Wm Howard's Blog - Posts Tagged "western"

The Maryland night, even behind enemy lines, held a certain humid stillness, broken only by the rhythmic creak of saddle leather and the muffled thud of hooves on damp earth. We rode in the shadow of a low ridge, a dozen of Mosby’s Rangers, a grim and silent cavalry, our faces set, our eyes scanning the gloom. I, Elijah Morrison, a Virginia cavalier, felt the familiar thrill and tension knotting in my gut, a peculiar blend of apprehension and an almost reckless exhilaration that only these daring raids could stir.

“Hold up,” Mosby's voice, a low rasp, cut through the quiet. Ahead, through the skeletal branches of a winter-bare forest, a faint, flickering light pulsed. “There she is, boys. The iron snake.”

The target was a Union supply train, rumored to be laden with provisions for the Army of the Potomac, rumbling its way through a vulnerable stretch of track near a small crossroads settlement. Our mission: disrupt, destroy, and demoralize.

We dismounted in a thicket of pines, the resinous scent clinging to the brisk air. As usual, Mosby’s plan was simple: a swift, brutal strike. Cut the wires, set the charges, hit the train hard, then scatter like quail into the vast, sheltering darkness. I checked the action on my Kerr revolver, the heavy revolver feeling perfectly balanced in my hand, and adjusted the wide brim of my hat. My buckskin mare snorted softly, sensing the impending action with a relish that equaled my own.

“Remember, gentlemen,” Mosby murmured, his eyes glinting in the faint starlight, “hit hard and ride fast. And keep your powder dry.”

The signal was a single, piercing whistle. Then, all hell broke loose.

We burst from the treeline like a bolt of lightning. The air instantly filled with the roar of thundering hooves and the Rebel Yell, the staccato bark of our revolvers, and the answering crackle of Union picket fire, adding punctuation to the unfolding drama. The headlight of the train, a baleful eye, loomed through the smoke and confusion. I spurred my mount forward, charging towards the railway embankment, the world a maelstrom of sound and fury.

Dust and cordite were thick in my throat, explosions ripped through the night as charges planted by the advance party detonated, tearing up segments of track and sending shrapnel whistling; some of it quite near my own head. The behemoth of iron and steam screeched to a halt, its whistle letting out a dying wail. Union soldiers, caught flat-footed, poured out of the cars, their blue uniforms stark against the flashes of gunfire.

My revolver bucked in my hand, dropping a bewildered infantryman. I reloaded on the run, my senses sharpened to a razor's edge amidst the chaos. I saw one of our men fall, brave but unlucky, and another leap onto a supply car, axing open a crate of what looked like flour. It was pure, unadulterated pandemonium, a glorious, terrifying dance of destruction.

Then, through a sudden lull in the smoke, I saw her.

She was huddled by the side of a small wooden shack, no more than a few yards from the tracks. A young woman, no older than twenty, her modest dress torn, her dark hair disheveled, and her face streaked with dirt and terror. She was caught, truly caught, between two circles of hell. The hail of lead whistling through the air was like the blast of a dozen scatterguns all at once. A stray bullet splintered the wood next to her head, and she cried out, a small, raw sound that cut through the din of battle.

My gentleman’s instincts, honed since childhood in the tidewater manors of Virginia, seized me. This was no soldier, no combatant. This was a civilian, a woman in dire peril. The raid, the mission, faded in that moment. All that mattered was getting her to safety.

“Hold on, ma’am!” I called out, my voice barely audible above the din, and charged towards her.

She saw me coming, a Confederate devil on horseback, my face grim with purpose, my revolver still smoldering. Her eyes, wide and terrified, registered not a rescuer, but another threat, perhaps even worse. As I reached her, she let out a strangled shriek and tried to scramble away, her small hands pushing weakly against my arm as I reached for her.

I didn’t have time for explanations. The train was burning, Union soldiers were regrouping, and our boys were starting to pull back. I moved with practiced swiftness, one arm wrapping around her waist. “Quiet, girl! I mean you no harm!” I commanded, my voice firm but not unkind.

