."

She smiled a tiny, gallant smile and curled her fingers slightly in his hand.

"You...have a daughter..."

"That's splendid."

"I wanted a boy..."

"A girl is wonderful. She'll be just like you, Sweetheart."

Marietta swallowed and shifted as the draining pain carried her farther away from him. Her struggle to stay awake was over before it began.

"Doctor," James cried in sudden fear as her breath came as soft as a butterfly's.

"Poor little mite is worn out but she'll be fine once she's slept. Would you like to see your new daughter now?"

James looked up in dazed confusion. At a gesture from Doctor Clemson, Essie brought the tiny creature over. "Isn't she fine, Mister James?"

"Beautiful," James agreed wonderingly. He had never seen anything so perfect looking before in his life.

"You look pretty tuckered too, Captain."

"I'll stay with her. I only have a few days on my furlough and I don't want to lose any of it."

After Doctor Clemson and Essie had gone, James pulled up a deep chair so he could rest more comfortably. He tugged off his boots and settled into the chair with a grunt of pleasure. As he leaned back, Marietta opened her eyes momentarily. Smiling, she stretched out a hand to him. James kissed her tenderly.

"Go back to sleep, my little one. I'll be here."

Marietta clung to his strong hand and slipped back to sleep. James eased back so he would not disturb her. Hannah Claridge was not a sentimentalist but even she smiled in sympathy when she peeked in. James glanced up quickly and gestured at his sleeping wife. Marietta was lying so that she was slightly curled towards him; their hands locked together on the coverlet. Hannah draped a soft blanket over James and kissed him on the brow. Then, she adjusted the coverlet over Marietta's recumbent form.

She started to leave, paused, and returned to kiss the new mother. "Marietta was so scared but went through it like a soldier. There is some grit to the child after all. She's a fine girl, James. Don't worry. I'll look after her for you."

### Chapter 8

### Boston, February 1862

While the South flung its entire being into the war effort, some parts of the country remained relatively untouched by the struggle shaping in Virginia and along the Mississippi. In Boston, life went on as usual and war was far from Louis Weston's thoughts as he presided at the massive dining table on a cold February evening. He was an established lawyer in Boston and came of a fine old Massachusetts family. True, he had raised a few eyebrows on Beacon Hill when he brought home a bride from Charleston but, other than that, there had never been a breath of scandal in his family. It had to be that Southern blood from his vivacious wife that was the cause; although his eldest child certainly did not behave like a flirtatious Southern Belle. She was always well mannered and polite but beneath that demure veneer, there was a strong willed determination that was inexplicable to him. Fond as he was of her, Louis did not comprehend Adria and her current restlessness worried him.

"I saw Madison Forbes this afternoon," he commented as he carved the roast.

"How is he?" inquired Louis' younger brother, Nathan, who was a minister.

"Well enough. He says that there is no sign yet that Great Britain will recognize the Confederacy," Louis looked at his elder daughter.

Adria met his gaze steadily. "Don't start, Father. I am no more interested in marrying Madison now than I was last year."

"My dear, you have just turned nineteen. If you don't marry soon, you could end up an old maid."

"Well, it won't be to Madison."

Louis Weston sighed as he prepared to discuss yet again the question of eligible men. Adria had turned up her nose at every suitable young man throughout Massachusetts as well as a few from Connecticut and New York. Madison, who came from one of the oldest families in the area, was only the recent in a long line of rejections.

Lillian Weston entered the fray. "Adria, surely you want a home of your own and children. Madison is very well bred and even has royal connections on his mother's side."

"The connection is to some minor British baronet, Mother, hardly royalty. As to a home and children...how boring."

Louis choked on a mouthful of potato. "Boring!"

"Yes, Father, boring. Most women marry simply because it is expected of them. They make do with whatever silly man they can manage to land; unless they get lucky as Mother did. You, at least, treat her with some consideration."

"I honor her as my Wife, Adria. As to consideration, what do you expect a man to do to his wife, boot her down the stairs?"

"It happens," Adria observed coolly. "I have no intention of ever giving a man that kind of power over me. I belong to myself and I intend to keep it that way."

"Now, now," interposed her uncle Nathan. "Adria isn't the first young lady to turn her energy to serve a higher calling. There are many fine spinsters of good family in this city. Why, I could not begin to do so many good works without their unfailing support of the missions and charities."

Adria's level gaze shifted to her uncle. "That is even more boring than being a wife."

"Well, really," sputtered the Reverend.

"I have no intention of pushing my nose into other people's affairs. Why don't you leave those poor heathens alone anyway? Maybe they don't want to be converted. As to the poor, I am sure they must get tired of having to show gratitude to a lot of interfering, busy-bodies."

"Well, you have to do something, Adria," Louis declared; although she had a point about the infernal busy-bodies like his brother who took his role as "minister of the flock" a bit too far at times.

"I'd like to attend Mount Holyoke Seminary; their curriculum lasts four years now. I believe in what Mary Lyon, the founder of the Seminary, had to say; ' _Go where no one else will go, do what no one else will do_.' I received the catalogue yesterday and I am qualified for admission since I know Latin, Mathematics, and am well versed in ancient history and modern geography. They even allow for the domestic arts, Mother, although they believe a literary institution is not the primary place to learn such things. Along with my academic studies, I will be able to continue with music as well as the fine needlework and painting you believe to be the hallmark of a true lady."

Louis looked helplessly at his wife who merely sent him an "I told you so" look. It was his fault their elder daughter had turned into a bluestocking since he had always encouraged her to read and study all manner of things. Some of his fondest memories were of teaching her Latin from his law books when she was a small girl. Even in the face of his Southern wife's disapproval, he had helped Adria escape outdoors to watch a bird building a nest when she was supposed to be working at a cross-stitch sampler.

Proud as he was of her brilliance and extensive education, however, he could not quite bring himself to support this plan of a formal education. He was not clear what she hoped to gain by such a move. She was far too impatient and had too much of a temper to become a successful teacher nor was there a need for her to earn her daily bread. To him, a proper marriage was the only answer although he had no idea what sort of man to find for her. She was lovely but opinionated and many men lacked the courage to face her down when she got her back up about something. He cleared his throat and glanced at his two younger children; the plump fifteen-year old girl who had the same genteel manners as his wife and the bright-eyed boy of twelve who was his pride and joy. They were such well-mannered children; amenable to parental discipline and willing to be guided through the rigors of life. Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to Adria who, from the time she was a tiny child, always had a very clear idea as to who she was and where she was going.

"Adria, I'm going to have to think about this school business. If you did attend, what would you do after graduation?"

"I don't know, Father, I have not thought that far ahead. The term does not start for several months."

"Hmmm, well we can discuss this later. As you said, there is no hurry on this decision," Louis closed the discussion.

~~~

After dinner, the family adjourned to the drawing room. While Nathan declaimed about his latest difficulties with the Missionary Society, Lillian drew her elder daughter into the conservatory. Snow darkened the glass of the windows but the room was warm and bright from the gas lights. Ferns and other delicate plants screened the conservatory from the rest of the house.

Lillian, for all her Southern Belle affectations, had been a true helpmate to her husband over the years. With the iron will that she kept camouflaged under her moonlight and magnolia twitterings, she was determined to deflect her daughter from her silly idea. "Now then, Honey, let's have a nice little chat."

She pulled Adria down beside her on the wicker settee. Her soft dark eyes flashed the unmistakable message into Adria's winter-sea green eyes. "As long as you are my daughter, there will be no college."

"Yes, Mother," Adria's cool voice had a sulky edge to it.

Lillian's mouth twitched. For all that she was such a handful, Adria remained her favorite child. After all, the girl had inherited her own will of steel and she knew her daughter would always find her feet on landing. "I know that you haven't been happy these last few months, Honey. Perhaps a change of scene would help. I'm afraid college is out of the question. No true lady would ever consider such a thing. You're too old for finishing school."

"It was just an idea. It's not that important to me. I'm just so..."

"Bored. Yes, you said as much. If college didn't mean that much to you, why did you even bring it up?"

"It was just something to discuss outside of Madison Forbes, or Uncle Nathan's recent dull sermon, or Aunt Martha's dyspepsia, or..."

"So, you were just trying to ruin your Father's peaceful dinner?"

"Not exactly. I did get the catalogue yesterday. I am qualified to go. It would be interesting. It's DIFFERENT! It might lead to something. Nothing ever HAPPENS here. It's the same dull people and the same uninteresting routine," Adria tucked one long leg under her and laced her fingers around her knee. Even in that ungainly position, her slender grace was striking.

"Hmmm," Lillian chewed at her lip.

She had never been restless as her daughter. Her own girlhood was spent cutting a swathe through the eligible young males of Charleston until she decided to marry her Boston lawyer. That is what a girl did. She flirted with the charming boys while she studied housecraft under her mother. Then, when the chosen quarry was sighted, a girl flirted with the man until he was duly landed. The transition from reigning belle to an effective chatelaine of a home required the strategic skill of a general and the velvet glove of a diplomat. She was very, very good at it and the entire process stimulated and interested her. The challenge of making a serene home for her busy husband, the rearing of well-bred children, the pride in her housecraft where the linens were kept mended, where the servants were ruled with firm benevolence, and not one speck of dust was permitted to linger on even a high bookshelf in the library or food was left to spoil in the pantry...these never tired her or left her unsatisfied.

It had been evident for some time that Adria had no talent for either the flirtatious belle aspect or the mistress of a household. She had no idea how to use a fan to entice and charm a man. Her height and carriage intimidated the more timid boys and as for her habit of looking men square in the eye instead of a decorous glance from under languishing eyelashes...the only thing worse was her housewifery skill. Non-existent. _Yes, something must be done for this beloved and exasperating child. A different setting, a change of climate, new people..._

"Perhaps you would like to travel somewhere, Adria."

"Travel?" Adria's head tilted and her eyes began to sparkle.

"Millicent Adamson is going to the Continent next month with her daughter, Emily. They're going to spend a few weeks in London and then take a tour of France and Italy. I'm sure you girls would be given some freedom. For example, you would be allowed to go to the museums without a chaperone."

Adria's sparkle shifted to a scowl so fast that it was as if a sudden squall had swept across Boston Harbor. "Emily Adamson. Mother, she's YEARS younger than I. She's just a baby. I could go alone, couldn't I?"

"You most certainly may not go alone!"

"Well, I won't go with the Adamsons."

Lillian stifled her vexation. It wasn't often that she didn't get her own way. Only once in her life had she been thwarted when it mattered. However, Louis was a decent compensation for the man she wanted to marry...her eyes softened as she recalled that summer in Charleston so long ago. The last time she saw him before he and his sister went to Virginia to marry a pair of Randolphs.

"Adria," Lillian's voice grew thoughtful. "How would you like to go to Washington?"

"Washington? Whatever for?"

"I imagine it's quite interesting there just now."

Adria straightened on the settee. "Yeees, I suppose so. Where would I stay?"

"I have a very dear friend who lives in Washington, Dorothea. We were girls together and she married a Randolph from Virginia."

Adria's eyebrows lifted delicately. "They are Southerners and live in Washington?"

"Colonel Randolph has been on General Scott's Staff for years and didn't resign like so many others. I'll write to Dolly tonight and see if it will be convenient for you to visit."

"Thank you, Mother. Yes, I think I'd like to go."

Lillian didn't know where the inspiration came from. Although she and Dolly were close friends and corresponded regularly, she had not thought of Gareth MacKendrick in years. Still, with the bustling of a wartime Washington, perhaps Adria would find a purpose to her life.

### Chapter 9

### Virginia, April 1862

Winter of 1862 continued in sporadic fighting which did little to gain victory for either side. Both North and South labored under the handicaps of lack of men, armament and, most critically, organization. The North tried to solve the dilemma by replacing General McDowell with George Brinton McClellan. The thirty-five year old McClellan spent the latter months of 1861 forging a formidable force he christened the Army of the Potomac. At the same time, the ambitious young general began political machinations to oust Winfield Scott. In November, the sick old man retired and Lincoln, impressed by McClellan's "take charge" attitude, named him General-in-Chief as well as permitting him to retain command of the Army of the Potomac. McClellan was a superb organizer and there was growing hope in official Washington that he would be able to accomplish the miracle of capturing Richmond.

As spring turned the meadows bright with wild flowers, the Federal and Confederate armies danced a deadly minuet along the peninsula formed by the James and York rivers. Spring in Virginia was beautiful and the blooming earth permeated the air with dainty fragrances. Spring and summer of 1862 saw a different crop as McClellan's Peninsular Campaign sowed a bloody harvest of blue and gray. By April, McClellan's force was in possession of Fortress Monroe; a toe-hold on Virginia soil. The energetic general's triumphant flush was tarnished when he was relieved as General-in-Chief for Lincoln doubted his general's ability to command in the field as well as supervise overall military operations.

Timothy regarded the trenches that protected Yorktown. Nearly fifteen thousand Rebels, commanded by the master of deception, Major General John B. Magruder, withstood all efforts to dislodge them. McClellan refused to continue to Richmond with so many Confederates as a potential danger to his rear and was determined to eliminate that threat before he advanced any further. Timothy, with a Cavalryman's desire for action, had little patience with the siege. He also had a natural antipathy for McClellan whose dazzling dismissal of advice from more experienced officers struck the young man as just plain idiocy. One of those officers stood beside him and frowned in displeasure at the sight of the stalled Army of the Potomac.

"It is sheer stupidity," Philip Kearny muttered; the one hand he had brought out of the Mexican War clenched on his field glasses. "Magruder has him completely bamboozled. We don't need to keep an entire Army bottled up here to watch such a small force; not while Johnston is using the time we've given him to set his own little traps."

Timothy remained silent. In the time he had served under his father's old comrade, he had learned that Kearny liked to indulge in rhetorical conversations in which he did not expect subordinates to do more than just listen. Timothy respected Kearny although he did not like the man very much for Phil Kearny had a natural arrogance that came of wealth and years spent observing foreign armies. Although he had begun his military service under his uncle, Stephen Kearny, in the old 1st Dragoons, he had left the American Army after he lost his arm in Mexico. He had a strong affection for the French and the way they did things so that he tended to look down his patrician nose at the American military. He also had great contempt for West Pointers. The first day he met Timothy, he assured the young man that he would soon break him of all the bad habits he had acquired at his military school. A place, he avowed, where tin soldiers played silly games that bore no relation to the real thing. One of his first acts, upon Timothy's arrival, had been to relieve the young captain of command and put a one-eyed relic from Germany in his place. He then made Timothy his personal aide. Timothy had fumed but had not been able to do a thing about it; although he wrote an outraged letter to his uncle over the loss of D Company. Lafe, treading cautiously in light of McClellan's clean broom sweep after Scott retired, could do very little. When McClellan was relieved of overall command, Lincoln did not name a successor. Instead, he and Secretary Stanton took over the direction with the advice of a newly formed Army board. Stanton insisted upon appointing Lafayette to the board with the accompanying rank of Brigadier. As soon as Lafe was more or less secure, he began to pull a few strings in his nephew's behalf.

Philip Kearny grunted in French. At the rude sound, Timothy turned to see what could have caused that and his face broke into a radiant grin when he recognized the tall eagle-fierce figure riding toward them.

"General Cooke," joyfully, Timothy caught the bridle of the General's rangy chestnut.

"St. George," Kearny said coolly.

"Philip," Cooke replied pleasantly.

These two had been rivals for years. During his creation of the U.S. Cavalry, Stephen Kearny had held a great affection for his two West Pointers, St. George Cooke and Gareth MacKendrick, who had been with the 1st Dragoons almost from its beginnings. Philip Kearny had always resented that affection and it was one of the reasons for his dislike of West Pointers.

"Well, young 'Mothy. Are you rested from your stint as an aide? Feel up to some real work?"

Timothy looked up at Cooke in transparent hope.

"What is that supposed to mean, St. George? Captain MacKendrick is in my command."

"Not any longer. Orders just came through. Timothy and D Company have been transferred to me," Cooke seemed quite pleased with himself.

"We'll see what General McClellan has to say about this. The boy's an exceptional aide and I will not be stripped..."

"The 'boy' has better things to do then follow you about. He is a trained Cavalry officer and we need him. Get your men together, Captain. General McClellan has decided to send an advance force out to see if we can discover what Johnston is doing."

"You are a thief," Kearny declared furiously.

"You shouldn't have spent so much time in France, Philip. There's something to be said for sticking with the plodding Army of the United States. If nothing else, it enables a man to whistle in the occasional debt."

"I'll get him back, Cooke."

"I don't think so, Kearny. McClellan has already approved the orders."

Kearny mounted his own horse and rode off at a hard trot while Timothy beamed happily at Cooke.

~~~

Brigadier General St. George Cooke brooded in his tent and gave way to an unusual period of self-pity. Upon his arrival in Washington the year before, he had assumed that he would be given full command of the Northern Cavalry. His long years as Stephen Kearny's successor demanded no less. Instead, he was detailed to sit on various boards and St. George was outraged when his command was split between several other officers. Not one to give up, however, he lobbied and called in favors until he wangled a command again. His first act had been to steal Timothy MacKendrick back, right out from under Philip Kearny's nose. That neat little maneuver prompted a flurry of dispatches between the two old warhorses and the War Department. Cooke and Lafayette utilized the close-knit West Point brotherhood and Timothy remained with Cooke. For over a month, the Army of the Potomac made its way slowly along the Peninsula. Initially, things went fairly well but then, problems began to appear. The first came when James Longstreet fought a successful delaying action at Williamsburg.

The next...St. George was still not sure how it had happened although he honestly believed the fault was not entirely his. He had been criminally short-handed for General Fitz-John Porter, his immediate superior, had little use for Cavalry and kept stripping him of his men. Porter used them for guarding baggage wagons and escorting important visitors; in Cooke's opinion, not appropriate work for the Cavalry. His command had been reduced to fewer than five hundred men; insufficient to conduct the Cavalry's more important business of scouting or screening troop movements. _If I only had enough men, if Porter had not insisted that I attend his dreary staff meetings, if I'd positioned my remaining men better, and if, the biggest if of all, if I had not had a hand in the training of one James Ewell Brown Stuart!_

For General Stuart had ridden entirely around the Union Army as it waited between the James and York rivers for McClellan's order to attack. The feat was a remarkable effort of generalship given the size of the Federal force and the swampy terrain. Only a few isolated skirmishes gave warning that something was afoot; a warning that was ignored completely by the high command. Thus it was that McClellan was caught napping and the blue hunters became the hunted. Only a severe lack of coordinated effort on the part of the South's Generals Jackson and Hill saved the North from total disaster. Porter, shocked that he had suddenly been attacked, laid the blame at St. George Cooke's feet.

Disgraced and left only with the reserve force, St. George gave serious attention to a bottle of strong whiskey while he reviewed his futile effort to catch his flamboyant son-in-law. His first major campaign of the war and he had moved too late and with too few men to stop Stuart. He ignored the restless sounds of the Army as it camped in its new position; a position to which they had fallen back when the gray Army appeared so suddenly that morning of June 26th. A low murmur of voices roused him from his bitter reflection.

"General Cooke? Are you in there, Sir?"

"Go away," Cooke recognized the voice of Lieutenant Pennel. _Young ass appointed to make some fat Congressman happy. I don't need a puppy like that following me about. If I get my hands on whoever assigned him to me instead of giving me someone from the newest crop of West Pointers..._

"But General, I have dispatches you must..."

"Give the blasted things to Porter. He's running the God-damned Army!" Cooke's sense of injury deepened as he recalled Porter's high-pitched criticism of the morning. _Took me to task like a fishwife! Accused me...ME...of everything from stupidity to virtual sabotage of the Union effort_.

St. George heard the murmurs take on a slightly more anxious note. Then Pennel stuck his head through the flap. "General Cooke, you really must see these...oh good heavens!" the youngster's voice squeaked in terror as a heavy bottle whizzed past his head.

"Leave me alone! Haven't you heard, you young fool? I'm a Confederate spy!"

Pennel fled in stark horror from the ranting general.

~~~

Word spreads like wildfire through an Army camp and it did not take long for most soldiers in the vicinity to learn that General St. George Cooke was either drunk, insane, or both. The news finally reached the ears of a tall young captain who had just ridden in from a long, frustrating patrol. Several other officers laughed as an indignant Pennel recounted Cooke's performance.

"That just proves a valid point. This is a young man's war and we don't need these ancient relics from Mexico or the Plains."

"I think the man was deliberately put here to hinder our war effort. He's from Virginia and they say Stuart is his son-in-law. Who can trust anyone from the South? They're all a pack of mutinous vermin!" Pennel blustered.

"Perhaps I should leave so I don't spy on the rest of you," the tall captain remarked; deliberately broadening his slight Virginia cadence.

"Come now, Captain MacKendrick, I didn't mean you," Pennel backtracked hastily. "I only meant that..."

"'Mothy, it has nothing to do with you," interposed Captain Marshall, who had been a year ahead of him at the Academy.

Their protests fell on deaf ears as Timothy stalked off. He strode past the tents and fires until he found Cooke. He paused outside and cocked his head to listen for any sounds from within. Silence greeted him. Concerned that the older man had drunk himself into a stupor, Timothy stepped lightly into the tent. Cooke slumped over the small field desk as a lantern sputtered fitfully beside his elbow. Timothy straddled a chair on the other side.

~~~

St. George had consumed very little whiskey; as most of it had been lost when he flung the bottle at Pennel. Broken and heartsick at the ruin of a long, brilliant career, Cooke realized that he had company. _If that damned snot-nosed lieutenant has come back..._

Cooke raised his head belligerently and met the compassionate eyes of Timothy MacKendrick. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see if I could get you another bottle. Pennel said you nearly took his head off with the other one," Timothy propped his chin on his hand and smiled.

"I suppose you expect me to apologize for my behavior, but I'm not going to."

"I don't expect anything from you, Sir. I merely came by to..."

"I don't give a damn what you came by for, MacKendrick. I don't want or need ANY one's help! Get out!"

"No, Sir. I'm not leaving, not just yet."

"Get out or I'll..."

"Throw another bottle? If that makes you feel better, Sir. I'll sit real still for you although it's a waste of good liquor."

"Boy, don't you listen!? I'm poison and you could damage your own career by association with me! Stuart rode right around us and no one lifted a little finger to stop him."

"That isn't exactly true, Sir, I encountered one of Beauty's patrols."

"You SAW Stuart?" Cooke lifted his head sharply.

"Not quite, my company ran into some of Rooney Lee's boys. However, there were enough of them to make it pretty clear that this was no frolic behind our lines."

"Why didn't you TELL me?"

"We just got back, General. I sent two riders to inform you."

"I never saw hide nor hair of 'em."

"I suppose they got stopped."

"Maybe the old peahens are right and the Lord is giving His favor to the Confederacy. Certainly Stuart and Jackson are more worthy than the thick-headed generals we have," gloomily, Cooke considered where he would be if he had yielded to family pressure and resigned.

"Perhaps we just have to wait a bit for our better generals to come forward." Timothy suggested.

"The ones I know about are like McClellan or Porter. They might be good organizers but they sure as hell don't know WHAT to do with the Army once it's organized."

"What about some of the commanders in the West? Aren't they having some success?"

"Oh, I don't know and I just can't seem to care anymore. They'll probably stick me behind a desk somewhere for the duration; that is if they don't cashier me first."

"Sir, you weren't the only one taken by surprise. We all were. The War Department shouldn't place the entire blame on you."

"Don't be too sure, 'Mothy. Porter claims it IS my fault and McClellan isn't too eager to question that opinion. This isn't the only thing. I had a letter from Flora. It was just a short little note informing me that they changed my grandson's name," Cooke began to make little circles on the field desk with his wet glass.

"Wasn't he named for you, Sir?"

"Stuart has not forgiven me for staying with the North."

"I don't know what to say, General."

"You must be pretty tired if you just rode in. Go on to bed, Son, you don't need to nurse my bruised pride through the night, I'll be all right."

"I'd rather stay here, Sir," Timothy replied with his heart-lifting smile. "You still owe me some stories about the old days."

Cooke hesitated for he knew that there would be a battle the next day and Timothy would need his rest. _On the other hand, I'm not fond of my own company and if the boy really wants some stories..._ "It was back in '40 and your Father and I decided that it might be interesting to see just how far a Comanche would go to steal a horse."

~~~

Lack of sleep made Timothy yawn wide in succession as the long, hot morning dragged on. General Jackson still seemed to lack his usual deadly efficiency and all that had transpired so far that sultry day of June was a rather noisy artillery duel between the North and Stuart's horse-artillery.

Sergeant Wallace scratched his nose. "Are we going to just sit here all day?"

Timothy stifled another yawn. "I haven't the faintest idea, Hank. Don't you like sitting here?"

"No, Sir, I do not. If we're going to fight, fine, let's get it over with. If we're not, let's clear out of here. That noise is beginning to get on my nerves and the horses are getting out of hand."

Timothy half-turned in his saddle to survey his command. Hank was right about the horses. Several of them were flecked with foam and kept sidestepping with nervous energy. His own dainty mare did not seem the least concerned about the steady booming, but then Firefly seemed to have complete faith in her rider and was content to obey the quiet hands and assuring pats that Timothy bestowed upon her from time to time. There was not much he could do to calm men or horses at such a moment and all they could do was sit tight until ordered to move out.

By mid-afternoon, their wait was over. General Jackson emerged from his odd lethargy and attacked Porter's blue line with all of his now-legendary ferocity. D Company was ordered to the left flank where they were expected to stand against some of Stuart's Cavalry. Although he was now a veteran of several nasty pitched battles, Timothy exhaled slowly as he regarded the disciplined force in front of him. He knew, as did many other born Cavalrymen, that the Union Cavalry was woefully inadequate in comparison to Stuart's troop. Southerners were practically raised on horseback so the transition for them to effective Cavalry had been relatively easy; especially in light of Stuart's firm insistence on training, training, and more training. The Northern recruits, particularly the many who came from cities, lacked that basic experience and were often more terrified of their mounts than they were of the enemy. For weeks, Timothy had slaved over the men of his company; trying to instill in them the same ease around horses that he had acquired from babyhood. He borrowed from Stuart's example and drilled his men mercilessly until they could finally move as a unit. He knew in his heart that they were as ready as he could make them. He also knew that it was probably not going to be enough. Thus, as he faced the awesome spectacle of Stuart's famed Cavalry, Timothy swallowed hard and braced for the coming clash. His orders were to hold through one attack and then fall back; unless, by some miracle, he believed his men could remain engaged.

As excitement gripped his throat, the silvery notes of the charge reached his ears. Before he was aware that he had given the signal, Timothy found himself galloping toward the gray line; his men solidly at his back. Stuart's men, organized in the general's favorite formation of squadrons of columns, presented a formidable appearance as they loped forward in a thundering gallop; standing in their stirrups and twirling glittering blades above their heads. A surge of horsemen swept across a long slope and the blood chilling yells of Stuart's Cavalry were met by the cries of the men in blue. The shock of the meeting upset more than one rider and horse as the blue and gray lines crashed into each other with the full force of their respective charges.

Timothy, grateful he was still in one piece, wheeled Firefly around in order to continue the impetus of the attack. For a fleeting instant he met the dark gaze of Fitzhugh Lee; now a colonel in Stuart's command. Lee seemed to recognize the young captain in blue and lifted his saber in greeting before he spurred his horse on past. Timothy returned the salute with the edge of the blade turned pointedly away from his kinsman. _Have to spare Fitz, even if we are fighting each other. He's not just a cousin. He belongs to the old band of brothers from the Academy. I can't kill him any more than I could shoot James._ _All I can do is try to disable Fitz's command and destroy its effectiveness. I still hate killing fellows whose only crime is that they turned to the gray. Right or wrong, they're still countrymen. Anyway, they have as much chance to kill me as I do them...ah shit..._ Timothy flinched as a man fell under Firefly's sharp hooves.

He saw Fitz in the distance as he reformed his men for another charge. Timothy gathered his decimated company to withdraw as ordered. His men nodded encouragingly as they reformed around him.

"Go ahead, Sir, we're with you," said Sergeant Wallace. "Takes more than some damned Reb Cavalry to drive us from the field."

_Use my own discretion, General Cooke said. So be it._ _If we can keep Fitz Lee engaged, that will keep him from overrunning some of the Infantry._ He glanced swiftly at the men and braced for Lee's second charge. This time they did not rush forward but waited for the enemy to come to them. Even when the gray squadrons bore down on them a second time, clumps of hard dirt spewed up by galloping hooves, Timothy's men remained stoically in position. They did better that time and managed to hold against the worse of the attack; although more men and horses went down in the swirling confusion of the Cavalry engagement.

Fitz Lee swung his own horse against Firefly's glossy side. The indignant mare gave an outraged neigh and shot forward with a very surprised rider. Timothy pulled her up short and turned back to glare at Lee. There, beside the gray-clad colonel, he saw the man on foot with revolver raised. Timothy chuckled to himself. _West Point never covered what you're supposed to do when the two commanders of opposing Cavalry are hell-bent on preserving the life of the other._ _Wonder where Stuart is. Haven't seen his plumed hat yet...uh oh_...

Timothy pulled Firefly on her haunches as three gray horsemen bore down on him from three different directions. The smoke from the artillery duel covered the field and he realized that he was separated from the rest of D Company. _Damn. Guess my luck just ran out. I can't expect Fitz to save my neck a third time. Lost my hat and...where the hell is my sidearm? How could the damn thing just fall out of my holster? Oh. That's right; I had it in my hand after we engaged during that second charge. I remember using just my knees to turn Firefly. Can't believe I dropped it though! How stupid can I get? Still have the saber though. I can at least give 'em something to worry about instead of just sitting here like a well-behaved duck._

He spurred Firefly into a gallop at the man on the right and swung the flat of his saber against the flank of the man's horse. The animal squealed and stood straight on end. The second man reached him and they engaged sabers while the first man tried to right his rearing horse. Timothy slashed the second man's weapon, the contact of the blades ringing all the way to his back teeth. He had never been a brilliant fencer, although he had a certain dash that had saved him more than once at the Academy. Fortunately, the man he fought had little experience and it was easy to parry his clumsy efforts; although Timothy could not get a clean swipe at him. The first man, having finally regained control of his skittish mount, began to threaten Timothy on the other side. He was even clumsier with a saber and Timothy was able to hold them both off. Both men were very young; younger even than he and were apparently content to keep up the harmless bit of fencing. _Makes me feel like I'm back at Rose Hill and this is just another mock tournament_.

He knew he could not keep both of them at bay for much longer. He was puzzled as to how he could finish this absurd fight as first one opponent, then the other, solemnly whacked on his saber. Then, Timothy noticed that the first man's horse was still a bit jittery. He moved Firefly hard against the animal and swatted it on the rump. The horse promptly stood on end again and fell over backward; its rider tangled in the stirrups. Timothy wasted no more time on a saber duel with the second man whose mouth had fallen open in gawking amazement as his comrade fell over backward. Timothy leaned over, caught the man around the ankle, pulled sharply out and up, and flipped him neatly over his horse. Then, chuckling in delight, he bowed deeply to the flustered Rebels who were sitting on their dignities. "I'm sorry to finish our game. Unfortunately, I have to get back to my men. We can finish this another time perhaps."

Timothy slid his saber into its scabbard, waved at them, and started to turn Firefly. _Ha, that worked. Took them out without hurting more than their feel...ah, hell! I forgot all about this one_. Razored steel opened his arm from the point of his left shoulder almost to his elbow as he stared into the frenzied eyes of the third rebel. A sweeping gray-flecked black beard flowed below a gaunt face and burning eyes straight from hell. _This is no boy facing a first battle. This one means it! He's going to kill me!_

His eyes bored into Timothy and he spoke in a soft, sinister voice. "I hope you prayed proper this morning, Yank. You're going to meet your maker now," red-rimmed eyes held Timothy immobile as a snake holds a bird. His lips curved over yellow teeth as he raised the weapon.

As the blade slashed at his unprotected head, Timothy dug his heels into Firefly and the gallant mare sprang forward. Timothy's left arm was useless and he clung to the front edge of the saddle with his right. With no guidance from him, the mare followed her own instincts and headed for a line of dark trees; away from the gory evidence of the Cavalry charge. Searing pain deafened him to all sound and blinded him to everything but the mare's bobbing head. Firefly reached the trees where a tangled mound of bodies, mingled blue and gray, lay squarely across her path. A flock of crows squawked and swooped into the air. Startled by the mass of irate birds, Firefly shied violently. Timothy catapulted from the saddle. He tried to roll with the impact of the fall but landed squarely on his bleeding arm. As he lost consciousness, the mare's hooves faded as she cantered into the woods.

### Chapter 10

### Virginia, June 1862

Every beat of Timothy's heart pulsed new pain through his upper arm and roused him finally. He crawled to a nearby pine tree and leaned against its prickly trunk. Added to the pain was the desolation over the loss of the mare. He did not care that he was in imminent danger of capture or death at enemy hands. After a sweating, swearing struggle, he managed to rip his sleeve further. The glimpse of the deep jagged tear in his flesh engulfed him with a fresh wave of giddiness. Timothy put his head back against the pine and rode out the worst of the vertigo. His head cleared somewhat and he managed to wad the soft crimson folds of his silk sash against the throbbing wound. When the blood slowed, he used teeth and his uninjured hand to wrap the improvised dressing around his upper arm.

"I'm becoming quite a veteran," he muttered. "Almost as cool as a surgeon..."

Then, he flung himself forward and vomited his pride onto the Virginia earth as the dreadful carnage around him filtered into his senses. Clouds of biting flies gorged themselves on the helpless, bloody harvest of mangled horses and shattered men. The stench of the bloated dead and fevered wounded assailed his nostrils as the hot Virginia sun beat down on the bodies strewn about him. Patient birds flew in slow, watchful circles while the cries of men rose and fell. Chastened by that haunted battlefield, Timothy huddled at the base of the pine tree. Only the scrape of the prickly bark anchored him in that sea of woe. It was a losing battle though and a raging black tide swept over him relentlessly; carrying him beyond sight and sound.

~~~

As was customary, Stuart had his Cavalry make camp where they happened to end up after the ferocious struggles of the day. He considered his primary mission in life to serve as the eyes and ears of the Army and spurned any idea of a fixed headquarters. Instead, he lived off the friendly Virginia countryside; charming the farmers and paying extravagant court to their daughters. Many a Rebel Miss rode with him as an honorary aide de camp as she related choice pieces of information gleaned from unwary Yankee gallants. He wore the red rose in season although his flirtations were innocent. He remained devoted to his Flora as he wrote to her even from the saddle.

As Stuart entered a clearing, he noted several blue uniforms grouped near Fitzhugh Lee. "What's this, Colonel, prisoners?"

"Not exactly, Sir."

"Would you care to explain that remark?"

Lee wore that mischievous sparkle which had presaged more than one West Point escapade. Even though Fitz was now a colonel and had command of a brigade, there were still times when Flee behaved like a West Point gad about with nothing better to do than dream up deviltry. "We ran into them a couple of days ago. They're from the 2nd so I couldn't cart them off to Libby Prison, now could I?"

"Colonel, may I have a word with you in private?"

"I'm kind of busy right now, General Stuart, perhaps later," Fitz tried to look as if he was in the midst of critical affairs.

"Follow me, Colonel," Stuart stalked off into the woods. Once they were alone, he fixed Lee with a stern glare. "Now just what the hell are you about, Fitz?"

"Just extending some Virginia hospitality," grinned Lee.

While a ferocious adversary in the heat of battle, he was tolerant of Yankees when the bugles and guns ceased for the day; especially fellow Academy graduates.

"What do you intend to do with them when you've finished being such a proper little host?"

"Send them back to their lines. They gave me their word they wouldn't try to escape so I thought..."

"Yes, just what did you think?"

"I thought it might be fun."

"God dammit, Lee, this is a war, not a bloody garden party!"

"They're still our countrymen, Beauty. Some of them were classmates and comrades-in-arms."

"What happens when you meet them on the battlefield, Flee, do you wave politely and ride off?" wearily, Stuart sat down on a log.

"Of course not, when we're fighting, I treat them like the enemies they are. Are you casting aspersions on my honor, Stuart? Because if you are, let me tell you..." Fitz stammered and stopped with a blush.

Stuart's perceptive blue eyes locked gazes with Lee. "Out with it."

"I did wave...sort of."

"Oh, Fitz!"

"Actually, it was more of a salute."

"May I know the name of the recipient of such gallantry?

"You won't like it

"I'm sure I won't. Well?"

"It was 'Mothy."

Stuart's mouth turned down. "You're right, I don't like it. What, in God's name, am I going to do with you? You're one of my best commanders, a demon in battle. But then you go off half-cocked, invite a bunch of the enemy to a blasted picnic, and then salute a traitor!"

"I'm sorry," offered Fitz; although it was obvious that he wasn't really.

"Never mind, Flee," Stuart could never stay angry with Lee for very long. The man was a superb leader; even with his penchant for practical jokes.

"What about my, er, guests? I gave them my word, Beauty."

"Send 'em back with my compliments. Just make sure they don't carry any tales back that they shouldn't."

"Oh, I've been careful. I made sure they rode along with us today so they wouldn't get lost."

Stuart sat heavily on his log in stunned disbelief and then began to laugh in rueful amusement.

Fitz grinned. "To the point though, Beauty, things got a bit hot today. We won a victory but it was a costly one. They're no match for us yet but they are learning. MacKendrick's little company held up against three charges before they broke. They've improved some since Manassas. What's that?"

The brush crackled and something nickered. Both men turned questioning heads as a pretty bay mare trotted out of the woods.

"Hello," Stuart rose from his log.

Limpid brown eyes surveyed him and she tossed her head slightly at his warm tone. Stuart caught her reins and noted the U.S. Cavalry blanket under her saddle.

"Aren't you the little beauty?" he frowned suddenly as he studied the wide forehead and alert ears. Then he ran a hand down her slender forelegs and over her sleek withers.

"Firefly?" he asked her as he remembered Kansas.

She rubbed her head against him.

"Since when are you on speaking terms with Yankee fillies?" inquired Lee. "Wait. I've seen her before...in the moonlight at the Randolphs!"

Stuart examined her for wounds but the mare appeared unharmed. Then he spied the traces of blood on the saddle. He pointed without a word and saw Fitz's face pale.

"Reckon we could find him? I know about where we ran into his command."

"I doubt it, Flee," Stuart reached over and gripped his friend's shoulder in sympathy. "Come on, we'd best get back."

"I...in a little bit, Beauty, I want to be alone for a while," Lee hid his face against the mare's neck.

Stuart slapped a gauntlet against his thigh at the unfairness of war and left Lee with Timothy MacKendrick's horse.

~~~

Tormenting thirst awakened him from the merciful oblivion into which he had slipped. Timothy was slumped against the pine tree with the sun low in the west. Craving water, he braced his hands on the trunk and pulled himself up. The world spun as he took a first shaky step and the ground seemed a very long way off. There was nothing between his stomach and his uncertain feet as he searched for some surcease from the dreadful heat. The cool woods beyond his pine tree beckoned and he allowed the trees to draw him. _Might be a pond or stream. Must find water._

He plodded forward and wished that he could locate someone to help him. In the romances, the wounded hero was always rescued and nursed back to health by a gentle maiden. Timothy focused on the maiden for the next few minutes in an effort to block out the omnipresent pain. _Blonde, with hair like sunshine. No, a pert brunette with big eyes and gentle hands._ He staggered and lost his half-delirious dream of a rescuer. _Even if there is a woman in these damned woods, she's bound to have green hair for only a wood nymph would be living..._

Timothy stumbled against a sapling. His glazed eyes passed a little shack three times before it finally registered. He sobbed with relief. "Please, help me," he staggered hard against the door that creaked open from his weight. Only cobwebs, dirt, and rubble answered his plea. "No...oh no...help..." his head was too heavy, it was so hard to breath and he was so tired. So tired and hot and thirsty.

~~~

Several troopers gathered firewood for the rough camp Lee established for the night. They shook their heads over the incomprehensibility of officers who, one moment, ordered you to shoot anyone in blue and, in the next, expected you to sit down to supper with those same folks.

"Hey, looky here," sixteen-year old Jacob Spencer called to one of his comrades.

"What you got, Jake?"

"Some kinda' shack."

Tommy Nash wandered over to investigate Jake's find. "'Spose anyone's to home?"

"One way to find out," Jake decided.

Cautiously, they approached the disintegrating structure. Jake was nearly at the door when something moved. "You come out o' there, I see you."

The only response was a slight dragging noise of metal on wood.

Tommy unlimbered the pistol his father had given him the night he joined up with General Stuart. He licked his lips and nodded at Jake. Jake slipped around the back and they both charged the shack at the same instant. Caught between them was a tall Yankee captain. He was braced against a wall and held a saber in his hand.

"Put it down, Yank," Tommy ordered in a voice that broke back to treble.

Their enemy took a firmer grip on his saber and tried to stand straighter against the support of the wall.

"Now, I don't want to plug you. Seems like it would be better to take you prisoner; let Colonel Fitz Lee decide what to do with you."

"Fitz?" The whisper died as the man crumpled to the floor.

Jake and Tommy looked at each other and then knelt by the still figure.

"He breathin'?" whispered Tommy.

"Don't know. T'wouldn't be surprised if he 'tweren't. He's got more blood on the outside of that uniform than on the inside," Jake put his ear near the man's mouth and discerned a shallow breath. "Hey, this blue-belly's alive!"

