Talliser saluted Faulconer by touching a gloved hand to his hat brim, then fetched a packet of papers from his saddlebag. "Marching orders, General. Reckon you'll be busy packing up tonight."
"Marching orders?" Faulconer repeated the words as though he did not understand their meaning.
Talliser held on to the orders, offering a scrap of paper and a pencil instead. "I need your signature first, General. Or someone's signature."
Faulconer took the proffered paper and scribbled his name to confirm that General Jackson's orders had indeed been received. "Where are we going?" he asked as he took the orders.
"North, sir, over the river," Talliser said, tucking the receipt into a pouch on his belt.
"You'll eat with us, Talliser?" Faulconer asked, gesturing toward the farmhouse, where his cooks were busy preparing supper.
"Real kind of you, General," Talliser said, "but I should be getting back."
"You'll surely take a glass of something before you go?"
"A glass of water would be real kind." Talliser was not one of Jackson's favorite aides for nothing. He swung himself out of his saddle and winced at the soreness in his legs. "Been a long day, sir, a real long day."
Faulconer turned and was about to shout for Nelson, his servant, then remembered that the wretched man had not yet returned from his errand to Faulconer Court House.
"Moxey," he said instead, "before you go to McComb's Tavern, be kind enough to fetch a glass of water for Captain Talliser."
But Moxey was no longer paying attention. Moxey was instead staring slack-jawed and wide-eyed past the farmhouse. Slowly Moxey's hand began to point; then he tried to speak, but the only sound he could make was an incoherent stammer.
"What the hell?" Medlicott frowned at Moxey's pathetic display; then he, too, turned and looked south. "Oh, dear Christ!" he blasphemed; then he began to run away.
Just as the Yankees opened fire.
It all started so much more easily than Major Galloway had dared to hope. The raiders, riding in column of pairs, stole through the dank twilight to the empty road that stretched between the rebel encampment and the crossroads, where dim candlelights gleamed behind the tavern's windows. No one saw the cavalrymen move through the half-light, and no one challenged them as they urged their horses up the small embankment that edged the road. Galloway chuckled as he heard singing coming from the tavern. "Someone's sure having a good time," the Major said, then turned to Captain Blythe. "Billy? Take your men south a little. Just make sure no one from the tavern interferes with us. And listen for our bugle."
Blythe touched his hat and turned his horse southward. "You take care now, Major," he called softly as he led his men away.
The rest of Galloway's Horse rode north. The horses' hooves sank into the mud, but the going was not nearly as difficult as Galloway had feared. In winter, once the snow and ice had thawed, Virginia's unmacadamed roads could become impassable strips of filthy mud while in summer they could be baked hard enough to lame a well-shod horse, but this day's rain had merely served to turn the top few inches glutinous. A small and smoky fire burned under some trees fifty yards ahead, and Galloway guessed it marked the southernmost picket of the Faulconer Brigade. The Major eased his saber in its scabbard, licked his lips, and noted how the clouds were already reflecting the great swath of campfires that burned to the east and north. Those to the east were rebel fires, while the ones across the river were the lights of Pope's army. Only a few hours more, Galloway thought, and his men would be safe back in those Northern lines.
"Who the hell's there?" a voice challenged from the shadows some yards short of the fire.
Galloway, his heart thumping, reined in his horse. "Can't see a damned thing," he answered as unconventionally as the picket had challenged him. "Who in tarnation are you?" There was the unmistakable sound of a rifle being cocked; then a man in rebel gray stepped out from the cover of the trees. "Who are you, mister?" the man returned Galloway's question. The sentry looked scarce a day over sixteen. His coat hung loose on his shoulders, his trousers were held up by a frayed length of rope, and the soles of his boots had separated from their uppers.
"Name's Major Hearn, Second Georgia Horse," Galloway said, plucking a regiment's name from his imagination, "and I'm sure glad you boys are Southerners else we'd have been in something wicked close to trouble." He chuckled. "You got a light, son? My cigar's plumb cold."
"You got business here, sir?" the nervous sentry asked. "Forgive me, son, but I should have told you. We're carrying dispatches for General Faulconer. Is he anywhere about?"
"Another man just came with dispatches," the sentry said suspiciously.
Galloway laughed. "You know the army, son. Never send one man to do a job properly when twenty men can do it worse. Hell, wouldn't surprise me if our orders countermanded his orders. We'll have you boys marching in circles all week long. Now, how do I find the General, son?"
"He's just up the road, sir." The sentry's suspicions had been entirely allayed by Galloway's friendliness. There was a pause while he made his rifle safe and slung the weapon on his shoulder. "Did you ride with Jeb Stuart, sir?" The picket's voice was touched with awe.
"I just guess we did, son," Galloway said, "clean round the Yankees. Now have you got that light for my cigar?"
"Sure have, sir." The picket ran back to the fire and snatched a piece of wood out of the flames. The fire flared up, revealing two other men huddled in the shadows beyond.
"Sergeant Darrow?" Galloway called softly.
"Sir?"
"Take care of them when we're past. No noise now."
"Yes, sir."
The picket brought the flame back to Galloway, who bent toward it to light his cigar. Like all his men Galloway had a cloak drawn tight around his uniform. "Thank you, son," he said when the cigar was drawing. "Straight on up the road, you say?"
"Yes, sir. There's a farmhouse there."
"You keep dry tonight, son, you hear me?" Galloway said, then rode on. He did not look back as Darrow and his men disabled the picket. There was no gunfire, just a sickening series of thumps followed by silence. To Galloway's right was the wagon park where the Faulconer Brigade's ammunition was stored, while ahead, beyond a stand of dripping trees, he could see the farmhouse and tents that marked the Faulconer Brigade's headquarters. Galloway curbed his horse to let Adam's troop catch up with him. "You go on now," he told Adam, "and burn the farmhouse."
"Must I?" Adam asked.
Galloway sighed. "If it's being used by the enemy, Adam, yes. If it's full of women and children, no. Hell, man, we're at war!"
"Yes, sir," Adam said and rode on.
Galloway drew on his cigar and walked his horse in among the supply wagons, where a dozen black teamsters sat beneath a crude shelter made from a tarpaulin stretched between two pairs of wagon shafts. A small fire flickered in the shelter's opening. "How are you in there, boys?" Galloway asked as he peered past the fire's smoke, "and where do I find the ammunition?"
"The white carts, master, over there." The man who answered was whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a woman's head. "You got an order from the quartermaster, sir?"
"Fine carving that, real fine. Me, I never could whittle. Guess I don't keep the blade sharp enough. Sure I got orders, boy, all the orders you'll ever want. My sergeant will give 'em to you." Galloway waved at the teamsters, then walked his horse on toward the nearest ammunition cart that was painted white and had a hooped cover of dirty canvas. As Galloway rode he took a length of fuse from his saddlebag and a linen bag of gunpowder from a pouch. He pushed one end of the fuse into the gunpowder, then drew aside the wet canvas flap at the back of the cart to reveal a pile of ammunition boxes. He rammed the bag between two of the wooden boxes, then touched the glowing tip of his cigar to the fuse's end. He waited a second to make sure the fuse was burning, then let the canvas curtain drop.