She was surprisingly light as I scooped her up, a bundle of frantic nerves and fear, and swung her onto the saddle in front of me. Her struggles intensified, small fists beating against my chest, a desperate, guttural sob escaping her lips. I gripped her firmly, one hand on the reins, the other holding her secure. “Hush, I say! I ain’t gonna hurt you!”

My mount responded to the pressure of my knees, leaping forward, away from the immediate fray. We rode hard for a few frantic minutes, the sounds of the battle slowly receding behind us, replaced by the steady drumming of hooves and the ragged gasps of the woman in my arms. I veered off the main retreat path, heading for a small, overgrown copse I’d noted on our approach, a place of relative concealment.

When we finally drew rein beneath the gnarled branches of an old oak, the silence felt deafening. The moon, now higher, cast long, silvery shadows. The woman, still trembling, slowly eased her struggles. I dismounted first, then gently helped her down, careful not to touch her more than necessary. She stumbled, gazing at me with a mixture of terror and utter bewilderment.

“Are you… what do you want with me?” Her voice was a fragile whisper, hoarse with fear.

I removed my hat, my heart aching at the raw terror in her eyes. "Good heavens, no, ma’am," I drawled, my voice as calm and reassuring as I could make it. "My name is Elijah Morrison, a captain in the Confederate States Army. I saw you in the midst of that... that hell, and I could not leave you to your fate in good conscience."

She just stared, her chest heaving, tears silently tracking through the grime on her cheeks. "You… you took me… you were so fast…"

"There was no time for pleasantries, I fear," I explained, gesturing vaguely towards the distant glow of the burning train. "I had to remove you from harm’s way." I took a careful step back, giving her space. "Are you injured, ma’am? A cut, a bruise, perhaps?"

She shook her head slowly, still wary, but a flicker of understanding dawning in her eyes. "No… no, I don't think so. Just… frightened." She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering despite the mild night air. "I live… I live in that house, by the tracks. My pa works for the railroad. I was just fetching water…"

"A terrible place to be, miss, when Mosby’s men come calling," I said softly, the faint wisp of a smile touching my lips. "May I inquire your name?"

"Sarah," she whispered, her gaze still fixed on my face, searching. "Sarah Miller."

"It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Miller, though I regret the circumstances. Speaking of water." I reached into my saddlebag, pulling out my canteen. "You look as if you could use a drink."

She hesitated for a long moment, then slowly reached out, her fingers brushing mine as she took the canteen. She drank deeply, greedily, the water splashing down her chin. As she lowered it, some of the tension eased from her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said, her voice a little stronger now. "I… I truly thought… I thought you were one of them. One of the raiders, come to…" She trailed off, unable to voice the thought.

"I am one of the raiders, Miss Miller," I said gently, "but I am also a gentleman. And a gentleman does not allow a lady to perish in a hail of bullets, regardless of her politics or his." I paused, then continued, "Are you well enough to make your way back? The fighting should be over, but Union patrols will be out searching, I assure you."

Her eyes widened again. "I… I can't go back there. My pa… what if he was…?"

"We struck the train, Miss Miller, not the houses," I reassured her. "And the soldiers were our target. Your father, if he were not on the train, should be safe in his home. But it would be wise to wait until morning light to check." I scanned our surroundings. "There’s a small, abandoned cabin about a half-mile north of here. It’s little more than a shack, but you could shelter there until dawn."

Her gaze met mine, suddenly vulnerable. "Can you… take me there?"

My orders were clear: regroup with the others. But what was my honor worth if not to protect the innocent? "Of course, Miss Miller. It would be my pleasure."

The walk to the cabin was quiet. Sarah walked a few paces behind me, still wary but no longer outright terrified. I kept my senses alert for any approaching patrols. The cabin was crude, long abandoned, but it offered shelter. I pushed open the creaking door.

"It's not much, I'm afraid," I said, stepping aside for her. "But it will keep the dew off you. I must rejoin my command."