"I'll keep an eye on him. You go get Colonel Lee," Tommy took the saber from the man's lax fingers and began to unwind the stained sash.

~~~

Fitz, subdued and unhappy, toyed with his dinner. His visitors from the 2nd had departed to rejoin their own Army.

Harry Randolph sat down beside him. "I just heard. Are you sure it's Firefly?"

"No question; even has 'Mothy's initials burned into her saddle. If only I could go look for him; make sure he isn't bleeding to death somewhere."

"We could sneak off, Fitz."

"I already suggested we look for him but the General said it was no use."

Jake appeared at his elbow. "Colonel Lee. Tommy and me, we found us a Yankee. He's bad hurt and we figured you'd better take a look at him."

"That's better than just sitting here," Fitz put his plate down.

Harry tagged along as Lee followed Jake to the ramshackle shack. Tommy crouched above a limp figure as he tried to staunch a hard bleeding wound. Lee took the boy's place and lifted the improvised compress. The deep slash had laid the man's upper arm open almost to the elbow. Lee sweated in sympathy as the Federal soldier moved under his hands. Harry went back to camp for bandages and water.

The officer moaned and opened his eyes. For a moment he gazed in wonder at Lee. "I knew my rescuer...would be brunette. Didn't count on...a beard. 'Lo, Fitz," Timothy smiled briefly and fainted again.

"'Mothy!" Lee cried. Intent on the wound, he had not troubled to look at the man's face. He pulled Timothy into his arms and held him like a lost child.

Harry returned with bandages, water, and the General.

"Head you had a prisoner. What's that?" demanded Stuart.

"What's what?" Fitz raised innocent, tear bright eyes.

"That!" spat his commander as he pointed to the bloodstained figure held in the loving embrace of Colonel Lee. "And why the hell are you bawling like a love-sick cow?"

"Just a wounded Yankee," Lee hedged.

"I doubt that Colonel Fitzhugh Lee would be blubbering over 'just a Yankee' or holding one like a pappy with his first born."

Fitz, whose luxuriant beard obscured the wounded man's face, was not sure he should identify this particular enemy. For all that Beauty had seemed genuinely sorry about MacKendrick earlier; he didn't believe Stuart's charity would be extended further.

Timothy stirred and took the decision out of his hands. "Fitz, I'm so thirsty..."

"Is that who I think it is?" Stuart growled.

"I'm afraid so," Lee admitted reluctantly.

"Timothy!" gasped Harry. His eyes filled with happy tears.

Stuart knelt beside the wounded man. He pushed Lee's beard aside to look hard into Timothy's eyes. "You traitorous young swine!"

Timothy glared at Stuart. Harry knelt protectively on the other side of his cousin and so far forgot his rank as to shove his General's hand away.

Stuart rocked back on his heels and eyed his two rebellious subordinates. His blazing blue eyes returned to Timothy. "We were friends out there in Kansas, close friends. I loved you like a brother. You should have come with me then, MacKendrick. You betrayed us. You betrayed Virginia! You're wounded now and captured. What did that treachery gain you?"

"My oath," Timothy muttered. "I kept my oath."

"Oath? Mere words against the State that bred you? Just words to make you the enemy of your kin and friends?"

"Not just words," Timothy gasped. "Only words...that matter. Duty, honor...coun..." his voice faded as his teeth clenched in pain.

"Duty. Honor. Country," Stuart seemed to taste each word.

Fitz Lee tightened his grip on his kinsman. "We lived by them too, Beauty."

Stuart's face shifted from righteous fury to puzzled surprise. "Duty, honor, country. You know, Timothy? I thought I hated you. But now I can't damn you any longer for defending that flag before Virginia. I reckon it's really simple. We both just followed our consciences. Someday, I may even be able to forgive you for not joining us."

"Give me your sidearm, Fitz," Timothy interrupted.

"What?"

Harry chuckled. "Want to go pottin' rabbits, Cousin?"

"No, I'm going to shoot Beauty," Timothy announced calmly. "I'm going to challenge him to a duel. Ridin' 'round Cooke, changin' his grandson's name...oughtabe' 'shamed of himself."

"You're out of your head," soothingly, Fitz pushed Timothy's hot searching fingers away from the grip of his revolver.

Jake and Tommy gaped at their prisoner and even Stuart looked a little nonplussed.

Harry snickered. "I'll be your second, 'Mothy. But let's get that arm fixed up first, hmm?"

Timothy peered woozily at Harry. "He's a 'no-count, yellow-bellied bastard who needs to be shot. Give me that weapon," when no revolver was forthcoming, Timothy lunged for Stuart's throat.

Gently, Stuart pushed him back against Lee and chuckled. "Look at that, Flee, he hates me. Come on, 'Mothy. I'm willing to forgive and forget if you are. Let's have a look at you."

As Stuart examined the wound, Timothy writhed under his hands and cursed him for the pain. "You go right ahead and tell me what you think of me, Boy. Help you keep your strength up."

"Should I fetch one of the troop doctors?" Harry asked.

"Not yet. It's deep and he's lost a lot of blood but we can handle it for now."

When the arm was cleaned and bandaged, Timothy lay quietly in Lee's arms.

"Now then, what should I do with you?" Stuart pondered. "I don't suppose I can convince you to resign here and now and join my Staff?"

Timothy murmured, "I, Timothy MacKendrick, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic..."

Stuart rested his closed fist against Timothy's jaw. "Young idiot."

"We could let him go back to his own lines," Lee suggested.

Stuart snorted in displeasure. "Flee, we can't go around turnin' Yankees loose."

"Just this once, General, please," Harry added his voice.

"He wouldn't get very far, not like this. Probably fall off before he rode half a mile."

"They're still collecting their wounded. We could sort of leave him where they'd find him. We can't take him prisoner, Beauty. It would mean Libby and I'll call you out myself before I'll let you send him there," Lee declared.

"No one will know," Harry added eagerly.

Stuart shook his head. "It will probably kill him to make the attempt. He's hurt pretty bad."

"He'll have a better chance than he would at Libby Prison," Fitz insisted. "It won't be any worse than trying to transport him to Richmond."

Stuart nudged Timothy. "Can you ride?"

"If someone can help me into the saddle."

"All right, we'll try it. I don't like Libby either. As for you two," Stuart turned to the wide-eyed Jake and Tommy. "You haven't heard a word of this discussion."

~~~

Night settled around the woods. Stuart entered the shack. "You'd better get going. Word just came down that all prisoners are to be sent to Richmond immediately and we want to get our young friend away safely."

Fitz and Harry hauled Timothy to his feet.

"Damn, I'm tall," Timothy clung to their support as the ground receded beneath him.

Stuart led up the mare who snorted when she spotted her master. Timothy's mouth curved into a poor ghost of his happy grin. "Firefly, where did you come from?!"

"She's a Virginian, isn't she? Where else would she be but with the Virginia Cavalry? She has better sense than you do," Stuart patted the horse's neck.

It took three tries but they finally boosted Timothy into the saddle. He swayed and Stuart put up a quick hand to steady him. "Dizzy?"

Timothy fought to stay on the mare. "Beauty, I'm sorry for what I said 'bout the duel."

Stuart laid a brotherly hand along Timothy's leg. "Try to stay out of trouble. We can't spend the war rescuin' Yankee captains. It would be considered very bad form in Richmond."

"If you see James..."

"I'll give him your regards."

It was a ride from a nightmare. One of Lee's own patrols blundered into them and it was only with great difficulty that Fitz convinced them that he and Harry could manage the prisoner alone. They reached the battlefield and followed in the wake of General Porter's forces. Firefly stumbled on the rough ground and Timothy pitched forward. Harry's quick hand saved him. "Fitz, we have to rest. He's finished."

"We can't take the time, Harry," Lee pulled Timothy onto his own horse. "Lead the mare. Porter's already left and we've got to catch him."

It was past midnight when they spied the last stragglers of the Union Army. Timothy had rallied and was back on Firefly; his eyes closed as he swayed with the motion of the horse. Harry, with considerable risk, charged an exhausted Infantryman and asked for the nearest doctor. Blinking at the apparition of a Confederate Cavalry lieutenant, the man pointed in the direction of the tattered remnants of the 5th Cavalry Regiment.

Harry spotted the column and ambulances first. "Should we just stop and wave at them?"

"Rebs! I see Rebs! Comin' at us! All around! Stuart comin'!" rang a frenzied cry from one of the ambulances.

Harry and Fitz exchanged scared looks. Lee reached over and shook Timothy. "Wake up. You'll have to go alone now. Harry and I can get back to our own lines if we leave now."

Timothy lifted his head and peered at the dark mass ahead. "I'll be all right," as he urged his tired horse forward, he managed a little wave at Fitz and Harry.

~~~

After a gallant and heartbreaking effort to protect the Union guns, the 5th Cavalry Regiment stayed behind to provide support for the litter bearers and surgeons. St. George Cooke rode at the head of his reduced regiment while the Federal Army sought the refuge of the Chickahominy. General Porter had ordered Cooke to send the 5th against Hood's Cavalry in order to provide the Artillery enough cover to remove their endangered field pieces. Hood, in a strongly fortified position, had opened fire and slaughtered them in their tracks.

"Decimate an entire regiment, by all means, but do save the field pieces and I, like a simple-minded tin soldier, obeyed," Cooke grumbled as he rode at the head of his battered troop. He grieved for his old friend, Kurt Wolfenbuttle, who was one of many lost that day. But Cooke was proud of his boys. Even in the face of Hood's withering fire they had reformed and gone in again. Then, reduced by more than half, they had stayed on that bloody field to assist in reaching as many of the wounded as possible. In spite of all their efforts, three thousand men were left behind.

Out of nowhere, Timothy appeared at Cooke's side, sketched a salute, and fell off his horse.

"'Mothy! Where the hell have you been?"

"Sir, I saw Beauty. Fitz and Harry got me away."

"What?"

A major, whose uniform was disgusting in its pristine state, pulled up as Cooke knelt by his fallen friend. "General Cooke? General McClellan wishes to see you immediately."

"Tell him I'll be along after I've seen to MacKendrick," Cooke muttered as he worked over Timothy.

"Colonel Graham is to take charge, General. You have been relieved of command for the flagrant misjudgment shown today."

"Sir..." Timothy groped for Cooke's arm.

"Lie still, you young jackass, do you want to bleed to death? Haven't you any sense at all? What in the name of God were you doing riding with a wound like this? As for you, Major, you may tell General McClellan that I will join him when I have seen to Captain MacKendrick. That is all...dismissed...you can GO now!"

Litter bearers and a harried surgeon finally raced up as Cooke bellowed for them a third time. Timothy's color was bad as the surgeon, Major Carpenter, tended the wound in a jolting ambulance.

"He'll be all right, won't he?" St. George held the lantern for the doctor.

"I don't know. He's lost a lot of blood already. He won't make it through the night if I can't stop this bleeding."

Cooke went nearly as white as Timothy and whispered hoarsely. "You've got to save him." _I wasn't there to save Gareth but I will save 'Mothy if I have to fight God Almighty for his life. He's second only to my John; my own boy who followed Stuart to the Army of Northern Virginia._

Carpenter, a fussy little man, relented a bit. "I'll do my best."

Cooke didn't answer. He just took a firmer grip on the lantern and began to pray hard. By dawn it was clear that the little doctor had worked the necessary miracle. Burning with fever, weakened by blood-loss, Timothy nevertheless held on for them.

"He'll do," Carpenter said with deep satisfaction. "He's going to be mighty unhappy for a while, but he'll do."

"Thank you, Doctor, you can't know what this means."

"This ambulance will be going to Washington later this morning. We'll send this young'un along."

"Are you sure? He's awfully weak and that fever..."

"He'll have the fever anyway, General, and we lose more of them in the hospital tents than I like to admit. There is always the risk of amputation with a wound like this. It's got to be kept clean and that won't happen in a field hospital. He'll be better off if we just send him straight on to the Capital," Carpenter smoothed the blanket over Timothy's inert form. "Try to get some food into him to build up his strength. Don't worry, General Cooke, he's made it this far."

St. George hated to leave Timothy even for a moment but there was no one to send. As he stepped down from the ambulance, a tired corporal saluted. Cooke blinked as he recognized the trooper. "Simon, isn't it?"

"Simmons, General, of D Company. I'm afraid we...we lost the Captain yesterday."

"That was mighty careless of you, Corporal."

Simmons froze as if he had been struck.

"I'm sorry, Corporal. That comment was uncalled for. I've been up all night with him and am a bit giddy. He's over here."

The Kentuckian let out his breath in a long sigh of relief. "Thank the good Lord. Last I saw, he was facing three Rebs. I couldn't reach him and I lost sight of him when Lee's men charged that third time. They broke us, Sir. Our sergeants were all killed and he didn't come in when we reformed. I had to leave him, General. I was the highest rank left and had to get the rest of the boys to safety. God forgive me, I had to put them ahead of the Captain."

Cooke patted Simmons on the shoulder. "You did your duty, Son. Because you made that choice and took command, you saved other lives."

"Will Captain MacKendrick be all right, Sir?" Simmons rubbed his sleeve across his face.

"I'm mighty worried. I've got to get some food into him."

"I'll fetch something, Sir."

"Thank you, Simmons. I didn't want to leave him."

~~~

When Simmons returned with a tepid bowl of broth, Cooke roused Timothy enough to get some of the stuff into him. "'Mothy, come on and wake up. That's an order, dammit."

Given his druthers, Timothy preferred to remain in the merciful black cocoon where nothing hurt. A persistent voice penetrated the fog and he obeyed his general's voice. He moaned a little in protest as pain rolled over him in hot waves.

"I know it hurts, Son, but we have to get some food into you. Corporal, can you give me a hand?"

Simmons supported Timothy's head while St. George spooned greasy broth into him. When the bowl was half empty, Timothy turned his head. "Don' wan' more...soup...yecht..."

"'Mothy," remonstrated Cooke.

"No...too hot."

"It's almost cold."

"Not it, me. Too hot."

"How about some water instead?"

Tepid water slipped into Timothy's mouth and trickled down his throat. With the monstrous thirst eased, Timothy tried to sort out his surroundings. "Is it daylight?"

"About an hour past dawn," Cooke eased Timothy back down.

Timothy's wavering gaze shifted to Simmons. "Tom, how is D Company?"

"Don't fret, Captain, we held against Lee for you. Only withdrew when the general order came down from the regimental commander."

"How bad were we hit?"

"Not too bad, Sir," lied Simmons serenely.

"Tell Wallace to..."

"Don't worry, Sir," Simmons laid a gentle hand on Timothy's hot forehead. "We'll manage until you come back. Now, I'd better go tell the rest of the boys that you're all right after all. We were mighty worried, Sir. You just get your strength back and don't fret about us. 'Bye, General."

"I need to see about my men," Timothy decided.

"Oh no, my boy, you are going to Washington where your lovely Aunt Dolly can pamper you properly," Cooke said.

"Washin'ton? I don' wan' go Washin'ton," Timothy drawled as he tried to sit up.

"You have no say in the matter. You have a nasty wound, Timothy, and it's going to take a while to heal. You are going home today."

As the interior of the ambulance executed a slow spinning tilt, Timothy surrendered to a childish desire for his own bed, cool sheets, and, most of all, Dorothea's gentle presence. He drowsed for a while in the stuffy ambulance and sensed that Cooke did not leave his side. Sometimes, lovely water found its way to his mouth and he even ate more of the broth without too much resistance. The ambulance bounced slightly as other wounded men joined him in the stifling box.

"Well, they're just about ready to head out, 'Mothy. I'll send word to Lafayette so that he can collect you," Cooke, his face drained with fatigue, bitter failure, and worry, started to get to his feet.

Timothy was concerned by the look on his general's face. Surely it was not because he had been wounded. That was one of the hazards of war and everyone accepted it as normal risk. A shadowy voice from the night before filtered through the fever haze. He caught at St. George's hand. "What about you?"

"Me? You're the one we're worried about. I'll be fine."

"I heard...someone. You were...McClellan relieved you of command?"

"Just a mix-up," St. George tucked Timothy's hand back under the blanket.

Timothy shivered from fever and pain but his voice steadied with an edge of steel. "I won't leave you. McClellan is a damned ass and full of cow shit. He can't do this to you, the baboon-bottomed, worthless, son of a bitch!"

St. George stared at Timothy as he cut loose with a stream of inspired invective. "Good Lord, 'Mothy," Cooke exclaimed. "I have never heard such swearing in my life and with your eyes closed too!"

### Chapter 11

### Washington, June 1862

Twilight fell across Washington that torrid night in late June. Dorothea lingered as soft lights flickered in the dusk. She had little chance these days to enjoy such moments as the hospital demanded so much time. When they did occur, she cherished them even more. As she turned towards the house, Lafayette appeared at the end of the block. Lately, he stayed late at headquarters and her initial delight at his early homecoming faded into apprehension She recalled that other day way back in '47 when he brought word of Gareth's death. _James or Timothy, which one?_ She met him halfway and threaded her fingers through his. They swung hands like a courting couple as they turned up the rose-festooned walk. In silent accord, they went to his library.

She sat on the small leather settee while Lafe adjusted the lamps so light wouldn't shine in her eyes. Then he joined her on the settee and his strong hands enveloped hers where they lay clasped in her lap. "I'm sorry, Beloved. It's Timothy."

Dorothea's blood congealed. _Odd. My heart doesn't hurt. I expected a breaking heart would cause pain not this numb cold. My Timothy. The only son we had_. The icy knot in her stomach spread to her breast and then her throat. _My little 'Mothy, snatched away just like his father. Damn their bugles and drums and games of war. Damn them for killing my brother and my boy. Lafe must never know. He must never guess how much I hate that uniform sometimes. My poor Lafe, you always show your feelings on your face. You loved him too. He was your son as much as he was mine and I know your grief is as deep. I won't cry in front of you, my Darling. There is nothing you can do or say to ease my pain. I won't add to your anguish and make you comfort me when you need comfort too. My tears will be shed in private as befits a soldier's woman._

With supreme effort and dry eyes, Dorothea kept her voice calm in a throat she swore was paralyzed. "Is he coming home or did they bury him on the battlefield?"

"Bury! Dolly, he's alive! Wounded yes, but very much alive, in fact...Dorothea, you're crying! Oh I knew I wouldn't break it to you properly. Please don't cry, Dolly. He's all right. He's safe!" Lafe held her close as his tranquil wife dissolved into thankful howls.

~~~

Lafayette and Dorothea waited at the hospital. They had arranged to take Timothy straight home for the hospitals in the city overflowed with the wounded and their respective staffs were happy to do with one less patient. Ambulances and wagons arrived and discharged their battered cargos. Some moved under their own power, others leaned heavily on supporting arms or crutches, while the rest had to be carried on litters. Cooke's telegram had not provided details nor was there direct communication from Timothy. Whatever came, Lafe had to be strong for his wife. Although Dorothea had worked in the Georgetown hospital for over a year and had acquired some hard won immunity, Lafe knew this was different. She had nursed other women's helpless sons but this was her own.

As more shattered men passed, Dorothea lifted haunted eyes. "I wish I didn't remember the ones who died and how they died."

Lafe slipped his arm around her waist. "Let me send you home, Dolly. You don't need to stand here and wait. It may be hours yet. I'll bring him home to you. That way..."

"That way, you have the full burden of waiting," Dorothea cupped his cheek in her free hand. "Don't baby me, Lafe. It's the waiting that's so hard. It makes me imagine things. If only St. George had told us more. It would help so much if we knew what Timothy faced. If...if he lost a leg...or..."

Lafe pressed his face against her neck; right where the roll of silver-threaded dark hair shone under her hat. "I know, Beloved. I hope it's a light wound but since Timothy didn't send word himself, I imagine things too."

"Do you?" Dorothea whispered.

"Yes, of course. Are you sure you can take care of him? We could hire a nurse."

"I want to take care of him. I've learned a great deal this past year. Gerome will be a great help to me. There's Adria too. Isn't it lucky she extended her visit so she could volunteer at the hospital?"

Lafe wrinkled his nose. "Somehow, I don't think Miss Weston will be very comforting. She's not the sort to caress a man's fevered brow or feed him sips of broth. I don't believe I have ever met such an opinionated female before in my life."

"Lafe, I thought you liked her?"

"I do, Dolly, but you must admit she's very different from the sort of women to whom I am accustomed."

"You're just annoyed that she trounced you at chess five times."

"It was only four. The last match was a draw," Lafe retorted. "No girl child should be that adroit on a chess board. It's just not...not..."

"Suitable for a belle?" Dorothea giggled.

"Precisely."

"She is from Boston, Lafe."

"Her mother is from Charleston. I remember when you came up to West Point for graduation: you, Phoebe, and Lillian. I just find it difficult to believe that Miss Weston is Lillian's daughter."

Before Lafayette launched further into his views of Adria Weston, one of the hospital's doctors hurried over. "General, Mrs. Randolph, we have Captain MacKendrick over here."

An ambulance stood at the curb. Lafe clambered into the back and discovered the wreck of his nephew. "We're here, Son, it won't be much longer."

Timothy lay on a stretcher that was far too short. His face was flushed and his thick hair was matted with dirt. His stubble of light brown beard glistened with sweat. A ragged, filthy blanket covered him but seemed to provide little warmth and he shivered under its dubious comfort. Harsh, uneven breaths indicated that he was conscious. Lafe pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the young man's face.

Timothy opened his eyes and knew his uncle. He managed a weak grin. "Lafe, am I in Washin'ton?"

"You are. We'll have you home soon and get you more comfortable."

Timothy licked lips that were parched and bleeding. "I forgot to duck."

"What was it, a bullet?" Lafe brushed back a wet lock of hair that was in Timothy's eyes.

"Saber. Damn things cut pretty deep, too."

"Lafe," Dorothea called from the curb.

Lafayette's nostrils pinched at the overpowering stench of blood, spittle, stale urine and feces. Horrified by the conditions to which the Army subjected its wounded, he pulled the blanket back to reveal a dirty field-bandage. "Timothy, when was this dressing changed?"

"It hasn't. Not since the surgeon put it on. Oh Christ, it hurts."

"Lafayette, I'm coming up."

He turned to stop her but Dorothea was already beside him. With a little cry of pity and concern, she knelt by the stretcher.

"Don't kiss me, Auntie, you might catch something," even as he protested, the fingers of Timothy's right hand clung and curled around hers.

Dorothea laid her palm on Timothy's flushed face. "Dearest boy, you're on fire. That bandage is filthy. You should never have been sent like this. If I ever get my hands on St. George Cooke and whatever fool doctor forced you to travel."

"Dolly," Lafe tried to pull her away as the stench grew more pungent.

"Let go, Lafe," she ordered. Her gentle voice didn't rise in volume but her tone was emphatic. "I won't leave him. I swear I am going to cut St. George Cooke into so many little pieces, the General Staff will never find a trace of him. Still, now that you're here, Darling, you'll be much safer with me. Lafe, ride up with the driver so we can get him home. That dressing needs to be changed."

"But Auntie, you can't stay back here."

"Dorothea, I cannot permit..."

"Lafayette, stop arguing with me."

Against Lafe's better judgment and Timothy's feeble protests, she knelt by her nephew's stretcher. She seemed blissfully unaware of the filth that swirled about her skirts.

Lafayette sat beside the driver to give him directions. As the ambulance rumbled through the streets, Lafe contemplated the vagaries of the human spirit that permitted his delicate Dorothea to ride, without complaint, in the back of a very dirty ambulance.

~~~

Timothy jerked awake from yet another blistering nightmare. He had been home for over a week but he was still weak from the murderous journey to Washington. He could not shake the fever and he had not had a decent night's sleep. The wound was healing but it was raw and still painful. He considered the nightmares babyish and was ashamed to mention them. The days and nights assumed a dreary monotony for he was not permitted to leave his bed; not even to have Gerome and Lafe carry him to a chair by the window. There were things he had to find out. _Where is General Cooke, what is the condition of D Company, and where the hell is Firefly? How could I just go off and leave her like that!_ He turned thumpily on the pillow as the anxious questions spun through his mind.

Gerome arrived with his breakfast. "Morning, Mister Timothy, how was your sleep? It's going to be a fine morning. Just listen to those birds tuning up," Gerome put the lap tray on the table by the window and drew the curtains aside to bring in the pale morning sunlight. He supported Timothy so that he could pile the pillows behind him. He placed the tray across the patient's lap.

Timothy held out his hand for the fork. "I can feed myself now, thank you."

While Timothy ate his breakfast, Gerome kept up a pleasant discourse about who was doing what to whom politically. "The war isn't going very well. General McClellan is still taking his sweet time and his strategy isn't too successful. They say the President is dissatisfied with him and that he's going to put General Pope in command."

Timothy shrugged with disinterest. Who the hell cares about McClellan? "What about General Cooke?"

"Would you like a shave now, Mister Timothy?" Gerome removed the tray and arranged a razor, soap, brush, and towel on the small table beside the bed.

"Not until I hear what's become of the General."

"Mister Timothy, it won't do you any good to ask me. I'm under orders not to tell you," Gerome lathered Timothy's chin.

"What do you mean, 'under orders'?"

"Miss Dolly says we're not to say much until you're better."

"I AM better! I want to know! I DEMAND that you...mmph...ugh!"

"Mister Timothy, don't you know that you can get lather in your mouth if you don't keep it shut? Must be because you're in the Cavalry. Mister Lafe always says that horse-soldiers haven't the sense of a nearsighted hound dog. Now, you just keep still while I finish shaving you. Miss Dolly said she'd be along in a little while."

Timothy maintained an outraged and humiliated silence for the rest of the shaving and bathing business. _What a dirty thing to do, putting SOAP in my mouth! Who does he think he is? All I asked was if he had news of General Cooke. Well, I reckon I did yell a bit but Gerome should know better. I'm SICK. I'm supposed to be humored. That means he should answer my questions. I'm so worried about St. George. I know something bad has happened to him. Why can't they just TELL me!_

Timothy chafed at his confinement as the morning dragged to noon. When Dorothea poked her head in briefly to see if he wanted anything, Timothy pretended to be asleep. On the summer breeze, church bells chimed the eleven o'clock hour. Finally, he could bear inaction no longer. Timothy sat up, swung his long legs over the side of the bed, and stood up. _Dang! The floor just jumped up and hit me! All right, so maybe I can't get up yet._ He tried to shift to a sitting position and found that it was more difficult than anything he had ever attempted in his life. Fortunately, he'd landed on his uninjured side and hadn't bumped his heavily bandaged left arm

Timothy had just managed to pull himself up to his knees via the nearest bed post when Miss Weston's clear tones penetrated the heavy oak door. "I am sure he'll be delighted to see you, General."

"I'm anxious to see him too," General Cooke's voice rumbled.

When the door opened, twin cries of alarm added to Timothy's confusion. Firm, gentle hands helped him back to bed where he was content to lie quietly until the room stopped spinning.

"I'd better call Dorothea," declared Miss Weston.

"No, no. We don't need to alarm her. It was just a tumble. He hasn't opened the wound," replied General Cooke. "Why don't you rustle up some brandy? That should do the trick."

Cautiously, Timothy opened his eyes and noted thankfully that the room no longer tilted. St. George's face came into his field of vision. "Sir, you're all right."

"Of course I'm all right. You look better."

Relieved at Cooke's cheerful presence, Timothy turned his attention to his next concern. "How is D Company?"

"Pretty badly hit, I'm afraid. With you and the sergeants gone, that corporal of yours, Simmons, has worked wonders putting the pieces back together. He was given a battlefield commission and put in command."

_But that's my command! They took D Company away from me?_ Timothy's face flushed and then paled. "I reckon Tom deserves it," _he's a good man. It could be worse. They could have given the company to someone else. Some lackluster failure from the Academy or a civilian play soldier. At least, Tom will look after the fellows._

"I won't be going back either," Cooke remarked neutrally.

"Then it IS true! McClellan did hold you responsible for Gaines' Mill!" furious, Timothy tried to sit up.

"Whoa, Son, do you want to end up on the floor again? Just lie there and listen. I said LISTEN! That's better. In the first place, yes, I have been relieved of command. It's not as bad as it sounds, however. They've put me in the War Department until another command farther west can be found for me."

"You've been the heart of the Cavalry ever since Stephen Kearny died. You were the one who shaped it, organized it, and gave it direction. Why are they doing this to you now?"

"I am a Virginian. There is a suspicion in some quarters that I may not be totally reliable and this business with Stuart is just the icing on the cake. Dependable soldiers do not let the enemy ride completely around them; especially an enemy that's related to you."

"It's not your fault that your daughter is married to Beauty. That has nothing to do with your abilities as a field commander!" Timothy brought his fist down on the coverlet.

St. George covered his hot fingers with an affectionate grip. "There is also that catastrophe with the 5th. I underestimated Hood's position badly; even though I was carrying out Porter's orders."

"You are a soldier. We have to obey orders in the field. We can't just make up the orders as we go along. There is such a thing as chain of command and discipline and..."

"We are not just a professional corps now, Timothy. There are a lot of people in the Army who never went to West Point. Several of these people can't understand why I didn't refuse to obey an order that I knew was a criminally foolish one. Fortunately, McClellan and Porter do not constitute the entire Army. There are several members of the War Department who are determined to spare me the ignominy of a court-martial. In a way it will be a relief. I don't want to help destroy Virginia. I PREFER a western command," Cooke's voice lacked its usual hearty conviction. "By the way, I brought that Firefly horse of yours with me and she's safe in Lafe's stable."

Timothy smiled in relief. "Thank you for that, Sir. She means a lot to me."

"I have some other news that will please you as well. You have been promoted although I haven't been able to find out where they're sending you yet. Maybe they'll send you to the West with me. Won't that be fine?"

Timothy's jaw hardened. _West? Away from the war? Are they going to punish me for Gaines' Mill too?_

"We might even wind up in Kansas and I can show where your Father and I rode with the good old 1st Dragoons; where that damned horse ran off with him and he raced with the tribes. Have I ever told you about that?"

Yes, you've told me. You've told me the stories about the early days with the Dragoons; of the pony a Comanche warrior gave my Father that he rode bareback all the way to Leavenworth. What does that have to do with how they've treated you?

"MacKendrick, you are going to have to stop sulking about this. What's done is done. There is nothing we can do."

"Don't you even CARE, Sir? They've relieved you of command! Those bastards sitting on their safe staff asses have betrayed YOU! It isn't fair!"

"No, it isn't fair and yes I care," Cooke's voice broke with despair. "I feel as if they tore my gut out by the roots and had Stuart's Cavalry ride over it at a full charge. There just isn't anything that you or I can do about the situation. I'm finished, Son, and I'll probably ride out the rest of the war in some obscure backwater. We've got to consider you now. We can't have your career ruined by your ties to me. It is time to bite the bullet and to do our duty without remorse or hesitation. Those are the orders of the day. Understood?"

Timothy moistened his fever-parched lips. "Understood, Sir, but it sure as hell won't be as much fun."

A delicate clink of fine crystal transformed the despondent Cooke into a gallant, if blustery, cavalier. "Well, here is Miss Weston with the brandy at last. I envy you, my boy. On the Plains when we became ill there were no such angels of mercy to tend our needs. My dear, I am sure that you and Mrs. Randolph will have no further trouble with this young scoundrel. If you do, let me know and I'll deal with him. I must be going now. Behave yourself, 'Mothy. My dear, it has been delightful meeting you."

Miss Weston stared after Cooke. "What did he call you?"

"'Mothy. It was my nickname at the Academy," depressed, Timothy took a long sip of the brandy.

"Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why did they call you 'Mothy?"

Irritably, Timothy looked at Miss Weston's pure profile. "It's just a shortening of my name and I had a reputation for studying after hours with a lantern shielded under my blanket. My wife, Crawdy, was convinced I was going to set fire to the bed."

"Your wife! I didn't know you were married."

"I'm not. You're not allowed to be married at West Point."

"But you just said she thought you were going to set fire to the bed."

Timothy chuckled. "HE thought I was going to set fire to the bed. 'Wife' is what we call roommates at the Academy."

"Oh."

"May I have another brandy, please?"

"No, Captain. In your present condition, one glass is more than sufficient."

"Major. General Cooke just told me that I've been promoted. So, I need to celebrate. Please?" Timothy coaxed with his most charming smile.

"Absolutely not, Cap...Major MacKendrick," she moved the decanter out of reach.

Timothy blinked. _Hmm. That's strange. I must be sicker than I thought. That smile usually does it. Let's try a different tack. Maybe a nice dull girl from Boston is more apt to respond to a pitiful soul than a cavalier._ "It must be very tedious for you to nurse an invalid, Miss Weston."

"Oh, I don't mind. After all it is my Christian duty to look after anyone who is in need," Adria stated. "In Boston we do all sorts of things to help the less fortunate wretches. Although, YOU'RE not a wretch, Major. However, charity is charity."

For the first time, Timothy really looked at her. She was tall and slender. The amber watered silk gown flowed over her willow-slim shape; which appealed to him far more than the tiny waist and full bosom that was the current fashion. Her hair was deep reddish-brown with mahogany overtones and her eyes were the color of a winter sea; a remarkable gray-green suited to a mermaid. Her face was arresting with a high brow and cheekbones, long, straight nose, and firm round chin. Her lips were like a child's; tender and the color of a pale tea rose.

Miss Weston blushed slightly as Timothy's steady appraisal seemed to cause her discomfort. "I'd better go now. Your Aunt is expecting some guests for dinner and I promised her that I'd help with the flowers."

"Please, stay a moment."

Adria fidgeted as Timothy continued to scrutinize her. Then, autocratic impatience swept aside her demure demeanor. "Well?"

Amused, he observed the change in her face. _Oh HO_! _The little dull Miss from Boston has vanished entirely...might be worth investigating._

"Did you wish to ask me something or not?" Adria's chin lifted haughtily.

Timothy was delighted by the glowing animation of her face and sudden flash of her vivid eyes. _Definitely worth investigating_. "Do you really believe that stuffy nonsense about your Christian duty or is your old maid prattle just what they expect in Boston?"

"Old MAID?! I'm only nineteen...never mind. I'll excuse your rudeness this time since you have been ill," Adria sailed from the room.

Ha, I was right! She carries her head like a princess and she could teach us something at West Point about straight spines! Magnificent! She's no meek Puritan. Those eyes change color like a windswept sea. What a lovely blush she has. I've never known anyone like her. She's not flirtatious like the Southern girls. She's not coy like the spoiled Washington belles. She's different. She's wonderful! Adria. Nice name that. I can almost hear the waves rolling onto a beach with that name...a sea princess. That's what she is. Oh. She left the decanter...a bit out of reach but...if I put this foot on the floor...use the armchair for support...lean just a bit...got it.

Timothy eased back onto the bed and refilled his glass. "To my promotion and my new challenge...Miss Weston."

Later that afternoon, indignant whispers roused Timothy from the pleasant doze created by three small snifters of Lafe's fine Napoleon.

"Gerome, did you bring him that brandy?"

"I did not, Miss Dolly."

"Well, someone did."

"General Cooke was here."

"I suppose it won't really hurt him. He does seem to be sleeping for once."

Timothy kept his eyes closed and heard the slight rustle of Dorothea's poplin skirt. Her hand rested cool on his head. He felt her fingers move like thistledown as she smoothed the crocheted coverlet. _I know she's worried about my arm. Might be fun to give her something else to think about._ "Miss Weston," Timothy murmured, as if asleep.

Dorothea's breath caught.

"What did he say?" inquired Gerome with a sibilant hiss.

"Miss Weston."

"Uh oh, we're in trouble now," stated Gerome.

"Gerome."

"Miss Dolly."

"She means well."

"Hmph, she's still a Yankee Miss."

"Maybe Timothy can, well, un-bend her a little."

"He should stick with his horses," Gerome's dignified tread faded into the hallway.

Dorothea brushed his forehead with a tender kiss. "My darling little one, he may be right. That girl is a handful. I'm glad you're dreaming something happy though, instead of those nightmares that have tormented you all week."

After she slipped from the room, Timothy stretched luxuriously and studied the pattern the afternoon sun threw on the wall. _Wonder if Dolly knew I was awake just now? Should have realized I couldn't fool her about the nightmares. Oh yes. Adria Weston will need some gentling. For this particular filly, I recommend a curb and a firm, kind hand. No martingale, though. I prefer a female who can toss her head as much as she likes...mare or girl._

### Chapter 12

### Virginia, July 1862

General Joseph Johnston was wounded in May and President Davis, ignoring criticism and approval alike, placed Robert E. Lee in command of the Army of Northern Virginia: "Granny" Lee to his detractors, Bobby Lee to his supporters. Confederate spirits remained high although the Yankees had not been whipped in as short a time as prophesied. Even the ominous little warnings of Shiloh and New Orleans failed to daunt Southern hopes. Lee crossed the Chickahominy right behind the defeated Army of the Potomac and pushed the hated Yankees back to the North that spawned them. Exultation gripped the Army from the highest general officers down to the lowliest, barefoot private. The blue bellies were running and New Orleans would be avenged. The clarion call rang clearly through the ranks; on to Washington!

James shared the high excitement of his comrades. Even a savage bout of dysentery did not dampen his enthusiasm. He paused on his way back from one of his endless trips to the latrine to enjoy the warmth of the July night. A high clear tenor from over by Stuart's camp began the sentimental favorite, _Lorena_. Not to be outdone, some of John Pelham's horse-artillery challenged with a rousing rendition of _Bonnie Blue Flag_. James had avoided food all day in the belief that it would mitigate the worst of his symptoms. His stomach clamored for food even as his intestines spasmed in continued protest. Restless with his discomfort, James prowled in the light evening breeze. He stepped over to the water barrel and slapped the dipper into its contents. He rinsed his grimy mouth and spat it onto the ground. Then, he took a long drink and scratched at his tidy beard. He kept it short to discourage the lice. _Dysentery and lice, what an Army_. It was impossible to keep clean and most of the troops were philosophical about the twin hazards that had plagued armies from the time of Alexander and Caesar.

As James admired the bright moon, a mighty clap on the shoulder nearly flattened him.

"James, you old sober-sides, how the hell are you?"

"Hello, Flee," James said equably. _I wonder why Cavalrymen are always so damned exuberant? Must be their close association with horses. They're so accustomed to jouncing all the time, they just naturally keep bouncing even when they're off the beasts._

"You look a bit peaked, James. Been sick?"

"Just the usual complaint."

Fitz Lee guffawed. "You don't have to tell me! If I have to look at one more mess of cornbread and molasses!"

"How's the Cavalry, General?"

Lee had just been elevated to brigadier. "As much fun as it ever was. When are you going to come to your senses and 'jine' the right outfit?"

"When horses come equipped with bigger brains and smaller backs. I also don't fancy growing anything like that!" James pointed to Lee's glorious beard that flowed in rippling waves to his breast.

"You don't know what you're missing," Fitz avowed jovially.

Funny how the war has changed things. When we were at the Academy, Flee wanted nothing to do with me and most of the other fellows were the same way. Of course, I was pretty stuffy. I was too busy trying to be another 'Marble Model' like Cousin Robert. I was wrong though. There is a difference between book theory and real battle. You can't fight with a poker up your ass. You can't bully the men because they aren't clean or don't grasp elementary tactics. You have to understand them to lead them. You have to know that each man has his strengths and weaknesses and work with them accordingly. Take Fitz. He's a lunatic at times but that very lunacy makes him so effective in the Cavalry.

"Want to know what the best thing about being a general is?" Lee demanded.

"Your own tent?"

"Nope, the opportunities for pranks are just so much better. Little Majors like you can't put me on report either!"

"I never put you on report at the Academy."

"That's because I was too smart for you and you never caught me," Lee wagged a finger at James.

"Just watch out," James chuckled. "I may get a brigade myself someday and then you'll be fair game."

"Maybe you will. In the meantime, how about you come with me and see if we can fix you up."

"Fix me up how?" James asked suspiciously. He had a born Infantryman's mistrust of the Cavalry in general and a personal one for Fitzhugh Lee in particular. He had never been the butt of one of Lee's practical jokes, except for that cake stunt with Timothy, and he did not relish the idea of becoming a pet target.

"Cure your digestive ailment."

"Fitz, really, I'd rather not."

"Don't be a fool, James. You can't stay on your feet if you let dysentery take too great a hold."

"Fitz, I don't..."

Lee stared at James in dignified hurt. "Don't you trust me?"

"Don't be asinine, Flee, of course I...you're right, I don't trust you."

"James, I would never kick a comrade when he's down and dysentery is about as down as a man can be. Besides, that stuff can be dangerous if it isn't treated. I've known men to die of it."

"So have I," _a soldier's death in battle is one thing but to fall victim to something so plebeian!_ Pride overcame wariness. "Very well, General, I'm very grateful for your assistance."

~~~

James sat on Fitz's cot while his host poured some water into a cup and added the contents of a small bottle. Lee stirred the contents with a twig; as solemn as a witch in her first incantation. Then he handed the brimming cup to James.

James took an experimental sniff and gagged. "You expect me to drink this?"

"I do, Major MacKendrick," Fitz replied firmly. _Ha, I'm the general. You have to mind me_.

"I won't drink it," James avowed. "It smells nasty and probably tastes vile."

_Whoops, I forgot about the MacKendrick stubbornness_. "Agreed, but it does the trick and I speak from experience. Drink it down, it will help."

"No."

"Are you going to make me force it down your stubborn gullet?"

"I'd like to see you try," James stood up to his full height.

Lee's fine, dark eyes began to sparkle at the prospect of a battle. "Very well, I win, you drink it."

James inclined his head graciously and as he did, Fitz gave him a shove. James tripped on the cot and went down with a thud. Lee sat on him and began to sing,

Oh, the years creep slowly by, Lorena,

The snow is on the ground again

"You lyin', no-count polecat!" James sputtered.

The sun's low down the sky, Lorena,

The frost gleams where the flow'rs have been.

"Now I know why the Cavalry always wears yellow stripes on their breeches. Of all the low, conniving, cowardly..."

"Oh shut up, James," laughed Lee with genuine affection. "I never said I'd fight fair. Besides, I don't mind a few names if it will get that mess down your throat."

"The bargain is off. I refuse to drink that concoction."

"I can wait."

But the heart beats on as warmly now,

As when the summer days were nigh.

Oh, the sun can never dip so low

A-down affection's cloudless sky

James wiggled and twisted.

A hundred months have passed, Lorena,

Since last I held that hand in mine,

And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena,

Though mine beat faster far than thine.

"Get off, Flee," James croaked urgently.

"Nope, really, James, you'll be sorry if you don't drink..."

"You'll be sorry if you don't get off and let me out of this tent!"

Fitz leapt to his feet and offered James a hand.

James was doubled over with his hands clutched over his lower belly. "Where..."

"Down the line about fifty yards."

James tore out of the tent.

"I won't see him again this evening. He'll run like a scared rabbit right back to Jackson," Lee sighed.

James returned a short time later; white to the lips and drenched with sweat. "I don't care what it tastes like. Let me have it, please."

Silently, Fitz handed him the tin cup.

"Good God!" James choked.

"Quite, but I promise you, it does the job."

"I hope so. I can't go through this anymore," James drained the cup and sat down gingerly on the cot.

"Why don't you just rest here a bit?" Lee urged.

"How long does it take to work?"

"Not very long, you MacKendricks are having a hard summer," Fitz broke off at the look in James' eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't know about 'Mothy?"

"What about him?"

"Oh James, I'm truly...I thought you knew!"

"Just tell me what happened."

"It was at Gaines' Mill. We were charging a line of Yankee Cavalry. Naturally, I went after their commander."

"Naturally, go on, Flee."

"I was practically on top of him when I saw his face. It was 'Mothy. I started to go for him, but..."

"But?"

"But I couldn't do it. It was the damndest thing, James. How many battles have we been in? How many men have we killed? He's a Yankee now, blast him, the enemy," Fitz wagged his head as a slight flush of embarrassment ran through him. _I've met other fellows who were with me at the Academy or with the 2nd in Texas. I only experience minor qualms about sending them to the hereafter. Timothy though, Timothy is special. He's different. It's not just because he's my cousin. It can't be just that. Even Beauty, who hates his father-in-law for doing the same thing, even Beauty wanted to save 'Mothy._ "He was separated from his men; you know what Cavalry charges are. Some of my boys went after him. He was wounded; a bad saber cut on the arm. When we found him later on, he was nearly finished."

"You found him?! He wasn't dead?"

"Not then he wasn't. Beauty, Harry, and I did what we could to stop the bleeding but he was pretty bad, James. He'd lost a lot of blood and could barely hold his head up."

"I've got to get to Richmond."

"Why?"

"I won't leave him to the tender mercies of Libby Prison! Maybe General Jackson can help me arrange an exchange."

Lee put a compassionate hand on his kinsman. "He's not in Libby, James."

"Not in..." anguish glinted in the smoke-gray eyes.

Fitz realized, for the first time, how much the two brothers resembled each other even though one was fair and the other dark. "Harry and I got him to Porter's stragglers and I saw him reach the ambulances. After that, I don't know," _Timothy, forgotten and alone, bleeding to death as the Yankees fled north; dying in slow agony under a surgeon's hand; suffering after someone hacked off his arm. I've had the same nightmare for days. I never dream about my own neck but to lose Timothy this way..._

"Fitz, I've got to reach Lafe. He'd be the first to get word about Timothy."

"Direct communication with Washington? Come on, then. We'll pretend we're back at West Point and it's just another lark."

~~~

Worry gnawed at James' vitals as first one person and then another told him that he could not reach Lafayette directly. A persistent rumor that Timothy had been recaptured and sent to Richmond nearly drove him mad. Generals Stuart and Jackson engaged in three weeks of string pulling and red tape cutting on James' behalf. Finally, after much official hem hawing on both sides, Fitz Lee placed a slim envelope in James' outstretched hand. A few shameless tears stung his eyes as he recognized Dorothea's handwriting.

James' stomach tightened in cold apprehension as he scanned it; fearful of its contents.

My dearest James,

Lafe has just been given permission to send word to you and I welcome the chance to write. Timothy is here with us and is still quite ill. Although the wound is bone-deep, it is healing nicely and he is no longer in danger of losing his arm. Our main concern is the lingering fever which makes him restless and fretful. Gerome and I have our hands full sitting on his head and keeping him quiet.

I hope that you will convey my deepest gratitude and affection to those who sent him safely back to us. Lafe said that I must not name names so I will count on you to give my warmest blessings to the Cavalier and our Cousins. I only wish that I could thank them personally.

We hear that you are a new father. We are so happy with that news and hope all is well with Marietta and the little one. Keep safe, my dearest boy. We love you and worry about you.