She turned, her face silhouetted against the faint moonlight. "You're leaving, then?" There was a strange note in her voice, perhaps disappointment, perhaps just lingering fear.

"As much as I would like to keep you company, Miss Miller," I replied, a pang of reluctance in my chest. "Duty calls and Mosby's Ghosts do not linger."

“You are a ghost, then?” she smiled as she asked the question. It was radiant, the sort that made a man want to put down roots right where he stood.

“Reckon I am, ma’am,” I responded, my lips parting with a broad grin.

“So, you will simply fade into the night, then?”

“I’m afraid it is the way of things in our spot in history.”

“I suppose it is.”

Feeling a pang of regret in my chest, I steeled myself against my emotions, swept my hat from my head in a flourish and bowed. "May God keep you safe, Sarah Miller."

"And you, Captain Morrison," she said softly, her eyes holding mine for a beat longer than necessary. Then she slipped inside the cabin.

I mounted, turning my mare’s head back towards the general direction of our retreat. The image of Sarah, small and vulnerable, then resolute in her fear, clung to me. Her simple courage, her quiet beauty, had touched something within me, a part that war had long sought to harden.

The ride back to the rendezvous point was a solitary one. The moon sailed high, casting the Maryland countryside in ghostly silver. My comrades would be well ahead, leaving me to catch up. But I didn't mind. My thoughts were consumed by Sarah. Her wide, frightened eyes, the way her hair framed her face, and the quiet dignity with which she accepted my help. She was a breath of fresh air in a world choked with smoke and powder, a poignant reminder of the life we were fighting for, a life of peaceful farms and quiet homes, not burning trains and desperate charges.

I found myself wondering if she was truly safe, if her father was unharmed, if she would ever think of the Confederate cavalier who had plucked her from the jaws of chaos. It was foolish, perhaps, in the midst of a war, to dwell on such a fleeting encounter. But her image had imprinted itself upon my mind, a fragile bloom in a field of thorns.

My reverie was abruptly shattered.

My mount, usually so steady, shied suddenly, her ears flicking forward. A low whinny, not her own, echoed from the dense line of trees to my left. Then, a voice, sharp and guttural, cut through the night.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

Union. A patrol. I could feel the cold dread creeping up my spine. Too close. I must have strayed too far to the west, lost in my thoughts of Sarah. My hand instinctively went to my Colt.

"Answer, Rebel, or we fire!"

There were at least three of them, maybe more, their dark shapes emerging from the shadows, carbines already raised. I could see the glint of steel, the pale oval of a face. They’d spotted me before I’d spotted them.

"Virginia!" I roared, the old battle cry escaping my lips before I could think. It was a challenge, a declaration.

And then I dug my spurs into the flanks of my mount.

She surged forward with a burst of power, a loyal battle mare, knowing instinctively what was required. Shots immediately rang out, tearing through the air around me. I leaned low in the saddle, making myself a smaller target, the wind whipping past my ears.

"Get him! He's one of Mosby's devils!" a voice shouted, closer now.

I twisted in the saddle, drawing my revolver and firing back, not aiming for a killing shot, but to disrupt, to sow confusion. One of the blue-clad figures stumbled, and another let out a curse. My aim, even at a gallop in the dark, was true.

They gave chase, their horses thundering behind me. The terrain was broken, a mix of open fields and scattered groves of trees, perfect for a mounted pursuit. I pushed my buckskin mare hard, demanding everything she had. She was fast, but they were fresh, and the odds were against me.

"Fan out! Don't let him get into the woods!"

I ignored them, my eyes scanning ahead, looking for any advantage, any cover. A small, winding creek lay ahead, its banks thick with reeds. Risky, but it was my best shot. I guided my mount towards it, forcing her to leap the narrow, rocky stream, the splash echoing in the night. The Union riders hesitated for a moment, then plunged in after me.

I fired another shot, reloading smoothly as I rode, the process second nature. The metallic click of the cylinder in the darkness was a strangely comforting sound. One of the pursuing riders let out a cry of pain. Good. Fewer of them to worry about.

They were closing. I could hear the panting of their horses, the clatter of their gear. I risked a glance over my shoulder. Two men, determined, riding hard. Their carbines flashed again, bullets whining past my head like angry bees.

I had to lose them.

Ahead, a dense patch of forest rose, a dark, impenetrable wall. But I knew its secrets. I’d scouted this area before. There was a deer path, barely visible, that would lead me to higher ground, offering a vantage point and a chance to escape.

I spurred my mount again, driving her into the trees, ducking beneath low branches that scraped against my hat and shoulders. The Union riders, less familiar with the terrain, hesitated at the dense treeline. I heard their frustrated shouts, their horses snorting nervously.

"He went into the woods! Keep after him!"

I plunged deeper, trusting my mare's instincts, her hooves finding purchase on the uneven ground. The path twisted and turned, ascending gradually. I could hear them crashing through the undergrowth behind me, their pursuit less organized now. My revolver was empty, and I had no more cartridges to load. I holstered it, drawing my saber instead. If it came to it, I would not be taken easily.

But it wouldn't come to that. Slowly, steadily, the sounds of their pursuit faded. The climb grew steeper, then leveled out. I reached the crest of a hill, a dark silhouette against the waning moon. Below, I could hear nothing but the rush of the wind through the pines. They had given up.

I allowed the buckskin mare to slow to a walk, patting her neck, feeling the powerful muscles tremble beneath my hand. "Good girl, my beauty," I murmured, "you saved us again."

We rode on, leaving Maryland behind, finally crossing into the familiar territory of Virginia as dawn broke. The first rays of the sun painted the eastern sky in hues of rose and gold, the world awakening, new and clean. I was exhausted, bone-weary, but alive.

And even as the rising sun burned away the last vestiges of the night's danger, the image of Sarah Miller was foremost in my thoughts. The daring raid, the thundering escape – they were the kind of adventures a cavalier lived for. But that brief, quiet moment with her was what truly resonated. It was a memory I would carry, a silent promise to the very ideals I fought for—a true son of Virginia.

Riding with the Gray Ghost
Episode 2: Trapped by Yankees

The phantom crackle of gunfire and the distant, fading shouts of the Yankee pursuit were behind him for the moment. John Munson, astride his weary mount, Pilgrim, felt the familiar thrum of adrenaline slowly give way to a cold, creeping dread. It had been a good raid, swift and punishing, hitting a Union supply wagon train southwest of Manassas, scattering their escort like quail. However, in the chaos of the withdrawal, in the smoke and the thunder of hooves, Munson had taken a wrong turn, pushing Pilgrim a little too hard, and a little too far to the east. The familiar sounds of his comrades faded behind him, replaced by something far more sinister.

He’d ridden straight into a trap.

Prince William County, in that spring of '63, was a chessboard of life and death, its rolling hills, dense oak forests, and winding creeks offering both sanctuary and snare. Munson had been dashing through a narrow defile, hoping to double back, when the first volley of shots ripped through the pines ahead. He reined Pilgrim in hard; the gelding skidded to a halt, then wheeled around. But the way back was cut as well. Blue-clad riders, their sabers glinting, emerged from the treeline, shouting commands.

“Hands up, Reb!”

Munson spat a curse. He wasn't one for surrendering. He spurred Pilgrim, pushing him further to the east, aiming for a patch of dense woods he knew held a series of rocky outcrops. He fired his Kerr revolver, a desperate shot that kicked up dust near a Federal horseman, buying him a precious second. He heard the retaliatory shots whine past his ears, felt the wind of a near miss.

The woods offered temporary cover, but as he crashed through the undergrowth, he realized the net was closing in tighter. The shouts were coming from all directions now. The Yankee cavalry, perhaps a detachment from a nearby garrison, had clearly anticipated Mosby’s hit-and-run tactics, setting up a wide cordon with the hope of catching a straggler.