Your Loving Aunt, Dolly

"He's safe in Washington. Dolly says he's been pretty sick but is recovering. She also says to bless you, Beauty, and Harry for your assistance and wishes that she could thank you personally."

"Thank God. I have to tell Beauty that Timothy is all right," Lee banged James on the shoulder and dashed from the tent.

James rubbed the sore spot on his shoulder absently as he re-read the letter. He was fully recovered from the dysentery, thanks to Lee. Timothy was safe, also thanks to Lee. James smiled again as he came to Dorothea's warm congratulations over baby Hannah.

"Major? General Jackson is looking for you, Sir."

James took a moment to fold the precious letter and to place it tenderly under his hard little pillow. _It doesn't matter that we're on different sides. They're still my family_. Humming happily under his breath, he buttoned his tunic and returned to Jackson's side.

### Chapter 13

### Washington, August 1862

For two days the echo of guns reverberated through the city. On the 30th of August, initial reports claimed a Union victory and by nightfall the guns fell silent. Official Washington, nervous over the new fighting at the site of the previous summer's debacle at Bull Run, nevertheless resolved to enjoy a grand gala. The hot August night clung to the streets as the guests converged on the Willard Hotel on foot. All of the hired hacks and most of the private carriages had been sent to the battle to provide transportation for the wounded. The President was weary from fighting the South, the Congress, and even his own Cabinet, yet Mrs. Lincoln insisted that they carry on with the plans for the ball.

The lively _Radetsky March_ filled the ballroom as Lafayette and Timothy waited for their charges to come out of the ladies' cloakroom.

"Now remember that Dolly suggested you refrain from dancing tonight," admonished Lafe.

"'Suggested'? It sounded more like an order to me. It never fails to amaze me how such a gentle lady can be so firm when she puts her foot down."

"She's worried about you, Son."

"I know, but I get so tired of not being able to do anything. Besides, I'm much better and..."

"That may be, however, you're still not as well as we'd like you to be."

Timothy shrugged. _I'm not as well as I'd like to be either._

~~~

Adria stood before the mirror and made sure that her heavy hair was in place. Her ball gown was pale green moiré from Paris; designed by the great Charles Worth himself. Festoons of tiny pink roses cascaded down the draped over-skirt. _The bodice is cut a bit lower than I like but it does suit me. The hoop is much wider too so I'll have to be careful going through the doors and when I dance. It will be pleasant to keep Major Timothy MacKendrick at arms' length this night. He is getting much too sure of himself!_ _It was enjoyable at first when I read to him. He seems to like everything I do. Homer, Jane Austen, Dickens. His insights into the stories are almost profound. I thought a soldier would only care about the Manual of Arms. Some of our discussions bordered on arguments. It is like dueling with words instead of foils. But, I've never had anyone pay attention to my ideas the way he does. Not even Father. Major MacKendrick seems to listen with his entire being as if he likes my voice or my thoughts. Even when he disagrees with me, he always gives me the chance to express my opinion._

Adria adjusted several of the pink roses that had been flattened by her cloak and her smooth brow wrinkled a bit as she evaluated the situation. As the days went by and he became stronger, the Major began to take a few liberties. He would catch her hand when she tried to plump his pillow or pay her compliments that were one step from being audacious; his gray eyes innocent. Although Adria had been wooed by some of the most polished gents in Boston, she had never encountered anyone quite like Major MacKendrick and his soft-voiced methods. Almost too late, she recognized her danger. _Why, just this morning, while we strolled in the garden, he kissed my hands. BOTH of them. I never let anyone do that. It's annoying. And he didn't kiss the tops. He turned them over and kissed my palms. One right after the other. His lips moved too and it was as if a white-hot line traced all the way to my fingertips. I can still feel them tingling and that can't be a good sign._

That evening when she joined the family in the drawing room, she felt a twinge of alarm. Instead of the ill, boyish charmer, a striking officer in a dress uniform confronted her. Major MacKendrick was revealed in one flash of his eyes; the strong-willed, competent officer. He was much taller vertical than when he had been lying in his bed; helpless, wounded, and looking no older than eighteen. Something of the dash and authority, which had already earned him the love and respect of Cavalrymen on both sides of the war, transmitted itself to her like a streak of lightning and she realized that he was a man, not a mere engaging boy.

Adria drew on her gloves. _I'd better put a stop to this nonsense tonight. I've never been in love before but I think I may be love with him. That must never happen. I won't marry anyone. Ever! Besides, I think he's laughing at me. I seem to amuse him although I can't imagine why. I don't try to be witty. I detest simpering, giggling behavior and he always laughs when I say something serious. A woman should never let a man laugh at her._

Dorothea, seeming to float in rose silk, beckoned to Adria. She smiled at Dolly and followed her jauntily into the ballroom where she lost no time. Before Timothy could even reach her side, she managed to surround herself with a dozen eager attendants.

~~~

Timothy's expressive eyebrow slanted at Adria's remarkable metamorphosis into a reigning belle and he chuckled. "So, that's her strategy."

Dolly and Lafe exchanged puzzled glances.

"Go dance, Children," Timothy waved them off. "I'll just join the rest of the wall flowers."

A polka's bars lured them away while Timothy found a decent vantage point to watch Adria's performance. Her imperial will was one of her attractions. Well, there were always methods for countering the enemy's tactics. He caught the eye of a young lieutenant, who had just left the crush around her, and crooked his finger.

~~~

Adria permitted the gentlemen to fill her dance card completely; usually she kept a few dances free to maintain an aloof demeanor. _Still, the sacrifice must be made to keep Timo...the Major at bay_. The ball progressed and Adria did not catch a glimpse of Major MacKendrick for most of the night. _Of course, Dorothea was adamant about his not dancing but I did not expect him to disappear entirely_. It was quite late when the President and Mrs. Lincoln made their grand circuit around the ballroom. The President looked even more exhausted than usual. Adria saw him pause to speak to an officer who was almost at his eye level. _I must admit that Timo...Major MacKendrick is impressive in his dress uniform_. A little surge of pride welled through her as he conversed with his Commander-in-Chief. _He certainly seems at ease. Well, of course he is. He's very intelligent and well-spoken. There is no reason President Lincoln should intimidate him._

A sweaty senatorial aide, with a face that was all teeth, claimed the next dance. She endured his clumsy efforts to lead her around the polished floor with a frozen, polite smile. She caught sight of Lafayette and Dorothea who moved with hands and eyes locked. As usual, they were oblivious to everything but each other. Adria shuddered slightly at the kind of power a man could exude over a woman. _Yet, there is something about Dolly's smile; something about the devoted bend of Lafe's head and strong arm so that you just know that he'll always protect and safeguard her._ Adria noticed that others, misty-eyed and envious, watched the older couple as well. She tightened her lips and banished her own warm response. _Sentimental foolishness. No matter how he looks at her, Dorothea is still his chattel and subject to any of his masculine whims_.

The music ended and the sweaty aide was replaced by a second lieutenant. _What a relief. Lieutenant Baldwin is from Connecticut and I can depend on him to behave properly and respectfully; not like certain officers from the South who don't know their proper place._

Adria waited in approving anticipation as the compelling strains of a waltz drifted from the bandstand. She lifted her arms but the young officer began to remove his gloves. "Well, really!"

"Mission completed, Sir. Good evening, Ma'am."

Adria's mouth gaped. _I've NEVER been deserted on the dance floor!_ Outraged, she whirled around and encountered Major MacKendrick's grin. Before she could say a word, he pulled her into his arms.

He held her much closer than anyone had ever done before as the men in Boston had never quite got up the courage to challenge the barricade she placed before them. Adria liked to waltz though. It was the one type of dancing she enjoyed and he did it with such a joyful flair that she was soon immersed in the music and swift glide of the steps. They swept around the room in silence and she recalled Dolly's order. "You aren't supposed to dance."

"Don't talk," he ordered with his dazzling smile.

At close quarters, that smile almost knocked her off her feet. Adria stiffened with annoyance. _When did I get so silly? It's only a dance. I know he's going to try to maneuver me into the garden. I will not permit that. Not at all!_

~~~

Timothy felt the pressure from her hoop as he made her skirts twirl for the fun of it. _The nice thing about waltzing is you can see your girl's face. Uh, uh. She's wearing that one-sided smug smile which means she's up to something; some clever wile to outwit me, no doubt. Good God, I hope my thoughts aren't as visible to her as hers are to me. It's difficult enough to keep nominal command as it is when we're sparring. Yes, Adria, you are a beauty. Chaste, haughty, a proper acolyte for Artemis or Athena. Let no mortal man dare to assault this hallowed temple! I cherish your brains and your indomitable will. I love the challenge you present. Lordy, with you I'll never be bored. It will take all of my imagination to keep ahead of you, though. Under that imperial aura, Adria, there is warmth to kindle and sustain a man's love. I just have to figure out how to make you catch fire. But you know what? I'll bet you don't know how damned sweet you can look at times. Or how lovable you are when that chin goes sky high into the air, like now. I'm really fond of that chin. I like your nose too; straight and also raking the clouds at the moment. You'll never ask for quarter or take prisoners, will you? Your eyes give you away though and your mouth. That's what gives you that sweetness, Dearest. Those clear, honest eyes and a mouth as tender and innocent as a child's. You don't realize it yet, Miss Adria Weston of Boston, but you are going to marry me before I go back to the war._

~~~

When the waltz ended, Adria expected Major MacKendrick to take her straight to the garden. _Won't he be surprised when I won't follow like a little lamb. Ha!_

He led her over to some gilt chairs and bowed. "Thank you for the waltz, Miss Weston," he sauntered off in the direction of a gathering of blue clad officers.

_But what about the garden?!! You're supposed to take me to the garden!_ Adria stood at the side of the floor; annoyed, confused, and cheated. To cap things off, her next partner arrived and she was forced to begin dancing again; all the while casting many puzzled glances at Major Timothy MacKendrick who simply refused to act in a predictable manner.

~~~

General Cooke tilted his head as a baffled Adria whirled past. "You really shouldn't go around breaking hearts like that, 'Mothy."

Timothy just grinned while he watched Adria follow her partner obediently around the ballroom. Her bemused expression was soon replaced by one of cool vexation. He leaned against an accommodating column; wishing he could get his strength back. The single waltz had winded him and his arm throbbed.

"Have you received your new orders?" Cooke inquired.

"Yes, Sir, I'm to report to a man named Sheridan by late September."

"Philip Sheridan?"

"Yes, Sir, do you know him?"

"I've met him. He's a tough little Irishman who will keep you on your toes."

Timothy shot a glance at Cooke. The General's face was, for once, unreadable. "He's a good man, though?"

"He's done a fine job working with General Grant. At least that's what I've been told but he started out in the Infantry after he graduated from the Academy and I don't know if his heart's in the Cavalry."

Several senior officers came up then and Timothy took his leave. He was not encouraged by some of the comments other officers made about Sheridan. The consensus of most of them was that he was a common little Mick from Ohio who would never amount to much, regardless of his West Point training. Yet, reports from the West seemed to indicate that the man was having some success. Whatever the truth of the matter, it would never be the same as it had been serving under St. George Cooke. He wandered through the great hall in search of his aunt and uncle.

When he finally located them, Dorothea looked hard at Timothy's face. "You look all in, Honey."

"Just a bit tired from dancing."

"Timothy, I asked you not to dance," she frowned.

"It was just a single waltz, Auntie," he reassured her; although his arm ached like a bad tooth.

"A single waltz that was too much for you," Dorothea whisked out her handkerchief and patted the film of perspiration on his upper lip and forehead. "Your hands are trembling, Dear. I'm going to take you home."

"Oh no," Timothy protested. "I don't want to go home. Anyway, the ball isn't over and I don't want to spoil it for..."

Dorothea spoke past him. "Lafe, you and Adria can follow later."

A chill fell across the assembly as an aide stopped the President and whispered in his ear. The Lincolns left abruptly and a rising murmur of voices crested. Senior officers and Cabinet members gathered their ladies and followed in the President's wake.

"Lafe, what is it? What's happened?" Dorothea asked.

"Wait here, I'll find out."

As more people filed into the night, Adria joined them. "What is going on? The music stopped right in the middle of a bar and everyone began to vanish."

"Lafe went to find out, Darl...Miss Weston," Timothy caught his slip. _Whoops._ _I'm too tired and I can't handle Adria when I'm not at full strength._

Lafe spoke briefly to a small knot of officers. The news was bad; they could tell by his face as he returned to them.

"We've lost another battle at Bull Run; over 16,000 casualties. The Confederates lost only about 9,000. Pope is finished. They think that Lincoln will put McClellan back in command."

~~~

Seated before her mirror, Adria brushed out her waist length mane of heavy hair. Usually, the brush strokes soothed her. This night was different. _Sometime during that waltz, I went and did it. I've fallen in love with Timothy MacKendrick. He got around me, outmaneuvered me. Now, I have to decide what to do about this. I don't want to be the simpering slave of some man. I certainly do not want to be a soldier's wife. Yet, here I sit. I'm so much in love with Timothy that I swear I could sprout wings and soar straight to the stars!_

Frustrated, she stormed onto the balcony where the August night weighed upon Washington with oppressive heat. Only a tiny breath of a breeze whispered in the sultry night. Behind her, a light step brushed across the balcony. Adria turned slowly and faced Timothy. She saw his eyes widen and realized that she wore only a thin, Chinese silk dressing gown. She pulled her loose hair forward over her shoulders where it flowed in ringlets over her breasts to graze her lower stomach. Grave as a statue, she endured as his admiring gaze swept down her form and then up to linger on her face. He walked slowly to her, his eyes never leaving hers. _How very strange it is to have to tilt my head back to see his face. So often, I have to look down on a man._

"It's like being caught in an undertow," Timothy murmured.

Her beautiful lips parted. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Your eyes, Adria, your wondrous siren eyes. Oh my darling girl," his hands roved over the long tendrils of her hair and then slipped up to frame her face.

Adria felt the weight of him loom over her, around her, engulf her, as he kissed her. She thrilled all the way down into her core as his ardent spirit sealed her once and for all.

Timothy lifted his head after that kiss that lasted too long but was all too brief. The merry grin that had destroyed her liberty illuminated his face. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. It was presumptuous of me. You'd better go in now before I forget to be an officer and a gentleman entirely."

Adria made no move to obey. _We have to have it out._ "Do you want to make love to me?"

"I beg your pardon," Timothy sounded a little stunned as he voiced the automatic cover for all social conundrum.

"Well, do you or not?" Adria smirked when she saw momentary confusion flicker in his eyes. She realized that she had the upper hand again. _Simple male, after all. Well, I'm not going to lose my advantage again. I don't care how handsome you are or how charming. You are not going to dominate ME!_

Adria waited, cloaked in superior silence, for the man before her to succumb in foolish male wallowing. _He's no different than the others. Nicer, yes; more interesting, of course. But he'll still beg for my undying love and expect me to submit to his caresses._

"You look like the moon walking with a thousand stars in attendance."

Hmmm. That sounds like something Madison Forbes would say. He was always quoting Byron to me. I detest sentimental poetry. But Timothy's voice didn't sound the same. It was almost as if he was stating a not-too-exciting fact.

"Of course," Timothy continued. "The moon is very cold and I've always preferred the mysteries of the sea. Did you know that your eyes change color like the sea? They are quite irresistible."

"Irresistible?" _he's done it again, blast him, thrown me completely off my pace. No one has ever called me irresistible before. No one has ever quite dared!_

"You are also adorable, Adria," Timothy commented; still in that maddeningly matter-of-fact tone as he leaned one arm on the rail. The other hand lifted and began to fiddle with a wayward tendril of her hair.

No one has ever called me adorable either.

"Do you really want me to make love to you or were you throwing down the gauntlet?"

_Thrice damn the man! Can he really read my thoughts so easily?_ Sulkily, she realized that he probably could. "Yes. No. That is, I only want to know what you have in mind."

"You mean whether or not my intentions are honorable? Much as I hate to let this opportunity slip past, it would be a much better idea to wait until after the ceremony."

"Oh no, I don't want to get married, ever!"

Timothy seemed genuinely puzzled. "Why not? It would be fun."

"Being owned by a man and having to bow to his wishes in all things is not my idea of fun," Adria retorted.

"It wouldn't be like that. After all, I would never try to hold back the sea. You can only worship, adore, and cherish the sea; even though it may drown you," he moved much closer and his arms slipped around her. His hands rested lightly along the small of her back and his warm breath tickled the vicinity of her right ear.

"I...oh do back up. I can't think when you're this close."

"I don't want you to think right now. Say yes."

"No. I can't. I WON'T!" she tried to flee but his arms tightened.

"Say it, Adria, my dearest sea princess. Yes," his mouth came down on hers again; piercingly sweet.

Eternity swept her as she hovered on the precipice. She was warm and safe and she did not want to go through her life alone now. Not if it meant being bereft of the glint of wit in those dear eyes of his or losing the sound of that low, loving voice. Just as she was ready for the moment to go on forever, Timothy withdrew his sheltering arms. Adria looked up and saw him as for the first time: the thick brown hair with its overtones of old gold, the intelligence shining out of the sparkling gray eyes, the fine jaw-line.

"I never did like whiskers," she stated irrelevantly; drawing a tentative finger along his clean-shaven cheek and the sweet line of his upper lip.

"Then I shall be very careful not to grow any," he promised solemnly as he turned his head to brush her fingertips with his lips.

Doubtfully, Adria continued to stare up at him as she resisted the wave of tenderness which swept her unerringly deeper into his arms. Arms that would bind and possess her, own her until she was no longer her own person. She would NOT nestle like a kitten. She would NOT yield although her traitorous body already swayed toward his strength. _I won't. I WILL NOT! Yet, there's that radiant look of joy Dorothea wears every time Lafayette enters the room. Might that not be worth the loss of a little freedom? Timothy can bring such a look to my face. His mere presence makes me shine as much as Dorothea. Would it really be so dreadful to be a little besotted with the man who makes the blood sing in my ears every time I hear his voice? He does seem to understand my desperate need for independence. He said he wouldn't hold back the sea._ "Besides, if he does start throwing any medieval 'I am thy lord and master' nonsense at me, I'll put him right back in his place!"

Timothy laughed. "Adria, you are priceless."

_Good heavens! Did I say that out loud?_ "Am I? It might be good for you to have a wife who won't permit you to walk all over her."

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," Timothy murmured with a straight face although the god of amusement peeked out of his eyes.

"Very well, Major, I'll marry you."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

Now that the matter was settled to their mutual satisfaction Adria was quite willing to proceed with the more interesting facets of their arrangement. She was annoyed when he made no move toward her but stood there with an idiotic grin on his face. Well, she would take care of that. Deliberately, she tilted her head back.

Timothy took three steps backwards. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that a young girl can get into serious difficulty looking at a man like that? Any bounder could take shameful advantage of you."

"The only bounder I'm interested in is you, Major Timothy MacKendrick," she laced her fingers behind his head and pulled him down.

After he kissed her, he turned her firmly towards the door and gave her an affectionate spank. "Go to bed, Adria, I'll see you in the morning."

"But..."

"Bed."

"Can't I have a good night kiss?" Adria coaxed.

"I just gave you a good night kiss. I don't trust the moon or myself. BED!" Timothy retreated from the balcony and left her to dream in the moonlight.

### Chapter 14

### Boston, September 1862

Puffing, Louis Weston hurried up the walk to the handsome Greek façade of his home. The messenger, whom Lillian had sent to his office in the middle of the morning, had only said he was needed at home. He thrust the door open. "Lillian! Lillian, where are you? What's wrong? What's happened!?"

"I'm in the drawing room," Lillian called. She was on the sofa, a piece of paper clenched in her fist.

"What's wrong? What's the matter?"

"Adria's getting married."

"Is that all? The messenger said it was urgent and...wh...what did you say?" Louis' eyes bugged.

Lillian's face was wet with radiant tears as she smoothed the crumpled paper. "She's getting married, Louis."

"Married? Adria? But who...oh ho! Madison Forbes is in Washington. I knew she'd come to her senses."

"He isn't Madison. He's Gareth's son," Lillian pulled a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.

"Who? Here, let me read it for myself. A soldier? But what does he DO?!"

Lillian blew her nose. "What do you mean, what does he do? He's a Major."

"Yes but what does he do when he isn't one? What did he do before the war? It's just like Adria to leave out such details. Hrmph. At least he's an officer. It would have been just like her to take up with a bugle boy just to spite her upbringing."

"Louis, he's a soldier. He went to West Point."

"You mean my daughter wants to marry a PROFESSIONAL soldier?"

"Yes."

"But I won't have it! They're riff-raff, scoundrels! Madison Forbes stays at the Willard Hotel and he writes that the soldiers he's met are scum. They all have muddy boots and don't know which fork to use. Half the time they don't use the spittoons!" outraged, Louis paced up and down.

Lillian rescued the precious letter that he had flung to the floor. Her voice was taut with fury. "You didn't object when we sent Adria down to visit his Aunt and Uncle! Major MacKendrick is hardly riff-raff. He's connected to the oldest and finest families in Charleston, on his father's side. As for his mother, Phoebe was a Randolph, for heaven's sake, and connected to the first families of Virginia. I daresay this young man can match any of YOUR Boston Brahmin brethren for lineage. Probably exceed it!" Lillian didn't often fling her own Southern pride in his face and the force of her anger stopped him in his tracks.

"Lillian, I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you knew his people. You say that General Randolph is the young man's uncle? That does make a difference. But a soldier? No one in the family has ever married one. Oh, our people have done their duty when called upon. My grandfather served on General Glover's Staff during the Revolution. But we don't do it as a profession."

"Perhaps some of you should," Lillian spat. "Might do you good to shake you out of such complacency. I notice that Madison Forbes didn't waste any time getting a nice safe job on Senator Wilson's Staff."

"That's different. You can hardly expect someone with his education..."

"And connections."

"Experience..."

"And connections."

"His stint with the diplomatic corps in London..."

"And connections."

Louis sat heavily on the ottoman in front of the leather wing chair. "I thought you liked him."

"Not now. I don't like cowards."

"He's not a coward. Oh well, Adria won't pay any mind to what I think anyway and I don't like to quarrel with you. If you think this is a suitable match, then it's all right with me."

"More than suitable, Louis. Did you read her letter?"

"You just saw me read it, Lillian."

"All of it?"

"Well no, I stopped at the Major part."

Lillian handed it to him. "Read it carefully and then tell me what you think."

When Louis finished, he stared at the tips of his shoes. "There's something different. It doesn't even sound like Adria."

"She's almost gushing, Louis."

"Gushing? Adria?!"

"She's in love," Lillian went to him and kissed him.

"Extraordinary," Louis sighed.

"See about the tickets to Washington, Honey, and the packing. We'll need to leave tomorrow at the latest," Lillian picked up her gloves, hat, and purse.

"Where are you going?" Louis was plaintive in his shell-shocked state.

"To Jordan Marsh and Company. No daughter of mine is going to be married without a suitable wedding gown."

~~~

Lillian entered the large brownstone building that Eben Jordan and Benjamin Marsh had purchased the year before in order to expand their dry goods business. From the fine imports provided by their connections to key European markets, Lillian hoped to find something ready-made that could be transformed into a bridal gown. _It really is a shame that Adria wants to get married right away. Some of this French muslin would have made a lovely gown for her. Well, there is no time to get something sewn so we'll just have to make do_.

"Why, Lillian, I didn't expect to see you this afternoon," her sister-in-law, Elizabeth Weston, waved at her across a notions' counter that was festooned with bright ribbons and delicate lace. "Isn't it wonderful news?"

"What news?" _I know Elizabeth is the mistress of all gossip in Boston but how could she have found out about Adria? I just received the letter this morning!_

"Why, the news about Julia Cabot's daughter!"

_That can't be very exciting. No matter how Julia tries, Jane's wedding is not going to be the most important one of the season. The bride is too plain and shy to carry off the social honors. I suppose I shall have to stop and hear the newest details. Elizabeth is so tiresome but she is Nathan's wife. One just does not snub family_. "No, Elizabeth. I haven't heard anything new."

"Why, it is just wonderful! Julia, Julia, my dear, look who is here. Just in time for the grand unveiling!"

Julia Cabot, accompanied by several other ladies who prided themselves on their early Massachusetts antecedents, joined them. "Lillian, I'm so glad to see you. You have such exquisite taste. I always value your opinion."

_Oh no. They're here to pick out Jane's china or silver or other furnishings. I don't have time for this_. "I'm always happy to help, Julia, but I'm afraid I have some errands and I..."

"Now, I won't take no for an answer," Julia slipped her pudgy fingers around Lillian's elbow and tugged her forcefully towards the ready-made dresses.

"Julia, I really must be going. Louis and I are going to Washington."

"Mr. Jordan," Julia maintained a firm grip. "We're all ready now. Mrs. Weston has kindly offered to help with the fitting."

"Fitting?" Lillian asked. _What on earth is Mr. Jordan doing here? He rarely waits on customers himself._

"Jane's wedding dress. She asked me to invite you along but I forgot to send the note. We've been so busy. Isn't it lucky you came in today?"

_Worse and worse. The last thing I want to do is watch that poor child parade in front of a lot of snooty matrons_. "Really, Julia, I'm afraid I'm in a terrible hurry."

"After all, Lillian, you're the one who introduced Boston to the magnificence of Charles Worth. We were all so impressed with that gown you brought back from Paris. You know, the one he created for Empress Eugénie and then made over for you in that lovely amber color?"

_Worth? She hasn't! It isn't possible!_ "Julia, am I to understand that you have a Charles Worth original here? NOW?"

"Mr. Jordan ordered it for us specially," purred Julia.

"Julia, I should just LOVE to help with Jane's fitting," Lillian twittered. _Oh yes, I really want to see that Worth gown_.

Jane Cabot stood on a raised dais. Her formidable grandmother, Abigail Cabot, sat in stony silence. Lillian had expected Jane to look miserable but she had not expected the child to be bilious. Jane was one of Adria's childhood friends and Lillian had always liked her. She was plump and short with a plain freckled face. Her fine thin hair was a non-descript brown and never would hold a curl. She was good-natured however, and her pleasant personality made her popular with young and old alike. Her intended was a bespectacled young minister from Connecticut who was even plainer of face and sweeter of nature.

Lillian's gaze shifted from Jane's face to the wedding gown. _Oh...my...God! It's magnificent! Worth has outdone himself!_

The gown was made of heavy ivory silk with a Point Duchesse lace overlay. Rows of lace medallions bordered the skirt from knee to hem. The bodice was covered with smaller medallions. Flowing silk and lace sleeves fitted tightly at the wrist by white satin ribbons edged with silver. More ribbon trimmed the modest neckline. As Jane stood stoically in the beautiful dress, Julia glanced around expectantly.

Elizabeth made the first attempt. "Darling Jane, you look so sweet."

Mary Johnston tried next. "Jane, you look just like an angel."

Three other ladies added their excited approval.

Mr. Jordan exchanged long looks with his fitter. "I'm sure that once it is fitted..."

"I'll look like a fool," Jane declared. "This is a dress for a duchess, Mother, not a young minister's wife. I told you I wanted something simple. I can't wear something like THIS!"

"Well, it is a bit long," Julia decided. "Perhaps, Mr. Jordan, a wider hoop..."

"She'll need a hoop as wide as Versailles," snorted Jane's grandmother.

"Perhaps the hem could be raised?" Julia considered.

The fitter looked close to tears. "Mr. JORDAN, I can't hem that. I'd be terrified to touch it. It's by WORTH!"

Julia pursed her plump lips. "What do you think, Lillian?"

_I'm sorry, Jane. I really am. But, you don't seem to like the dress anyway_. "There isn't much anyone can do to alter it. It would ruin the lace and the entire fit of the gown if anyone tried to do more than a few tucks here or there. It isn't just the skirt, Julia. The bodice is too long for her at the waist and the shoulders are misaligned. As to the color, it's such a dark ivory, Jane disappears entirely. The wedding guests won't even see her. They'll all be looking at the dress as IT marches down the aisle."

Jane caught Lillian's eye and mouthed, _Thank you_.

Old Abigail Cabot's fingers drummed on the head of her cane. "It looks dreadful. Lillian is correct. No one will even notice Jane."

"I don't know what to do," Julia fretted. "The gown was made to order. I can't imagine how they got the measurements so wrong. It's too late to order another."

"The wedding isn't for another three weeks, Mother," Jane reminded her. "There's plenty of time for me to make something."

"Jane, I don't want you to sew your own bridal gown!"

"But, Mother. I love to sew. Granny will help me, won't you?"

"Hmmph. I'm sure that we can make something that will be much prettier than some foreign folderol," Abigail Cabot came from a long line of frugal Yankees.

"Mother Cabot, the dress is exquisite and it was very expensive. I'm sure that Mr. Jordan would not let us return it."

"Don't even consider that, Mrs. Cabot," Mr. Jordan assured her. "Sometimes merchandise doesn't suit a customer. We'll keep the dress. Some other bride may have need of it."

"But Jane, where can we even find fabric," Julia apparently was not willing to give up a Charles Worth wedding dress without a struggle.

"I saw some lovely French muslin downstairs, Julia, which would be perfect for Jane. I do agree with your Mother, Honey, a bride shouldn't sew her own. I'll make it a wedding present to you. My seamstress has one of Mr. Singer's newest machines so it won't take her any time at all. Helene made that dress of Adria's you like so well."

"The dark blue one with the black braid?"

"Yes indeed."

"I love that dress. It's so kind of you, Mrs. Weston. All right, Mother?"

Julia sighed heavily and took a last long look at the gown. "Are you certain you won't be sorry, Jane?"

"I'm the happiest girl in the world. Why don't you go look at that French muslin, Mother, while I change. Mrs. Weston, would you mind helping? I'd appreciate it if you could give me some ideas that I can tell your Helene."

Jane's grandmother stayed to watch as the fitter and Lillian helped Jane out of the yards of silk and lace.

"It is a beautiful dress, Mrs. Weston. I was just thinking, it would look wonderful on Adria. Don't you think you should take it down to Washington with you?"

"Why you little minx!" Lillian hugged Jane. "What makes you think I'm going to Washington or that Adria, of all people, would want to wear such a dress?"

"Weeeellll," Jane grinned at her grandmother. "She could wear it to a ball. Or, she could play dress up in it like we did when we were little, or she could wear it for her own wedding to that nice Major MacKendrick."

"How do you know about him? I just had a letter this morning!"

"I had a letter this morning, too," Jane kissed Lillian. "Take that kiss to Adria for me. I wish I could come down too but I have my own wedding and, while Matthew would be happy to elope to Washington, Mother would have a fit."

~~~

Timothy and Adria's joy was marred by Robert E. Lee's invasion of Maryland. When the Confederate advance threatened Washington, the Capital was thrown into turmoil. In the panic that followed Lee's invasion of Maryland, many evacuated the city; convinced that Washington would soon fall to the Rebels. After the bloody fighting at Antietam, Lee slipped back across the Potomac.

Adria stood like a princess as Lillian and Dorothea tweaked a fold of silk here and adjusted a layer of lace there. The beautiful gown fit her perfectly and had not needed altering of any kind. A diadem made of orange blossoms held her exquisite veil of Brussels lace.

"It's such a beautiful gown, Lillian," Dorothea remarked to her girlhood chum. "Is it really by Charles Worth? However did you get it on such short notice?"

Louis stood at the door, ready to escort his daughter to the church. "She stole it."

"I did not steal it," Lillian replied serenely. "Jane Cabot decided she wanted something simpler. All I did was to help her convince her mother that it didn't suit her. Jane is the one who suggested that I buy it for Adria."

Louis snickered. "She stole it. But, stolen or not, Adria, you look beautiful. That's a real pretty frock, my dear. A real pretty frock."

The church was filled with well wishers by the time the bride arrived at the door. Bowing to tradition, Adria had not set eyes on Timothy all day and, as she entered the church, she saw a shaft of sunlight from a stained glass window slant across the altar steps; illuminating him. The actual ceremony passed in a blur for Adria. Like everyone else who had seen Timothy in that beam of colored light, she knew that her dashing officer might very well be dead on a battlefield within the month. Unnerved, she strengthened her resolve to give Timothy all of herself that he wanted. If they were to be granted only this little time together, Adria was determined to make it last a lifetime. The Episcopal priest had once been appointed to West Point's chapel and Father Wilson was fully cognizant of the fact that soldiers were invariably in a hurry. Almost before anyone expected it, he urged the young officer to kiss his bride. Adria lifted her face to Timothy in a gesture that was touchingly submissive and which brought murmurs from the ladies present for nice young brides were not normally so eager for that mark of ownership. Timothy, with a quizzical smile, pressed his mouth to hers in a feather-light kiss. Adria might have forgotten the crowd but he had not. Since Timothy had only a week left on his sick leave, they had decided to forego a honeymoon and simply returned to the Georgetown Mansion.

~~~

After the wedding, Lillian and Louis left on the afternoon train as he had to get back to his law office. By late evening, the young couple sat at the dining room table with Lafayette and Dorothea, dawdling over their after dinner coffee. Adria still wore her magnificent wedding gown although she had removed the veil. Her rich hair had loosened a bit, there was a small dab of cream at the corner of her mouth, her eyes were just a trifle heavy, and she looked adorable. Any concerns or qualms Timothy might have had for taking Adria to wife were gone. She was so breathtakingly lovely, so intelligent and witty. She belonged to him and with him and he was determined to spend the rest of his days cherishing her. As the coffee slowly disappeared from the cups, Timothy began to fidget a bit. While he had every intention of taking it slow so as not to terrify his bride, he did want to get started. Just looking at her made him realize how much he wanted her, to have and to hold, and the dallying only made it worse. Timothy was anxious to make her initiation into lovemaking as lovely as possible. _Once she gets the hang of things, maybe I can take myself off the leash. I'll bet she'll be an ardent bedmate once I win past her maidenly reserve. However, if I have to wait the whole bloody night I can't answer for the consequences!_

"Honey, would you like me to come up with you and help you change?" Dorothea inquired.

"No thank you, I can manage," Adria nibbled at a last piece of cake.

"There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with your appetite, Missy. You're not behaving at all like a blushing bride," Lafe observed with an affectionate chuckle.

Adria smirked and a smudge of icing settled near the dab of cream. Timothy moistened his napkin and leaned over to dab at his wife's mouth.

Adria wrinkled her nose as he wiped her off. "I could have done it for myself, Major MacKendrick."

"Don't even THINK about starting that nonsense with me, Wife."

"What nonsense?"

"I refuse to be addressed as major or to call you Mrs. MacKendrick. I've always considered such formality between a man and wife silly in the extreme."

"I'll be sure to remember, Major..."

Timothy glowered.

"Major Darling."

"What time shall we plan breakfast?" inquired Dorothea. "Or do you prefer to just ring when you're ready to eat?"

"I reckon," embarrassed, even in the intimacy of the three people he loved best in the world, Timothy retired into his coffee cup.

"It's a pity we're not in New Orleans," Lafe observed.

Timothy, recovered from his momentary confusion, slid his hand under the table and made a preliminary reconnaissance of his bride's left knee; although the layers of lace, silk and petticoats made it difficult to feel more than a vague outline.

"Why is that...oh," Adria started as his hand moved above her knee.

"The Creoles have a very pleasant nuptial custom. Do you remember, Dolly?" Lafe grinned at the rose that flushed across Dorothea's fair skin.

"Please tell me, Lafe," Adria retaliated to Timothy's wandering fingers by catching his hand with her own and holding tightly.

"The bride and groom are sequestered in a bedroom for a full week and they see no one. Trays of food are left outside their door."

"Could we do that? It really wouldn't make that much more work for the servants and it would be such..." Adria fumbled a bit as three pairs of eyes viewed her with varying degrees of speculation, affection, and approval.

"We might want to go out," Timothy considered.

"Out where?" haughtily, Adria turned to him.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe the garden."

"Then you shall be invisible," Lafe affirmed. "No one will speak to you or see you. You'll have an entire week just to yourselves."

"It's settled then. When do we start?" Adria inquired.

"Now, if you like," Lafe went to Adria and hugged her. "Good night, my dear. God Bless you. Come along, Dolly."

Dorothea kissed them both and followed.

Timothy tilted his head. "Shall we go up, too?" _I'm going to like this game_.

Adria preceded him up the stairs. At the door to his room, Timothy stopped her and swept her up into his arms.

"Timothy, what are you doing?"

"I'm carrying you across the threshold."

"Should you exert like this? Your arm..."

"...is fine. Don't fuss," _through the door but I'm not going to get her as far as the bed. Adria is not a small girl nor do I have all my strength back. Whew_. They stood just inside the door; arms locked around each other's waists.

"I'll take a turn in the garden. I'll be back in about fifteen minutes. Unless you think you'll need more time?"

"Time for what?" Adria looked at him blankly. "Why on earth do you want fresh air all at once?"

"I thought you might want some time to undress."

"Oh. Aren't you going to help me? I can't manage all these buttons by myself."

"Help you? Do you really want me to?"

"I do."

"Are you sure, Adria? I could get Dolly or one of the maids."

"I love you, Timothy. I want to be your wife. I see no point in being a silly goose about all this and I'd rather you went ahead and did...whatever it is you're going to do."

An awful suspicion nudged Timothy's newly wedded bliss. "Adria, do you know what we're going to do tonight?"

"Not exactly. Mother started to tell me but it was such a rush to get ready for the wedding that she got distracted before she said very much. She did say the babies were fun once they came though."

"Good Lord. I'd better fetch Dolly. She can explain things to you."

"Why can't you explain things?"

"It isn't really the groom's place, Sweetheart."

"Why isn't it?" Adria could be as persistent as a precocious child with her whys and why nots.

"Oh very well, I'll try. But if you should be frightened or upset, I'll never forgive myself."

They sat on the window seat while Timothy enlightened his bride.

~~~

Adria was absolutely silent until, "You're going to do WHAT? Are you sure about this?"

"Yes, quite sure," Timothy's face bloomed in a colossal blush.

"I see. That doesn't seem so terrible," _just very odd_. _I suppose that I really should have paid more attention when Jane and the other girls were whispering in corners._

"It isn't terrible at all. The act of lovemaking is a very special sort of sharing between two people who love each other."

"Did you hear that in a sermon, Darling?"

"I did sound a bit pompous, I reckon. Do you want me to get Dolly now?"

"No, I want you to kiss me. Now, Timothy."

At first, she resisted ever so slightly. Then, as he set a measured pace designed not to panic her, Adria began to warm to the experience. She liked the kiss and gradually relaxed in the strong curve of his arms. _He is so gentle. Funny, I didn't expect that. I didn't think he'd pounce, exactly, but I thought there would be more effort to master me. He keeps running his tongue over my lips. What am I supposed to do? Oh, that's what. His tongue is inside my mouth. Do I mind that? No, I don't think so; it's rather pleasant. Should I do that too? I see, it's teasing each other, isn't it? But it's quite nice. Whatever is he doing now? Oh, he's unfastening the buttons._

Before she even knew he had gotten that far, Timothy helped her stand in order to slide off gown, petticoats, corset, and all the rest. He kissed her again and his hands encircled her bare waist. Then, he put his arm around her and guided her to the bed. His hands smoothed over her hips and he eased her onto the bed. He kissed her again and covered her tenderly. Then, Timothy turned out the lamp.

Wide-eyed, Adria strained to listen as the clink of belt, thud of shoes, and rustle of cloth indicated that her new husband was undressing. Moonlight peeked in through the branches of the willow that stood outside the window. She could just make out his silhouette.

Something banged the foot of the bed and Timothy muttered a smothered oath. "Sorry, stubbed my toe."

Adria's heart started to beat faster. _Stop that. I must make this easy for him. He has to go back to the war soon and he doesn't have time to woo a shy bride. There never was time was there? We didn't do things the way they do it in Boston; the sociable little teas with other young couples; the walking out; the months and months of discussion, planning._ The bed dipped under Timothy's weight _. Ooooo! He's under the covers with me! He's...he's NAKED! Now what? Oh, a kiss. That's all right. I like his kisses. Is that his hand on my bosom? Why would he do that? His hand is so warm. Timothy, don't stop kissing me! Oh my, now he's kissing my throat! Now my...TIMOTHY! What on earth are you putting your mouth THERE for? That CAN'T be right. Are you sure you know what you're doing?!_ Shocked, Adria convulsed in giggles as his mouth traced over the points of her breasts, first one and then the other. _It TICKLES! Is it supposed to tingle like that? Oh MY! His fingers are so busy! Surely my knees can't be of any interest to him or my...dear God, his hands are all the way up my thighs! What did he just say? What in heaven's name is a gate of sublime delight?_

Instinctively, Adria started to push his fingers away as they explored the curls at the juncture of her legs. To distract herself from his probing, stroking fingers, she forced her hands to grasp the muscled slope of his upper arms instead. She avoided the raw scar on his arm and concentrated on the long muscles of the other. _No, I will not interfere. I love him. I must trust him. He won't hurt me. Timothy loves me. Other women must experience this, survive this somehow. I should have talked with Dolly after all. I can't help it. I'm so scared. He's moving! He's moving on top of me! All his weight, will he crush me? No, no I don't want to! I don't want to be owned! No one will ever possess me! Stop! Stop it, Timothy...OH MY!!!_

A sharp sting followed by a deep ache tore through her. She bit down on her instinctive whimper although she could not control her sharp intake of breath. Timothy paused immediately. "I'm sorry, Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You didn't, Timothy, it's all right," Adria clasped him tightly and hid her face against the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

He loomed over her and his lips brushed against her mouth. He moved again. _I must love you very much, Timothy, to permit this...this invasion. If I had known what this would be like, this possession._ Warmth flooded her and his fast breath flowed over her with murmured endearments and encouragement _. Yet, it doesn't FEEL as if you've conquered me or mastered me. It's more like you've enveloped me in your love; enfolded me with your entire soul. I feel so strange. I'm all shivery! OH MY GOD!_

~~~

After an eternity, Timothy gathered Adria close in his arms. Her moist skin glistened in a stray moonbeam that flitted across their bed. _She's so still. She didn't cry or fuss but her silence...God, I tried to be careful but she went to my head like brandy. I couldn't stop, she TASTES so good and her skin is like silk. Once I was in her, she wrapped those beautiful legs over mine; almost like an anchor to keep me tied to her! Did she realize what she was doing? Did she understand that she possessed me at the same moment I possessed her?_

"Timothy?"

"Yes, my sea princess?"

"Are you through?"

"Yes, are you all right? I tried to be gentle."

"I'm fine. You were right! It is wonderful and special and..." Adria sat up beside him with a jubilant little cry.

Her hair cloaked her in damp ringlets and she was as unselfconscious as a wood nymph in her nakedness. _Lordy, she's even more beautiful than I realized. She doesn't seem a bit frightened. My dear girl, if you sit slap in the moonlight like that with the rose and ivory glory of your breasts sticking out right under my nose...what was it in 'Song of Solomon'? Something about his love's breast like twin roes feeding on the lilies._

"When will you make love to me again?"

_Did she just ask...Adria, my love, do you really want me too as much as I want you? I ache for you, my gallant beautiful love! You look so shining and triumphant. Did I do that to you? Did I put that glory into your face as I took your maiden's body and turned it into a woman's exultant grace? Slow down, you ass, don't spook her now. Easy does it. Keep it light and calm._ "Whenever you wish it, my Darling."

"I wish now," she kissed him fervently and lay down beside him; her eyes bright and expectant.

Timothy caressed the willow-slim, pliant body beside him. _See, she's not a bit scared. She's not flinching. She's giggling! Is my woman ticklish?_

"Timothy, you're very good at this, aren't you? I'm so glad that Lafe told us about the New Orleans custom. We'll have a lovely week and..."

_Hmmm. No shy, blushing maiden in THIS bed. How on earth can she keep babbling when we've just done something as profound as make love for the first time?_ "Adria, you talk too much."

"I do not," indignantly, Adria started to sit up again.

Timothy rested across her bosom. "Yes you do. I don't mind though and I know just how to quiet you."

"You do? Timothy MacKendrick!" her protest died in a spate of chortles as his dexterous fingers lightly circled one of her nipples.