He tried a desperate dash to the north, Pilgrim’s powerful legs churning, but he met another line of skirmishers, their rifles raised. He veered again, west, only to find the terrain closing in, a steep-sided ravine that funneled him back towards the growing clamor of Yankee voices. Each attempt to break through was met with fierce resistance, a wall of determined blue. He fired another shot, reloaded on the move with practiced ease, but his ammunition was finite, his horse’s strength waning. Pilgrim’s flanks were lathered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His proud mount, usually tireless, was flagging.

Munson was a raider, not a fool. He knew when a fight was lost, and this one, alone, against what sounded like an entire troop, was beyond him. He needed cover, time to think, time to breathe. He pushed Pilgrim towards a thicket he'd spotted earlier, a dense tangle of wild roses and ancient cedars near a gurgling tributary of Cedar Run. The shouts of Yankee troops seemed to draw closer, their horses’ hooves drumming a relentless rhythm on the damp earth. He leaned low in the saddle, becoming one with Pilgrim, trusting him to navigate the thorny undergrowth. The branches clawed at his clothes, but the thicket swallowed them whole, providing a sudden, blessed silence.

He dismounted, leading Pilgrim deeper into the shadowed heart of the growth, pulling a blanket over him to muffle her breathing, praying he wouldn't call out to the nearby Yankee horses. He checked the cylinders of his revolver, making sure all held a cartridge, then crouched, listening. His breath came in ragged gulps, his heart hammering against his ribs. The shouts of the Yankee riders were all around him now, curses and commands, the clink of equipment, the snorts of horses. They were so close he could almost hear their breathing. He saw flashes of blue uniforms through the gaps in the foliage, shadows moving. He held his breath, every nerve taut, expecting to be discovered at any moment. His thumb rested on the hammer of his pistol, ready to fight until the last. He wasn’t the type who could abide being tucked away in a Yankee prison.

Time wandered along agonizingly slow. The Yankees nearest him seemed to have moved on, their voices receding, though never quite vanishing. They were still out there, tightening the circle. Surely they knew that he was caught. It was only a matter of time before someone ventured through the tangle of briars that concealed him.

He remained motionless, a hunter in reverse, now the prey. The twilight deepened, painting the woods in shades of grey and violet. A new sound reached him, not the harsh tones of the Yankees, but a faint, almost imperceptible stirring, closer than the Federal patrols. It sounded like a man shifting, perhaps a horse. It was too close to be comfortable. Whoever or whatever it was, perhaps a whitetail buck, it was incredibly stealthy; its movements nearly indistinguishable.

Munson tensed, every muscle coiling. This was it. He raised his pistol, aimed at the vague outline he perceived in the deepening gloom of dusk, ready to spring. He was about to lunge when a low, gravelly voice cut through the stillness.

"You know ol’ man Burns?"

The question hung in the air, unexpected, out of place. Munson froze, his mind reeling. Old man Burns? What the hell… Suddenly, a jolt of recognition, cold and sudden, ran through him. It was the signal. A pre-arranged code among Mosby's scattered rangers, a whispered watchword passed down from their earliest days together. It was meant to identify comrades from enemies should members of the raiders become separated before or after a raid. It meant the voice belonged to one of their own.

Was it possible the Yankees knew their signal? Surely not. His heart still hammered, but the wild, desperate edge to it softened. His voice, though low, was clear and steady when he answered, the words coming easily, as if rehearsed a thousand times. "He's my second cousin on my mama's side."

A pause, then the voice, closer still, edged with a mixture of relief and disbelief. "That you, Muns?"

Munson almost laughed aloud, a sound quickly swallowed by the tension in his throat. "It’s me. Mac?"

From the shadows, a gaunt figure emerged, equally dusty and mud-splattered, a carbine rifle clutched in one hand. It was Noah MacLean, Mac, a man whose quiet demeanor belied a deadly accuracy with any firearm. His horse, a sturdy bay, was hidden just as effectively a few yards away.

"Damn me, Munson, I thought I was seeing ghosts," MacLean whispered, his relief palpable.