"Be quiet, Adria," Timothy's mouth covered hers and Adria lost all inclination to speak further.

### Chapter 15

### Kentucky, October 1862

Dust hung in the air as the train pulled into the Louisville depot. Timothy stepped onto the platform; sweltering in the unforgiving heat. He had pushed hard to reach the new command and his newly healed arm ached malevolently from the grueling journey. Shaking with fatigue, he asked the way to General Sheridan's headquarters.

"Sheridan? Oh yeah, they're by the courthouse."

Timothy located the small frame house that served as his unknown commander's headquarters. The first person he encountered was a slight lieutenant who was busily copying dispatches. An even smaller captain, holding a steaming mug of coffee, was just closing a door to another room. Neither man was much taller than five-foot six so Timothy was very conscious of his height. His arms and legs had never been so long and awkward before. He was even more disturbed to note the blue markings on their uniforms. _Infantry? INFANTRY!? Oh surely not! The gods of the Army couldn't be that cruel to stick me in the Infantry just because of Gaines' Mill!_

"Can we help you, Major?" the captain finally inquired after the three men had stared at each other for nearly a minute.

"Yes, Captain, I'm looking for General Sheridan."

The door opened again and a bandy-legged sergeant stumped out. He was only five-feet three.

"Little Phil's in a rare temper," remarked the sergeant a bit disrespectfully. "That new officer hasn't arrived yet and he's champin' at the bit."

"I'm Major MacKendrick."

"'Bout time you got here, Sir. The General is in there."

Timothy, knocked on the closed door. In answer to a gruff order, he entered the room that was furnished with only a desk, two chairs, and a small cabinet with pigeonholes. Timothy's eyes went straight to the man who spent his days in this Spartan setting. Brigadier General Philip Sheridan was a small Irishman from Ohio whose head was shaped almost like a bullet and covered with coarse black hair. A short dark beard covered the lower half of his face and gave it a somber cast. Timothy's heart sank to his boots as he faced his new commanding officer for there was no welcoming smile under the heavy black mustache.

"Good evening, General Sheridan," fatigue broadened Timothy's slight Virginia cadence.

Sheridan's thin face grimaced and his black eyes deepened to a penetrating glare. Timothy, confused by such hostility, stiffened to attention. _What did I do to cause that? I just got here!_

~~~

General Philip Sheridan's life as a cadet at West Point had been long years of misery at the hands of the haughty Southern clique which more or less controlled Academy affairs. He did not admire Southerners; he hated them as only a small Irishman from the hinterland of Ohio could. Their soft, drawling voices got on his nerves and they invariably seemed to come equipped with long legs and excessively handsome faces. He was done with Southern officers, save for meeting them in battle. But here was proof that there was no justice in the Army. _What damned ass appointed this man to my Staff? Someone who wants to torment me. I'll wager it was Hall or maybe that jackass Pruett._

The new officer, faced with the brick wall of Sheridan's dislike, drew himself into a more braced stance of attention. _Look at the peacock. Back straight as a ramrod. Bet he spent hours in front of a mirror practicing that. All it does is make him taller, the great oaf. Quite the little aristocrat too, I'll wager. I hate him. I hate all the primping, prancing dandies who go to West Point and learn only to keep their brass buckles and shoes polished. What the hell am I supposed to do with him? I don't have time for a fancy-pants aide. I'm a WORKING soldier!_

"My orders, Sir."

"You're a Cavalry officer, MacKendrick?"

"Yes, Sir, I went to the 1st Cavalry Dragoons right after graduation."

"West Point?"

"Yes, Sir, Class of '60," the young major was polite and reserved.

_Class of '60! He's damned young to be a Major!_ "You won't get much chance to ride the ponies on this campaign. The 11th is Infantry," Sheridan picked up Timothy's orders and perused them.

"I was told that you were in command of Cavalry, Sir."

"So I was until a few weeks ago. Of course, I started out in the Infantry so it doesn't really matter to me one way or the other. All I care about is getting the job done."

"It matters to me, General," eyes became steely as Major MacKendrick's disciplined face allowed a little scowl to scud across it.

"An individual's wishes are of little importance in the Army, Major; I'm surprised you haven't learned that yet. Besides, you aren't really Cavalry material," Sheridan's critical eyes ran over Timothy's long legs.

"I've never had trouble in the Cavalry before, Sir," the Major's voice developed an edge.

_Interesting. He's got a temper under those elegant manners. A bit of fire._ "Married, MacKendrick?"

"I was married two weeks ago, Sir."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two, Sir."

_Hell, even younger than I thought. Class of '60 and he's only just twenty-two? He must have entered West Point at sixteen._ "Well, your age is all right for Cavalry but that's about all. Do you know what makes up the ideal Cavalryman, MacKendrick?"

"I believe I do, Sir. General Cooke..."

"I said Cavalryman, not dragoon," Sheridan launched into one of his favorite theories to which the Army had yet to pay attention. _At least my Army. The Rebs seem to be figuring it out just fine._ "Their missions are quite different. As we have used them in the past, our mounted units were designed as dragoons; soldiers trained and equipped to fight mounted or dismounted, to perform screening and reconnaissance, and to act as a scout or messenger. Things are changing though. Stuart is seeing to that. The way he uses Cavalry is astounding; fast, mobile, able to fight as effectively in wooded areas as well as open fields. He uses light cavalry tactics; hit and run against opposing Cavalry and Infantry, rather than only using his troops to guard wagons or scout the area. Look what he did with that ride around McClellan's perimeter. That wasn't a simple scouting exercise of a handful of men. That was an entire command moving effectively around an enemy force. The mission of the Cavalry is changing and, with speed now so essential to it, you don't need dragoons that can carry weight or fight on foot as well as from horseback. Consequently, a good horse-soldier should be between eighteen and twenty-two years old, 'roundabout five-feet and five or six inches tall, weigh no more than 130 pounds, and be a bachelor."

"Per your own discussion, Sir, General Stuart is having a fair amount of success as is Fitz Lee. Both of them are near six feet tall."

"Friends of yours, MacKendrick?" _why does that not surprise me?_

"Yes, Sir, very close friends. Lee is a cousin as well."

"Perhaps you should have joined their Army, Major."

"I won't betray my duty and my oath," MacKendrick spat the words out.

_Temper, temper, Boy. Damn, I wish he was shorter and from a decent place like Indiana or Illinois. This is the kind of fellow I want protecting my back. I'll bet he won't pussy foot around me like the rest of them have. I'm almighty tired of the scaredy cats on my Staff. Only Sergeant Thorne has any gumption and that's probably because he's Regular Army and a veteran of 23 years in the 2nd Cavalry Regiment. Thorne knows his value. He knows a senior NCO is worth ten of these civilian officers. Wasn't going to bother reading more than MacKendrick's orders but now...let's see what this note is about. It isn't often the General Staff sends additional information along with orders. They usually just leave us in the dark about the men they expect us to use. Hmmm, it's from St. George Cooke himself. Quite an impressive account of MacKendrick's heroic stand against Confederate Cavalry. Looks like his D Company performed a few other miracles before Gaines' Mill, as well. He claims this boy is intelligent, flexible, innovative, stays the course...all the qualities we want in a soldier. A detailed report from a man who knows soldiering and who understands the questions I might have about a new aide._ "It says here that you were with Cooke."

"Yes, Sir, I was with GENERAL Cooke."

Sheridan grinned inside at the emphasis. _Oh ho! Mighty quick to defend your former commander, aren't you, Lad? I like that. Loyalty is a virtue rare in any man and essential in a soldier._ "He had some difficulties in the Seven Days' Battle."

"Yes, Sir, however, the blame that was subsequently laid at his feet was entirely out of proportion to..."

"I'm sure it was. I found it hard to believe that a man of General Cooke's experience could be as incredibly stupid as the reports indicated. It hardly seemed in line with his successes on the frontier. I'd be interested in hearing his side of the matter."

Sheridan smirked as Timothy gaped. _Weren't expecting that, were you, Sonny? Didn't expect me to sympathize with Cooke. Well, I never did credit the bilge that came out of Washington. I wouldn't trust McClelland to provide an accurate field report in the first place since he's always been more interested in promoting McClellan than serving his duty. As for you, MacKendrick, you're too damn tall and that accent grates on my ear. Still, I think I'm going to like you even if you are a son of a...Southerner. He's mighty pale all at once. Hand is shaking a bit too. Well, he was wounded, probably a little weak in the knees still._ "Pull up a chair, Major. You look pretty much at the end of your tether."

Timothy placed the hard little wooden chair before the desk. He sat down a bit stiffly and rubbed his arm as if it ached.

"Tell me about yourself, Major."

"I was in command of D Company of the 1st right after the war started. We were in Kansas and came east with General Cooke. We missed First Bull Run by just a few days but were never out of the fighting in Virginia after that, Sir."

"Why aren't you still in command of D Company?" _I know what Cooke wrote but I'm curious as to how you perceive the situation. Might give me some insight into the way you think._

MacKendrick's eyes were bleak and stricken. "I got careless. I took my mind off business for one instant and was wounded. They packed me off to Washington, promoted my best corporal, and gave him my command."

"You're very young to be a major."

"So they promote me and exile me to a Staff position; with the Infantry, no less."

"Is that how it seems to you, Major?" Phil picked up the orders again and tapped them lightly against his fingertips.

"Isn't it exile?"

"No one ever said the Army was an easy life, MacKendrick. Maybe you should read this," Sheridan pushed the paper across the desk as Timothy made no move to obey. "Go on. Do you good."

With a tired shrug, Timothy picked up the paper and skimmed it. The paper dropped from lax fingers and he met Sheridan's eyes again. "So?"

"That speaks rather well of your command abilities, MacKendrick. Most young officers would consider a promotion to a Staff position a reward. Now, I'm the first to admit that the War Department is comprised of a bunch of asinine old women but they don't normally promote junior officers quite so fast without good reason."

"Sure they do, Sir," Timothy muttered rebelliously. "Look at McClellan. Thirty-five years old and he won't listen to anyone. General Cooke paid for that with his career. Besides, who says a Staff position is a reward? I'm a line officer. I'm trained to command troops, not run errands."

Sheridan picked up a dispatch. "Well, you may be right. I'll have to judge for myself whether or not you're worthy of those leaves. For now, I suggest you get some sleep. Thorne will get you settled."

Sheridan glanced up from the paper with a tiny frown. MacKendrick still sat in the chair. _Well, he was a West Pointer after all and obviously did not understand such a casual dismissal._ "Dismissed, Major."

"Sir, I'd like to request a transfer to the Cavalry."

"Denied. Good night, Major."

"With all due respect, General Sheridan, I have neither the training nor the interest in the Infantry."

"You said you were Class of '60," Sheridan did not look up from his paper.

"I am."

"Then you have the training, Major. Good night," a few minutes later, Sheridan came out from behind his paper and met Timothy's rebellious gaze. _Oh now really, this is too much. I'm trying to be nice, charitable even. MacKendrick is half-sick with fatigue. He's disappointed too. But I'm willing to wait a few days until he's settled down a bit so I can evaluate him fairly. It's just like a damned Virginian to push that little bit extra. Anyone else would have had the sense to leave by now._ "Good NIGHT, Major."

"Good night, Sir," this time the young major seemed to understand the finality of his dismissal.

Sheridan put the paper down and gave a silent whistle as Timothy vanished into the outer office. _This youngster is going to take a great deal of patient handling for there are the mutual resentments to be gotten past: my own for long legs and Southerners and his for the Infantry. I hope we can succeed. I have a hunch that Timothy MacKendrick will be a good man to have around in a fight. Let's see, is anyone else around from the Class of '60? Classmates can offer chapter and verse about a man that not even their commanders know._

"The next few months are going to be interesting," Sheridan chortled aloud.

A proper Irishman, he liked a good fight and was tired of the Division who went about on tiptoe in fear of his tempestuous explosions. _At least MacKendrick faced me and looked me right in the eye. No officer knows everything and it is important to have subordinates around who can and will let you know if you are getting ready to pull a real boner._ Little Phil chuckled as he went back to his dispatches. "Things are looking up, even if he is a God-damned giant from Virginia."

~~~

Sheridan's Division brought up the rear as the rest of General Gilbert's III Army Corps engaged Joe Wheeler's hallooing Cavalry. Gilbert's command was in the center with McCook's I Army Corps on their left and Crittenden's II Corps on the right. General Buell's Union Army had finally engaged Braxton Bragg's gray Army. Sheridan was not pleased at being relegated to the rear and he sensed that the tall major riding at his side was even less so. Timothy was still resentful. Sheridan had no complaints with regard to the young officer's performance of his duties, which were carried out with solid efficiency and a certain amount of dash, but it was clear that MacKendrick was not at all happy in his new assignment. The way his wistful eyes followed the sight of Cavalry was a dead giveaway as was his flat refusal to change his uniform to Infantry blue. Timothy had even taken to wearing a yellow silk scarf knotted about his throat; flaunting his preference. Sheridan, who did not much care what a man wore as long as he did his job, had so far refused to rise to the bait. His suspicion that the major was a good man to have in a fight had not yet been tested although, from the sounds up ahead, he would soon have that chance. He glanced at MacKendrick to see how he was handling the sounds of firing up ahead and was pleased to see that his aide's hands were steady on the reins and his face was calm. Only the light in the gray eyes was indicative of the excitement they all shared.

"Noisy bunch, aren't they?" Sheridan remarked as the echoes of Wheeler's boys wafted over the gently rolling hills.

Timothy shrugged noncommittally. "I've faced Stuart and Lee. 'Fighting Joe' Wheeler doesn't scare me."

"Damned dry around here."

A drought had plagued this section of Kentucky for months and the hills were a sad brown. Water was scarce and it was not an ideal place to mount a campaign.

"It will rain eventually, Sir."

Sheridan sighed and stopped trying to make conversation. He had located some other members of the Class of '60 and had heard nothing but sterling reports of MacKendrick. A few nights before, he had spent a solid three hours with Captain Crawford, Timothy's roommate at West Point. Crawford had waxed enthusiastically about the lighthearted Timothy who had been one of the most popular cadets at the Academy as well as one of the most able. Timothy was courteous and always polite to Sheridan but he was not showing the general his warmth that had won the prickly love of Cooke and the affection of Lee and Stuart. He was being a competent aide, no more, no less, and Sheridan was frustrated in his attempts to establish a rapport.

A battle-grimed courier appeared out of the haze of smoke and saluted Sheridan. "General Gilbert's compliments, Sir, we've dug in along Doctor's Creek and General Mitchell is formed across the Springfield road along the high ground. General Schoepf has been massed behind him to act as the reserve force. General Gilbert wants you to form to Mitchell's right."

"Very good, Lieutenant. Any water up there?"

"The creek's pretty dry, Sir. It only has a few pools in the bed and the Rebs act like they're going to put up a fight for them."

Sheridan pulled at his heavy mustache and nodded. He turned to Timothy. "Tell the boys to start moving up quick time, MacKendrick. If we hurry we may even get a crack at Wheeler ourselves."

Timothy wheeled Firefly and set off down the long line of Infantry; pausing to speak to each brigade commander. By the time he returned to Sheridan's side the first men had settled into position. "They're coming up, Sir."

"Good. Take a look, Major," Phil pointed across the river where a strong force of Confederate Infantry lined the crest of the ridge on the far bank.

A few artillery pieces dotted the crest as well but there was no sign of Wheeler's Cavalry. It was late afternoon and it was obvious that the fighting for the day was at an end. General Buell, who was still at his headquarters, finally received word that the enemy had been engaged. The rolling hills had blocked the sound of battle and Buell had not even heard the gunfire. Concerned that General Gilbert was isolated in the center, Buell ordered McCook and Crittenden to form on the III Army Corps while Gilbert was ordered to move to a stronger position. At three o'clock on the morning of the 8th, the three corps shifted to their new positions; readying for the coming battle.

Sheridan bustled about the Division getting his men primed for the battle. A captain appeared out of the predawn mist and located him in the organized confusion as his three Infantry brigades bumped each other and tried to get into position as ordered.

"General Sheridan, you are to fall back at once."

"Fall back?! What the hell do you mean, fall back? Fall back to where?"

"I was only told to tell you to fall back at once. You are to be the reserve force on the second line of defense."

"Second line of defense, dammit, that means getting our tails over by Perryville," Sheridan scowled at his aide who was drinking a scalding cup of coffee.

"'An individual's wishes are of little importance in the Army, General. I'm surprised you haven't learned that yet.'"

Sheridan put his hands on his hips and glared at MacKendrick whose merry gaze shimmered with a gleam of amused satisfaction.

~~~

By eight o'clock, the 37th Brigade under Colonel Greusel marched up the road to Perryville. The 35th and 36th brigades waited to follow while Sheridan and his aide watched. General Gilbert trotted up with his Staff and frowned at the sight of the marching 37th. "Now where do they think they're going?" he demanded as Sheridan greeted him.

"Perryville, Sir, per your orders."

"Oh damn. I'm sick to death of these civilian johnnies who pretend that they're officers and can't even deliver an order. General Schoepf is to be the reserve. The 1st Division was hard hit yesterday and they need a breather. That damn captain got it all ass-backwards and mixed up the orders. Get your brigade back here, General Sheridan, and dig in. We're going to have a nasty fight this morning and your men are going to bear the brunt."

Sheridan turned to Timothy, his somber face lightened with elation. "Get Greusel back here on the double, MacKendrick."

Timothy dumped his coffee and raced for Firefly; scarcely aware that he was laughing as he ran. In spite of his initial intentions he was more and more drawn to Sheridan. He reached Colonel Greusel a scant twenty minutes later and was treated to the cheers of the 37th. He pulled to the side of the road while the brigade did an about face and began to quick march back along the road.

Captain Crawford hailed him. "Yo, 'Mothy! Is it true? Are we going to get a crack at Bragg after all?"

Timothy reined in beside Crawford with a smile. "It's true. That is if you'all can get back before the 35th and 36th have all the fun."

Crawford, his prominent Adam's apple moving rapidly up and down, nodded. "We'll get back in time. Can you tag along for a spell? We haven't had much chance to talk since you joined Sheridan."

"Well..."

"Come on, 'Mothy. The way we're moving out you won't be delayed by very much. The General can manage without you an extra five or ten minutes, can't he?"

"I reckon," Timothy took his place by Crawford without another protest.

They had been close friends at West Point, as well as roommates, and had been assigned to the same cadet brigade. Crawford was a towering six-four and painfully thin. In fact, he was all arms and legs and had earned the nickname of Crawdy or crawdad for his angular build. His head was covered by a shock of carrot red hair and his pale blue eyes bulged. The North Carolinian shared the common bond of placing country before state and was also exiled from his kin.

Crawford turned to call to his men. "Boys, this is my very dear friend and wife, 'Mothy MacKendrick. We were roommates at West Point."

Timothy was embarrassed by the good-natured jibes that floated from the company.

"Yah, and when are you going to catch up with him, Crawdy? He's a major already."

"In due time, boys, in due time. As you can see, he's a horse-johnnie and everyone knows they get promoted fast and furious. In the end, though, they tend to stay colonels and majors while the Infantry gets the stars. We may be slower but we have more stayin' power," as Crawford inclined his head with a princely air, his men set up a howl of derisive agreement.

"You seem to have quite a rapport with your men, Crawdy."

"Yep, they don't call me 'Sir' and I stand in front of them during a fight. Of course, Colonel Greusel takes on about a lack of military decorum but, shucks, 'Mothy, you can't lead troops like these by the book. At least I can't. They're all tough boys and you can't order them to fight if you're going to stand behind them. Like as not they'll say no just to be ornery and then where are you? Up the creek with half of Bragg's Army shootin' at you."

They finally pulled into their original position accompanied by much guffawing by the members of the 35th and 36th brigades who were interested in whether or not they had had a pleasant walk.

"I'd better cut loose and get back to the General."

"Stay just another minute or two, 'Mothy. We haven't had any time at all," Crawford put a detaining hand on Firefly's bridle.

"Just another minute, Crawdy, then I will have to get back," Timothy tied Firefly to a sheltered bush and accompanied his friend to the company.

"Seems almost too pretty a day to die, don't it, 'Mothy? Look at that sky; have you ever seen it so blue? It's been real good seeing you 'Mothy," Crawford's pale eyes glowed as he swept Timothy's face with a fond gaze. "Don't you let Sheridan down. You and him will get along just fine if you give each other half a chance."

"He isn't Cooke."

"No, he isn't Cooke, he's Little Phil Sheridan. Mark my words, 'Mothy, this war isn't going to be won by the likes of Cooke or McClellan. It's civil war and the fighting's going to get damn nasty as we go along. The South can't afford to lose and neither can we. The generals who can take off their gloves and fight to win, regardless of good manners and cost, will win the war. I have a hunch that Sheridan is going to be one of them. You'll go far in this man's Army, 'Mothy, if you hitch yourself to the right star. Sheridan's the one who will take you there, if you're patient and pay your dues. Everyone has to pay sooner or later so don't go making it harder on yourself. You've always had it a little too easy and now you're going to have to prove yourself. Show that you're not just lookin' for glory."

Timothy turned in surprise to Crawford. "That's an odd thing to say."

"Is it? Then why that scarf? You're too good a man to have the sulks just because the Army won't let you have everything your own way," contemptuous, Crawford flicked the end of the yellow silk scarf.

"I'm not sulking, exactly. It just isn't fair to stick me in the Infantry because of Gaines' Mill."

"You are sulking, 'Mothy. Remember, I know you pretty well. Just take it as a last bit of advice. I want you to do well as a credit to the rest of us. The Class of '60 is going to be hard hit by this war. We've already lost some; Union and those who went with the gray. You're the best of us and will be the one to reach the heights for us. It's your duty; your obligation to the rest of us for that spark of brilliance that you showed at the Academy."

Timothy knew he was only a simple horse-soldier and he was uncomfortable when men like Crawford attributed qualities to him that he knew he did not possess. "I promise to always do my best and my duty, Crawdy. That's all I can manage, however. Don't go laying destiny on my shoulders as well."

"You can't pick and choose destiny, 'Mothy. I'm going to hold you to your promise. You'll be the one to reach the stars for those of us who don't see the end. Anyway, I'd best get the boys set. I don't reckon the Rebs are going to wait much longer. Come on, I'll give you a quick lesson in positioning Infantry."

Timothy glanced at Firefly to make sure she was in a safe location and then tagged after Crawford.

"How's it looking, Yates?" Crawdy stood calmly by his men.

Sergeant Yates shrugged. "Boys are a little jittery, Crawdy, but that's normal. They'll settle down once the Rebs get around to shootin'."

"Oh yes, they'll settle. They'll do fine. Oh my," a peculiar, fleeting expression crossed Crawford's face and he reached out an imploring hand to Timothy. "'Mothy, I'm going to take a little nap now. Will you look after the boys for me? You're the only one I'd trust to take them in today for me."

"Crawdy!" cried Yates as the captain's eyes closed and he collapsed slowly in Timothy's arms.

A spattering of bullets sent them diving for cover as the Confederates opened up. The first single bullet had found its mark and Crawford was dead before Timothy could ease him to the ground.

"No," Timothy protested; his arms laden with the full weight of his friend.

"He's dead, isn't he, Sir?" Yates, tears running down his face, peered at Crawford.

Timothy, stunned by the sudden death, heard the yells as the blue line surged forward to meet the gray. Only Crawford's men were paralyzed.

"You'd better get your men moving, Sergeant."

"No, Sir, I'm not taking the boys into that mess, it's a warning," Yates signaled three men to come over to Crawford. "Let's take the Captain out of this, boys. The rest of you, stay low and follow."

"What the hell do you men think you are doing?" Timothy demanded furiously.

"We're taking the Captain home, Sir."

"Like hell you are! What sort of troops are you not to avenge him? The enemy killed him and you should be on your way right now to make sure he has company in the hereafter. Good Lord, Infantry. Bah!"

Timothy drew his Colt revolver and strode purposefully towards the gray line. Yates and the others exchanged puzzled looks and then followed; their faith apparently restored by the sight of a tall officer leading them into the thickest part of the battle. Timothy, oblivious to bullets, bayonets, and sabers, closed on the enemy. Another company, driven back by the force of the Rebel attack, collided with Timothy and the men tagging after. A dying man, his chest ripped open by a bayonet, held up the Stars and Stripes. Timothy did not miss a step as he caught up the flag with his left hand. Yates hurried up to take it from him and blocked a bayonet thrust aimed at the major's belly. Timothy sidestepped the threat and continued his slow march; numb to the sights and sounds around him, numb to Crawford's men moving behind him, numb to everything but a cold desire to avenge Crawdy. He led Crawford's company into a pitched battle of hell with the dignity of the god of war.

Bragg's Army, smelling victory, rushed the Union troops with ferocious zeal. One of Mitchell's companies, to the right of Crawford's men, wavered and began to fall back as artillery shells began to rain death in their midst. Yates, fearing for the safety of his men, handed the flag to one of the others and caught Timothy's sleeve.

"We'd better fall back, Major. Those shells are getting mighty close."

Timothy's eyes were as hard as granite but his voice remained calm. "We won't have to fall back, Sergeant. Don't worry, I won't risk your men foolishly but we do have a job to do. Come on."

Timothy set off at a fast lope; making his way to a small pimple of a hill. He reached the top just as a Confederate captain, with a similar goal, started up the opposite side.

The other checked when he saw Timothy. "Best make sure you Yanks don't claim it!" he fired at Timothy but Yates, who had doggedly followed his new commander, shoved the major aside and killed the captain before he could reload.

"You've got to learn to duck, Sir," Yates chided Timothy.

"Thanks. Hello, what's this?"

"Dear God, what's that!" cried Yates in the same breath.

"This" turned out to be a Union artillery battery that was swinging up the rise to give Timothy's company some solid support. "That" was a long line of Confederate Cavalry bearing down on them in thundering speed.

"We'll have to do something about that," Timothy decided.

He picked up a rifle and stood just below the crest of the hill with the bayonet leveled. Yates and the others took their places beside him with diffidence.

"We're all going to die," moaned Corporal Thaddeus Long.

"Mebbe," drawled Private Owens. "Short of hitting the Major over the head and high-tailing it to the rear, don't seem much we can do about it."

Timothy ignored their comments and focused on the charging Confederates. He eyed the ragged line of horsemen with contempt. Next to Stuart and Fitz Lee's disciplined squadrons, this bunch seemed terribly amateurish. There was also his advantage in holding the high rocky ground. He heard the metal wheels of the Artillery battery bite into the rocks behind him as they tried to swing their field pieces into place. They would not be in time to stop the Cavalry from over running the hill but they would be ready for the rather impressive number of Rebel Infantry charging behind the horses. He turned to smile reassuringly at Crawford's men. They were nervous but game as they braced for the onslaught.

Into the eerie silence, which was broken only by the heavy pounding of the hooves, Timothy called to his men in a low, encouraging voice. "Use your bayonets, boys, Cavalry HATES bayonets."

A high thin "Yiyiyi" rose on the still air as the horses started up the slope. There was a deathly instant just before the impact when Timothy's eyes locked with those of the Cavalry leader's. Then the chaos of struggling bodies ruptured the morning. The terrain, rocky and hard, was not suited to the horses and they panicked as they drove against the sharp, pointed steel barricade that waited for them near the top of the hill. Only one rider, the Cavalry commander, managed to clear the solid line of bayonets and that was by the miracle of jumping over it. His horse skidded on a sharp rock as it landed and fell heavily; rolling on its master as it crashed against one of the Napoleons. The rest of the gray Cavalry bolted away from the steel barrier. Shells screamed after them as the battery, at last in place, fired at will. There were four Napoleons on that slight hill and, although it was a very insignificant hill, it still afforded an advantageous position for Artillery. Timothy took a deep breath and surveyed the damage to his troops. There were two men down with light wounds. He strolled over to the lieutenant in charge of the battery.

"Can you hang on to this position by yourselves or should we stick around?"

"We can manage, Major. That was some stand you took," he stared questioningly at the yellow scarf that fluttered around Timothy's neck.

Timothy collected his men and looked for another spot that might need them. Almost immediately, he spotted a weakening on the left flank and took off to see what he and Crawford's company could do about it.

"One more for Crawdy," he murmured softly.

~~~

Sheridan's men held against the shock of the Confederate attack. Casualties were heavy but they managed to drive their disgruntled foes from the field. Timothy, his face black from dirt and smoke, knelt by his former roommate for a last farewell.

He still wore a dazed look and did not even glance up when Colonel Greusel rode by and peered at the dead officer. "What a damn shame. Crawford was a good man. Well, at least he and his company did their job today. I saw him in the thick of it, leading his men against CAVALRY no less!"

Timothy undid the knot on the yellow scarf and tucked it out of sight in the breast of his jacket. "I'll try, Crawdy, I'll try just as you asked."

He went to Firefly and adjusted her girth.

"That's General Sheridan's aide. What's he doing here?" Greusel demanded of Yates.

"He led us today, Colonel."

"HE led you? I saw Crawdy leading you."

"No, Sir, Captain Crawford was killed before the battle even started. Major MacKendrick sort of shamed us into going. We weren't about to face the Rebs, not without Crawdy to lead us. The Major, though, he said we ought to avenge Crawdy and kill some Rebs to keep him company. He just took off for the thick of it and we couldn't let him go alone."

"Good God, wait until Sheridan hears about this!"

~~~

Timothy rode along the dusty road. The hard-baked surface was broken by countless wheel marks. Normally, he would never have taken his prized mare over such uneven terrain but, for once, he was oblivious to her needs. The shock was beginning to wear off. _I've just been in a battle, on foot, and leading INFANTRY for Christ's sake! I think I was unconscious or sleepwalking. I don't remember much, not since Crawdy died. He said it was up to me, that I had to serve well for him and the others of our Class who don't survive. I promise Crawdy. I swear I won't let you down. I'm in the Infantry for now and I'll make the best of it. I'll learn what I can, serve General Sheridan as best I can._ "Oh damn!"

It had just occurred to Timothy that the primary responsibility of an aide was to return to his commanding officer after delivering orders. He reined in Firefly and stared resentfully around at the deepening twilight. _I left Sheridan in the early morning and haven't seen him since. Where the hell has the day gone?_ He urged Firefly into a slow trot and tried to come up with an acceptable explanation for Sheridan. Five minutes later, he was leading her after she stumbled on the uneven road. The injury was not serious but he couldn't risk a graver one by trying to ride her. _Little Phil will just have to wait for my explanation. Provided I can come up with one._ Timothy led Firefly along the rough road until he came to a tiny lane leading off through a belt of tinder-dry trees. Beyond them, he caught a glimpse of white. As he debated whether or not to investigate, a shrill scream sent him charging down the lane. In general, Buell's Army was well behaved but there was always the danger of deserters. Every chivalrous instinct Timothy possessed responded to that shrill scream. He emerged from the trees into a large yard where a pretty two-story white house, of the neoclassical, columned style, overlooked half a dozen lesser structures.

Timothy paid little heed to the buildings. He was far more interested in the two groups who confronted each other at the door of a small red barn. Seven Federal troopers stood before three middle-aged white women who seemed determined to bar their entry into the barn. The eldest of the three held an ancient musket. She was tall and big-boned with gray-shot brown hair skewered into a tight bun. Her mouth was set in a grim line and she looked perfectly capable of plugging the entire compliment of troops. The second woman pointed the business end of a pitchfork at the troopers while the third waved her apron at them as if she was shooing chickens. That it was she who screamed was evident when she did it again.

"Stop that nonsense, Martha," the eldest ordered with almost masculine scorn.

"But Sister, Yankees! You know what they'll do to us!"

"Martha, I doubt the Yankees have much interest in elderly spinsters."

The one with the pitchfork did not take her eyes from the soldiers. "They don't seem willin' to go on their way, Bessie. Maybe you should give them a taste of what Pa's old blunderbuss can do."

"I just might at that, Rachel."

Seven young soldiers shifted uneasily. Then one of them spotted Timothy. They turned to him in open relief; disproving that they were scavengers. The appearance of a Union major did not seem to reassure the ladies, however. If anything, they took a firmer grip on their weapons.

"What's the problem, Corporal?" Timothy kept a wary eye on the musket.

"Ladies have a Reb hidden in the barn, Sir. We tried to tell them that we had to take him prisoner but we wouldn't hurt him. They won't listen, Sir."

"I'm Major MacKendrick, Ma'am. I'm afraid you will have to relinquish the prisoner to these men."

"Bessie, you won't let them take him? He'll die without proper care."

"Hush, Martha. No one's touching a hair on that boy's head. Not if I have to fight the whole damn lot of them."

Rachel stared hard at Timothy. "Bessie, he said his name is MacKendrick."

"I heard but I doubt that he's the same one. That MacKendrick was from Virginia."

Something clicked. On a long ago night at the Academy, Timothy recalled the diffident voice of a young Plebe. _Pa and Mama died when I was a baby so my sisters raised me. They're lots older than me. Bessie, she's the oldest, runs the farm like a man would. What she doesn't know about crops and stock ain't worth knowin'. Rachel looks after the house while Martha does all the sewin'. We've just got two slaves, old Matthew and a young buck to help with the chores._

Jonas Carrol had stayed only one year at the Academy. He was a dreamy, shy young man who was more attuned to poetry than to tactics.

"Miss Bessie, is it Jonas in the barn?" Timothy eased over and put a hand on the muzzle of the gun.

"It is."

"Will you let me see him? We were friends at West Point."

"You are that MacKendrick. Jonas said you helped him out a lot that year he was there," the heavy musket dipped slightly. Rachel let her pitchfork droop as well.

"I give you my word of honor that I won't let anyone harm Jonas. If he's wounded badly, I may be able to help."

Bessie considered and then stepped aside for him. Timothy entered the building; waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. In a corner, an old black man hunched over blood-spattered gray cloth. Tears coursed from rheumy eyes and filled hundreds of wrinkles on his face. He looked up defensively as Timothy walked to the corner. One frail black hand made a warding-off gesture.

"Uncle Matthew, this is Jonas' friend from West Point. He's come to help us."

Old eyes stared at the blue uniform without comprehension.

Bessie knelt and took the old man's hand. "Matthew is very old, Major MacKendrick. Sometimes he isn't really lucid but he's devoted to Jonas."

"Jonas spoke of him often," Timothy knelt and pulled aside the tunic. He blanched at what he found. A bullet had struck Jonas full in the sternum. It had deflected on the bone and then played merry hell with the rest of the boy's thin chest. Timothy knew there was little he or anyone else could do. He looked up at Bessie and could tell by her expression that she knew Jonas was dying. As he fought the tears that threatened to blind him, Jonas' pale-lashed lids raised.

"'Mothy, I heard that you stayed with the Yankees."

"I had no choice."

"It's good to see you."

Timothy ordered the men to carry the dying man into the house where he could at least have the comfort of his own bed and his sisters around him. Once that was done, he headed for the mare. Bessie followed him.

"I've ordered these men to stay here the night to insure that you'all won't be disturbed."

"That's right good of you, Major, thank you. Jonas thought the world of you and I'm glad to have met you at last."

"I wish to God that I could have done more for him."

"This is the Lord's will, Major. He has a reason, I know, even if we can't see it or understand it. God bless," stoically, she returned to the house to sit by her little brother until he no longer needed her.

Timothy returned to camp just before ten o'clock. He had gone slowly; partly to favor the mare's leg as well as to keep his grief tamped down.

As he unsaddled Firefly, a young corporal joined him. "General Sheridan wants you to report right away, Sir."

"After I see to my horse," _there is no way in hell that I'm going to leave Firefly to the mercy of the Infantry._

"General Sheridan figured you might feel that way, Major, so he made arrangements to ensure that you would go to him immediately. Boys?"

Four large Infantrymen quietly flanked the tired officer.

"Under guard?" Timothy's eyebrow slanted up in disbelief. "Do you know anything about horses, Corporal?"

"Don't worry, Sir, I was raised on a farm in Maryland with a whole passel of thoroughbreds. General Sheridan detailed me especially to look after your horse so you wouldn't worry about her."

Somewhat mollified, Timothy permitted his escort to take him to the general. Sheridan, his face impassive, watched as the weary major entered. Timothy saluted his commanding officer with a bit less polish than usual and sat down without waiting for an invitation.

"You've been a busy little boy today," Sheridan commented as Timothy stared numbly at his hands. "It is customary for aides to return to their commanders after delivering orders."

"I got detained, Sir."

"Detained or distracted, MacKendrick?"

"Take your pick, Sir, I don't care which."

"But you'll admit that you were in the wrong for not returning?"

"Of course, Sir, I have no excuse," exhausted, grieving, Timothy fell back on the old West Point formula.

"Normally, I would have been furious over a stunt like you pulled today. However, I can sympathize with your reasons and you did give an excellent accounting of yourself. Colonel Greusel says you did a fine job of leading Crawford's company and a young pup from the Artillery swears that you turned the enemy back all by yourself."

"How did you know about that?"

"A good commander always knows what his men are doing."

"I apologize for deserting you today. I wasn't thinking very clearly."

"It's always hard to lose a friend."

Heartsick, Timothy dropped his face into his hands as waves of grief paralyzed his throat; choking him. Sobs finally broke free from his tight throat. Putting his arms across his knees, he buried his head in them. _Oh God, Crawdy!_ _One more, one more from the Class of '60. There were the others too: the Cavalry officer crushed against the gleaming side of the Napoleon, that boy who just lost his leg, Jonas._ Timothy lifted his head and smiled ruefully at his General. "I'm sorry, Sir, I'm an awful cry baby. I realize that I acted rashly today and I'm willing to accept whatever punishment you deem necessary."

"By rights, I should court-martial you and stick you in the ranks without even the solace of a corporal's chevrons. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir," _I promised Crawdy. I'll stick to that vow even if it means fighting the rest of the war on foot in the ranks and toting a rifle!_

"I guarantee that the next time you act on your own initiative you'll be extremely sorry. Do I make myself clear, MacKendrick?"

"Yes, Sir, I assure you that in the future I will be your most obedient shadow."

"I doubt that. I'm not sure you're disciplined enough to resist temptation. However, if you'll promise to at least TRY to be a dependable aide..."

"Yes, Sir, I promise."

"Very well, MacKendrick, that will be all for tonight."

"Yes, Sir," Timothy got to his feet; his proud carriage missing as the grief from Crawford's death and the haunted faces from the battle crushed down on his shoulders.

"'Mothy," Sheridan called softly.

Timothy froze with his back to the general. _He's never called me that before_.

"It will be better, I promise. I know because I've lost classmates and friends too."

Timothy stood still as the sad words washed over him. Somehow there was comfort in the knowledge that he was not alone in sorrow. He turned back to the little general who sat a bit dejectedly at his desk. "Thank you, Sir."

For the first time he gave Sheridan his radiant smile; not knowing that a life-long friendship was forged in that brief instant.

### Chapter 16

### Virginia, May 1863

Washington waited in fear after the second battle of Bull Run and braced for Robert E. Lee's attack; an attack which did not come. Instead, Lee bypassed the city and drove North; forcing McClellan and the Federal Army to give chase. Lee won at Chantilly but lost at Sharpsburg. Autumn of 1862 was a dismal time for all concerned; followed by the dreary winter of 1863. The last major battle of 1862 was Fredericksburg and though the Southerners drove the Federals back, only the very young still believed the South could obtain an easy victory. Most Southerners were still confident that the Yankees would be defeated, however. Didn't they still have the best generals? No Yankee could match the flamboyant Stuart or the solid Jackson for courage, chivalry, or daring.

James MacKendrick was not so sure any longer that the Southern Army had a monopoly on stalwart leaders. Timothy was becoming a legend on both sides as he followed Sheridan from battle to battle. There was the friendly rivalry between the North's George Custer and the South's Tom Rosser. Rosser had once exposed himself to Northern sharpshooters while reconnoitering his troops' position. Custer hurriedly passed the word to his men to hold their fire until his former classmate was in the clear. _Oh yes, gallantry abounds on both sides...for all the good it does us. Chivalry, gallantry. Such fine sentiments to put on my dead sweetheart's tombstone._

Marietta and the baby had been ill; some odd fever they had contracted in the overcrowded city. She had seemed better, his leave was up, and it was his duty to return to Jackson. Three days after he returned to camp, Aunt Hannah had sent word. Marietta had died in her sleep a scant twelve hours after he left and the baby had died a few hours later. By the time he could get to Richmond, Marietta and little Hannah had been buried at Hollywood Cemetery. _I didn't even get to say goodbye_. _When they needed me the most, I was here instead of beside them._ Even after three weeks, his heart caught in his throat so forcibly he lurched against a tree.

"James," a gray shadow detached itself from the darker ones of the trees; a hand reaching out to steady him. General Jackson shook his head. "You were going to sleep a spell. You're working yourself to death before my very eyes."

"Too tired to sleep, I reckon. Besides, you might need me during the briefing."

"I don't need a walking corpse, Son."

James gave a little smile at the taciturn Jackson's use of that little word. He worshipped his General with the all-consuming devotion he would have given his own father _. I failed Marietta and the baby but I won't fail my general._ "I'm pretty tough, Sir, what I need right now is a good fight."

When the North was driven from the South, only then, would he have time for his grief. Resolutely, he pushed the memory of Marietta and little Hannah to a tiny pocket of his heart where they would be forever cherished but never openly mourned.

"Fighting Joe" Hooker held command of the Army of the Potomac. He was of a different mettle than Pope or McClellan and his sobriquet was an acknowledgment of his fire-eating impetuosity. Hooker was not a cautious fumbler like Pope nor was he involved with other demands such as the politically flea-bitten McClellan. James ruminated unhappily as he trudged behind Jackson. _Now the Northern advantages of more manpower, better weapons, and more supplies will start to make a difference. The Army of Northern Virginia's only real edge has been audacity and daring. Now that Lincoln has found a 'fighting' general, that edge vanishes like swamp mist; unless Hooker can be outfoxed somehow._

"Well, Gentlemen," Lee began as Jackson and his aide joined the throng around him. "We are faced yet again with an eager Northern General."

"He is not as eager now as he was several days ago," remarked Jackson. "Colonel MacKendrick will fill you in, Sir."

"Several days ago, right after General Hooker crossed the Rappahannock, we instructed some of our men to desert to the Yankees. These men were instructed to say that they were Longstreet's men and were here to reinforce General Jackson. A few of them were also to tell their captors that they belonged to Wade Hampton."

"So, General Hooker is not certain who he is facing at this time."

"That was General Jackson's hope, Sir."

Stonewall Jackson shifted restlessly in his chair. "With luck, we'll be able to confuse Joe Hooker enough to throw him off balance."

Lee nodded gravely as the lamplight glinted off his shock of gray hair. James was startled to see how much he had aged in the past year. _He looks like a tired lion._

"Your tactics seem to have worked. General Stuart has just sent word that the enemy has gone on the defensive; in spite of having the better position and superior force."

"By rights," Jackson considered. "He should be expecting us to withdraw and fall back on Richmond. Is your plan to attack him, Sir?"

"It is. Another interesting piece of intelligence is that his western flank is exceedingly weak."

"You want me to attack his western flank while you attack from Chancellorsville? It is a risky endeavor, Bobby. It will mean cutting our force in twain when we are already outnumbered two to one. It will also mean marching through a forest about which we know very little."

Lee continued to wait while Jackson got up and paced. Every officer present knew the odds of facing five full Corps with only 43,000 men. It was a most audacious battle plan and those who had attended the Academy were shocked. The bold plan went against every tenet they had been taught, against every principle of classic warfare; although West Point's most famous instructor, Dennis Mahan, would have cheered at the use of speed and flexibility. Uneasily, James realized that the Army of Northern Virginia could well be history by the following night.

"We'll have to try it. There is no other way to keep Hooker away from Richmond," decided Jackson.

"We're in for it now, James," remarked redheaded Sam Clanton; another of Jackson's aides.

"If the General thinks we can do it, we'll manage."

"I hope you're right. I do not want to spend the rest of the war in a Yankee prison camp."

On the long march that took Jackson's force of 25,000 men south, west, and north through the area called the Wilderness, James held his breath. Some of Hooker's men engaged bits of the force in minor skirmishes and, each time, James expected Hooker's entire force to charge out and annihilate them. As the day wore on it became evident that, for some inexplicable reason, Hooker was not going to take advantage of the situation. By afternoon, Jackson was in position to strike.

Soldiers of the Union's XI Corps were settled comfortably around their cook fires; a young corporal listening to the soft sounds of birds in that charming clearing by Wilderness Church. Suddenly, out of the tangle of brush and impenetrable forest that stretched to the west, a high-pitched, defiant "Yiyiyi" blended eerily with the sweet discordant call of numerous bugles. Startled, the corporal leapt to his feet; staring as deer and rabbits broke from the forest cover in panic followed by gray-coated men pouring from the brambles like a swarm of hornets. In the last few seconds, the corporal remembered his rifle; neatly stacked with all of the others. He plunged forward in an attempt to reach it but a burly man in gray shot him at point-blank range. Unnerved, the entire XI Corps fled before the gray tide that continued to sweep out of the forest. As always, James was hard put to keep up with his commander for Jackson was determined to be everywhere at once.

James grinned as he heard the general yell to his men; urging them on. "Press them! Press them! We've got them on the run!"

Terror-stricken men of the XI Corps pushed back against General Sickle's men who found themselves in a nasty little pocket; almost surrounded by Confederates. The Union forces tried to withstand the enemy flood but they could not quite manage to dig in or establish a secondary line of defense. As the sun disappeared, the engagement began to peter out and James, by dint of hard riding, was able to keep up with Jackson.

As the rest of the Staff caught up with them, Jackson looked critically at the sky and made one of his rapid combat decisions. "The enemy is nearly in a complete rout. The moon will be almost full tonight, Gentlemen, and we can achieve a decisive victory if we pursue our current advantage."

James and the rest of the Staff moved into place as the General wheeled his horse to reconnoiter a small trail that seemed to provide an excellent place to continue the attack. Their continued push of the Federal troops was looking promising and the men with Jackson began to believe that they could achieve a decisive victory. They were returning along the shrub-littered road and James was riding almost beside his commander when a high whine whizzed past his ear. The next instant, he saw Jackson flinch and then he heard the crack of a rifle in the still night air.

"They've shot him! They've shot the General!" Clanton cried.

James reached over and caught the dangling reins of Jackson's plunging horse; moving his own mount beside the animal to prevent the General from falling to the ground. He was aware of the rest of the Staff milling around in confusion.

"Find out who fired that rifle," he snapped as he tried to hold both horses. _Damn, I wish I had Timothy's skills with a horse._

Clanton rode by at a mad gallop while A.P. Hill, Jackson's second in command, moved to the other side of the stricken warrior. In a nightmare ride along the tree-shrouded trail, they got their leader to a hastily organized headquarters. While they waited for the surgeon, James opened the bloody coat and tried to staunch the blood that flowed freely down Jackson's left arm. Hill removed his own sash and wrapped it around a wound in the general's right hand.

"Hill, press the attack," Jackson ordered; his mouth twisted in pain.

"Sir."

"Press the attack, I'm ALL RIGHT!"

Hill charged out into the night.

"MacKendrick."

"I'm staying here for now, Sir. At least until the surgeon arrives."

Jackson, suffering shock, agreed with uncharacteristic meekness.

James stayed by his General's side even after the arrival of the doctor.

"He'll be all right," Captain Mowery said with relief. "The wounds are painful but they are not life-threatening. The best thing is to keep him quiet."

James was considering the difficulty of that task when a young aide dashed in. "General Hill has been wounded, Sir."

Jackson pulled himself up painfully. "MacKendrick, ride to Stuart. Tell him he's in command."

James left without hesitation while his insides churned. Every instinct, every impulse demanded that he remain with Jackson, however, he could not disobey a direct order. After some searching, he located the dashing Cavalryman. Stuart himself caught the bridle of the horse as James brutally yanked the animal to a halt amidst the milling Cavalry.

"I've just heard. How is he?"

"General Jackson will be all right, Sir. The wounds are severe and painful but the surgeon swears he won't die of them," James patted the horse's lathered neck in silent apology for his rough hands.

"My God, James, he was shot by our own pickets! How could that happen?"

"OUR pickets!?"

"Didn't you know? The day started out so well, too."

"It isn't over yet. General Hill has been wounded also and General Jackson wants you to take command."

Stuart's eyes bulged. "Who, me? What precisely does General Jackson expect me to do?"

"He expects you to carry out his plans to continue the battle," his message delivered, James turned the horse and prepared to ride back to Jackson.

"Well, there is nothing for it, then. MacKendrick, you are joining my Staff temporarily. As General Jackson's aide, I'm sure you can give me valuable insight as to how the General would proceed."

A pained expression flickered across James' face. He had no desire to spend the long night away from Jackson's side; certainly not in the company of Stuart's damned Cavalry.

"Sir, I need to get back to the General."

"You will be serving him far better by riding with me, James."

"Have I a choice, Sir?"

Stuart's laughter echoed through the woods. "None whatsoever and we may make a horse-soldier out of you yet."

James glared at Stuart as the hearty general wheeled his big horse and trotted off down the road. Muttering under his breath he started to follow and became aware of a horseman near his right stirrup. He did not even have to look to know who it was.

"Not one damn word, Flee," he growled.

Fitz Lee replied plaintively. "I wasn't going to say anything."

"Sure you weren't," James rode after Stuart and tried to ignore the tune that Fitz and the rest of Stuart's Staff began for his benefit.

If you want to smell hell

If you want to have fun

If you want to catch the devil

Jine the cav-al-ree!