“Appears we ghosts ain’t so damned ghostly this evening,” he responded in the same tone.

"Rode right into the same dragnet, you did. Been holed up here for a good bit, listening to those Yanks prance about like they owned the whole county."

Munson nodded, holstering his pistol. "Same here. Thought I was the only one fool enough to get caught out. They've got the whole place sewn up tight."

They huddled together, whispering, the shared predicament, the bond they already knew deepening. MacLean had also been separated from the main body; his horse had gone lame during the raid, forcing him to seek early cover. They recounted their near misses, their desperate attempts to break free. Two raiders, two horses, both exhausted, but both still game. The situation was grim, but no longer hopeless. Two heads, two sets of eyes, two Kerrs, two carbines, two sabers, and two men who knew Mosby’s ways.

"They're thicker than ticks on a hound to the north and west," MacLean murmured, pointing. "Tried to slip through a gap near that old oak. Got a sniper waiting there, quick as a rattler and I reckon just as deadly."

"East is no better," Munson countered. "Ran into a full patrol. Had to double back."

The south was the only direction left to them. However, the land there was more open, rolling pastureland fields of what had been a farm before a dozen or so skirmishes had destroyed everything that grew there. It was risky at best to ride in that direction, exposing themselves to god only knew how many infantrymen firing lead balls meant to even the score for the damage they’d done to that Yankee supply train. But there were also a series of narrow, deep ravines carved out by seasonal rains to escape into if they made it that far.

"They'll be expecting us to stick to the thicket," Munson mused, his eyes scanning the gloom. "Hide until morning when they can just saunter on in here an’ force us to stick our hands in the air.”

“Reckon they’ll have their way if we wait that long.”

“Mac, north, south, east, or west, we gotta move, and we gotta move fast. South is open, but those ravines… they can hide a man, or slow one down.”

MacLean nodded, his lean face grim. "Could be they're lighter there… maybe a charge, a quick push. Catch 'em off guard."

“Could be they’ve thought of that too.”

“We sure can’t run in these thickets,” MacLean mused. “I like our chances better crossing that pasture in the dark.”

They formulated a plan, rapid-fire whispers in the darkness. They would wait until the Yankee patrols thinned out and the deepening of night, where the soldiers penning them in were apt to be huddled near their fires. A quick burst from the brush into the open field while the soldiers were light-blind might give them just enough time.

Once clear of the thicket, they wouldn’t head directly south, but more southwest, aiming for a shallow, overgrown gully that would provide some brief cover before opening into the wider fields where they’d have to sprint ahead of Yankee bullets. Their only advantage would be surprise and their intimate knowledge of the broken terrain near that pasture.

“Your mount able to make that dash?” Munson asked.

“Don’t reckon we got a choice, Muns,” Noah responded, leveling his gaze. His eyes were full of worry. “If he can’t, you’ll be ridin’ back to the boys alone.”

"Five shots each," Munson said, not wanting to respond to the grim thought of what could happen to either of them when they made their dash across that open field. He checked his revolver one more time.

“Better we use them sparingly. Might come a time we need them.”

“Sabers, then?”

MacLean nodded. "We clear a path, and ride like the devil himself is nipping at our heels." MacLean slipped the carbine back into its saddle scabbard, exchanging it for his own Kerr. They’d been together on the raid where they’d opened up a box of the two modern revolvers, and a dozen more like them, early in the war. He checked each of its cylinders methodically, wondering if their plan would be the end for them.

“Alright, we’ll need to divide their attention,” Muson continued. “You go left, I'll take the right. We meet at the head of that first gully."

The air grew colder, the moon a sliver above the treeline. The sounds of the Yankee cordon had diminished, replaced by the distant hoot of an owl and the whisper of the wind through the pines. This was their moment. They mounted their weary but willing horses, readying themselves for the coming sprint.

Deliberately, they worked their way out of the deep tangle of vines and brush that had concealed them and into the dark forest beyond, quietly inching toward the southwest, doing their best to avoid making any sound that might give away their position. Time seemed to be marching toward eternity before they came to the edge of the clearing.

They could see the light of at least a dozen campfires blinking in the open field beyond. They paused, turned to face each other, grim resolution on their faces, and nodded.

"Now," Munson whispered, digging his heels into Pilgrim's flanks.

They burst from the woods, two dark specters erupting from the shadows, a sudden, explosive charge into the unsuspecting night. The silence was shattered. A Yankee sentry slumped against a tree, barely registering their approach before Munson’s Kerr sent him to meet his maker. MacLean was a blur beside him, his mount, despite her lameness, leaped over a fallen log. MacLean’s own pistol spat fire at another shocked Yankee.

“Rebs!” a shout went up, followed by a flurry of confused gunfire.

Munson holstered his pistol, drawing his saber in a fluid motion. The blade glinted in the faint moonlight as he swept it across the path of a charging Yankee horseman, the man crying out as he toppled from his saddle. Pilgrim, despite his exhaustion, drove through the chaos, his hooves pounding the earth. MacLean was a whirlwind of motion, his saber a silver arc, cutting down two more soldiers who tried to block their path.

They were two wings of fury, a coordinated assault from two directions that had the Yankee soldiers disoriented by the sudden, desperate charge from within their cordon. They struggled to aim, organize, and respond to what seemed like an all-out assault from every direction. For crucial seconds, the element of surprise was theirs.

“This way!” MacLean bellowed, veering towards the shallow gully.

They plunged into the depression, the banks offering momentary concealment from the scattered shots behind them. But the chase was on. Bugles blared, and the thunder of pursuing hooves quickly rose to the rear, gaining speed.

MacLean could only pray that the injury to his mount was not a serious one as he plunged ahead, knowing that if she went down, he was done for.

Riding like men possessed, low in their saddles, urging their horses through the broken ground. They were Mosby’s men, bred for this kind of desperate flight. They knew this land. They veered through a stand of thorny bushes the Yankees' larger formation could not hope to navigate, leaped a narrow creek, and then burst out onto the open pastureland beyond.

If their escape was destined to fail, this was the moment of its undoing. Nothing but a sliver of moonlight illuminated their escape, but it also illuminated their pursuers. A dozen Yankee horsemen were hot on their heels, their determined shouts echoing across the fields, the lead from their weapons whistling past their ears. The only advantage of the two raiders was local knowledge. They knew the shortcuts, the hidden paths, the treacherous bog where a horse would become mired. They rode towards a cluster of ancient oaks, then veered sharply, and then vanished into a narrow, winding deer trail that few outsiders would even notice. The Yankees, maintaining their formation, pulling up in confusion, losing precious ground before one of them found where their quarry had slipped away.

Pushing their horses to their limits, the sounds of the pursuit gradually, blessedly, began to fade into the night. They were miles away, deep in familiar territory near Upperville, when they finally reined in their heaving horses. Exhausted, they shared a single, ragged breath of relief and a mischievous grin.

Continuing at a more sedate pace, navigating the familiar lanes and hidden shortcuts, they made it to their rendezvous point. The sun was fully up when they finally saw the tell-tale wisp of smoke from a hidden cook-fire and smelled the faint aroma of coffee.

Into the small, secluded clearing, they rode, their horses spent, their clothes torn, their faces streaked with mud and powder smoke. The familiar faces of Mosby's Rangers looked up, some with startled looks of disbelief and others with broad victorious grins.

Colonel Mosby, the Gray Ghost , stood by a small fire, a cup of coffee in his hand, a wry smile playing on his lips. His sharp eyes took in their disheveled appearance, the lathered horses, the clear signs of a desperate ride. He took a slow sip of his coffee as he studied them.

Then, with a casual shrug, he tossed the dregs from his cup on the ground. "Thought we'd have to fight through a passel of Yankee hounds to get you two wildcats out of a tree."

Note:
This story is part of the Tales from the War Between the States series. For subscription information use this link. https://wmhoward.com