~~~

James waited with the rest of his disbelieving comrades beside the bed of the stricken warrior. Hooker had been driven back although Stuart had not been able to achieve a decisive victory. He had tried and James had acquired a great deal of respect for the rambunctious horseman during the three days and nights he had spent with Stuart's Cavalry. He had been surprised by Beauty's solid grasp of tactics and realized that his friend's tremendous success with the Cavalry was no fluke for he was as fine a soldier as any of the rest of Lee's brilliant corps of commanders. In return, Stuart sought James' advice for the deployment of the Infantry. West Point-trained and exposed to Jackson's remarkable flexibility, James had a flare for command that Stuart recognized and valued. All their efforts had not been enough, though, and Hooker slipped through their fingers. Now, eight days after Chancellorsville, "Stonewall" Jackson was dying. The wounds had festered so that fever and infection combined to destroy Virginia's great general. Even amputating his shattered left arm had failed to work the necessary miracle.

"Push up the columns...hasten up the columns...push the cannon forward..." Jackson pleaded in a voice harsh with fever and delirium.

James listened with tears running down his face as the beloved life flickered and ebbed. A warm breeze danced tauntingly through the silent sickroom while Clanton, his red head bowed in grief, sobbed unashamedly for the General.

"Let us pass over the river and rest under the trees," Jackson sighed at the end.

One by one, his Staff filed past for one final look.

James was the last to leave. He was adrift and alone; so terribly alone now. Still reeling from the deaths of his wife and daughter, he simply could not comprehend this third passing. He had loved Jackson as a commander and a father. _He can't be dead. HE CANNOT BE DEAD!_

"James," a hand rested on his shoulder.

James turned blindly and faced the tired, compassionate eyes of Marse Robert who had come to pay a final homage to his greatest general and old friend. Even Lee, usually resigned to the whims of the Almighty, had rebelled that horrible week and called furiously on the Lord to preserve the irreplaceable life.

James' fists clenched as he continued to stare at the irrefutable evidence of man's mortality. "It is over. We have lost him," he choked on the words and stumbled out into the bright, mocking sunlight; mourning the three he had lost in that lovely, uncaring month of May.

### Chapter 17

### Virginia, July 1863

For three days the two great armies surged against each other; neither able to turn the tide against the enemy in the terrain of rolling hills and shallow valleys which lay near the quiet little town in Pennsylvania. July 1st had marked the initial day of tremendous effort when A.P. Hill's III Army Corps encountered a surprised unit of Federal Cavalry. By twelve noon, the I and XI Corps of the Army of the Potomac, as well as General Ewell's Confederate II Army Corps, had joined the fracas and by evening, it was clear that Gettysburg was going to be a major action. The little town was a junction for twelve roads which served Harrisburg, Philadelphia and, eventually, Baltimore and Washington. Lee's Army of Northern Virginia held the western hills, dominated by Seminary Ridge. The Army of the Potomac, commanded by Major General George Meade, was dug in to the east along Cemetery Ridge. Between the two armies lay an open plain.

By July 2nd, General Longstreet had arrived with two of his divisions to reinforce Lee and three more corps joined on to the Union forces. As always, Lee's tiring Army of Northern Virginia was outnumbered and out-gunned. Precious time was lost in reconnaissance and the attack did not start until three in the afternoon. Somehow, the Confederate leaders never were able to work in unison so the critical principle of mass was never invoked. Longstreet's men fought ferociously for Little Round Top, the Peach Orchard, and the Wheatfield. One of Hill's divisions assaulted Cemetery Ridge. On the north, Ewell made a useless foray against some Federals behind stonewalls. The Confederates tried attacking from the right and the left without success. Lee debated launching a full scale, coordinated attack along the Union's entire line. Reasoning that maneuvering so many troops effectively was nearly impossible, he abandoned the idea and decided to send a massive assault against the Union core at Cemetery Ridge after softening things up with an artillery barrage. To achieve that victory, he chose General George Pickett and ten fresh brigades of Virginians.

Gettysburg was a crushing defeat for Lee. A battered Union Army watched triumphantly as the shattered gray forces began to slip away to the south in a heavy rain on the night of July 3rd. Pickett's charge had ended in appalling slaughter. Meade, pleading the excuse of 23,000 casualties, did not pursue and Lee was permitted to cross the Potomac back into Virginia. It could have ended there if Meade had been bolder and had rallied his own exhausted Army but he did not and President Lincoln had to endure another missed chance from a cautious general.

James kept watch over some exhausted Infantry as they forded a rain-swollen Potomac. He was soaked clear through, discouraged, and disgusted. Somehow, after witnessing the horrendous disaster of Pickett's charge from which only 800 had returned, he simply did not give a damn anymore. A few tired men clambered up the mud-slick bank.

"Jesus, even Virginia mud smells sweeter than Pennsylvania," exclaimed one private.

"Yeah, I don't care if we never cross this damn river again. I say we should stay in Virginia and fight them blue-bellies right here."

James shifted restlessly in the saddle. From a distance he could hear Stuart's band warbling in their inimitable fashion as they splashed through the ford. "' _Carry me back to Ole' Virginny..._ '"

"Bloody hell," James muttered through his teeth.

The last thing he wanted was an encounter with Stuart. Besides, it was time he returned to Hill and let him know how their forces were faring in the river. It was more than the bitter defeat of Gettysburg that made him shun Stuart. Somehow, watching the futile efforts to win victory had cut him to the heart. James had faced too much in the past few weeks: too much grief, too much work, too little sleep. He pulled his horse to the side to allow an ambulance to lumber past. The jolting of the wagon over the rocky road was torture for the men inside and pitiful sobs struck James with the force of a physical blow.

"Why can't I die?"

"Jesus, stop this wagon and let me die by the road!"

"I'm dying, I tell you, dying! My wife and babies! Who will take care of my wife and babies!?"

The ambulance rattled on while the wounded endured or died. James watched it pass; cheeks wet with more than rain. What was the use of it? Why did they keep on and on fighting a losing war? How many more must die for this criminal idiocy. By the time he reached General Hill, he was in a state of quiet rage.

"How are things back with the men, James?"

"About what one would expect. They're tired, discouraged, but they keep plodding along, God help them."

Hill gave his aide a sharp look. "Well?"

"It's heartbreaking."

"Yes. We came so close this time. We almost had them."

James bit his lip to keep from a heated retort. Hill was a blind fool for they had not come close. Gettysburg had been an unmitigated debacle from beginning to end and Hill was one of those he blamed.

"Ah well, next time we'll send them running, eh, James?"

"I suppose."

"James, you look all in. Why don't you go ahead and take a nice long furlough."

"No."

"James, you should go to Richmond for a spell. I don't want to make it an order but if you are going to be such a stubborn, pig-headed young ass."

"I'm sick and tired of hearing about furloughs. Will you kindly drop the matter?"

"Very well, MacKendrick." Hill replied, sounding rather hurt.

~~~

For another week, Lee and his tattered Army retreated further into Virginia while Meade followed cautiously. James' depression continued as the Army of Northern Virginia began to lick its wounds and prepared to keep Meade from advancing on Richmond. He did his duties conscientiously but with little enthusiasm and he was haggard with too little food and not enough rest. James dealt with his anguish as best he could which meant that he worked to the point of exhaustion so that his stretched nerves were numb enough to let him sleep. Quite a few of his military brethren were worried about him as the triple-edged grief drew him tauter and tauter. Stuart and Fitzhugh Lee had done their best to break through the tight shell of misery in which James moved but even those two stalwarts had to admit defeat. As did everyone else in the Army, they took their concern to Robert E. Lee.

One evening, James was ordered to headquarters. Marse Robert was in discussion with Hill but beckoned when James arrived. "General Hill and I have been discussing you, Colonel."

"We have indeed," Hill snickered.

Robert E. Lee templed his hands and regarded James thoughtfully. "I do not believe that I have ever known anyone so stubborn in my life; with the possible exception of your Father, MacKendrick. He was another one who refused to put his own needs ahead of his duty or what he perceived as his duty. Has it occurred to you that by working yourself to death you may be doing our cause a grave injustice? I'm not finished and you are at attention, Colonel," Lee spoke with the crispness of West Point's Superintendent as James started to speak. "Since you have no sense of your own, it becomes necessary for us to think for you. I am going to give you a choice, James. You may either take a month's furlough in Richmond or you may accept transfer to Stuart's Staff."

Marse Robert smothered a chuckle as a look of genuine distress crossed James' fine-drawn features. Hill, not so polite, guffawed openly.

"I'm waiting, Colonel. Which is it to be?" Lee continued.

"Sir, may I say something?"

"Unless it is 'furlough' or 'transfer' no, you may not."

"It isn't fair, Sir," James began heatedly.

"Furlough or transfer, MacKendrick?"

"I don't wish to..."

"Furlough or transfer?"

"Furlough...Sir," James added something under his breath that Lee pretended not to notice.

"You will leave immediately, Colonel."

"Yes, Sir," James saluted smartly and stalked off with his head very high; bristling with indignation.

"I don't think we should tell him where the idea came from, Ambrose."

"No, Bobby, I know how fond you are of your nephew."

Marse Robert chuckled. He had not wanted to interfere but, after seeing the clear mark of exhaustion on James' face, he was glad he had followed Fitz Lee's humorous suggestion that the only thing that could make MacKendrick yield was to threaten him with the Cavalry. James was too fine an officer to risk losing him to typhoid, malaria, measles, or the other ills which could assault someone as worn as he. Besides, Lee believed that proper rest would make it easier in the long run for the young man to accept his sorrows rather than be overwhelmed by them.

~~~

James' annoyance at being forced to take a furlough had dissipated into the aching fatigue that had plagued him since before Gettysburg. Even to return to that haunted room, where his wife and daughter had died, did not disturb him as it had once done. He was exhausted, heartbroken, with nerves raw from the agony faced in Pennsylvania. As he entered his aunt's residence, it did not surprise him that Hannah had not turned her elegant mansion into a hospital as had most of the other Richmond citizens. It was typical of his self-centered aunt that she would not contribute even a tiny part of her home to the Cause. When he passed the ornate ballroom, he made a silent apology to her. The chandeliers were swathed in muslin as were the paintings on the walls. A screen hid the small dais that had once held an orchestra. Rows of cots, lined up end-to-end, covered the floor and several tired women passed among them with the inevitable bowls of broth. James continued to the music room and was greeted by the soft tinkling of a piano as he crossed the threshold. He paused at the pretty picture before him and savored it. He had never been a sentimentalist about the Southern Cause or the society it defended, but he appreciated the sight of these women who wore their mended and outdated finery with such an air of defiant elegance. A group of young officers, many in bandages, clustered about the piano where several girls flirted affectionately with them. The girls, tired from long hours nursing the wounded and laboring under the grief of lost fathers, brothers, and sweethearts, made every effort to give the soldiers who defended them a memorable and pleasant afternoon.

James threaded his way through the clusters of people. He spotted his aunt finally; knee deep in young men. Evidently, she was far enough past her mourning to start enjoying herself again. Unobserved, he watched her for a few minutes while she held state with five entranced young men who hung on her every word. Next to Dorothea, she had always been his favorite aunt. She had a real knack for talking to men and putting them at their ease and, even at her age, she held undisputed reign where men were concerned.

"Why, James. Whatever are you doing in Richmond?"

"Good afternoon, Hannah. I have a month's furlough and hoped you might be able to put me up."

"We are a bit crowded with the wounded but I've kept your room free for you just in case."

My room and Marietta's. Reckon I have to face it sooner or later.

"It's very sweet of you to spend your furlough with an old widow lady."

James laughed outright. "I never saw any one who looked less like an old widow lady. You know that there isn't a girl in Richmond who can hold a candle to you."

Hannah's dimples deepened at the compliment. "Run along, boys. I'd like to visit with my nephew for a bit."

Four of the young men, in deference to James' rank, drifted dutifully away. The fifth merely stepped back to the wall and kept a watchful gaze on James. He was the only man in the room not in uniform and his spotless, ruffled shirtfront and rich black stock seemed almost an insult in that room where the other men were in frayed uniforms and bandages.

"What ails him?" inquired James. He drew up a fragile gilt chair.

"Gilbert? He just wants to make certain that you really are my nephew. He's very protective."

"Protective? He looks just like a tom cat guarding his harem."

"Yes, he does rather. He's protecting his interests."

James raised an eyebrow and leaned closer to his aunt.

Hannah dropped her gaze to her plump, folded hands and her mouth turned up at the corners. "We're engaged."

"WHAT?" James screwed around in his chair and took a long look at the slender youth who leaned against the wall with such insolent charm.

Gilbert's smoldering dark eyes met James' with sulky superiority. James did not know whether to be shocked or amused.

He turned back to Hannah. "He's just a child. Why, he can't be more than twenty."

"Twenty-three. Now James, don't be stuffy. Gilbert is the first exciting man I've known in years and I think I'm really in love with him! Don't laugh, you ill-mannered brute. It isn't easy for me to fall in love."

"No?" James' eyes sparkled with mirth as he glanced at the mantel where the pictures of Hannah's four previous husbands clustered in a pathetic little group.

"Don't be silly, James. I never loved my husbands. They were all marriages of convenience and, fine men as they all were, there was little excitement in those marriages. In fact, your Father was the only other man I've known with whom I could have fallen in love."

"Forgive me for saying so, but I'm thankful you were my Aunt and not my Mother."

Hannah's daughter had not benefited from an abundance of motherly affection and had eloped at the tender age of sixteen. She sent a letter once a year from her home in San Francisco.

"Wretched man," Hannah slapped him lightly with her fan.

At the flirtatious flick of the fan, Gilbert shifted restlessly and frowned.

"There, you've made me upset Gilbert," Hannah laid a soft, be-ringed hand on James' sleeve and batted her eyelashes imploringly. "Don't you want your poor old Auntie to have some joy in her twilight years?"

"Of course I do, but with a suitable spouse. He doesn't look very bright."

"He isn't. But I can't abide being married to intelligent men. Besides, odd as it may seem, Gilbert really does love me in his own little way and he's surprisingly kind to me. Then too, he is amusing, handsome, and very well mannered. There is something about the French."

"French?"

"From New Orleans, his father is a blockade runner and Gilbert handles the business on this end."

"I'll bet he does."

Hannah chortled. "What a snob you are, Darling, typically Virginian in your outlook."

"I'll take that as the highest of compliments, my sweet Aunt," he kissed her hand with courtly polish.

Gilbert bristled at the liberty and sent a beseeching look at Hannah.

"My dear, I hate to bring up an unpleasant subject but, well, you are really not dressed for company."

"Auntie, I'm hurt. I deloused before I set foot over your threshold."

Hannah's soft laughter drew several interested glances from the group at the piano and an agonized sigh from Gilbert. "I didn't mean it quite so literally, Honey, but a leisurely bath and a change of clothes might be an excellent beginning to your furlough."

"Sounds like heaven."

"Of course, if you'd rather enjoy the party, I'm positive the young ladies would be happy to flirt with you."

"No, thank you. I prefer the bath."

"Oh my dear, I am sorry. Still, it has been several months since your bereavement."

Several months since that gallant little soul lost her fight against typhoid or whatever it was; several months since a lovely spring day when Stonewall Jackson died.

"Other men have lost their wives, James, just as many women have lost their husbands. We can't bury our hearts in the grave and the living must go on."

Bury the heart in the grave. No, I don't ever want to love again the way I loved Marietta and, in a different fashion, General Jackson. It hurts too much when they are taken away so it is best to abstain entirely. If anything happens to Dorothea, Timothy, or Lafayette, I don't think I can bear it.

Hannah's merry countenance sobered into sweet seriousness. "Go upstairs and rest, James. You look exhausted and could do with some quiet. Dinner will be at seven. It's rather plain fare these days but I daresay it will taste better than Army food."

James smiled down at her although his face felt frozen and he knew it didn't reach his eyes.

She caught his hand and gave it a firm squeeze. "It will be all right, James, I promise you. It will get easier to bear."

"Will it?" for a wild moment, he nearly succumbed to a desire to bury his head in her lap and howl. Instead, he straightened his back and started to put the chair back. Gilbert took it from his hands and replaced it by Hannah. James gave him a little bow and went to face his memories.

Hannah's butler, one of the legendary Peter's many offspring, stood by a deep hip tub. It was filled with glorious, hot, soapy water. Beside it was a small table set with razor and shaving mug. "Do you need anything else, Mister James?" Alexander inquired as he gathered the battered uniform.

"No, thank you. I'll ring if I need anything."

"Very good, Mister James, I'll have your uniform cleaned and mended."

James did not notice when the man left for the steaming water had already begun to work its seductive wiles on his nerve-tautened body. He had a long, soothing bath; relishing the sinful pleasure in being completely clean again. He was actually dozing when he realized that the water was tepid. Drowsily, James stepped from the tub and began to potter about the bedroom. He enjoyed the novelty of dressing in a leisurely fashion for a change instead of throwing on a uniform. It was disconcerting, however, to discover that his clothes hung on him. He had always taken pride in his appearance and it was not at all pleasant to feel as if he was a small boy wearing his big brother's clothes. _Still, it's nice to be out of the gray. Perhaps one of the other jackets will fit a bit better._

James froze at the armoire. Instead of a jacket, a soft lawn dress slid to the floor; almost of its own volition. He could not have been more stricken if it had been a rattlesnake at his feet. Weeks of self-control shattered like a mirror when the pale green gown fluttered from the armoire. James stooped slowly and picked up the dress. Bitter salt tears dripped over his lips as Marietta's fragrance, still caught in its folds, destroyed his self-control. Burying his face in the dress, James at last gave vent to his anguish. He could no longer keep Marietta and little Hannah in a secret place in his heart. They were mourned; to the deepest, fullest measure of loss. A long time later, James had cried himself out. Wobbly, as from a long illness, he carefully put the dress back in the armoire. He had a blinding headache and his sinuses were blocked from his unrestrained weeping. Yet, somehow, his lost wife had reached him to give comfort. He was too tired to fathom the change and was merely grateful that it was so. James stood limply in the center of the room. That was when the massive four-poster began to beckon him. He stood very still as he eyed it with sudden, overwhelming longing.

"A real bed."

He walked over to it and gave the bedding an experimental push.

"It even has a real mattress," he marveled as, lovingly, he ran a hand over the fine cherry grain. As he lay on the bed, the deep mattress enfolded his exhausted frame and deepest slumber claimed him.

~~~

On the 20th of September, Timothy pulled up as a confusion of men and horses swirled around him. General Rosecrans and a third of his command had already been swept from the field by the determined attack of General Longstreet who was hell-bent on helping General Bragg drive the Union forces out of Chattanooga and the rest of Tennessee. The remaining, desperate Federal troops rallied around General George Thomas in an attempt to create a defensive line on Horseshoe Ridge. Thomas, trying to make use of the troops who were reaching him from their own broken and scattered commands, reached over and caught Firefly's bridle. "Where the hell do you think you're going, Boy?" Thomas bellowed.

"To find General Sheridan to fetch him back to help, Sir," Timothy tried to wrest his rein free.

"Don't be a damned fool, Major. Half of Bragg's Army is between us and Sheridan now. He was already in retreat when he sent you to me. You won't last ten minutes in that mess. He's not that far off. He should be able to hear what's going on for himself. If he can reorganize his division, he'll come without any word from you."

"You need help, Sir. Let go."

"No, I will not. Get off that horse, MacKendrick, and tuck in some place where you won't be in the way."

"General Sheridan sent me to find you, Sir, and return with orders for him," Timothy said doggedly.

"My orders have just been given. GET OFF THE DAMNED HORSE or I'll court-martial you. I know you have the courage of a lion, MacKendrick, but use some sense. It won't help anyone if you get shot trying to get through a solid line of the enemy."

"But..."

"Damn it, Major, I don't have time to wet nurse you. Obey my orders or be damned, Sir."

"Very well, SIR," Timothy spat through clenched teeth as he swung off Firefly.

Thomas, surrounded by his own Staff, rode off to assess his line and took Firefly with him.

_He took my horse?!_ Timothy stood in shock as his pretty mare cantered beside General Thomas. _He did it on purpose!_ "HE TOOK MY HORSE!"

"You don't think generals talk, 'Mothy?" snickered Captain Byers who had been two years ahead of him at the Academy.

"What is that supposed to mean?" demanded Timothy heatedly.

"Means that Sheridan has been talking up a storm about you and Thomas knew damned well you'd skedaddle the minute his back was turned," guffawed Lieutenant Jackson, who had been a year behind him. "It's your own fault. If you want to go around making yourself a legend, you'd best get used to generals spoiling your fun. Now, do what he says and tuck in some place. You're in the way."

"Yes, and don't think you can pull what you did at Perryville either. I don't plan to get killed like Crawford so my men won't need you the way his did."

The Infantry swept past him as they charged forward to help Thomas form a new right wing. Timothy fell back to the rear and moved through the heavily wooded terrain in search of a horse or mule that he could confiscate so that he could get word to Sheridan that Thomas needed help. He had just put a hand on a handsome chestnut gelding when the animal's owner, a colonel, turned his head and spotted him. "Something I can do for you, Major?"

"I am General Sheridan's aide, Sir. I have lost my own mount and I must requisition yours in order to..."

"No," said the colonel.

"Sir?"

"No, Major, or don't you understand English?"

"But, Colonel."

"Swale."

"Colonel Swale, it is the duty of every aide to return to his superior and I have important orders from General Thomas for General Sheridan. It is your responsibility to give any aide all assistance."

"No," repeated the colonel. "You can't have him. Besides, it is NOT my responsibility to let someone's aide get his fool head shot off and my horse killed along with him. As young as you are for your rank, I assume you're one of those smug little West Point peacocks who thinks he knows how to soldier better than the rest of us. If you can tell me how you think you're going to get past those entrenched positions or even see the enemy in these damned woods, Major, I'll give you a listen. Here, take a look."

Timothy took the field glasses the colonel held out to him.

"Well?" the colonel said as Timothy scanned the woods. Every now and then, he could pick out a flash of metal or a bit of movement before the enemy disappeared back into the vines, brush, and trees that covered the gentle roll of the hills.

"You're right, Sir. I don't have a prayer of reaching General Sheridan right now."

"Well, Captain Michaels, what do you know? A West Point peacock that can think."

"What are those men doing down there?" Timothy inquired as the slow sweep of the glasses stopped. "Aren't they a little too far forward?"

"They are indeed. The late lieutenant Collingswood was another West Point peacock who thought he could get his men down there and flank the enemy. Fancied himself quite the little general and didn't like taking orders from a...what was that he called me, Michaels?"

"A sod-busting civilian who is criminally ignorant of Napoleon's classic strategies," Michaels supplied.

"Yes, that was it. I don't know a damned thing about Napoleon, Major, but I do know when there are more men shooting at me than with me."

"Yes, Sir," Timothy said. "Why are those men still stuck down there?"

"Presumably, the Rebels haven't decided to fetch them yet."

"You're just going to let them sit there to be captured?"

"Can't get to them. I don't have enough men to charge down there and rescue them."

"So, you're just going to abandon your own men?" Timothy stepped back.

"Well, as someone who doesn't know about Napoleon, it's still obvious to me..."

"Not Napoleon, Colonel. Marion or Lafayette."

"Who?"

"Mind if I have a try, Sir?"

"A try at what?"

"Getting your men back."

Swale eyed him suspiciously. "Does this involve my horse?"

"No, Sir."

"Thought you were in a hurry to get your head shot off."

Timothy grinned. "Certainly, but, since I can't get to Sheridan just now, I might as well get it shot off doing something constructive. Do you have a map of this area, Sir?"

Colonel Swale nodded at Captain Michaels. "Michaels, show the young man our map."

Timothy squatted on the ground and Michaels squatted with him and unfolded the map of their position.

"It's clean," Timothy observed as he studied it.

"Of course it's clean," Michaels answered. "We may need it."

"I meant, you haven't marked any positions on it," Timothy said diplomatically.

"What do you mean? Headquarters hasn't told us their positions."

"May I?" Timothy took the field glasses back, the map, a pencil and stretched out so that he could stick his head over the lip of the gentle slope and still be somewhat protected.

"There's a sharpshooter in that sycamore tree to the right, about half way down the slope. See him?"

"I do now," Michaels trained his own glasses in the same direction as Timothy's.

"There's at least one squad, possibly two over on the left by that big oak."

Swale and the rest of his officers watched as Timothy and Michaels spent the next hour locating Rebel units and marking their positions on the heavy parchment. Once that was done, Timothy studied the map. He traced a smudged line with his forefinger, looked intently at something through the glasses, and traced a line again.

"Colonel," he stepped back from the lip of the hill and removed his hat and jacket. "Have someone pour out their canteen into that patch of dirt. I want a good thick consistency of mud."

"Mud?"

"Yes, mud," Timothy stripped to his trousers. He picked up leaves and twigs and threaded them into his thick hair. "Is the mud ready?"

As Swale and his men watched with open mouths, Timothy smeared the thick mud over his face, arms, and torso. "Captain, if you wouldn't mind covering my back?"

"Why not?" wide-eyed, Michaels rubbed a coat of mud over Timothy's shoulders and back. He winked at Swale. "Want more leaves stuck to your skin too?"

"They'll just fall off," Timothy shrugged as he put some more twigs in his hair. "Give me an hour and then open fire as far as you can over to the left of your position."

"At the squad by the oak tree? They'll just drop below our fire like they did before."

"I just want their attention away from the right for a spell."

"How long should we fire?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"Major, I don't know what damned fool stunt you have planned but I'm sure it is not something you learned at West Point. I am also sure that I should not permit it."

Timothy smeared some more mud on his throat. "Do you want your men back, Colonel?"

"Yes, yes, of course. They're fine men. They shouldn't have to pay for the stupidity of that damned fool lieutenant."

"Then, provide me with supporting fire as I requested and I'll do my best. There's a narrow defile that goes right down to where your men are stranded. The bushes are pretty heavy there and should provide sufficient cover to bring them back out. Once someone shows them it's there."

"Why should you risk your neck for men you don't even know?" Swale asked in bewilderment.

"They're soldiers," Timothy answered. "And they were led badly. It's up to someone to try to set that right for them. Remember, wait for an hour and then open fire."

"Glory hunting fool," scoffed Michaels.

Timothy gave him a long, hard stare and then dropped to his belly and crawled into the bushes.

Glory hunting, huh? Think what you like, Captain. When I said badly led, I didn't mean just that lieutenant who got them stuck there in the first place. I included you as I assume the lieutenant was part of your company. 'Want to keep the map clean' and I'm the fool? Ultimately, it's Swale's responsibility though. Yes, we 'West Point peacocks' can be arrogant. We think we learned it all. But, you're still in command, Colonel. If you believed the lieutenant so incompetent, why didn't you relieve him of command before you condemned his men to suffer for it? Napoleon, for God's sake. There is nothing here in Tennessee to resemble any of Napoleon's battles. Most of my fellow West Pointers would have realized that although I can think of a few that are that stupid. Sheridan had one of them. Guthrie was a year ahead of me and rock bottom of his class. He opened his mouth once and Sheridan sent him packing to Washington where he is now helping with supplies. Guthrie is all right. Just doesn't have a head for command or fighting in the field. He's smart with numbers though. Meticulous too, as well as honest. Good man for supplies. But that's what marks the difference, Swale, between professionals like Sheridan and civilian volunteers like you. When a man is ill-suited, you find him something he can do. You don't just let it slide until he gets himself or his men killed.

Timothy paused to catch his breath. The defile was a bit deeper than he had expected and the undergrowth was thick. He had a knife to cut through some of the branches to make a path but it was slow, tiring work. He acquired a couple of blisters on his fingers. Some of the bushes had thorns which snagged and scratched his unprotected flesh. The heavy crump of Artillery made the ground shudder and the sharp crackle of small arms' fire encouraged him to keep his head well down. As he crawled quietly through the brush, he heard the occasional movement or voices of Confederate soldiers. There were far more than he had expected. They were well camouflaged by the woods and he had missed quite a few when he had tried to scout the area with only the help of the field glasses.

_This terrain is similar to that in Pennsylvania where the Marquis de Lafayette got his men down Barren Hill. That maneuver was pure deception. He had about 2,200 men and the British sent a force of 5,000 to capture him. He used the woods to mask his numbers while he had his men fire, withdraw to another location, and fire again. Made the British think he had a larger force so it made them cautious. Lafayette was able to confuse them enough that he and his men escaped down a sunken road. I'm just trying to reverse it a little and get those poor stranded bastards a route home. Even more useful for me just now is the war in South Carolina where Francis Marion conducted a successful and unconventional campaign against the British. 'Take to the trees' was one of Marion's standard orders. He had fought in the French and Indian War and knew how to turn the very terrain into another weapon. Marion would attack out of the swamps of the Pee Dee and, after an engagement, vanish back into them. Swale thought I was insane when I stripped and started sticking twigs in my hair. His eyes really bulged when I put on this nice coat of mud. Can you see me, Swale? Bet you can't. You have no idea where I am. More to the point, I hope those sharpshooters don't either. Uh huh. Wind just stilled. I'll need to wait until the breeze picks up. Should in a minute. Can't help my head bobbing a bit. No matter how careful I am, there will be some movement. But, anyone looking along here, even from overhead, should just see a bit of breeze stirring some branches. Thank God it's September. Bushes still have plenty of leaves. Difficult part is not rustling too much. I should reach those men just as the sun starts to near the horizon. That can help us on the way back. By the time I can explain things to them, we'll be nearing sunset. Twilight on the way back if things time out right. I hope the hell they don't shoot me before I explain. Damn, these thorns._ Timothy sucked where a large thorn had just punctured his left thumb.

He continued to crawl although he was blind to his location with regard to the men he was trying to reach. Several times he lifted his head just enough to get a line of sight along the large sycamore and its sharpshooter. It was the only sycamore along the way and he used it to pinpoint his progress. Finally, Timothy judged that he had come far enough and eased to the side. A bit of blue cloth above a black boot appeared on the other side of his bushy screen. _I hope to hell I don't get one that is prone to hysterics._ He inched his left hand forward so that the heavy ring he had worn since graduation was prominent. Then, he closed it lightly around a man's ankle. There was a violent yank and Timothy released his grip immediately. A breathless young voice gasped. "Something just grabbed me, Corporal!"

"Shut up, Walter," a tired voice answered. "You've been imagining things ever since that stupid Lieutenant was killed by that sharpshooter. Sure, let's just mosey down this hill and try to take the bastards from the rear. Stupid little shit. Can't believe no one countermanded his order to us."

"Yeah, Collingswood and all three of our sergeants dead within a minute. Hell, Corporal, you're the ranking man now. Why can't you get us out of here?"

"The bastards are all around us. There is no way to get out of here. Just get ready to surrender. No sense in the rest of us dying. That's why I made you toss your weapons away so that sharpshooter would let his friends know that we're unarmed."

"Why don't they come?" whimpered another voice, even younger than the first. "What are they waiting for? They know we're here."

"Yeah, they know. No reason to mess with us until later. They're still fighting. In fact..." the Corporal's voice trailed off. "What's that by your foot, Morris?"

"A hand! Oh crap, it's a body. One of the fellahs must have fallen there when we were attacked."

"I TOLD you something grabbed me!"

"Well, if it is a body, it's not one of ours. That there's a West Point ring. Only Lieutenant Collingswood would have had one in our outfit and he told me he left it with his girl."

Timothy moved aside the branches so that they could see his face.

"Crap! It's an INJUN!"

"Shut up, Walter. Ain't no Injuns at West Point."

"Gentlemen, I've come to get you out of here. How many, Corporal?"

"Nineteen of us, Sir."

"Wounded?"

"None, Sir. Reb sharpshooter just took out the lieutenant and our sergeants. He hasn't bothered us."

"Very well, when I give the word, one at time, you will crawl slowly after me. Corporal, you bring up the rear. Whatever happens, keep your heads down and don't make a sound. There are plenty of thorns so be aware and keep your mouths shut. I'm in a shallow ditch that runs all the way up the hill. Probably a small stream during the spring rains."

"Who are you, Sir?" asked the Corporal.

"MacKendrick, from Sheridan's Division."

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," wept Walter.

Timothy sighed and looked at Walter who looked to be about eighteen. "Private?"

"Oh shi...Sir?"

"Shut up, Private, that's not helpful."

"Yes, Sir," Walter whispered. His mouth continued to move but he was at least voiceless.

The terrified men shifted nervously as Timothy made no move to pull back and let them enter the ditch.

"Umm..." started the Corporal.

"Your Colonel is going to provide some covering fire. Just have to wait a few more minutes."

A sharp burst of small arms' fire shattered the late afternoon. _Hell, that's a lot more than Swale and his men. They're going all out in an attempt to overrun Thomas. Mustn't panic, still have to use the ditch to get them clear. Just means we can go faster ourselves._ "All right men, follow me and keep low."

By the time Timothy and the frightened soldiers pulled out of the ditch at the top of the slope, Swale and his command were falling back. Timothy scooped up his clothes as Swale himself provided covering fire. He pulled on his shirt and jacket, buckled his belt, and put his hat on. He drew his Colt free from the holster.

"A major? A fucking major came to get us?" the corporal stared. "Sir, I figured you were just a shave-tail. Why would a major risk his hide to save men like us?"

"You're soldiers, aren't you? Pretty valuable to our cause. Without you, we'd have no Army," Timothy smiled. "Get to the rear, Corporal, you and your men. You're unarmed and we're making a running fight of it."

"Withdraw," the orders came down as twilight deepened into night. "Withdraw and reform."

Still stranded from Sheridan, Timothy fell back with Colonel Swale's command which soon fell in with more of Thomas' command.

"Where is General Thomas?" Timothy asked when he spotted Captain Byers and Lieutenant Jackson. Major Reed, General Thomas' aide who had been Timothy's tactical instructor at West Point, was with them as well.

"Over by Rossville Gap. So, 'Mothy, stay out of trouble this time?" Byers asked genially.

"Who me? Of course, took it real easy too. Spent most of the afternoon peering through some field glasses," Timothy grinned.

"Did you fall down?" Jackson peered up into his face. "You're face is covered in dried mud."

"Well," Colonel Swale said. "It's like this."

"No, Colonel."

"No, Major?"

"They're West Pointers. All three of them. You know, peacocks? Think they know how to soldier better than anyone? You don't LIKE us."

Captain Michaels eyed Timothy thoughtfully. "He doesn't want us to tell, Sir. Guess I owe you an apology, Major, for the 'glory hunting' comment."

"As to not liking West Pointers, I've changed my mind," Swale declared. "I will amend it to say I don't like stupid West Pointers. The smart ones that risk their necks to save nineteen of my men, that's different. I'm glad to serve with them any day of the week. Now, Gentlemen, let me tell you what this fine young man did for me today."

"What do you mean, he saved nineteen of your men?" demanded Reed.

Timothy tried to walk off but Byers grabbed his arm. "Now, now, 'Mothy, we're all officers and gentlemen here together. Besides, General Thomas still has your horse. You're going to have to see him to get her back."

Timothy shifted from one foot to the other as Colonel Swale positively gushed over his exploit with assistance from Captain Michaels. The rescued men were also interviewed.

At the end, Reed shook Swale's hand. "I think I have sufficient detail for now, Colonel. Write that report up and send it to General Thomas so that he'll have it for the record."

"Be glad to. Major MacKendrick? Thank you again."

Timothy shook hands all around while Byers and Jackson tried to stifle their belly laughs.

"Poor old 'Mothy," chuckled Byers. "You've really done it this time. Sheridan is going to tie you to the back of his horse from now on."

"True," agreed Jackson. "You aren't going to have any fun at all."

Major Reed mounted and turned his horse around beside Timothy. He pulled his foot from the stirrup. "Climb up. I'll give you a ride back."

"Um, Major Reed?"

"Forget it, MacKendrick. Won't do you any good. That Colonel is going to send a written report, remember?"

"Most of those reports come through you. You could just sort of lose it, couldn't you?"

"Why so modest?" Reed glanced over his shoulder. "It was a damned clever thing to do, Timothy. That's just the sort of innovative thinking I expect from you."

"Sir, it isn't necessary for General Thomas to know; much less General Sheridan. It was a private matter that did not affect the outcome of the battle."

"Sorry, Timothy. I don't keep secrets from my general and you should know better than to keep them from yours."

"But, Major."

Reed shook his head. "You'll get your honest due for this one, Timothy. I intend to make sure that you do. Aside from saving those men, the idea itself shows an ability to be innovative under difficult conditions. There are enough would be heroes. It's time to have some honest ones."

Timothy sighed. "I'm not a hero, Sir. Just saw a job I could do."

"That's what a hero is, Timothy, a man who sees a job in need of doing and then goes ahead and does it."

They reached Thomas' hastily organized headquarters. Timothy was relieved to see Firefly standing serenely with the rest of the horses. He made a beeline for her.

"Major MacKendrick, where are you going?" Reed inquired with interest.

"To rejoin General Sheridan, Major Reed."

"And do you know where General Sheridan is, Major MacKendrick?"

"Ummm, well, not precisely."

"Come with me, Timothy," Reed ordered.

Timothy sighed and followed Reed into headquarters.

"A rock, Thomas," General James Garfield declaimed enthusiastically. "That's what I just wired to Rosecrans. 'Thomas is standing like a rock!' The south may have had their Stonewall, but we have a veritable rock to stand firm for us."

Thomas made a face and then spied the two majors. "Ah, MacKendrick. I wondered where you were. I trust you spent the day as ordered? Tucked in somewhere out of the way?"

"Yes, Sir," Timothy said and took off his hat.

Thomas stared hard at him. "Major MacKendrick, why do you have leaves and twigs in your hair? And why is your face covered in scratches and dried mud?"

"I think I'd better tell you, Sir," Reed suggested. "He's far too modest to give you an accurate report."

Thomas sighed. "He did it again, didn't he? And after we all promised Sheridan that we'd keep him out of mischief. Very well, Reed, let's have it."

### Chapter 18

### Washington, March 1864

A gust of wind almost blew Adria's hoop into Lafayette's teeth as they waited on the platform. Dorothea was inside the station where she would not be at the mercy of the cutting March wind for, much as she longed to hold her nephew, she had obeyed Lafe's injunction to stay out of the weather. Besides, she acknowledged Adria's right to greet Timothy first. He had been gone for nearly a year, unable to obtain even a brief furlough since the previous April.

"Blast this waiting!"

Lafe grinned sympathetically. "It won't be much longer, Honey."

"It has ALREADY been too long! The train is late ON PURPOSE!"

Amused, Lafe watched her return to her anxious pacing. It was so unlike Adria to be reduced to a state of nervous twitters. A dozen other women, in similar stages of agitation, joined her. Lafayette eased out of their paths and watched as first one, and then another, reached the end of the platform, peered longingly down the empty tracks, sighed, and turned back. He was particularly fascinated by one grand dame who brandished her parasol at the Station Master; obviously holding him directly responsible for the delay. At long last, a plaintive whistle blew in the distance. Adria and her cohorts crowded in such a mass of feminine expectancy that Lafe was concerned that the ladies would come a cropper and fall onto the tracks. He chuckled as Adria, with a visible effort, once again became her reserved, composed self.

There were the usual cries of greeting and confusion as the troops began to disperse from the crowded cars and Lafe caught Adria by the elbow to guide her back from the press. Soldiers packed onto the narrow platform while Adria went on her tiptoes more than once in a frenzied effort to spot Timothy. Lafayette heard her sharp intake of breath and winced as her fingers tightened on his forearm. At long last, Timothy swung down to the platform and scanned the crowd. When he spied his wife and uncle, his radiant grin lighted his entire face. He waved and then turned to a small, dark man. They maneuvered though the mass of soldiers, wives, mothers, and whatnots.

"Adria, Lafe!" Timothy reached for his wife and Adria extended her hand for a firm handshake.

"Timothy, how well you look. I'm so happy to see you again."

"Yes, I can see you're beside yourself with joy," he replied dryly; obviously miffed at her cool reception.

Lafe didn't blame him. When a man came home from the wars, he expected a more enthusiastic greeting from a loving wife.

Dutifully, Timothy took Adria's proffered hand and gave a quick peck to the cheek she presented him.

Lafayette smothered several tactless observations about behavior on station platforms and regarded Timothy's companion. "You must be General Sheridan. I'm Lafe Randolph, Timothy's uncle."

"I'm sorry, forgot my manners," Timothy left off his icy contemplation of his wife and hurried to make amends.

With the amenities addressed, Lafe led them to the waiting room. "Dolly is inside."

Dorothea's ecstatic hug seemed to mitigate Timothy's annoyance over Adria's lukewarm welcome. Sheridan, who was always very shy and awkward around women, appeared captivated by Dorothea's cordial greeting. "Are you sure you won't stay with us, General Sheridan?"

"It's kind of you, Mrs. Randolph, but I'm afraid I must decline. I have rooms at the Willard and I must meet with General Grant as soon as possible."

"I know how busy you must be with a change of command and coming east and all. I do hope that you'll be able to join us for dinner."

"I'd be very happy to, Ma'am," Sheridan's somber face bloomed in a rare smile.

Lafe smiled as Dorothea's charm worked its usual magic. Sheridan was Timothy's commanding officer and they were both determined to make him feel welcome. As for Adria and her hand-shake... _in God's name, what was that girl thinking? I could see that even Sheridan was shocked by her lack of affection._

~~~

They drove home in the Victoria; Lafayette and Timothy with their backs to the driver. Adria was silent while Lafe and Dolly put Timothy through an intensive catechism with regard to his health, experiences, and plans for the furlough. Timothy's feelings were hurt by his wife's inexplicable chill and he had no idea why Adria was so distant. He had missed her dreadfully and, from the tone of her letters, he had thought his loneliness reciprocated but for some reason her barriers were back up. Deeply upset, but determined not to show it, Timothy chattered valiantly away to his aunt and uncle.

When they reached the house, Lafayette disappeared into his library while Dorothea slipped off to check on the preparations for supper. She and Annabelle had been planning this menu for days; trying to figure out how to fit in all of Timothy's favorite dishes. Timothy and Adria went to their own room. She fiddled with the ties of her bonnet while Timothy watched her with a wistful hunger. _I've offended her somehow. At least I won't have to wait long for her to tell me. That's one thing about Adria; she never leaves a man guessing when she's annoyed about something._

When she still did not say anything but began to take off her gloves, Timothy began to fidget.

"Are you glad to be home, Darling?" Adria asked in a voice that was pitched an octave higher than normal.

"I certainly am," he reached for her hand. _Lordy, her fingers are icy cold. She's trembling too. Is she sick, maybe? No, her color is good. Why, she's excited, she's happy!_ "Oh, Adria, my dearest darling, I thought you were mad at me!" he pulled her hard against him and took immediate possession of her soft lips.

~~~

_It is a lovely afternoon_. Adria stirred drowsily. She lay curled indolently on her side while Timothy rediscovered the curve of her hip. "You are incorrigible, Timothy. We should have at least waited until tonight."

Her sense of propriety faded away under the skill of his rapturous lovemaking. She had ached for him during the long months of separation. Now, secure again in his love, she could not work up much energy to scold him for his precipitous head start.

"We'll have just as much fun tonight, Sweetheart. There isn't anything wrong with a man and wife getting reacquainted after a year apart."

His lips moved up the curve of her shoulder blade and over the slope of her shoulder. Adria turned to him with a little nestling movement; clasping him tightly to hold him safe beside her. He sighed contentedly and his mouth nuzzled the tempting bits she'd just presented. Things were getting interesting when a sharp rap at the door reminded them that they were not, after all, the only people in the world.

"Who is it?" Adria called out in her clear voice.

"It's Lafe. Dolly said to tell you it was time for dinner."

"We'd better hurry," Adria decided as, moving fast, she eluded her husband's hands and sidled to the floor.

"I'd rather stay here."

"Well, I wouldn't. I'm starved and it would hurt Dolly's and Annabelle's feelings if you don't go down for dinner. They've worked so hard planning this meal, the least you can do is enjoy it."

"I suppose. I reckon I could eat a bite or two now that you mention it."

His uniform was scattered in bits and pieces about the floor. He nudged the sooty, travel-stained garments with his toe.

"You could always dispense with the uniform just this once. There are some handsome things in the armoire."

Timothy grinned in agreement. "Adria."

"Hmm?"

"Why were you so formal at the station?"

"Was I, Dear?"

"You know you were."

"Would you help me with the buttons, Darling? You're so very good at un-buttoning, I imagine you'll do splendidly going the other direction."

"I'm not sure about that and don't change the subject."

"I wasn't trying to change the subject. It wasn't proper to have an emotional display in front of your commanding officer. I wanted to welcome you in my own way without half of Washington looking on. Oh, Timothy, I'm so very glad that you're here," Adria turned suddenly in his arms and hid her face against him.

"Adria, what's this, tears?"

"Just a few, I'm so very happy."

His mouth came down on hers again. Then, because they were so young still and had missed one another so much in the long months...

~~~

The MacKendricks strolled into the dining room nearly forty minutes after Lafe had summoned them. Dorothea and Lafe pretended tactfully that they were not late. General Sheridan sat in the place of honor at Dorothea's right.

Timothy stifled a yawn and made a vague gesture at Sheridan. "Good evening, all. How did you find General Grant, Sir?"

Sheridan emerged from a bit of brown study and seemed to realize that the question had been directed at him. "He's full of plans."

"How does the War Department view his taking command of the Army, Lafe?"

Lafayette launched into a serious analysis although Timothy did not take in much of it. _Adria looks so lovely tonight_. _I'd forgotten how beautiful she is. Look at the way the light plays in her hair. Funny, I never realized before but in this light her hair is almost the same color as Firefly's coat!_ Lafe's voice droned into a cricket chorus. _Wonder how long before we can go back upstairs? I'm not moving out of that bed for the rest of the week. I'm going to kiss her, caress her, fondle her. I wonder if she is still ticklish?_

Sheridan seemed rather bewildered by the preoccupation of his aide so the older couple turned the full battery of their combined charms on the little General to cover their nephew's absent-mindedness.

"Fascinating," Sheridan remarked later as Gerome deftly removed the delicate lace tablecloth to reveal the deep gloss of the mahogany table. "I've never been to a Virginian family dinner before. Do you always use several table cloths and remove one at the end of each course?"

"Yes, we do General," Dorothea replied and rose from her chair. "Come along, Honey. We'll leave the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars."

"But, I don't want to leave."

Dorothea caught Adria by the elbow and steered her from the room. "Now, you know they'll only be a little while and will join us later for coffee."

Timothy focused on Sheridan.

"Hello, MacKendrick," Phil said in gruff humor.

Timothy's eyes widened and then he grinned unabashedly. "It has been a long year."

"Yes, and I have the gray hairs to show for it, too," Sheridan retorted.

"I'm not sure I follow that, Sir."

"Tennessee," Sheridan replied.

"Tennessee?" Lafe glanced from one to the other while Timothy busied himself with the decanter. Gerome set a walnut cigar box in front of Lafayette.

"Tennessee," Phil repeated.

"Everyone has an occasional lapse," muttered Timothy.

"LAPSE?! Do you know what this young idiot did in Tennessee?" Sheridan appealed to Lafe.

"Not the foggiest. Something asinine, I'll wager," Lafayette offered Sheridan the cigar box.

"Fine aroma, Lafe."

"Why don't you take several, Philip? Keep the cold out when you return to the field."

"I don't mind that I do, Lafe. I don't often see such fine cigars."

Timothy started to rise. "I'll join Adria and Dolly."

"Sit down, MacKendrick," Sheridan ordered.

Timothy complied by force of habit and turned to Lafe. "Is it true that General McClellan is going to run for President? That would be just like him."

"It's true and don't try to wriggle out of this. I want to know what sort of stunts you've been pulling this time."

"He does make a habit of them, doesn't he?" Sheridan nodded sagaciously at Lafe.

"He always has, although he did behave himself at West Point. Surprised me too, since I was sure he'd match Fitzhugh Lee's record number of demerits. So, Philip, just what did he do in Tennessee?"

"Chickamauga, for one. Disastrous for the rest of us but Timothy pulled out a miracle. Then, of course there was Missionary Ridge. I had a taste of his...what did you call them, 'Mothy? Oh yes, lapses, at the Battle of Perryville when he joined me."

"I heard about that one. However, I don't recall anything since."

"Well, I'll tell you. Hmmm, this is a fine cigar, Lafe."

Timothy squirmed. _Lafe and Phil are getting too chummy by far. I guess I'll have to sit here while each of them airs my little transgressions. Oh no, Lafe. Not all the way back to when I decorated General Scott's favorite hound with a mud-pie! I'd forgotten all about the time Cousin Robert Lee came to visit and I dropped 'Captain Cooke' and his horse into the soup bowl so they could ford the river. Worked though, didn't have to eat that nasty stuff. It wasn't MY fault that President Fillmore happened to be walking right where I was throwing a ball. Besides, I didn't hit him. I just knocked his hat off his head. Yup, Lafe is going to tell Phil EVERYTHING!_

Later, Sheridan took a long sip of brandy. "Lafe, did you hear the whole story of Perryville?"

"Timothy wrote that he lost his roommate there."

"Did he tell you about taking over Crawford's company after he was killed?"

"No, somehow he missed that part."

Sheridan proceeded to launch into the tale. "He gave me his word he would never stray again and would be an ideal, dependable aide."

"I take it he has not been."

"Not as much as I'd like. Mind you, 'Mothy does a damn fine job when he's concentrating but he has this streak of gallantry which gets him into trouble. It can be a tad annoying to have to track my aide down at the end of a battle after he's disappeared."

"What do you mean he disappears?"

"At Stones River, for example, I sent him to General McCook with dispatches. When McCook was overrun by Hardee and then Polk, he got caught up in the scramble. Things were pretty chaotic and it wasn't possible for him to get back. So, just to be useful, 'Mothy took over a decimated battery. Three out of five Napoleons were destroyed but he managed to get the other two firing with the help of a single gunner. Poor boy couldn't hear for three days afterwards but he managed to keep enough pressure on to keep the enemy on their toes. Then, in the chaos of Chickamauga, when we were driven off the field, I assumed he had stayed with General Thomas who was trying to maintain his position along Horseshoe Ridge."

"That was where General Garfield dubbed him the _Rock of Chickamauga_ , wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was. I'd been driven from the field along with Rosecrans. It took me awhile to get the Division reorganized so I was much later than I had hoped in getting back into it. I figured that, like Perryville, Timothy had simply gotten caught up in the battle and stayed to help. I found out later that he had tried to get back to me but Thomas flat-out ordered him to stay put. Even confiscated his horse to make him mind. What Thomas hadn't counted on was that he'd try to find another one. In the process, Timothy spotted a leaderless platoon stranded off on their own. Officer and sergeants dead, morale shot to hell. The men were too frightened to fight, flee, or surrender. The worst state for a soldier. Well, no one had any idea how to get to them and just figured the Confederates would capture them sooner or later. It was only a platoon, a handful. Those who should have been concerned for them apparently had decided they were not worth the effort."

Lafe's hand tightened briefly on his brandy snifter. Sheridan noted it and nodded. "Exactly my sentiments. That bothers me, Lafe, it really does when officers discount or ignore the needs of their men. Colonel Swale admitted that he didn't even try to figure out how to get to them. They were too far forward because of the actions of the lieutenant in command of them. 'Mothy, however, my Timothy..."

Lafe exchanged smiles with Gerome as Sheridan cleared his throat gruffly. "Pardon me, cigar smoke went down wrong. Anyway, Timothy found a narrow defile covered by heavy brush. No one else had even seen it! Colonel Swale gave a verbal report to General Thomas' aide after it happened and then wrote up a report that provided even more detail later. Timothy stuck leaves and twigs all through his hair. Swale thought he'd gone stark-staring mad; especially when he stripped to his trousers and smeared mud all over his face, arms, and torso. Swale said the next thing he knew, Timothy was crawling into the bushes on his belly. He lost sight of him almost immediately. Couldn't tell where the bushes ended and the twigs on his head began. He moved with the breeze too so that even when Swale thought he spied him, he couldn't be sure it wasn't just the wind blowing a branch. An hour and a half later, just as Swale was falling back, here Timothy came with the men. They were all scratched up from the thorns but he didn't lose one of them. Nineteen men, Lafe. Nineteen of our soldiers rescued through Timothy's actions. When I asked Timothy later how he ever thought up the idea of putting twigs in his hair to blend in with the terrain, he just muttered something about Francis Marion and Lafayette. Now, I've studied the battles of the Revolution too, Lafe, but that's a new one on me. Do you recall anything from either the Swamp Fox or the Marquis de Lafayette's campaigns that would suggest such a tactic to you?"

Lafe looked thoughtfully at Timothy. "Not exactly although both were masters of deception and had a knack for outwitting larger forces with unconventional methods. One of my Randolph ancestors was an aide to Lafayette from the time the young Frenchman joined Washington's military family. I'll have to look through some of his memoirs of the war to see if there is anything in there. When he was growing up, Timothy spent a lot of time devouring the military books in my library."

"It sounded more like a Comanche or Cheyenne trick to me," Sheridan said. "It's the kind of thing they do so effectively to befuddle their enemies. Then at Missionary Ridge..."

"I was simply trying to keep up with you, Sir."

"Sure you were. That's why you were in FRONT of me and trying to sneak command of a company in the process. At least at Perryville he was out of my sight when he took over some troops so I didn't know about it until long after. This time, one minute Timothy was standing right beside me while I was giving him a verbal response to one of Sherman's orders and the next, he was half-way up the hill with a company. Had to chase after the damned fool so he didn't get himself and the men captured. Then, I realized I needed the entire Division to help catch him. He's quick when he gets those long legs pumping."

"Must have been annoying for you when you were short handed."

"So, you see how it is, Lafe, why I'm suddenly acquiring gray hairs. If I had any sense I'd transfer him to your department; boots and saddle. Only, knowing Timothy, he'd get into some deviltry here in Washington. I can't even stay mad at him when he has his 'little lapses' since I can't condemn the kind of impulsiveness which saves lives."

"You have a point, Phil."

"Timothy can be brilliant at times; even if he is a harum-scarum jackass with delusions of knighthood. That may be one reason he fought being sent to me so much. If he gets into this much mischief in the Infantry, I shudder to think what will happen if he gets back into the Cavalry."

Timothy took the decanter away from the two men. _I've had enough of this._ "Timothy would like to say that he's tired of being discussed as if he was a not-too bright six-year old or not even here. Besides, Phil, I can recall a couple of 'lapses' of yours."

Sheridan's dark eyes gleamed. "Indeed?"

"You're the one who brought up Missionary Ridge, Sir. Who is the one who yelled ' _Remember Chickamauga_ ' as the men started forward?"

"No idea, MacKendrick," Sheridan flicked some ash from the cigar.

"When we spotted those enemy officers on the crest of the hill, who shouted ' _Here's at you_ ' which annoyed them so much that they fired a shell at us? After we brushed the dirt and debris off, do you recall what you said, Sir?"

"Your nephew has quite an imagination, Lafe."

"You said, ' _That's damn ungenerous! I shall take those guns for that!_ ' Next thing I know, our entire Division was running up that damned hill and breaking through Bragg's line. I distinctly recall you ordering us to go ahead and pursue Bragg to the Confederate supply depot at Chickamauga Station."

"Is that before or after you took command of Denton's Company, MacKendrick?"

"After," Timothy blushed. "I mean..."

"Precisely. Unfortunately, my command was the only one that far forward so I had to call 'em back. Had to tell you three times, as I recall. Denton was pretty upset when he finally caught up too."

"He was wounded," Timothy said.

"Not seriously, although he was making quite a fuss about a little nick in the arm and his subordinates were just standing over him wringing their hands when the time came to mount the assault. The sergeants were happy enough to follow you. Timothy has a way with enlisted men, Lafe. I've never seen anything like it. Even the most hard-assed Regulars in my Division just nod their little heads when he 'suggests' that they might want to follow after him and have some fun. I'll admit you were quite gracious about returning the company to Denton though. Of course, I had to tell you three times to do that too, as I recall."

Timothy made a face. "I've learned some interesting new words, Lafe, all thanks to my commanding officer."

"I have no idea what you're referring to, MacKendrick."

"General Rosecrans scolded you loudly enough for cursing in front of the troops."

Timothy's General chuckled. "Rosecrans was afraid that I'd be shot and wouldn't have time to make amends to the Almighty for my language. I told him that _'Unless I swear like hell the men won't take me seriously'_."

Timothy, determined to prove that he was not the only one to indulge his baser impulses, continued. "You were discussing Tennessee, Sir. Remember the train?"

Phil regarded the end of his cigar.

"General Sheridan was escorting General Thomas on a tour of inspection of the rail line and there was a delay in getting the train started. When he asked the conductor about the delay, the man merely stated that he took his orders from the superintendent. Just as the last words popped out his mouth, Phil tossed him off the train."

"He was saucy and impertinent, MacKendrick, you were there, you heard his disrespect."

Lafe regarded the other two soldiers. "Sorry, Son, but throwing a conductor just does not compare to your pranks."

Sheridan saluted Lafe with his cigar.

"Hrmph. I can see you're going to side with Phil," Timothy tossed off the last of his own brandy and stood up. "Typical. Generals always stick together. I hope that you'all will be very happy together. I'm joining the ladies."

Sheridan's dark face lightened with amusement and he winked at Timothy's uncle. "Nope, Lafe, I just don't know what I'm going to do with him now that Grant has given me the Cavalry."

Timothy, nearly at the door, froze. He turned back to the table; his face alive with hope. "We're going back to the Cavalry?"

"I'M going back. I'm still thinking about YOU, MacKendrick. God knows what nonsense you'll devise; still, you're the best I have."

"You could always give me a command, Sir, a battalion, perhaps, or a company."

"Colonels do not command companies, MacKendrick. Besides, I need you. Even with your occasional wanderings, I'd rather have you near me in a fight than almost any other man."

"I'd still be near you, Sir," Timothy coaxed. _Cavalry, oh my God, we're going home to the Cavalry!_

"I intend to make sure that you are."

"But, Phil..."

"We should rejoin the ladies," interjected Lafe.

Timothy decided the welcome news was sufficient for the moment and that he could wangle a command later. He called out before they even reached the drawing room. "Adria, Darling, guess what?!"

"Sometimes, I forget how young he is," Sheridan smiled wistfully at Lafayette.

"Only twenty-three. Even so, he seems to have matured quite a lot in these past months," Lafe ruffled Timothy's hair.

"Except for his 'little lapses'," chuckled Phil. "God bless him for those impulses, too. We might have lost a lot of good men that day if he hadn't put a hand to that battery."

### Chapter 19

### Virginia, April 1864

Timothy had always loved the springs that graced Virginia like a gown of lace on a lovely woman. On this first day of April in 1864, he took a solitary ride near the Rapidan River. Across its expanse he could see the dense forest of cedar and pine which the locals simply called the Wilderness. It was early morning and the birds sang with bright vigor as the sun climbed into the sky. Timothy paused by the river to enjoy their music. The day was so pleasant, that he decided to take a few moments to just enjoy it. He sprawled by the flowing river and considered the battles of the past year and the future course of his war. _I kept my promise to Crawdy and I accepted exile to the Infantry. It was all right to serve as little Phil's aide for awhile but now things are different. Sheridan has command of Cavalry. It's high time I got troops of my own again. I've worked hard. I've been loyal. I just don't understand why Phil keeps saying no_.

His most recent try had been the night before and Sheridan lost his temper that was always close to boiling. "If I were to give you a command, MacKendrick, you'd lose it in the first engagement. You are a superb aide and have the courage of a lion. Your men would follow you to hell and back again and get slaughtered in the process. No, I won't risk you or the fools who would follow you to useless glory."

Sheridan's words still rankled although Timothy suspected he had a point. _But George Custer is openly reckless and they gave him the Michigan Volunteers. He was behind me at the Academy too. It's not fair. I want to do more than carry dispatches for irate little generals. I wish I could come up with a spectacular military success. That would open Phil's eyes to my command abilities. Why, I'd be happy with just a small company and a return to captain's bars if I could just have another chance. Phil says that getting wounded at Gaines' Mill has nothing to do with it. But, if I hadn't been careless, if I hadn't been wounded, maybe I'd have kept D Company and become a general by now too._

Timothy lay back on the grassy bank and took an irresponsible half-hour to dream his dreams of glory. He had just reached a point in his vision where he was riding into Washington on a golden charger towards a grateful crowd of well-wishers. He leaned down to pull his wife into the saddle while her tender lips parted in submissive anticipation for his kiss. _Of course, that doesn't even make sense. In the first place, I don't have a golden charger. In the second, Adria has never had a submissive instinct in her life. In the third, well, I did sneak off for a nice ride and if I don't get back, Sheridan will lock me up for the duration of the war! I don't know why he keeps me on such a short leash. It's not as if I LOOKED for trouble._

Timothy stretched his arms over his head and got to his feet. As he approached his horse, Firefly tossed her head. Then, not quite ready to leave the tender spring grass, she pranced out of reach.

"Oh for the love of...come here," Timothy followed her as she moved closer to the river. She shook her head, kicked up her heels like a yearling, and proceeded to canter along the bank. _She is so much like Adria. Both of them are charming but both have a perverse streak in their lovely heads. All I can do is wait until she gets spring out of her system._

Firefly stood on the bank with head up and ears forward. She watched him alertly, ready to dance away when he came after her again. Timothy, having substantial experience in dealing with her antics, simply turned his back on her. Firefly snorted to get his attention while Timothy continued to ignore her. She shook her head and pawed the ground. A soft neigh from across the river caught her attention. She forgot about Timothy and trotted to a small bridge that spanned a narrow channel of water. It had evidently escaped the attention of the Army of Northern Virginia when the other bridges were destroyed.

Hearing iron-shod hooves on wood, Timothy turned in time to see her disappear into the dense foliage. Timothy sprinted across the bridge after her. "Firefly, you crazy mare, come out of that!"

He was well into the forest when he realized where he was. His Army was entrenched on one side of the river; unfortunately the other side. Timothy gave a silent whistle and went stock-still. It was logical to assume that there were Confederates in these woods; many of them. He started to ease back and stepped on a twig. It sounded like gunfire in the quiet and he froze again with his heart pounding. It seemed as if there were numerous eyes peering at him from the prickly underbrush. He realized that he was being silly and that normal caution should get him back to his own side of the Rapidan. _Besides, I'm not going to leave until I find Firefly. She may be Virginia bred but I'm hanged if I let her stage her own private Secession_. He listened in the heavy wooded stillness and heard the chink of metal. Cautiously, he followed the sound through the brush.

Timothy came to a clearing and saw his prized mare carrying on a pleasant flirtation with a tired looking saddle horse. He looked all around but did not see the animal's owner. He started into the clearing but stopped when men's voices filtered from the other side. As he watched, four men dragged a mountain howitzer into the clearing. They were wearing tattered gray uniforms and a lieutenant, as ragged as his men, stumped into the clearing behind them.

"Well, it isn't much, but it might stop a few Yankees."

"Where're we supposed to put it? I'm gettin' mighty tired totin' this through these blessed woods. Too bad the horse died. Say, looky there," five pairs of eyes fastened in disbelief on Firefly.

"Now where did that come from?"

"She one of ours, Lieutenant Slocum?"

"Nope, she's wearin' a Union saddle blanket."

"Do tell. 'Pears to me that kinda' makes her a prisoner of war."

"I suppose so, Clyde."

"Since that's the case, Sir, can't we hitch her to the howitzer?"

Timothy did not wait any longer. He pulled his new Remington revolver and stepped into the clearing. The five Rebels gaped at him in shock.

"Over here, boys," Timothy called over his shoulder. "I've got them."

He held his breath as the lieutenant and his men hesitated. Then, because a Union colonel was unlikely to be alone, they dropped their weapons.

"Thank you. Now, I want you'all to start pulling that howitzer to the river, that way."

He waved briskly in the direction from which he had come.

"Where are the rest of your men?" asked Slocum.

"They'll be along. Come on, move."

Resigned, the four soldiers began tugging the small cannon in the indicated direction. The lieutenant listened for the sound of men moving through brush; a sound which was not forthcoming. "I don't think you have any men with you, Yank. I think you're all by your lonesome."

"Now just what would I be doing on this side of the river by myself?" Timothy smiled at the man disarmingly.

"Before the war," Slocum stated. "I was a schoolmaster. Colonel, you look just like Billy Whitelaw did the day he put a skunk in the schoolroom. He didn't fare any better than you are going to. So, where are they?"

"They are about, Lieutenant," Timothy maintained a careful watch on the Rebels as he led Firefly. The other horse tagged along.

"Would you mind telling me your name, Colonel? I like to know who I'm dealing with."

"It's MacKendrick. Timothy MacKendrick."

"Any relation to James MacKendrick?"

"He's my brother. Do you know James?"

"Somewhat, we serve together with Hill," Slocum cast a covetous eye on Firefly and his own horse.

They continued to push through the brush until they reached the river. Timothy pointed at the bridge. It was also plain to see that there were no other Yankees about.

"Your men seem to have deserted you, Colonel MacKendrick," Slocum signaled his men to stop.

"They're in the woods keeping an eye on things," Timothy replied calmly; not liking the tone in Slocum's voice. He liked the sight of the howitzer blocking the narrow bridge even less.

"I don't think so, Colonel. I think you're alone and that revolver is the only thing between you and being captured."

One of the other men stirred uneasily. "Even so, Sir, that's a mighty powerful argument he's holdin'."

"Not to me!" Slocum lunged and threw himself onto his horse; using it as a shield. "Run, he can't hit all of us."

Slocum leaned on his horse's neck and rode down on Timothy; yelling at the top of his lungs. Timothy sidestepped and had enough presence of mind to hang on to Firefly as she almost bolted after the other horse. Then he pivoted and covered the other four men who had started to follow. Slocum vanished into the woods and Timothy realized he had little time to get out of his predicament. _I can swim Firefly across the river but I'm not giving up my howitzer. I captured it. I'm taking it to Sheridan!_ "Move."

The four men looked at the revolver held so steadily in Timothy's hand and resumed trundling the cannon.

"There's one bright spot, boys," remarked Clyde.

"What's that?" the youngest of their little group sniffled. He looked about fifteen.

"I bet those blue-bellies feed us bettern' we've had in a month of Sundays."

Timothy mounted Firefly so that he could make a quick getaway if Slocum returned with reinforcements before he reached his own Army.

~~~

Sheridan was inspecting some of his troopers when he heard the excited buzz. Grant's entire force turned out to watch the spectacle as a lone Cavalry officer escorted four Rebels and a mountain howitzer into camp. Sheridan, as curious as anyone, forced his way through the crowd and stared in astonishment at the sight. His aide, who was supposed to be ensconced in his tent copying dispatches, was riding herd on four Confederates and a...howitzer? Timothy dismounted and received much backslapping congratulations over his trophies. He started to describe his adventure when he caught sight of Sheridan; standing with feet wide apart and a black scowl on his face. The rest of the Army backed away until the little general and the tall colonel were alone in a large circle. The General breathed audibly; his fists clenching and unclenching.

"My tent. Five minutes," his words were bitten off and his voice shook with the effort of his control. He tramped off; a small black thundercloud of fury.

The rest of the Army deserted Timothy with all speed for no one was willing to get in the way of Phil Sheridan's temper. Five minutes passed and the General watched the tent flap with unblinking eyes. _I don't know the particulars but I know I'm not going to like MacKendrick's explanation. There is only one place he could have gotten a Confederate howitzer. Sweet Christ, a HOWITZER! And that's across the river!_

~~~

When Timothy arrived, Sheridan got straight to the point. "What the hell was that all about, MacKendrick?"

"I..."

"Stop stammering and give me an explanation, NOW!"

"Yes, Sir, it was a nice morning so I..."

"Of all the bloody, asinine, stunts! Where the hell did you find a howitzer anyway?! I'm waiting!"

"Yes, Sir, I wandered into Confederate territory and..."

"How the hell do you wander into enemy territory when there's a river between you and them?"

"It isn't easy, Sir."

"Are you trying to be funny, MacKendrick?"

"No, Sir."

Sheridan surged to his feet and leaned across the desk; his snapping black eyes promising dire punishment. "I want the whole story, MacKendrick, start to finish."

"I will be happy to comply, Sir, when you give me a chance to give you a full report."

"Proceed."

Timothy, standing at attention, gave a short, concise explanation.

"I don't believe this. Of all the irresponsible, childish performances! MacKendrick, I ought to..." Sheridan began to sputter; unable to come up with a fate bad enough for Timothy.

"Sir, if you'll let me explain."

"You did explain. Why did you drag the damned howitzer back here?"

"It was mine, Sir. I captured it," a small glint of defiance crept into Timothy's clear eyes. _I am sick to death of being stranded in a Staff position. Any other commander would congratulate me for accomplishing such a capture. But no, I have to stand here in front of Phil Sheridan like a Plebe and be raked over the coals._

"If there had been more of them in the vicinity, 'Mothy, you could have gotten your fool self captured or killed by that stunt," Sheridan mopped at his brow and his voice gentled.

"I didn't though, Sir."

Sheridan's mouth twitched. "Very well, 'Mothy, you captured your cannon. I'm impressed by your exploit."

Timothy's eyes began to shine. "Does this mean you'll give me a command of my own, Sir?"

"Hell, no! Any officer who would get himself into a fix like you did, over a God-damned HORSE!" Phil's eyes began to flash again and he was off for another hour; blistering his subordinate with the worse tongue-lashing Timothy had ever received.

~~~

Philip Sheridan strode past the horse-lines; nodding brusquely at the men who were tending their charges. He noted that the dainty bay mare belonging to Lieutenant Colonel MacKendrick was already groomed, bridled, and saddled for the day while George Custer's horse was also standing in readiness.

_Now there is a pair. Dashing Timothy MacKendrick is an excellent foil for the flamboyant boy general, Custer. Many is the time I serve as a taciturn headmaster trying to ride herd on two very naughty schoolboys. George Custer's good-natured duel with his former classmate, the Rebel Tom Rosser, has caused more than one headache. As for MacKendrick's spectacular near disasters...one day, my finest aide is going to be brought back draped over a saddle. Then it will be my unpleasant duty to inform the formidable Mrs. MacKendrick that I permitted her fool husband to get himself killed! She'll hold me personally responsible too!_ The memory of Adria's winter-sea eyes made Sheridan step more briskly. While he had taken a rare and instant liking to General and Mrs. Randolph, he had also formed an immediate aversion to Adria MacKendrick. _A handshake. That's what she gave him at the train station. A handshake! Timothy deserves better, poor lad. I just don't understand how anyone, with a lovely aunt like Mrs. Randolph, would marry someone like that spoiled Boston female._

Custer's blustery laughter reached him before he came in sight of MacKendrick's tent. _At it again and God alone knows what those two jolly boys of mine are cooking up this time_. He approached the tent with some trepidation. The last time he had come up unannounced, George had run over him while demonstrating the Rebel yell. It was well that he showed caution for a torrent of soapy water cascaded in front of him.

~~~

"That was the most idiotically glorious exploit that has happened in this or any other army!" Custer announced as the General entered the tent. "I'm just sorry I didn't do it first."

"If you had, you would have improved upon it and captured at least three," replied Timothy cheerfully as he wiped the last bit of lather from his face. He turned and saw Sheridan standing in the opening. "Good morning, Sir. Did you sleep well?"

"I did not," responded Sheridan as he stepped over Custer's feet so that he could sit down on Timothy's cot.

Stickler that he was about regulations, Phil Sheridan had little use for unnecessary military decorum. Out in view of the world he expected and received full military courtesy from his officers. In the privacy of his or their tents, he preferred to keep things more informal. That George Custer abused the informality did not bother him one whit.

"Why didn't you sleep well, Sir?"

"I had a nightmare."

"I don't believe it," stated Custer flatly. "What, happened, did Johnny Reb break through our lines?"

Gloomily, Phil frowned at his boots. "No, MacKendrick got himself shot. They brought him in across his mare's back, deader than a cannonball."

"Naturally, I appreciate your concern, Sir," Timothy began.

"That was not the nightmare. After we buried you, with full military honors I might add."

"Thank you, Sir."

"After we buried you, I went to Washington to inform your family. General and Mrs. Randolph were grief-stricken but philosophical. Then I asked them where your wife was and they showed me to the library door. I went in and there she sat; the presiding head of a court-martial board. She demanded in that cool voice of hers that I explain myself. I tried to answer, but I couldn't get the words out," Sheridan glowered at Timothy.

"I don't think Adria would do that, Sir."

"If you get yourself killed while in my command, MacKendrick, I'll make heaven hell for you. Your Plebe year at the Academy will seem like a ladies' picnic in comparison. If I had any sense, I'd send you back to the War Department and let your Uncle worry about you!" Sheridan marched from the tent.

Custer stared after him in disbelief. "Is our dear commander quite right in the head these days?"

"It was just a bad dream, George."

Custer shrugged and lolled back on Timothy's cot. His eyes moved critically over Timothy's clean-shaven face that was a rarity in either Army. "Why do you bother to shave every day, 'Mothy? You don't even wear a mustache."

"My wife doesn't like whiskers."

"Your wife must be a holy shrew if you're afraid to grow whiskers even in the field and the General's having nightmares about her."

"Adria is a determined, strong-minded young woman whom I adore. As wifely demands go, shaving isn't so bad," Timothy tossed the towel at Custer. "Besides, it keeps the lice down. Anyway, you could do with a haircut."

"'Mothy, you know that I've vowed not to cut my hair until we enter Richmond."

"Well, you could at least braid it like a Comanche instead of letting it hang over your shoulders in those girlish ringlets. I don't believe that yarn about vows, either. You didn't like haircuts back at West Point."

"You gave me enough demerits about that, too," grumbled Custer. "Just one year ahead of me and you always seemed to be ready to hand 'em out to me."

"It's been good seeing you, George, but I've got to join the General and you ought to get back to your troop."

Custer got off the cot and stretched the full length of his spine. "I suppose so. General Sheridan is right about one thing, you must take better care of yourself. No more stunts like the other day, 'Mothy. Next time you see a Confederate howitzer, let the Infantry capture it or at least call for some help. This Army desperately needs men like you."

"Rubbish. I'm just a plain horse-soldier. There are plenty like me."

"No, my friend," argued Custer. "You are one of a special breed. We both are but you more than I."

Timothy flicked some imaginary dust from the star that graced Custer's uniform and smiled meaningfully.

"That? Hell, you'll have one just like it and without all of my enemies. After all, General Sheridan doesn't have nightmares about MY safety," Custer then bellowed for his horse and rode off to continue his friendly feud with Tom Rosser.

Timothy laughed as he watched Custer charge once around the drowsy camp and head off for his troop of Michigan Volunteers. While he was not a close friend of Custer's and did not approve of his tendency to show off, he did not resent him as did so many others. There were men who regarded Custer's spectacular rise from lieutenant to general as far too precipitous; who loathed his theatrics and hated him for his glory hunting. Most of the Academy men were like Timothy in that they chalked up George's impetuosity to the Custer personality. The modest man is not always the best soldier and Custer's youthful arrogance at least got results so could thus be forgiven.

Major General Sheridan stood by his tall black horse, Rienzi. The small Irishman's dour face lit up as his aide appeared intact for his nightmare had so unsettled him that he had half-expected Custer to do away with his Colonel. As Timothy mounted, Firefly arched her neck a bit for the benefit of Rienzi.

"That mare is as incorrigible as you are, MacKendrick."

"I'm sorry your night's rest was disturbed on my account, Sir."

"Are you sure you don't want to go stay with the Artillery for awhile? Nothing ever lands near them, you know."

"Quite sure, Sir, someone has to try to keep up with you."

Sheridan sighed in resignation.

~~~

For weeks, General Sheridan and General Meade bickered over the status of the Cavalry. Meade did not share the fiery Irishman's view that Stuart's use of Cavalry was the proper one. Meade had never developed much sympathy for Cavalry and preferred to keep horse-soldiers well in the background. Philip Sheridan was convinced that he could take Stuart; thus undermining one of Lee's mainstays. Meade scoffed at the mere idea and finally went to General Grant; complaining loudly about the nasty little Irishman from Ohio who had the gall to claim that he was a match for Stuart.

Grant listened to the diatribe and simply said at the end, "Well, let him try."

Thus, the bulk of Sheridan's Cavalry was restored to service instead of kept back to guard wagons or serve as couriers. With Sheridan at their head and armed with the new repeating carbines, the Cavalry Corps of the Army of the Potomac was at last ready to face the formidable cavalier of the South.

During his reconnaissance near the Rapidan River, Stuart noticed a great deal of Federal activity. Always a firm believer in intelligence regarding enemy troop movements, he sent word to Robert E. Lee that things were quite busy on the far bank. Lee acted upon the information; moving up his own Army. On May 4th, Sheridan's boys in blue confronted Stuart's gray veterans. Sheridan took off, calling for his men to follow. Timothy kept Firefly abreast of Rienzi as Sheridan waved his battered hat at another aide. "Williams. Tell Grant we're engaging enemy Cavalry. They may be covering bigger troop movement."

Williams galloped off while Sheridan turned his enormous charger to another tack. The left flank was weakening and he was off to attend to it. Timothy was pressed to keep Firefly close for Sheridan's big black had longer legs and a small hornet of a rider pushing him to top speed. Before Timothy could catch up, a bursting shell knocked the mare to the ground.

"God dammit," swore Sheridan. "I knew I should have left him in Washington."

Timothy waved the small Irishman on and turned to his mare. Valiantly, Firefly got to her feet but was unable to put any weight on the left foreleg. "Easy girl," he said to her in a caressing voice as he ran a hand down the leg.

A trooper charged up beside him. "Take my horse, Colonel. Someone ought to look after the General."

Timothy hesitated while his probing fingers searched for the damage to the mare's leg.

"I'll tend to her, Sir, like she was my own. You'd better get going, Sir, or you'll never catch him."

Setting his teeth at the abandonment of his mare, Timothy mounted the fresh horse and rode off through the haze of battle. It took some time to reach Sheridan. As always, the General was in the thick of the battle trying to rally his men, determine the enemy's strengths and weaknesses, and to plan the tactics that would win the day. _That is the remarkable thing about him_ , Timothy reflected. _There are many fine officers who are brilliant strategists and tacticians in the safety of their tents before a battle but there are damned few who can reevaluate and revise their tactics in the heat of a Cavalry engagement_. With a sympathetic nod, Sheridan acknowledged Timothy's new mount.

~~~

Stuart screened Lee at the start of the day. Before, such maneuvering had been childishly easy and the debonair general was therefore surprised when a horde of 12,000 blue-uniformed troopers slashed hard at his screen of 8,000.

"I'll be damned," exclaimed Beauty. "Those boys have really learned to fight since last year. We're going to need some help."

Fitz Lee reined in his tired horse. "Gettysburg was just the start, I reckon."

Stuart's merry grin faded. Gettysburg, in addition to being a major defeat for the South, had turned into a stain on Stuart's popularity. Even though he had been following orders, his tardiness at the battle had cost Lee dearly through a lack of intelligence. Blame was being heaped upon Stuart's head as well as Longstreet's.

Fitz Lee put a comforting hand on his commander's arm. "It wasn't your fault, Beauty. Not yours, not Longstreet's. You've heard what Pickett said about it."

"No, I haven't."

Lee mimicked Pickett's light voice. "'Didn't the Yankees have something to do with it?'"

Stuart grunted and pointed at the line of blue. "Their mounts are fresher than ours. If only they hadn't taken Vicksburg we could have had fresh Texas horses. As it is, there is one decent beast left in Virginia. Look at that black devil Sheridan is riding, will you?"

Lee looked as bidden. The Northern general was riding hard, waving his hat at his men. "He's getting results."

"We could be in trouble this time, Flee. You keep things rolling here while I get some Infantry to back us up." Stuart wheeled his exhausted horse and rode back looking for an Infantry outfit. The first he came to was the Corps belonging to Ambrose Hill.

"Hello, James. Where's General Hill?" Stuart inquired as James MacKendrick rode forward to meet him.

"Back along the line. Trouble?"

"That damned Mick knows how to handle horsemen. He's making things lively up ahead and we need Infantry to stop him."

James passed the word to Hill who declared himself ready for some fun. Stuart ordered his men aside and waited for the hard-riding blue troopers to smash into the heavy Infantry. Instead, the Southern Infantry had to battle three hardy corps of Union Infantrymen for Grant had wasted no time in acting on Sheridan's message. Savagely, the fighting stormed through the woods where it developed into the worst kind of hand-to-hand fighting. In the tangled woods of cedar and pine, where violets sprang underfoot and dogwoods bloomed, Grant and Lee fought their vicious battle. Commanders lost sight of their troops within a few yards' distance as the dense woods hampered visibility while Artillery and Cavalry proved useless to both sides. The few attempts to use cannon only served to set the woods on fire. Men who fell wounded often burned to death before help could reach them.

### Chapter 20

### Virginia, May 1864

On May 6th, James MacKendrick rode courier for General Hill. Acrid smoke struck him in the face as he galloped along a narrow path. _It's bad enough to face an army as well fed as theirs without having the blasted woods catch fire as well._ A small squad of men stumbled into his path; driven by the conflagration. They were leaderless but cheered upon spotting the senior officer on the lathered horse. James hesitated only a moment. He was, for once, not carrying critical dispatches and decided impulsively that Hill could manage without him for a time. "Come on. Let's get you boys settled with somebody."

After some deliberation, he decided to go out into more open terrain as it was next to impossible to find anyone to take his lost lambs to in the blazing woods. They finally reached a point where the woods thinned a bit. They eased out but a quick rumble of hoof beats made them dive for cover. Three blue Cavalrymen halted opposite them as one of the horses pulled up lame. Two of the horsemen were anxious to be off so the third waved them on with a laugh. The two sped off up the shaded road while the third man examined the animal's foot.

"Looky there," whispered one of James' new boys. "That one's a lieutenant colonel. That'll be something to write home about."

Quietly, he lifted his rifle and took careful aim at the haze of blue back across the road. Suddenly, the warm laugh registered with James and he shoved the rifle down.

"Sir?"

"We might give away our position. There may be more of them," tensely, James watched as the officer dug an offending stone from the horse's foot, put its leg down and gave it a reassuring pat.

Puzzled, the squad lowered their rifles. It was strangely quiet along the road that held a heavy haze of smoke. The birds and animals had fled before man's hostility and the quiet was all engulfing; save for the distant sounds of battle and the ominous crackling of forest fire. The Union officer was uneasy as he walked the horse a few steps. Oppressed by the heavy silence on the road, he cast several searching glances at the underbrush. Finally, satisfied that the stone had done no permanent damage, he remounted and started up the road after the other horseman. James breathed a sigh of relief as Timothy's back moved out of range.

"He kin of yourn'?"

James smiled a bit sheepishly.

"That's all right, Sir. I got me a brother with the blue-bellies, too."

~~~

Grant sent Sheridan to General Butler for provisioning. Stuart discovered Sheridan's activity and sent a brigade after him with orders to slow him down while he hurried to flank the Union general. Things went accordingly and Stuart reached a building near Mechanicsville that, though abandoned and colorless from weather, still bore the name of Yellow Tavern. Although Sheridan reached Yellow Tavern on the morning of May 11th, Stuart had the advantage in that he had been fighting on that terrain for three years whereas the Irishman was fresh from the West and still had not gotten his bearings. By early afternoon, it was apparent that neither force had the position or strength to finish the other. Sheridan waved his hat at Timothy. "Find Custer. Tell him to get his men on fresh horses and wait for my command. Oh, and MacKendrick, you come straight back here. I don't want you to get 'lost' and wind up riding out with George."

"I promise to return. Even if I see that Grant himself is under attack from an entire regiment," Timothy broke off at Sheridan's scowl and cantered off to find George Custer.

Custer was delighted to see him; even more so when he was given the command to attack. "Care to tag along, 'Mothy?"

"Thanks, but no, I have to get back."

"You'll miss all the fun! I'm glad I'm not stuck in a staff position. All you do is run errands."

"True and with Firefly in Washington, I have to run errands on whatever mount is handy."

"Well, the little lady deserves to be retired with honors."

"Yes, she served her country well and has earned a rest," Timothy agreed for, while her injury had not been serious, he had decided never to risk Firefly again in battle.

Major Williams appeared at Timothy's elbow. "The General sent me to find you. He wants you to get back at full gallop!"

Timothy, vexed at being fetched like an errant child, cantered back to Sheridan's position. A thin line of blue wavered and allowed a trickle of gray to slip through. Rebels began to pour into the breach in a growing flood and Timothy was suddenly surrounded by a surge of blue and gray. A rifle discharged and his horse fell; taking him along and pinning him to the ground. More irritated than hurt he tried to pull his right leg free. "Oh hell, Phil's going to have a fit."

A horse's death shriek split the air above him and a heavy body fell across his own dead mount. The added weight made it quite impossible to pull his leg out from under the mass. He gave it an experimental wiggle and gritted his teeth at the sharp twinge of pain. Then, as he tried again to pull free, something struck him a hard blow on the temple.

~~~

Late in the afternoon, George Custer and his troop of Michigan Volunteers burst through the Federal lines; charging Stuart's left flank. They silenced the Confederate guns and drove the entire flank back.

Stuart tried to rally his faltering men. "Come on, boys, come on. We can turn them. Come..."

A bullet, fired by one of Custer's men, struck him in the liver and the big Virginian slumped in the saddle. Fitzhugh Lee, who had been riding with his own men well to the rear of Beauty's position, saw the confusion as the Staff tried to reach the General.

Lee pelted up with his own force and Stuart called to him in the old ringing voice, "Go ahead, Fitz, old fellow, I know you will do what is right."

In anguish, Lee led them on a wild charge to avenge their fallen leader. The others got Stuart to an ambulance and then to Richmond where he died before Flora could reach him.

~~~

By the end of that terrible day of stalemate and death, a heavy rain turned the ground to a quagmire and brought an early twilight; hampering the efforts of the burial parties. Reluctantly, Sheridan admitted to himself that he lacked the manpower to finish the job. Instead of pursuing, he decided to cross the Chickahominy so that he could link up with Butler. After he ordered a scouting party to proceed southeast to the Mechanicsville Turnpike, he shifted irritably in the saddle as he wondered if there could have been a better way to dislodge Stuart's Cavalry. _Damned Virginians didn't know when they were licked. Even after Stuart was down they kept coming; led by Fitzhugh Lee who is another one of those big Cavalrymen_. Rienzi snorted in displeasure as Sheridan's hands dragged on his tender mouth.

Sheridan remembered that another Cavalryman had been conspicuously absent all afternoon and had not returned as ordered. "Williams, did you find MacKendrick this afternoon?"

"Yes, Sir, I delivered your message."

"Did he start back?"

"I really couldn't say, Sir. I was carrying orders to Colonel Cronin as well so I didn't hang around to see where he went."

"Hmph," Sheridan's lips compressed in displeasure. _I'll bet MacKendrick gave in to his undisciplined impulse again and rode out with Custer after all. He's probably with George right now. Probably figures I'll stop being mad if he hides out long enough._

"Not this time," Sheridan hissed aloud. "This is the last time I'll tolerate one of his escapades. I'll break him and stick him back in the Infantry! Yesiree, when I get through with that fine dandy who obeys orders only when he has nothing better to do. Gentlemen, stay here. Think I'll check on Custer and the Michigan boys."

As he rode off, Phil heard Williams express, "I sure hope 'Mothy has a fast horse. Looks like the General is going to give him real hell this time."

Custer stared when Sheridan came through the heavy downpour like an avenging angel. "What are you doing here, General?

"Where the hell is he, Custer?"

"Who, Sir?"

"Now don't play games with me. I know he rode out with you and is hiding in your Michiganders."

"I'm sorry, Sir, I have no idea what..."

Sheridan pushed past Custer and peered intently at the tall man riding just behind the younger general. "Take off your hat."

The hat came off immediately and revealed a lean brown face covered with shaggy yellow whiskers.

Sheridan grunted and eyed the rest of the tired officers.

"It might help if you told me who you were looking for, Sir," suggested Custer.

"MacKendrick."

"'Mothy? Why would he be here?"

"He rode with you on the charge, didn't he?"

"Not that I know of, Sir. Last I saw, he was riding back in your direction."

Sheridan stared at Custer in disbelief. _If MacKendrick isn't with Custer like I figured_. He yanked an indignant Rienzi around and rode off towards the head of the column.

~~~

Torrential rain beat down on the miserable evidence of the day's battle. Confederate litter-bearers and surgeons moved through ankle-deep mud; trying to help anyone who still moved. One man, who had regained consciousness a short time before, stayed quiet for his sodden blue uniform would damn him to Libby Prison. Half buried by the two dead horses and shielded from immediate view by a tumbled mound of bodies, Timothy gritted his teeth to avoid a sound that would draw attention to his situation and waited patiently as the Confederate medical men moved through his area. Once Timothy was certain that they were beyond earshot, he resumed his frantic effort to free himself from the carcasses of the two horses. His head ached from the blow he had received while blood dripped persistently into his eyes from a shallow gash at his temple. He swore as he twisted vainly; the pain bringing tears to his eyes.

He paused to rest and wiped the blood away from his face. A _brand-new Plebe has sense enough to kick his feet out of the stirrups and jump off when his mount falls. Yet, here I am, Sheridan's aide, 'Mothy MacKendrick who's been out of West Point for four years; battle-tested and trapped beneath two dead horses_. _Come ON, get free!_ He yanked savagely at his leg. The rain, which drenched everything in its path to the consistency of weak oatmeal, finally reached below the stiff bodies. This time, Timothy's leg slid ever so slightly under the dead weight. Encouraged, he kept at it although he was sure he was causing irreparable damage to the leg by his tugging. It took nearly fifteen minutes before his right leg slipped out. He lay on his side panting from pain before he got up the nerve to sit up and examine the leg. _If it's broken, I should just give up and call the Confederates to come get me_. He winced as he pulled the torn cloth away from his lower leg. _Well, it doesn't seem broken but it sure as hell hurts. Thank God. I should be able to rejoin Sheridan._ Timothy's jubilation suffered a substantial setback when he tried to stand-up. While the leg was not broken, it was so heavily bruised and swollen that it would bear his weight for only short seconds. Then too, he had forgotten the gash in his head. He grabbed at a shattered fence post to stop himself from pitching forward onto the ground as his temples pounded from his exertions.

Hmmm, maybe I can use my saber as a crutch. Nope, ground's like a lake. What then? I can't expect there to be fences to hold onto the whole way. Wait, is that a rifle? Maybe its stock is flat and broad enough to support me. Idiot! At least get the bayonet off! Cut my hand off next if I'm not careful. Let's make sure it's unloaded. Don't want to blow my head off; that would really please Sheridan. Now, let's see if it works.

Timothy put the rifle in the mud and stepped forward. It was wobbly but it did offer him some stability. He yanked it free from the mud that flowed over the tops of his boots. His feet made deep plopping sounds when he pulled them out while the rifle gave a loud sucking smack. To a rhythmic plop-plop, smuck-smack, he limped after the Union Cavalry. After less than ten minutes, Timothy realized with despair that he was not going to make it. The physical effort of negotiating the rain-soaked road had exhausted him and he made his way blindly over to a fallen tree. He sat there, shivering in the steady rain. He froze when he heard a soft snorting sound and peered through the rain-dark night trying to locate the source of the sound. Out of the gloom a big form moved. Hopeful, Timothy started to stand.

"Mooo," the big form said plaintively.

"A cow," moaned Timothy aloud; ready to cry from bitter disappointment.

"Mmm...mooo," repeated the cow more hopefully. Something very strange had happened that day. Men and great, nasty horses had knocked down her fence and scared her from her favorite pasture. She was a very gentle, kindly cow and was overjoyed to find a human to help her out of her dilemma. Timothy sat on his log and glowered at her.

"Why the hell couldn't you have been a horse or a mule? What the...stop THAT!"

At the sound of his voice, she moved closer to him and nearly knocked him from his perch. The rifle, which had been propped against the log, sank into the mud with a final little plunk.

"Of all the useless, misbegotten creatures."

"Mooo," offered the cow sympathetically.

"I'm sorry. It's not your fault you're a cow instead of a horse," Timothy relented and patted her neck. As his hand touched her rough coat, so different from the silky ones of his pampered horses, he had a wild gleam of an idea. _Wait, why do I have to have a horse? There are lots of places people ride other critters; camels, elephants, even water buffalo. Those are cattle of a sort._ Timothy bit his lower lip in contemplation of the cow. _She seems friendly enough and I have to ride. Even if that rifle hadn't fallen in the mud, my leg's too stiff now to hold my weight._

He slid back on his log and drew his feet slowly up. At the same time, he kept a firm hand on the cow's neck. "Easy girl...easy. Don't you move now...just a bit closer. That's it!"

"Mooo?" the cow turned an inquiring head as Timothy's weight settled on her back and surveyed this new arrangement with soft, limpid eyes.

She didn't move, however, and Timothy pulled himself upright. _I've done it! I'm on board. Her back is a lot broader and bonier, but it works!_

The cow seemed to give the matter serious consideration then, evidently deciding it was all right with her, ambled off to investigate some brush. That brought up a new problem. _Now, how do I steer her? I don't have reins or rope and I don't think she'd like heels in her ribs. Don't they use sticks on elephants and camels?_ As she wandered close to the bushes, Timothy broke off a slender branch and tapped her gently on the off-shoulder. To his joy, she promptly turned right. Then he tapped her more firmly on the rump and she took a few steps forward. Elated, he began applying his branch and his strange steed walked sedately after Sheridan.

~~~

Philip Sheridan fretted most of the evening as his Cavalry prepared for a night march. He planned to leave at eleven but at eight, muttering a flimsy excuse to his Staff, he set out alone. He rode with silent purpose back along the route they had just traveled. Rienzi was still relatively fresh and splashed playfully through the puddles at the side of the road that was so badly mired as to be impassable. There was grass on the side and Sheridan used it to advantage. He really didn't know what he was doing out on that rain-shrouded road and, if asked, would have had no answer. _I can't ride all the way back to the battlefield to search for one fallen man, can I?_

"It's so strange," he puzzled to Rienzi. "Timothy is the epitome of all the things I've always hated: tall, Virginia aristocrat, handsome, smart. God, that boy is smart. I don't think he even knows how brilliant he is and for all that, there isn't a piece of arrogance. You would think he'd be the most arrogant little prig ever to leave West Point, but he's not. He can laugh at himself. That's rare. Most of us can't. He's decent too. He really believes what we learned at West Point and holds himself to the old code better than any man I know. Duty, honor, country. Timothy would never leave me behind on a battlefield. I've got to find him or at least try. I can't leave him alone; not my aide, not my friend."

Sheridan drew rein so Rienzi could take a breather. He had pushed the big horse pretty hard and the effort was noticeable. The rain stopped and Sheridan listened to the night sounds. The piercing sweet chirrups of the peepers were countered by the deep thrump of a bullfrog somewhere while a soft breeze rustled the wet leaves. Out of the dark, Phil heard the musical tinkle of a cow's bell. "Now that is odd," he murmured in Rienzi's attentive ear. "It's a bit late for a cow to be moving about. Way past milking time."

A large cow picked her way through the brush at the side of the road. Phil blinked twice, rubbed his eyes, and then looked at the cow again. Nope, the mirage still looked the same. There was definitely a man on her back. A man in the sopping uniform of his own Army, with the yellow stripe of the Cavalry on his long legs, and the insignia of...Sheridan sucked in his breath and urged Rienzi towards the cow. The figure, slumped forward on the neck of the animal, either was asleep, unconscious, or dead.

Phil prayed that it was the former as he frantically felt for a pulse in the cold wrist. "Timothy," he implored.

Fingers twitched slightly as Timothy gave a tired sigh. He stretched against the cow's neck and sat up with an effort. He rubbed gummy eyes and nearly fell off. "Good evening, Sir, I must have fallen asleep."

"Are you all right?!" _how dare MacKendrick turn up without a scratch and on a bovine?! This is worse than the howitzer!_

"I think so, Sir."

Sheridan did not hear the note of reservation in the answer nor did he notice the blood on Timothy's face. "What happened? You were ordered to report back immediately. You were with Custer after all, weren't you?"

"I really wish you wouldn't shout. With all due respect, Sir, please shut up," Timothy dropped his head into his hands.

Sheridan's mouth fell open. _Did MacKendrick just tell me to shut up?_ "Very well, Colonel. We'll discuss this later."

"Yes, Sir," wearily, Timothy tapped his cow with the stick.

She refused to budge for she did not like the small, peppery man who was so rude to her new friend. Timothy tapped her again and she merely shifted on one leg. With a resigned sigh, he leaned forward and started to take another nap.

Sheridan watched the performance in silence. Then he leaned over and bellowed in Timothy's ear. "Get yourself and this bony beast back to camp, dammit. Now, MOVE!"

Timothy, startled to wakefulness, slipped off her right side. The cow, terrified by Sheridan, shied to the left; with the result that Timothy tumbled heavily between Rienzi and the cow.

"Oof," Timothy lay in the mud and stared up at Sheridan reproachfully. "That wasn't very nice, Sir."

"It wasn't intended to be," Phil observed spitefully. "Get up, MacKendrick. This is no night to spend on the ground."

"Actually, I can't, Sir," Timothy made no move to comply but lay on his side; propped up by an elbow.

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I sort of blundered today, Sir."

Sheridan heard something behind the calm voice; something that sent a chill of apprehension along his spine. He swung off Rienzi and knelt by his fallen aide. "What sort of blunder?"

"My horse was shot. I didn't get off in time and spent the afternoon pinned under him."

Sheridan put a strong arm around Timothy who leaned gratefully against the support. "How bad are you hurt?"

"My leg isn't broken but it hurts like the very devil; whacked my head too. I'm sorry, Sir, I tried to get back," Timothy stiffened with pain as Sheridan's fingers moved deftly along his leg.

"Come on, we've got to rejoin the men. Can you manage to stay on Rienzi if I help you?"

"I stayed on the damned cow until you scared her."

It was a struggle, but Timothy was finally settled in the saddle. Sheridan swung up behind him and took the reins. Timothy drowsed in the protective cage of Sheridan's arms. The cow, still trembling from the effects of that strident, Yankee voice in her ear, remembered her patriotic duty at last and went in search of fellow Confederates who would not yell at her.

### Chapter 21

### Virginia, October 1864

Sheridan declared war upon the Shenandoah Valley; having been given the tremendous headache of clearing the Valley while General Sherman cut the South's vital link with Georgia. Philip Sheridan worried that he had to answer to more senior officers like David Hunter and Henry Halleck. At thirty-two, he was deemed too young to have the lone responsibility for the Shenandoah. Then David Hunter, tired of fighting the War Department and disenchanted with the President, resigned his command. Lincoln, thoroughly disgusted with the behavior of his general officers, threw caution to the winds and ordered Grant to give the Shenandoah to Sheridan. Through the fall of 1864, Sheridan burned and uprooted the Valley's crops that were at the peak of ripeness. Jubal Early discovered, as Stuart had before him, that Sheridan was an unstoppable force as he stripped the Valley so that it could no longer feed the exhausted gray Army.

Timothy's bruised leg healed quickly and he accompanied Sheridan through the entire Shenandoah campaign. The idea of a war of attrition was relatively new and there was nothing glorious in taking war to the thresholds of homes or crushing civilian populations. He learned to avert his eyes and close his conscience to the terror he was helping to spread. Gone forever were the orderly 18th Century style campaigns. A new and terrible day in the art of war dawned in the closing months of the War Between the States when Sheridan's devastating sweep and Sherman's march to the sea shut the door on classical strategy. Timothy was sickened by the harsh demands of bringing Virginia to her knees at any cost and he slept badly. He had no inborn philosophy to assuage the guilt as he contributed to the annihilation of the Southern dream. Stuart's death had been a terrible shock to him. When Fitzhugh Lee was wounded severely at Third Winchester after three horses were shot out from under him, Timothy decided that the fates, along with the terrible triumvirate of Grant, Sherman, and Sheridan, conspired to destroy all that remained of Virginia's gallantry. There was no comfort in Sheridan's conviction that, while a bitter pill to swallow, any action that shortened the war was a humane one. Timothy simply could not believe it or accept the brutal necessity. Consequently, he suffered through the campaign and grew to loathe the uniform he had once worn with such pride.

One day he came upon Union soldiers burning a barn. A terrified woman saw him and ran in front of his horse.

"Please, please Colonel. All our food is in there! My husband's away and we have three children. What will I feed them? For the love of God, stop them!" weeping, she clung to his stirrup while the sergeant in charge hurried over.

"Sergeant, what's the story here?" Timothy asked wearily.

He had heard it so many times before. Enough food was to be spared to enable the Valley residents to survive the winter although Sheridan's interpretation as to what constituted enough was not the same as the residents' view.

"Her husband's with Mosby, Colonel. We're just following standard orders. We'll put the fire out if you say so."

"Mosby," said Timothy with distaste.

John Mosby led a partisan band of guerrillas. He had been giving Sheridan a run for his money and the General had decided to punish any persons who offered Mosby comfort and aid.

"Is your husband with Mosby?" Timothy looked down at the wretched woman who clutched at his stirrup. The slight cadence inherited from his uncle game him away as a Virginian.

"Yes, he's with Mosby, but only since Sheridan came to the Valley! It was the only way to defend our home!"

Timothy gazed at the pretty two-storied brick house. "Where did he serve before?"

"Before?"

"Was he with Jackson, Stuart, Longstreet, Lee himself?"

"No, he's been here. He has a farm to manage. We certainly can't trust the slaves to do the work without oversight. My overseer does his best but the darkies are uppity and won't toe the line for him. They're like children or dogs. They need a firm hand. Until Sheridan came, my husband couldn't go traipsing off to war! Even so, he didn't leave until the harvest was underway."

Timothy glanced at the well-tended fields again. _So her husband is another stay-at-home who allows his war to be fought by gallant young dandies and poverty-stricken farmers who don't even have a pair of shoes and can't buy someone to serve in their stead. Here's another nice fat landowner who undoubtedly bragged about how quickly the damned Yankees would be defeated. Didn't fight before to protect his lands or on the principle of states' rights because "we can't trust the slaves without oversight." The Randolph cousins didn't hesitate to join the Army of Northern Virginia and leave their home in the hands of Peter and the fields to Elmer, the Overseer. But then, the Randolphs don't have slaves. Figured out that black men are men, not property, and freed them years ago. I'll wager Elmer can be trusted more than any white overseer and probably knows a lot more about the land too. This woman's husband is another of those civilians who's been jolted from his self-satisfied, complacent backside by Sheridan's direct threat to the Valley and then he goes with a highwayman like Mosby instead of hard-working Jubal Early._

The Shenandoah Campaign had taught Timothy to hate the civilians who talked long and loud and expected other men to die defending their filthy property and empty principles. At war with himself, Timothy sat immobile on his horse staring at the fields; his eyes haunted. Chivalry demanded him to strike a blow against the obscenity of Sheridan's orders. If her husband had only been with Lee or Longstreet...contempt curled his lip. "There is nothing I can do, Madam. Carry on, Sergeant."

"No, you can't! You're one of US. You're not a Yankee! Please, please!"

Timothy jerked his horse's head around and started down the road. The piteous woman followed; begging, pleading. Then her tone changed when she knew that he had not heeded her. "Traitor! Murdering turncoat! Yankee BOOTLICKER! Go then, damn you. GO! May God have mercy on you for turning against your own kind! May the earth open and swallow up you and that devil Sheridan."

He rode off with her maledictions in his ears; riding as if the curse of a thousand demons was at his heels.

~~~

That night, Timothy stayed at the horse-lines; halfheartedly plaiting and un-plaiting his horse's silvery mane. Baron was a good animal although Timothy did not love him the way he loved Firefly. Sheridan, knowing that his cavalier would seek his comfort with his steed, found him there; although he kept his distance for the moment. He was not blind to Timothy's distress and his own heart ached for the younger man. Finally, knowing it was his duty to somehow help Timothy over this hurdle of despair, Sheridan joined him beside Baron.

"Fine animal."

"Yes, Sir."

"Of course, grays don't make the best Army mounts. Too easy to spot."

"Traveler is a gray."

"That's so. The horse is nearly as famous as Robert Lee himself. 'Pears you're in good company."

Timothy shrugged disinterestedly.

"It's been a long day. Couldn't you sleep, 'Mothy?"

"No, Sir."

"Heard from that spoil...Mrs. MacKendrick lately?"

"No, Sir."

An unpleasant silence stretched between them. Sheridan's frustration increased at his continued inability to get Timothy into the open. _If the boy would just confide in me, maybe I could help him understand why we have to do what we are doing to the Valley._

"How much longer will this business take?"

Taken off-guard by Timothy's opening of the very subject he wanted to discuss, Sheridan blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "What's wrong, MacKendrick? Don't you have the stomach for this?" _Good God, I sound callous. This is not how I wanted to begin. I can imagine how it sounds to Timothy._

There was dead stillness before Timothy could answer. "No. No, I don't have the stomach for this brutality. Can you honestly tell me that you have?"

_All right, Phil. This is your chance. Take your time. Above all, keep your voice calm. You know how intelligent 'Mothy is. He'll respond to reason if you just keep patient. Mild, gentle, REASONABLE; like you are teaching him tactics or military history at West Point._ "I know that you believe that soldiers should be men like Stuart and Lee; officers and gentlemen who shine like knights of old and are imbued with all the gallant virtues. But we're not knights in a tournament. We're in a war. You don't think we should act as if this is some nice little game, do you?"

"Of course not, but there are rules."

"What rules? Rules are for civilized people following civilized pursuits. War is not civilized, Timothy, and no amount of gallantry or pretend chivalry can make it so. Let me tell you something. Stuart was an effective Cavalry officer because he had guts and brains. His so-called gallantry had nothing to do with his ability to lead Cavalry nor did his dashing clothes and appreciation of a good joke win battles. He was a damned fine soldier; audacious, quick to take advantages in the field, and possessed of a hard-headed practicality that gave him victories. By rights, after Jackson's death, Lee should have given him Jackson's command but he was too valuable where he was. Why do you think I was so anxious to fight him? He was the standard, the one the rest of us have got to emulate if we're going to win. Timothy, the South's beaten; has been for over a year. It's now our painful responsibility to drive that sad fact home to them or the war will drag on and on with all of its attendant sorrows. If total destruction is the only way to bring the defeated Confederacy to that unhappy realization, so be it."

"But..."

"I shouldn't have to explain this to you. You're a soldier and, in my opinion, a good one. But it isn't your charm and nice manners that make you one. It's your intelligence and your ability to get the job done; anyway that you can. Well, I'm a soldier too and I have a stinking job to do here in the Valley."

"Is it necessary to victimize innocent civilians?"

"Yes it is. These civilians provide the food to the Army we're fighting. We tried defeating that Army in the time-honored traditions of the field and it didn't work. The Army of Northern Virginia is starving in its tracks yet it still fights on and on and on. In the old days when that happened, you simply laid siege to their city. That's what we're doing, more or less. We're laying siege to the stronghold of the Confederate stubbornness to force the South to capitulate. They're licked, MacKendrick. Would you have us keep the gloves on so more men can die needlessly?"

"I've heard that before. It wasn't you but it was something about the horror of civil war and beating the South only by taking off the gloves. Who? Crawdy," Timothy whispered. "He foresaw it. He knew because he was one of us."

"Us?"

"Men like Crawford, Stuart, the Lees, my brother James. Men of the South. High-spirited, fiercely independent, jealously protecting their right to act in freedom as the very documents that created our country promised. Will such men ever give up if there is a ghost of a chance? Of course not, they'll simply melt into the hills and continue fighting as long as they have breath. Barefoot, starving, armed with rocks if nothing else, they'll keep resisting year after year until forever becomes yesterday. I hate it!" Timothy's cry from the heart cut Sheridan to the soul.

"Very well, MacKendrick. I'll get you a transfer to some glamorous Cavalry outfit where you won't get those aristocratic hands of yours dirty."

Timothy flinched back as if Sheridan had struck him. His jaw tightened and Sheridan found himself facing death in those cold gray eyes. _Duels were fought surreptitiously at the Academy for lesser insults but I have to do something. This business has been eating at Timothy for days_. _Oh my, he isn't. He wouldn't! I really don't expect him to..._

Timothy lunged. Sheridan barely sidestepped the whirlwind in time. As Timothy charged past, Phil struck him hard on the shoulder. Already off-balance, he lurched to the ground while Sheridan quickly sat on him. There they stayed while incoherent, blinding fury swept Timothy. Few horses had ever dared to unseat the stubborn little general, but Philip was not sure he could stay on top of Timothy who bucked and twisted like an enraged bull. _This probably looks hilarious; me sitting piggy back on my aide. But I can't laugh, not when I know what caused it_.

Timothy finally stopped struggling. Cautiously, Sheridan got up and watched as MacKendrick turned on to his back; his face hidden in the crook of his arm while long, shuddering sobs wracked his lean body. Sheridan took out a cigar and began to chew on it although it took him a full moment to remember to light it. The clanking of the Army going to bed sounded distantly behind them while stars began to appear as the late fall night deepened around them. He had heard such anguish only once before; when the war was new and a heartsick young major had cried for his slain roommate. This was not the healing tears of grief; this was a defeated acceptance of a harsh, demanding duty. Sheridan waited until the sobs diminished and pulled Timothy's arm away from his face. The young man turned his head away; whether in shame or loathing Sheridan could not tell.

"Here," said Sheridan gruffly and forced the tip of a silver flask between his aide's teeth.

Timothy swallowed the burning liquid and then leaned against a charred tree stump. He took another swig from the flask, a third, a fourth. _I wonder if I should let him get drunk. He'll have a bad hangover but if it makes him feel better in the long run, might be worth it._

"I feel an awful fool," Timothy sighed.

Sheridan said nothing; just puffed at his cigar. _We expect a hell of lot from our young men,_ he mused to himself as he looked down on Timothy's twenty-four years from the lofty height of thirty-three. _We take fresh-faced boys just out of the Academy, teach them to be proper little officers and gentlemen, regale them with tales of daring and then expect them to go through a campaign like this one without breaking. Arrogant fools like Custer, who don't have the sensitivity of an Army mule, can go through it all right but men like MacKendrick are cut to ribbons by such ugly events. This is precisely why I begged Grant to send Timothy off with Sherman for this. It would have been so much easier for him to endure this with Sherman in Georgia then with me in the Shenandoah. This is Virginia. This is his home! What do you do to help a decent man like Timothy MacKendrick survive the hideous reality of total warfare? I should have packed him off to a commander whose hands are still clean. We've been through so much together and I'll miss that friendship. I'll never be as close to another._

Timothy wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. He stood and stared at the outlines of the trees as the twilight deepened further.

Sheridan watched anxiously. _I hope I don't have to belt MacKendrick to knock some sense into him._

Timothy walked over to him, knelt, and bowed his head. "Forgive me."

"My boy," Phil choked as he realized that Timothy had swallowed the bitter pill after all.

### Chapter 22

### Virginia, April 1865

Winter of 1865 saw the Confederacy in its death throes. In February, his dreadful work in the Valley at last completed, Sheridan defeated Jubal Early at Waynesboro. Grant planned to send him South to help Sherman but then realized that he needed Sheridan himself; the man whom the South considered as black a villain as Sherman. Now it was the spring of 1865. New green leaves and the joyous songs of the birds mocked what was to come. The death of a civilization was at hand: a proud civilization that had existed for a tiny handful and would live forever in the hearts of many. Mopping-up began early and Grant's well armed, well provisioned, and well-numbered force harried Lee's exhausted, starving, tattered Army. The Army of Northern Virginia was cut off from the rest of the South but Lee continued to break free of the noose that was growing ever tighter. Defeat was inevitable; yet Virginia's forces refused to surrender. After all, there had been miracles before to save them from the Yankee hounds nipping at their heels. Lee made one last desperate effort after another to save his dying Army.

On April 8th, Sheridan turned to his aide. "We've got him, 'Mothy, Lee is boxed. Tell the rest of them to close in."

~~~

Robert Lee's tired men knew that the end was near and James MacKendrick joined the small group of officers surrounding Marse Robert as they discussed their further course of action. Only the foolhardy believed that they had a prayer of getting past Sheridan's mass of blue horsemen.

"Gentlemen," began Lee. "The war is ending just as I have expected it would end from the first. What will the country think if I surrender here and now?"

"There is no country. There has been no country, General, for a year or more. YOU are the country to these men," answered a major with a tear-choked voice.

"Will the sacrifice of the Army help the Cause in other quarters?" inquired General Longstreet.

"No," wearily Lee stroked his beard; his hand that of an old man, veined and gnarled.

"Then your situation speaks for itself," Longstreet finished flatly.

The men surrounding their beloved General were silent for a moment. They had lost.

"Sir," spoke Edward Alexander. "Why don't we disband and order the men to scatter like partridges in the bushes?"

Lee recoiled. "What would that lead to other than continued bitterness for generations? The men would be forced to rob and plunder just to survive and the North would be forced to hunt every one of them down like animals."

"But, General, a little more blood or less now makes no difference. Spare the men who have fought under you for four years the mortification of having to ask Grant for terms and have him say unconditional surrender."

A slight murmur from more of the younger officers indicated agreement. Alexander continued. "General, spare us the mortification of having you get that reply."

Lee lowered his hand from his beard and looked each one of them in the eye. "General Grant will not demand unconditional surrender; he will give us as honorable terms as we have a right to ask or expect."

A stunned silence greeted Lee's statement for General Grant was in a position to obtain the ultimate surrender. They were on the edge of disaster and here was their leader expecting honorable terms from the man he had led on more than one goose chase. Lee's steady gaze went the rounds of his Staff again and came to rest on James MacKendrick, who had become his aide after the Battle of the Wilderness. James smiled slightly with encouragement and Lee was reminded of a long ago day, in another war, when a tall dragoon had ridden to his death on the plains of Mexico.

For the sake of Gareth's son and others like him, Lee was determined to salvage something out of the four bitter years. "Gentlemen, I fear I have no choice but to surrender. Colonel MacKendrick, in the morning you will take a letter to General Grant."

~~~

Sheridan was at his usual peak of activity the next morning. He massed his troops and rode up and down the line. "Now smash 'em, I tell you. Smash 'em!"

Timothy grinned as he kept up with his volatile commander. The stench that had pervaded his nostrils since the Shenandoah, dissipated once Sheridan broke off his mobile siege warfare and returned to the honest ranks of a Cavalry that faced enemy soldiers instead of farms and civilians. Sheridan's lines were in readiness and he waved his hat at the buglers. The first stirring notes of the charge reverberated through the bright April morning. The lines of blue tensed but then stilled as an officer and a small escort rode through the lines of gray facing them. He came at a trot; the white banner fluttering over his head. The Confederate colonel rode up to General Sheridan, saluted, and handed him a letter. Sheridan pursed his lips and left to deliver Lee's letter to Grant.

Timothy faced James as the blue lines settled down to wait. Since the surrender was not yet official, neither brother spoke to the other for they were painfully aware that their armies could be shooting again at any moment. Sheridan returned with General Grant's answer that he handed to James. The General watched him ride off; struck by the strong resemblance to his aide.

"Was that your brother?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How is he?"

"He looks like hell!" Timothy replied, his voice flat.

"They all will since they haven't had enough to eat lately. I meant, what did he have to say for himself?"

"Nothing, Sir," Timothy continued to look straight ahead; his face frozen although there was a telltale tremble in his lower lip.

"What did you say to him?" Sheridan persisted.

"Nothing, Sir."

"NOTHING?!" _Now that is just unbelievable. I never expected Timothy to carry this brother against brother nonsense to such extremes. War is just about over. What is wrong with the boy?!_

"I would remind the General that we are still at war," Timothy said a bit stiffly. "Discipline won't be served by emotional displays of senior officers."

"Oh. Yes. I see," replied Sheridan _. Actually, no I don't. We'll discuss this later, MacKendrick. I'll get it out of you._

~~~

Rather than keep Lee waiting, Grant rode straight to the Courthouse in his muddied uniform. Lee donned his best uniform for the sad business at hand. The surrender was signed and Lee's serene confidence that Grant would not seek unconditional surrender was handsomely gratified by the terms of the document. Provision was made for the defeated men to keep the horses and mules that they owned as well as their sidearms. Lee's ravenous Army was even fed from the Northern commissary. Grant informed his officers that the Confederates were their countrymen again and he would not countenance anything as tactless as a loud victory celebration. Lee, reluctant to take up arms from the first, thought gratefully that the country was ready to be put back together.

Once the surrender was formalized, George Custer organized a party to go visit the fellow West Pointers on the gray side but Timothy refused to join. He could not face his errant kin who had worn the gray. _It's different for Custer and the others; they aren't Virginians like I am_. More than ever, Timothy's betrayal of his kin weighed on his heart. He found a quiet corner to give a bottle of bourbon some serious attention; toasting man after man who had fallen. He started with Crawdy and Jonas, continued with Command Sergeant Major Wolfenbuttle, gave a fleeting salute to Philip Kearny, but then stuck at Stuart. _Beauty didn't drink so it just isn't proper to toast him in bourbon._

As he pondered the problem, two stocky figures invaded his hidey-hole. Sheridan tripped over Timothy's feet and was saved a tumble by Grant's quick hand.

"Aren't you going visiting with Custer?" demanded Sheridan.

"No, Sir."

"What are you doing here, MacKendrick, and how much of that have you drunk?"

"Mourning my dead, Sir, I need some water, though, or coffee. Maybe some tea. It just isn't right to toast Beauty with spirits."

Grant and Sheridan exchanged glances. Then Philip reached over and confiscated the bottle. "Join Custer and his little group, 'Mothy. You've got kin over there that must be anxious to see you. Boy's related to half the Army of Northern Virginia, you know," Sheridan said in an aside to Grant. "Well, MacKendrick? What are you waiting for?"

What am I waiting for? The courage to face my older brother, that's what. It's going to be difficult enough to face my cousins. At least I saw Fitz and Harry during the war. It was clear after Gaines' Mill that even Stuart was willing to forgive me for not following them into the gray. Fitz and Harry treated me like always. Hell, they risked their own lives to save mine rather than just ship me off to Libby Prison. Even Cousin Robert will be easy to face. He's older. If he gives me a stern look or a glare or even just ignores me, it won't be any worse than getting a reprimand from another senior officer. Besides, Lafe says that he and Cousin Robert understood each other and parted friends before Lee came south. But James! I have had no contact with him. I have no idea how he feels about this situation. Yes, there were a couple of letters but those went to Dorothea. He sent his regards but that might have been from an effort to spare her. He wouldn't have dragged his personal antagonism against me into a letter to her. He's lost his wife, his child, his Army. He's lost everything. Why, he may even think I stayed with the Union to further my own career. Look at me. Not twenty-five yet and already a lieutenant colonel and not of a volunteer force or reserves like Custer. He's a general but I doubt that he'll keep the rank. It's only brevet and George will be bumped back to a colonel or even lieutenant colonel. But my rank isn't brevet. Mine is solid and in the Regular Army. There's no bumping back for me. Sheridan even implied the other day that I'd get my eagles soon. Maybe even within the next year. That's got to stick in James' craw. Four years younger and on the career path he figured he'd have himself. He was Cadet First Captain. I was only sixth in my class. He's always been smarter, finer and he wouldn't even look at me when he came under that flag of truce. Of course, I didn't look at him either. I couldn't. I couldn't meet his eyes. He's bound to harbor some resentment. James is a proud man and I know that he condemns me for not joining him and the others. The only opinion that really matters and I'm scared to even try. If he rebuffs me; worse, if James curses and damns me the way Stuart did back in Kansas. I'm not sure I can handle that. I want his respect. I want his love. I want to pick up where we left off. He's the finest man I have ever known. I've always wanted to be like him. He's been my hero, my ideal ever since I was little. If James refuses to forgive me...

"Well, Boy?" Sheridan nudged his foot with a boot toe when Timothy remained slouched on the ground with his head bowed.

Timothy appealed to Grant. "Do I have to, Sir?"

"He's your commanding officer, Son. If he say's 'go' you'd better hop to."

"Go on, 'Mothy."

Timothy heaved himself to his feet. "You're wrong, Phil. James won't want to see me. I'm a traitor as far as he is concerned."

"Healing has to start somewhere, 'Mothy."

~~~

Timothy skirted the sounds of hilarity where Custer's party had fallen in with some kindred spirits. Instead, he made his way towards a quiet group. Instinctively, Timothy knew that James would be with Marse Robert. Lee saw the Union officer first and smiled as the young man approached them; uncertain of his welcome. James, seeking the cause for Lee's sudden alertness, turned and saw the proud young man who had dismounted and waited to be recognized.

"Hello Timothy," Lee held out a gracious hand.

Gladly, Timothy took it and nodded at the other officers.

"How are Lafe and Dolly?" Marse Robert inquired.

"Very well, Sir."

"Please give them my fondest regards and tell Lafe I'll write soon. I've missed his letters."

"I'll be delighted to, General Lee," Timothy's eyes shifted to James.

James met the anxious gaze steadily. _He's older. My little brother is all grown up. Well, are you just going to stand there, Timothy? What's your problem? Can't you even give me a handshake for Christ's sake?_

When neither brother moved, Lee stepped back so that there was nothing between them. "There's a pleasant little grove over there, James. Why don't you and Timothy go sit there a spell?"

"I was getting ready to suggest that myself, Sir," James voice was husky. "Timothy?"

They walked off together; oddly alike now that they had been tempered by the harsh demands of war. Several willow trees mingled trailing branches. They had just started to get their spring leaves but they still provided a bit of privacy. Timothy pulled back a branch so that his brother could precede him to the little glade formed by the willows. As he stepped through himself, James abruptly turned and pulled Timothy into a hard embrace. "Thank God, you survived. Thank God, I have you back safe."

Timothy clung tight as tears filled his eyes. "Then...then you don't hate me? You forgive me?"

James held him closer and his own tears fell thick. "I know, Son, I know what it cost you to make that choice. But it's over, Timothy. That was our greatest fear, Fitz's and mine. That we'd meet you in battle."

"Fitz and I did meet at Gaines' Mill. It was kind of funny. We both did our best not to kill each other. He wasn't there though when I got separated and one of his men got me with a saber. But after, he and Harry and Beauty helped me get away."

"Yes, Fitz has always prized friendship over sectional differences so it was easy for him to make the decision to help you instead of capture you. He's changed a bit this last year. Stuart's death hit him particularly hard."

"He loved Beauty," Timothy said simply. "I did too. He was special. Where is Fitz by the way? I thought for sure he would be there with you and Cousin Robert."

James' tired eyes became somber. "He refused to surrender."

"What!"

"He refused to surrender. He took off with a small force and plans to make a fight of it. Harry is with him. Lost a foot at Winchester when Flee took his own wound but he rejoined in February. Says he doesn't need a foot to ride."

"But that means," Timothy's eyes closed briefly. "Phil will have to go after them and I might...James, I thought the war was over. I thought I was safe from having to fight you'all."

"I don't think it will come to anything, Timothy," James soothed. "Flee has only a token force with him, no remounts, very little ammunition, and even less food. He's angry and upset but that's been the case for the past year. He's impulsive, yes, but he's also a hard-headed practical soldier. He's just giving one last burst of rebellion. My guess is he'll give up in a few days, a week or two at the most."

"That's enough time for one or both of them to die," Timothy muttered. "Well, I won't do it. Sheridan can send Custer or one of the others. If Phil decides to go after Flee himself, I'll...I'll have a stomach ache or shoot myself in the foot."

James laughed easily. "From what I've heard of Sheridan, a tummy ache or bleeding big toe wouldn't save you. Wouldn't he just tell you to lean over the horse to puke off to the side or put a bandage on the toe and ride anyway?"

Timothy wrinkled his nose. "Probably. I'll just go get lost for a few days. I know, you can capture me!"

James laughed harder and shook his head. "Haven't you got that a bit backwards, Son? We surrendered to you."

"Well, I won't go after Fitz and Harry," Timothy asserted firmly. "Fitz is too fine a man to lose him at this point."

_Not so grown up after all, are you Brother of mine? Still prone to hero-worship a bit. I don't want to disillusion you but, on the other hand, you need to understand that men change in a war. Otherwise, you'll be a starry-eyed colonel in the Regulars and we can't have that. My career was tossed aside so we're going to make sure yours has the success I will never achieve now. I've heard stories about you. I've heard the assessments of you by men like Robert E. Lee and James Longstreet. Even Jackson lived long enough to see that glimmer of brilliance you started to show almost right away. Timothy, don't you know what you are? Don't you understand that you're not a peer of men like Fitz Lee or me or Sheridan? You're far beyond us. Hell, Boy, you have a potential for greatness to rival the greatest generals on either side of this conflict. I didn't see it when you were younger. I was human-blind because you were my little brother. But, after serving with the best myself, I can recognize it now._ "Timothy, Fitz is not who you remember. Like a lot of others, he seems to have been bitten by the command bug. Strange, before the war, I was the one with the ambition. After serving with Jackson and Cousin Robert though, after seeing true greatness, I learned just how much I lack and was content to just serve my seniors as best I could. Oh, I'm a decent tactician. At the company level, I'd be fine at command. But the strategic genius that kept us fighting for four long years or the tactical knowledge to turn a brigade or division in mid-field to an entirely different objective...nope, don't have it. I realized that in the first year with Jackson. Beauty was my superior in sheer audacity and brilliance in the field."

"Sheridan is like that too," Timothy said. "He can assess and redeploy so fast, half the time his subordinates can't keep up with him."

_Hell, more hero-worship. Sheridan is a self-serving little Mick. If he hadn't had Halleck's protection, he'd have lost command for that stunt he pulled at Chickamauga. Sure, he was 'driven' from the field and it took awhile to reorganize and get back. A bit too late to save Thomas' position though. Rosecrans did lose command for doing the same thing in the same battle. I'll never forget that night when Cousin Robert, Longstreet, and Hill were discussing you, Timothy. Longstreet told Cousin Bobby that it was our good fortune that some fool tied you to Sheridan instead of a more generous commander who would have turned you loose against us. Can you imagine what Grant or Sherman would have done with you? You would be at least a major general by now. You may even have been in command of the Cavalry instead of Sheridan. Stuart and I both wondered as the war unfolded, just how many of Sheridan's plans and operations may actually have come from you and he just made sure he got the credit. But, I can't help you with Sheridan. I can only help you to understand the flaws of my own comrades._ "Fitz, who treated the war like a lark the first two years, somewhere along the line seemed to pick up some of my discarded arrogance. Oh, he's good. He doesn't have Stuart's flair or insight but he's imaginative and dogged. But a lot of that has been offset by this new ambition. He's been feuding with Wade Hampton for over two years now. He resented Hampton from the beginning. Well, I can understand that a little myself. Hampton was a civilian before the war and started out in the Infantry. To someone like Fitz, the old West Point Regular Cavalry snobbery kicked in and he just couldn't get his head around the idea that Hampton might be of some value. I know Fitz expected Marse Robert to give him Beauty's command when Stuart was killed at Yellow Tavern. Hampton was senior and also expected command. So what did Cousin Bobby Lee do? Split it between them. Kept them independent of each other so Hampton and Fitz both reported directly to him instead of one to the other."

Timothy picked up a stick and began to make lines in the dirt near the trunk of a willow.

James continued. "At Trevilian Station, Fitz was supposed to join Hampton in a two-prong attack against Sheridan. He was late. He never explained his tardiness either. Some of Hampton's Staff believe he was late deliberately because he didn't like Hampton's plan. It nearly cost us the battle."

"I know, I was there," Timothy replied as his clear, untroubled gaze lifted to James. "My guess is that he was just late. No matter how careful you plan, any kind of combination or multi-pronged attack has the potential to fail. Maybe Fitz just lacked a clear head for a single minute or two. A momentary distraction by the wrong man at the wrong moment can turn a victory to defeat in the blink of an eye. As to him changing, we all have. My guess is Fitz just got a bit war-weary and wanted the damned thing finished. You must understand, James, for a Cavalryman like Fitz who served with the 2nd before the war and with Stuart for the first few years, having to follow someone like Hampton would have been almost impossible. It would take a man of unusual grace and some humility to pull that off and Fitz is anything but humble. He knows how good he is. I'd have felt the same way if something had happened to Sheridan and some brass ass decided to give his command to Custer and Custer is at least West Point. So Fitz made a mistake and turned up late. It happens, even to the best of leaders. Beauty pulled some boners. He was delayed at Gettysburg, they say, and it may well have cost you the battle and the war. Jackson was slow a couple of times during the Peninsular Campaign and enabled McClellan to get a toe-hold. He didn't reach Richmond on that drive but it cost you dear in men and material to stop him. Sheridan had to live down Chickamauga. I had a serious lapse of attention myself."

"You? When?"

"Gaines' Mill, James. I decided to break off business and have a play-duel with two of Fitz's men. I forgot about the third one. He wasn't playing. I paid for that. I've paid for it ever since. That's why they never gave me a command. I tried all through the war to get a company again, even a platoon. But after I lost D Company at Gaines' Mill, they stuck me with Sheridan and I've been tied to his saber ever since."

James regarded him thoughtfully. "So, you do know the difference between blind idolatry of someone you like and recognition that a man can have weaknesses."

Timothy grinned. "That's the key for men like us, James, for officers of the Regulars. We can't be blinded by like or dislike. It's essential to evaluate a man fairly and to identify his strengths and weaknesses so that you can position him to succeed or even excel. That's how battles are won. Putting the right man or group of men in the spot that will win the battle for you. That's why it troubles me that I'm stuck in a Staff position. My commanding officers must feel I'm better suited to that than to command."

"Are you sure that's why?"

"Of course. Why else? I'm too young or reckless or unfit for command for some reason. I didn't think I was. I thought at West Point I demonstrated the qualities to lead troops. However, there was my failure at Gaines' Mill. I was young though. I've learned a lot since then. I can't understand why they haven't let me try again."

_Because Sheridan must recognize your brilliance and want to keep it near at hand for himself so he can promote his own career. And yet, maybe I'm being too hard on Sheridan. I've heard the stories about you Timothy. He may have thought you were under control but I can think of a dozen times when you slipped that leash and did manage to pull off some tidy miracles. Why do you think Longstreet is so enamored of you? That stunt at Chickamauga where you pulled out that platoon is the stuff of legends. I'll wager that particular trick will be analyzed and studied for years to come. I wonder, maybe your own generals view you as my own do._ "What did happen at Chickamauga anyway?"

"General Thomas ordered me off Firefly and then he stole her," Timothy said loftily. "He told me that I couldn't ride for Sheridan because Bragg's Army was in the way. He didn't trust me to obey his order to stay put, so he took my horse."

James chuckled. "Was that before or after you went after that platoon?"

"Before. He also ordered me to tuck in someplace and stay out of the way. I decided that nice bushy defile was as good a spot as any."

_Hmmm. Interesting. So even as early as Tennessee the senior officers were trying to keep you out of trouble_. "Timothy, did it ever occur to you that you were just too valuable to be used as common cannon fodder. As an aide to a senior general, you've been in a position to learn at the highest levels of command. Because of Sheridan, you've had access to Grant, Sherman, and the detailed plans and operations of your Army. Even as focused as everyone has been in this campaign, someone was thinking of the future."

Timothy suddenly smiled. "That's what the President told me. He said that we must save some of our best to rebuild the Union. I think it is rubbish and he was just trying to make me feel better about being stuck in a Staff position."

"The President? You've had access to Lincoln?"

"Of course. At social functions when I was in Washington and a couple of times when he came to see General Grant and I tagged along with Sheridan. The best times were the occasions when I met him at Lafe's. While Lafe isn't an intimate of the President's, they have a great deal of respect for each other and he stops by now and then. We were able to talk at length, just the three of us. He's a civilian but he understands the core of what it is to be a soldier. He understands and even empathizes with the concepts of honor, duty, and sacrifice. More than any civilian I have ever known, he seems to appreciate what drives us and doesn't dismiss us as hired killers to do the dirty work for Congress or state governors."

"What's he like?" James asked wide-eyed. _The enemy, the black-hearted Republican ape who set his dogs to maul and chew us to oblivion._

"It's hard to describe him," Timothy resumed work with his stick. "I could talk about his awkwardness. He's all hands and feet. You know how that is. You're tall too. He's as homely as they say, maybe even more so. Yes, he breaks out with little homilies from time to time but I think that's his way to shield himself so that others don't realize how much he cares. His eyes give him away. When you look in them and see the intelligence and the pain, the awareness of what this war has cost us on both sides. He did not take this course lightly, James. It would have been far easier to let the South slip away. He grieves for every death, for every soldier maimed, for every widow and orphan. He weeps for the hatred that pulled us apart. But he believes in the Union. He believes that we have the potential to be the greatest nation in the world. But, a nation, not a collection of bickering states. I believe that someday, Lincoln will be ranked with Washington as one of our greatest men. Not just one of our best presidents, but one of the men whose very soul bled to serve this country."

James was silent as he tried to digest that. _As great as Washington? Are you insane, Timothy? Washington was beyond great. He was a giant of a man._ An edge of impatience crept into James' voice. "What does your great man envision for us, Timothy, now that he has defeated us?"

"Reunion," Timothy said simply. "As quickly as possible. Grant's terms on a statewide level and even more generous. Full enfranchisement of all who served the Confederacy who are now ready to rejoin the Union."

"I find that hard to believe," James admitted.

"I know. I won't try to convince you, I can't. Lincoln will have to show you himself. Just give him the chance, James. There will be many who are embittered and who won't. But, men like you and our Cousins, you must find a way to meet him halfway so we can put these four years behind us and resume the course of our nation's destiny. But enough of that. I want to hear about you."

James shrugged and leaned over to look at his brother's sketch. It was a series of lines that formed a pattern which he could not identify.

Timothy followed his gaze. "Chattanooga. I was trying to see if there would have been a better way to get Hooker over Lookout Mountain."

_Of course you were. Wonder if Sherman knows that Timothy rethinks his strategy with lines in the dirt? I'll bet he does. Yes, I think I may be right. They didn't put you with Sheridan as punishment. They put you with him to learn and to keep you safe for the future instead of risking you in a nasty little no-name battle like the ones that claim so many promising young officers_. "Hmmm."

"It's strange that we never met during the war, James. There were so many times that we must have been within a stone's throw of each other."

Or at least a rifle shot. Damn, if I hadn't recognized your laugh along that road in the Wilderness that day, Timothy, the Army's future would have suffered.

"Dorothea told me about Marietta and the baby. I'm so very sorry."

"At least I had her for a little while. They can't take that away from me," James held the sweetness of Marietta's spirit in a secret place in his heart. Not even for Timothy would he dim that bright memory by speaking of his loss. Then too, his entire energy had been given to the war for so long that it was difficult to recall a time when his life had not been regulated by bugles and hunger. A silence stretched between them. Not the old constraint, but a pleasant camaraderie. James bridged the silence. "I understand that you're married now yourself."

"Yes," Timothy's face lit up. "You'll have to come to Washington to meet Adria."

James looked at Timothy's face in envy for he knew that he would never have that happy look of youth again. The war had stolen that forever as it had taken everything else.

"What will you do now, James?"

"I plan to go to Charleston. There isn't much else to go on with. I'm a soldier and I find myself without an Army. Maybe I should turn my energies to a more peaceful occupation."

Timothy leaned forward and placed a hand on James' shoulder. "Charleston! Why Charleston? You can come home now, James. Dolly and Lafe will be so anxious to see you."

"I know but I just can't quite face Washington yet. I keep thinking of Grandfather MacKendrick. The war can't have been very kind to him either and I figured I'd see if I could learn the family business. We sort of owe him, don't you agree? After all, the Army wooed his only son away. It seems only fair that another Army should return one of his grandsons."

Timothy shuddered delicately. "That dour old Scotsman always terrified me. I could understand if you went to Rose Hill. Somehow, I can't picture you as a merchant."

"Our Randolph Cousins will have their hands full without me getting in the way. The house is still standing, they were lucky there, but I don't know a thing about farming and would be more of a hindrance to them than a help," _I can't face the ballroom or the garden where I held my Marietta either_.

Timothy regarded his brother with his head tilted to one side. "Charleston, huh?"

"Yes," _I never spent much time there. There will be fewer things to haunt me_.

"I hate to say it, but I'd better be getting back. Phil is bound to be looking for me. James, I..."

"Don't say it, Son, I know. I feel the same way," James hugged Timothy again. "Write me, will you? Tell me all about your doings in the Army. I don't want to lose touch again."

"If you promise to write back. I can't wait to hear about your adventures in the mercantile trade. I'll wager you last three months and then decide to come home."

They parted to go their own way; Timothy to his feisty general and James to his defeated comrades. They separated happily though for the healing between them had begun just as it had begun between North and South. General Grant was right. They were one people again and the South would now take her old place back within the proud roll call of the States. All was forgiven and the four agonizing years were over.

### Chapter 23

### Charleston, March 1868

Appomattox was characterized by a genuine desire to let the strayed Southern brethren return to the Union in dignity. William Tecumseh Sherman, after burning his swath through Georgia to the sea, presented the Confederate Army with even more generous terms than those given by Ulysses S. Grant. On the 14th of April, five days after Robert E. Lee's surrender, the fragile scab on the wound of war was ripped away by the action of an actor at Ford's Theater. The South's hope of forgiveness died in the same instant that John Wilkes Booth assassinated Abraham Lincoln. With a cry of outrage, the North vowed to seek a terrible vengeance and a new dread word drove another wedge between North and South: Reconstruction.

Alexander MacKendrick opened the door to his office. For almost sixty years he had been going to that same office six mornings a week. Even during the War he had maintained his working habits; although by the end of it he had few goods left to sell and even fewer customers. Things had improved when his nephew in Edinburgh sent five ships to restock his dry goods as soon as the blockade was lifted. Now, three years after the Southern defeat, things were back to normal. He scowled as he saw that James had not yet come in. His grandson was not setting the kind of example for the other clerks that he liked to see. It had only been a sense of clan that had prompted him to make a place for the man at all. _It is no more than one can expect from a soldier, though. The only thing that the Army gave James' father, Gareth, was an early grave and it does not appear to have done James much good either. As for Dorothea and her fool Virginian, bah!_ Only Iris, his eldest child, had obeyed his wishes and had married a young cousin from Scotland, Ronald MacKendrick. "Wee" Ronnie had lost no time in establishing his rights to the MacKendrick merchant empire in Carolina and it was only due to Ronnie's monetary sagaciousness that they had survived the financial ruin that followed on the heels of the War. Ronnie had not been very enthusiastic when James appeared on their doorstep, like a gull cast upon the beach after a storm. _Yet, I couldna' turn my back on family. The MacKendrick trading empire works only because it is BASED on family._

Alexander came from hard-working Scottish forebears. His father had combined a rare management talent with the existence of eight sons to build a substantial trading network; creating a merchant house on a par with the great European banking houses like the Rothschilds. The eldest son remained in Edinburgh while the others were sent to the major ports of the world to manage dry goods operations and ship chandlers. Alexander, the next to the youngest, was sent to Charleston. He was a big man who, though nearly eighty, was still as tough and as uncompromising as the craggy highlands of his native Scotland. His bushy brows and shaggy gray-white hair gave him the look of a sheepdog. An unfriendly sheepdog for the deep vertical lines at either corner of his mouth did little to lessen his somber expression. His gray eyes were stern and never smiled; even on the rare occasions that his mouth turned up at the corners.

Part of his sternness lay in his inability to cope with the indolent Charleston way of life; for all that he had been a resident for nearly sixty years. Not even his marriage into one of the leading families had entirely dispelled his suspicion of a society he considered "light-minded"; a society which had cost him his only son. Alexander was convinced that Gareth's Charleston relatives on his mother's side, particularly the Rochards and Rutledges with their tales of honor and daring-do, had encouraged Gareth to abandon his father's business and enter West Point. One of the Rochards had ridden with Francis Marion, one of the Rutledges served with Nathanial Greene. Yet another served with Washington and the most famous of the Rutledge kin had been in the Continental Congress. Both families had served their infant country as well as South Carolina from almost the founding of Charleston and none had hesitated to follow their individual paths to destiny, glory, and often death. One Rochard had died far to the West when he accompanied Lewis and Clark. Even after almost forty years, MacKendrick could recall that last bitter argument over his son's future. He had threatened, bribed, and cajoled but Gareth had not heeded and traded his place as his father's heir for death in Mexico.

Alexander leaned back in the leather chair that creaked ominously as his weight pressed down upon its springs. _Almost three years since Appomattox and James still has little enthusiasm for adding simple columns. His only real asset is that he fascinates the ladies of Charleston. He always treats them as if they were princesses. Well, I suppose such nonsense is somewhat useful. The ladies eat up every compliment and buy something. I still don't know why James came to me after the War._

His younger daughter, Dorothea, had been dutiful about bringing her brother's orphans to Charleston so that they could know their grandfather; however, none of them had ever been comfortable on those visits. He had developed a strong antipathy for the younger boy, Timothy, who showed every indication of taking after his unruly Randolph, Rochard, and Rutledge relatives. The visits had grown further apart and stopped altogether when both grandsons entered West Point. Then, one month after Lee's surrender at Appomattox, James arrived with his pardon for serving in the late conflict in hand and asked for a position in the family business.

A gentle knock at the door roused the elderly man from his reverie. "Come in," he barked.

James entered the room. He had never fully recovered from that last year with Robert E. Lee's tattered Army and, like many another Confederate soldier, had acquired a suspicious little cough. Even after three years, he looked haggard and worn. His proud height suffered a slight stoop and his pale skin stretched across a face so gaunt that the hollows beneath his high cheekbones were etched with shadow. His glossy dark hair held a smattering of silver threads. Dark gray eyes were somber and showed little merriment in the sad days of defeat. "Do you have a moment to talk with me, Sir?"

MacKendrick nodded as he opened his ledger. _Idle chatter. Well, I can listen while I check the accounts._

"Am I doing you any good here, Grandfather?"

Nonplussed by such a direct question, MacKendrick cleared his throat and made polite little noises. _Not much, truth be told, but the ladies do like you, Laddie. Some of the dear souls shop here who never did before. I suspect they all hope to make you forget the wife and child who died in Richmond and to choose one of them to make your wifeless years less lonely. Well, you're a good catch, I suppose. While there is naught to go far here, I'm told you have your inheritance from your parents and stand to share in Lafayette Randolph's fortune as well. With no bairns of his own, it is likely Randolph will split his estate between you and your worthless younger brother._

"You needn't worry about sparing me, Sir. I have the impression that I am more hindrance than help. Please, the truth."

"You're very good with the ladies."

"But I am not a merchant prince."

"Laddie, it takes time to learn the trade and you've come to it late. 'Wee' Ronnie says that you're making progress."

"Wouldn't 'Wee' Ronnie prefer to put his own son in my position?"

"What exactly are you driving at, Jamie?"

"I think it would be best for all concerned if I relinquished any claims upon the family as my Father did. I guess this branch of the MacKendrick clan is not suited for trade," James took one of his grandfather's gnarled hands in his own. "I thank you for at least giving me this chance, Grandfather. You and Aunt Iris have been very kind to me."

"Wait, Jamie, at least let me give you some funds; you'll need that for your new start. Have you any plans?" _now there's a relief. Glad the boy has sense enough to know he's ill-suited to this trade. Nor is he wanted here. A few hundred to send him on his way. Well, perhaps no' so much. A hundred should do it, even fifty. He has his own wealth waiting for him to the North_. MacKendrick knelt stiffly at his safe and began fiddling with the combination. "What will you do, Jamie? What will become of you?"

"I'm going home, Grandfather."

"Home? Oh, to Washington and Dorothea, I suppose."

"As a start? Yes. Home to Dolly, Lafe, and Timothy."

~~~

James reached Washington on a blustery March afternoon. Even the fine new suit and warm overcoat, he had purchased from the miserly sum MacKendrick had offered so ungraciously, could not keep the raw March wind from his chest. By the time he reached General Lafayette Randolph's handsome little mansion in Georgetown, he was coughing in earnest. He stood at the gate for a long moment while hot tears scalded his eyes. He had not seen the house since the long-ago day when he had left to follow the failed glory of the Confederacy. _I meant to come home. I meant to come home after Appomattox but I couldn't face it. Not after we lost. Dolly came to see me that summer after the War but there have been only letters since then. Well, I tried. I tried to make a life outside and it didn't work; a clerk at the beck and call of 'Wee' Ronnie. I'm used to taking orders but Ronnie's petulance, the nastiness; the snide comments when I didn't make change fast enough or ooze with charm to some fat carpetbagger who, by rights, should have been thrown out of the store on his big ass. No, I have to get back. I have to get back to my own kind; back to the ranks of the professional soldier. That's the only life for which I'm suited. There are only two people I know who can help me get back, Lafe and Timothy._

Slowly, savoring the moment, James ascended the steps and rapped with the polished bronze lion head that served as a knocker. Gerome answered with his unfailing courtesy.

"Hullo, Gerome," a fit of coughing interrupted James' greeting.

"Mister James! We didn't know you were coming! You come right in and I'll fix you up with something for that cough."

Before James quite knew how it happened, Gerome had squelched him into Lafe's chair by the fire, thrust a hot toddy into his hands, and watched sternly until he finished every drop. He sat back in the chair with his long legs resting on the fender as he toasted his toes. A sense of peace and homecoming pervaded his being. _Nice to be home again. Nice to know that Gerome never changes. I'd forgotten that he was almost like another uncle; forgotten the warmth and love that pervade this house like a fragrance._

~~~

As James dozed by the fire, Gerome made it clear that no one was to enter the drawing room under the pain of his displeasure. Adria was the first member of the family to return home that afternoon. _Well, that was one of the sillier meetings of the officers' wives. Why on earth must it always be about the veterans, widows, and orphans of the Grand Army of the Republic? Why can't these meetings ever be about some poor struggling concert pianist or the purchase of fine art or something that has nothing to do with supporting the GAR! Well, I suppose the veterans, widows, and orphans are more deserving of our altruism but it does make for a dull day._

As was her habit, Adria went straight to the drawing room in order to check the day's messages. Gerome always placed mail, cards, and assorted invitations in a silver bowl that graced the piano. Adria sorted the bulky pile into "immediate attention", "later attention", and "to be read by somebody else". As she read an invitation from Mrs. Hastings, she became aware of another presence in the room. Startled, she eyed a pair of long legs that were the only visible indication that Lafayette's chair was occupied.

_Oh gracious! There's a man there! Adria MacKendrick, don't be a goose. A thief wouldn't stop his criminal activities to take a nap in Lafe's favorite chair. Anyway, no burglar in his right mind would dare to rob a house under Gerome's guardianship._ Curious, Adria approached the chair and leaned over to view the face of the intruder. His hair was dark flecked with silver and he wore a trim mustache. _Now where have I seen someone sleeping like this? Hmm, Timothy slept like that after he was wounded at Gaines' Mill. He resembles Timothy, legs are certainly almost as long, he'd reach the sky too if he was standing. If Timothy had dark hair instead of light brown, if he had a mustache, and if his face was thinner...well!_

As Adria continued her appraisal, Gerome entered the room in stately disapproval, held the door, and motioned her imperiously out. Adria opened her mouth and was shushed sibilantly by the determined butler. _Shush? SHUSH!? Now reall_ y! She strolled across to the piano where she picked up the rest of the stack of "immediate attention", swept over to the small rosewood desk that faced the fireplace, sat down, and proceeded to ignore Gerome who continued to motion at her in great indignation. _It isn't going to work. Honestly, fond as I am of Gerome, he really does carry this role of family retainer, protector, and confessor too far at times. No, I'm not going to leave so you can just stop flapping your hand at me._

~~~

Timothy had had a bad day. He had never become reconciled to remaining in Washington while Philip Sheridan, George Custer, and most of his peers went to the west or to the various armies of occupation. He was marooned in an office and Sheridan remained implacable. Timothy still bristled over Phil's last note that had arrived with a longer letter.

Stick by Grant. As long as he is in Washington, coping with those damned politicians, Grant needs all the bright, diplomatic Staff he can get. My contribution to Grant's cause is you. So, stop complaining, brush off those fancy manners, and HELP him!

P. H. Sheridan

So, Custer had the troops and Timothy had the politicians. Still, Custer had not been permitted to keep his brevet rank of major general and was bumped back to lieutenant colonel while Timothy, not yet out of his twenties, received his eagles ten months after Appomattox. Apparently, the dash and sparkle that won George his stars and command of the Michigan Volunteers during the War had not worked to his advantage out West. Moreover, he caused Sheridan one headache after another. Every month Timothy received a gloomy letter from his former commander that detailed yet another of Custer's stupidities. Every month Timothy answered; hinting broadly that maybe it was time the General send for reinforcements, preferably at a gallop. Each return letter opened with the same phrase: Stick by Grant.

And what am I supposed to do when General Grant becomes President Grant as events portend? I'm a horse-soldier, trouble is brewing where veteran officers are needed, and I can almost hear the delirious call of the bugles. I'm bloody tired of answering dispatches, directing supplies, being nice to Congressmen at parties, and shuffling useless bits of paper. Of course, Adria is happy with the situation. She can be sickening cheerful at times. I can just hear her.

" _After all, Darling, I have you at home and we have the pleasures of civilization around us. I don't know why you want to get back to the field. Lafe has had a successful military career and he never left the Capital."_

If I could just get it through that lovely, perverse head of hers; there is a huge difference between a strategic genius like Uncle Lafe, who does his finest work at a desk, and a simply pony solider like me, who works best in the saddle.

Timothy entered the house and went straight to the drawing room since that was where the family tended to congregate in the afternoon. As he entered the room, he heard a familiar voice speaking in soft tones. _It can't be! It is!_

Eyes shining, Timothy embraced his older brother who was seated by the fire; talking earnestly with Lafayette. "What are you doing here, James? Why didn't you let us know that you were coming? Can you stay long?"

As Dorothea and Adria entered the drawing room, Timothy glanced at his brother to gauge his reaction to his wife. _Strange, I forgot that James has never met Adria before. He was long gone to the Army of Northern Virginia before she came down on that visit from Boston. Let's see, how will he see her? How would I look at her if I'd never seen her before myself? Tall, slender, carries herself like a princess; her beautiful face framed by hair the color of my bay horse. That amber watered-silk gown suits my sea princess and makes those winter sea eyes warmer. Pale green ribbons hold up that stuff at the back. What did she call it? Oh, polonaise. Women's fashion is the deuce at times, all those fancy words for skirt or jacket. Yes, she is lovely. Hmmm, James must make her nervous since she's chattering a bit. Silly girl, you don't have to make a good impression. He'll love you for my sake. Whoa, slow down, Honey, don't start declaiming as if you were in Congress. James isn't used to forthright women. He's used to gentler, sweeter, adorable Southern gals like his lost Marietta. Whoops, haven't seen James put on the superior air in a long time. Well, I reckon her tones are pretty decisive and she does have a set to that elegant jaw. Yup, I can see that they're not much taken with each other. I love her so much that I sometimes forget. Sweetheart, you really are an opinionated brat sometimes._

~~~

Several idyllic days passed for James. He had not spoken about his dream as yet; there would be time for that later. Now he was content to spend as much time with Dorothea as he could for he had many years to make up. The two of them spent their afternoons together in the drawing room while he told his Aunt about his experiences as an aide to Thomas Jackson and Robert E. Lee. As Dorothea worked on small bits of sewing, she listened closely to his tales of that other War: of the beloved Marse Robert and the idolized Stonewall, of the brilliant Stuart, and the pranks of Fitz Lee. She followed James through First Manassas and shared the weary victory at the sight of the Yankees running. She sympathized with the innumerable hardships faced by the determined men in gray. She smiled over the enjoyment of the literate soldiers for Victor Hugo's masterpiece and the pride with which Marse Robert's men dubbed themselves _Lee's Miserables_ in the book's honor. She empathized with James' pain as he watched barefoot men walk away from Appomattox; leaving blood in their tracks.

Late sunshine spilled erratically across the polished floor and lit the silver streams that wound through Dorothea's dark hair. Dolly's eyes softened in shared pain and triumph as she listened enthralled to the story of James' ride with Stuart after Jackson was shot at Chancellorsville. She had heard the story several times already but never seemed to tire of it.

"I can just picture you galloping reluctantly in Stuart's and Cousin Fitz Lee's ebullient wakes," she snickered. "Sometimes, you really are so dignified, my Darling."

"An opinion Beauty and Fitz shared, usually to my detriment. Cavalrymen, bah; they bounce even off their horses, Aunt Dolly. I had a stiff seat from that ride for a week and to make matters worse, Stuart and his men always sang."

"Sang?"

"They sang before battles, during battles, and on the way home from battles. Stuart even had a fellow named Sweeny in the troop who accompanied them on a banjo. After Chancellorsville, Beauty said that I might, with a great deal of effort, become a passable Cavalryman. However, since I can't sing a note, he sent me back to the Infantry."

~~~

Dorothea's peal of laughter shimmered into the hall. Adria paused to listen to that glad sound and she decided to forego her customary habit of going through the mail. Instead, she slipped into Lafayette's library, selected a book, and sat on the stairs where she could mount guard on the door so that they would not be disturbed. She was sitting on the lower section of the grand staircase when Delia entered, wheeling the double perambulator.

Delia, like Gerome, had been trained at the Randolphs' Rose Hill under the auspices of their legendary butler, Peter. There had been a considerable disagreement between Adria and Timothy as to who would look after their newly acquired twins. Adria had gotten it into her head that only an English nanny would do and had so stated with the full expectancy of her husband's gracious acquiescence. Timothy had gently expressed an interest in bringing one of the Randolph servants up to fill the bill. Adria repeated that she wanted a nanny. Her husband reiterated the preference for a mammy. Adria's voice got more decisive while Timothy's grew softer and chillier. Before either quite knew how it happened, they were engaged in a full-blown verbal battle so violent that Lafayette and Dorothea fled to the sanctuary of their own bedroom. Timothy had never told Adria 'no' before and his having done so this time shocked her. She discovered that her affable husband had a rather severe temper when he let it go and she had capitulated finally from sheer exhaustion when it became clear that he was perfectly willing to out-last her own tantrum.

"Come and say hello to your Mama," said the coffee-colored victor of the Nurse War. "Would you like to kiss the boys, Miss Adria?"

"Umm, perhaps later, after they've had their naps and baths and things," Adria was not possessed of a maternal nature and she considered the entire business of child bearing as messy, undignified, and downright painful.

That Adria had produced twin boys with shocking ease did nothing to change her opinion of the whole sordid nonsense. She did not enjoy caring for the babies either and gave Delia a free hand in the rearing of her sons, Randolph and Philip. She had to admit that Delia had been the ideal person after all. The slender young woman, not even out of her teens, presented a calm, unruffled temperament to the world that seemed ideal for a nursery that contained two boisterous baby boys. She seemed as well educated as an English nanny and, in Adria's view, had far better grammar than most of Timothy's cousins. She was secretly thankful that Timothy had stuck to his guns in the matter.

Timothy's own interest was only slightly greater. The night of their birth, he had figured out that they would graduate from the Academy along about 1889, kissed her because she was all right, and had then drifted off to see a horse that a friend was selling. Only Dorothea seemed to understand the young couple's lack of enthusiasm with regard to their offspring and she assured Adria that things would be different when the children ceased to be mere babies and became individuals. Adria remained unconvinced.

Delia, after another unsuccessful attempt to enthuse Adria, took her charges upstairs.

Adria stayed on the stairs most of the afternoon and read. The steps were getting a trifle hard when Timothy arrived. He started for the drawing room.

"Timothy, don't go in there," she called in a low voice.

"You look like a little girl who has been sent out of the schoolroom to be punished. What exactly have you been up to?"

"Dolly and James are in the drawing room and I didn't want them to be disturbed."

Timothy lounged beside her on the step. "That was thoughtful of you, Darling. I'm glad he came home in time to be with Dolly a little. After all, we had her with us for our comfort during the War; he deserves some," his voice broke and he turned his face against her bosom.

_I thought I was the only one who noticed how frail Dorothea has become. Why, he's crying. He's so lighthearted most of the time. I always forget that he's a sensitive soul too._ "My poor Timothy, you mustn't let Dorothea see that you know. It would only distress her."

He sat up abruptly and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes with a boyish gesture.

Adria's heart crimped with foolish love for this strange mixture of capable soldier and impulsive youth that she had married. She took out her handkerchief and began to mop up his face. Impatiently, he pushed her hand away.

"Oh Timothy, stop behaving like a fool, I'm not going to damage that precious masculine pride of yours."

"Adria, I can blow my own nose. If you want to wipe something go see if one of the twins needs mopping."

"Honestly, Timothy, you are the most exasperating man sometimes. Here, TAKE my handkerchief," Adria surged to her feet.

Her heel caught in the hem of her gown. As she toppled, she tried to catch the banister but missed her grip and landed squarely on her astonished husband's head. The impetus of her tumble sent them both to the bottom of the stairway. She had him pinned and was horrified by his peculiar gurglings. "Dear God, I've killed him! Timothy, Timothy ANSWER me!"

James and Dorothea, alarmed by her cries, hurried into the hall. Adria was on her knees tugging ineffectually at Timothy's shoulders. James went to her aid and turned his brother over. Timothy was laughing too hard to get up. Adria, deciphering the meaning of her husband's strange noises, gave him a healthy boot in the rear and flounced up the stairs.

"Oh, ow!" exclaimed Timothy as his wife's slender foot registered sharply upon his posterior. "Never marry a girl from Boston, James. That one kicks like an Army mule."

~~~

After several attempts, James hauled Timothy to his feet while Dorothea's eyes sparkled with merriment. She linked her hands through their arms and kissed first one and then the other.

"It IS nice having both of my boys at home!" she declared and went upstairs to rest a bit before dinner.

"I need a drink," sighed Timothy heavily as he watched his Aunt's slow ascent.

James followed his brother to Lafayette's library where the decanters lived.

"Bourbon? Whiskey?"

"Brandy and James, make it a stiff one," Timothy sat in the heavy leather wing chair by the fireplace.

A small fire was burning and it proved to be a cozy nook for unwinding. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes while James poured out the brandies and settled in the matching wing chair. He nudged his younger brother with his foot and pressed the glass into his hand. "What is it, Timothy?"

"I'm wasting away here in Washington while Sheridan copes with glory hunting incompetents. On top of that there is this business with Dorothea. James, she's the only mother we have. I can't bear to think of her leaving us. Oh God, life was so much easier in the Cavalry. Sometimes, I even wish I was back in the Shenandoah," Timothy placed the full glass on the floor and covered his face with his hands.

_Even back in the Shenandoah. Yes, I imagine that hit you pretty hard, Brother of mine. It must have cost you a lot to help Sheridan butcher our very way of life. Back in '61 when you didn't follow Beauty, Fitz, and me into the gray, I wondered just as they did. How could a Virginian stay with the Union? You and Lafe both. We talked about it a lot all those nights in camp when we were too hungry or scared to sleep. We even talked to Cousin Bobby Lee about it. He summed it up in one word for Lafe and I know it's the same word for you: duty. You and Lafe both believe those words we all learned at West Point: duty, honor, country. Those weren't mere words to you. You took them seriously and you'll always hold to your oath, Timothy. I reckon that makes you a better soldier than I, maybe a better man. It makes me damn proud to be your brother. You were all of twenty when you graduated and then had to make that choice within a few months. Where did you get the strength to go against all of our friends and kin, I wonder, when you stayed with the Union and the rest of us fled to defend Virginia from Lincoln and his Army? How did you endure the Shenandoah campaign with Sheridan and not break? Someday, I'm going to have to write to Sheridan and ask him how he kept your soul intact through those four bitter years. How he even kept you alive. God knows, even kept close to his side, you had your adventures._ "I'm a little surprised that you're in Washington instead of with Sheridan, Timothy. During the War, we thought the pair of you almost inseparable."

"' _Stick to Grant'_ ," Timothy mimicked Sheridan's gruff voice.

"What?"

"My current orders. I'm supposed to stay put on General Grant's Staff. I have no idea why. He doesn't need me; he still has his own aides from the War. He doesn't give me a lot to do other than file things or carry an occasional message. I'm also expected to sit in on an informal discussion with him every Tuesday and Thursday promptly at three o'clock in his office regardless of who he has in there with him. Topics range from our various battles in the War, British actions in the Crimea, the Revolution, and Napoleon. Once, Grant even brought in a box of tin soldiers, fixed up a table with sand, and refought Chickamauga. Only this time, General Longstreet was there to provide insight into what he was doing on the other side. You should have seen them, James, two old warhorses moving toy soldiers and Artillery pieces over little waves of sand."

James laughed. "What did you do? Stand to the side and refresh the whiskey glasses or did you just have to relight their cigars?"

Timothy sighed. "No, I was expected to verify that the terrain was accurate and to correct any troop dispositions that were not in their appropriate and historical position. Oh, there's the List too. General Grant told me that whatever else I may do on his Staff, my primary responsibility is to work through the List."

"What List?"

Timothy sighed and went over to the desk that now sat catty-corner to Lafe's. On it were several tidy stacks of papers and several books. Timothy picked up a document several pages in length and returned to his chair. He handed it to James. "James, may I present the List. List, this is James."

James scanned the paper in his hand. It was a list that contained only titles. Some were of books, some were of articles, many appeared to be post-battle assessments as well as a series of tactical and strategic monographs written by some of the most famous names in either Army.

A cluster of titles caught his eye. Titles he had once had access to as Robert E. Lee's aide. "Timothy, these are from James Longstreet. Orders, battle configurations, plans and operations, post-battle analyses...where did you get your hands on these?"

"Those are compliments of General Longstreet. He made it very clear that I am to treat them carefully and return them to him intact. Some are originals and he doesn't have copies. So, I decided to make copies for him. I might as well. Apparently, I have no other useful duties at the moment."

_My God, I was right. Longstreet and Lee were right! They didn't give him a command because they didn't want to risk him any more than was necessary. Does Timothy even realize what they're doing with him now? He had three years to learn tactics with Sheridan, one of the best at making rapid fire assessments in the chaos of a changing battlefield. Now, he's been handed over to Grant. The same Grant who devised a new type of strategy far different from the classic model we studied at West Point. They're training Timothy. They're putting him through some sort of advanced training that will take that mind of his and burnish it so that...what? A new type of officer for this new age of war craft that was ushered in not just by Grant but by the generals of my own Army? Look what Stuart did with Cavalry. He changed the entire way cavalry actions are fought and damned near defeated the Union in the process. My own Jackson and what he accomplished before he was killed. Robert E. Lee who worked miracle after miracle against a force that vastly outnumbered him in men and materials. Timothy isn't in Washington to be Grant's aide. He's here to study under the best military minds to which Grant can expose him. It's almost as if he's at the Academy again but at a much higher level. What I wouldn't give to have had this opportunity; except I'm not my brother and I would have been lost by now._ "I envy you, Timothy."

"Me, what for?"

"You don't realize even now, do you?" James smiled.

"Realize what?"

"Your brilliance and your greatness."

"Who me?"

"Yes, you. There's a reason they didn't give you a command during the War."

"I know. Gaines' Mill."

"Possibly, but not for the reason you think."

"Oh? What is your theory? Mine is that I proved to be reckless and a bit incompetent so they weren't about to trust me with another command."

"Nonsense. How was it reckless to obey orders and attack Fitz Lee's brigade? All right, you were wounded. It happens. That's just the fate on the battlefield. But you weren't wounded running away or disobeying orders, were you?"

"No, of course not."

"Of course not."

"But, why did they make me an aide and then stick me in the Infantry with Sheridan?"

"Because, you silly little beggar, you were the most promising young officer produced by West Point in a generation, maybe two, and they wanted to keep you safe until they could figure out what to do with you."

Timothy's lips parted. "Me!? If either of us can make that claim, James, it's you. I'm just a thick-headed horse-soldier. Besides, if that's the case, they still haven't figured it out. I've been someone's aide now for the past six years."

"Oh, they've figured it out, Son. I suspect they figured it out somewhere in Tennessee. Then it was just a matter of keeping you alive and making sure you learned your craft. You're still learning too. From Grant this time."

"But James, you're much smarter than I am. You were Cadet First Captain. I was only..."

"Sixth in your Class, yes I know."

"Then how can you even begin to..."

"Timothy, I was Cadet First Captain because I was smart and I got the grades. I also kept my nose clean and didn't earn a single demerit. When I was at West Point, I was convinced I was the next military genius. A new 'Marble Model' who would become the standard by which all future officers would measure themselves. I was the one who would command great armies across vast fields and dazzle everyone with my brilliance. But there is a difference between being First Captain, even at West Point, and being a military genius in the actual field. By 1863, I learned that I was just like most of our West Point brethren: a bright, solid military officer, competent for platoon or company leadership. I was intelligent enough to serve as an aide to the truly great generals because I had the ability to communicate their orders comprehensively to their subordinates as well as serve them unselfishly to the best of my ability. Yes, I would be comfortable commanding a company because I would be executing the orders of someone higher in the chain of command. I'm decent at tactics and I proved that at First Manassas. But, Timothy, I could no more have formulated those orders at Jackson's level of command than I could have flown to the moon. Even that time I rode with Stuart after Jackson was wounded, I learned that I was no match for our great generals. Class placement does not predict a man's success in the field, Timothy. Look at Grant and Sheridan. Both were near the bottom and yet their ability to prosecute a new style of warfare brought my Army to its knees. As for you, they had to put you somewhere to give you experience but they didn't want to risk your neck at the platoon or company level where young lieutenants tend to have a high mortality rate. They also wanted you to learn, Timothy. They still do. Your List is proof of that."

"If I was with Sheridan or one of the armies of occupation, I'd still be learning," Timothy said a bit sulkily.

"Policemen's work," scoffed James. "You don't need to learn that, Timothy, any competent officer can do that with his eyes closed. No, you've been marked for bigger and better things."

"Such as?"

"How should I know? I'm not in the creative minority. Hell, I'm not even in uniform now," _God, I have to get back. Now, more than ever. Whatever they've marked him for, how much more satisfying to be a part of it, even a small part, than to have to sit on the sidelines and just watch as my brother reaches for his destiny. I can't live as a civilian any longer. I have to be with my own kind again, with my own comrades._ "I can imagine working at the War Department is tiresome, Timothy. Cavalry is harder than serving a desk but at least there you've got company. Although I prefer the Infantry, I was under fire with Stuart a couple of times. I never understood your love for Cavalry until I rode with Beauty and Fitz Lee."

Timothy snorted. "At least with them, you got a good taste of it. There were no finer Cavalrymen in EITHER army."

"Timothy, I came to Washington for a reason. I want you to get me back into the Army. I can't go on like this any longer. I need to be home and you of all people should understand. Look how frustrated you are here in Washington. You are still entitled to wear the uniform. I have to get back, 'Mothy, any way that I can!" James rose and went to the window and looked out at the garden that had emerged from its winter sleep.

Timothy stared at the grate a moment and then joined his brother at the window. He put a hand on James' shoulder. He had always been taller by an inch once they were grown. It seemed more now that James had been out of uniform and huddled over a store counter.

"You were a Confederate colonel, James."

"What of it? Are you telling me that you won't risk your own precious career to help me?"

"My career is nothing compared to you, James. How could you even think that? I just want you to appreciate the difficulties. If President Lincoln had lived and the South had rejoined the Union under his plans, I could probably have gotten you that company you mentioned. I could try to get something through General Grant but he has his hands full with this ridiculous political situation where President Johnson is feuding with his Secretaries of War. I think I can get you into the Cavalry, James, but..."

James turned to him eagerly; his thin face transformed by hope into a boyish glow. "I don't mind the Cavalry."

"It isn't that, James. You won't be an officer. You'll have to go in as a trooper."

James stood transfixed by Lafe's glistening desk. Then he threw back his head and began to laugh. Loud and long he laughed in pure relief. "Oh, 'Mothy, if you could just see your face," he panted.

"You mean you don't mind?"

"Of course I mind but not enough to turn my back on a chance to wear the uniform again," James collapsed in Lafe's desk chair while his hearty laughter brought on another violent coughing spasm.

Timothy came to the rescue with James' brandy. James took the glass while Timothy perched on the windowsill; swinging a long leg.

"Besides," James remarked with a touch of his old arrogance. "I'll bet I make sergeant within the year."

Timothy toasted him with a grin.

Something occurred to James. "They don't sing in YOUR Cavalry, do they?"

"Not very often with Sheridan," Timothy sputtered.

###

Thank you for reading this book in the **Black Knights of the Hudson** ( **BKH** ) series. I hope you enjoyed it.

Discover other books in the saga of the MacKendricks: ( _http://graysguidons.grayarmybrat.com/?page_id=12_ )

**BKH Book I:** _Shadow of the Flags_ _(1860 - 1868)_

**BKH Book II:** _Boots and Saddles (1868 - 1883)_

**BKH Book III:** _Changing of the Guard (1885 - 1898)_

**BKH Book IV:** _Long Gray Line (1901 \- 1915)_

**BKH Book V:** _War Clouds in the East (1915 - 1917)_

**BKH Books Forthcoming** _(1917 - 1946)_

**Cover Art:** The building used in the cover art depicts the Cadet Chapel located at the United States Military Academy at West Point, New York. Although it was not completed until 1910, its classic neo-gothic architecture serves as an iconic symbol for the Long Gray Line. ( _Reference and public domain photograph from the Wikipedia article "West Point Cadet Chapel"_ ).

**About the Author:** Beverly C. Gray is the youngest child of a career U.S. Army officer and his wife. She was born in Paris, France while her father was stationed at SHAPE. She grew up in Hawaii and earned her B.A. and M.A. in History at Western Washington University, Bellingham, WA. The focus of those degrees was U.S., British, and Roman History with an emphasis in military history, cultural history, and the history of technology. Although she has been a technical writer/editor for an Engineering firm for almost thirty years, she has never outgrown her passion for history and historical research. Writing Historical Fiction satisfies her yen to learn more about the past and enables her to live in different eras via her characters.
