Free Valley of the Shadow: A Novel by Ralph Peters Page A

Washington by now.”
    “You don’t see all the orders he receives from General Lee. Some … border on the fantastic.”
    “Sandie, every hour we waste we’ll pay for in blood. Or failure.” Gordon folded his arms. “Or both.”
    “He smells Washington now, he’s got the scent. He wants to get on with things.” Again, Pendleton hesitated before speaking further. “You really shouldn’t badger him, sir. It doesn’t help.”
    “We should’ve been across that river yesterday. If he only would’ve—” Gordon caught himself sounding like a spoiled child, if not a bully. There was much in what Pendleton had said, he’d known it all before the boy spoke one word. But so much went back to that lost day in the Wilderness, the missed opportunity …
    Gordon softened his voice and his stance, serving up a portion of geniality, however thin the crust.
    “I do ride on ahead of my horse sometimes,” he said with a smile meant to be felt, if not quite seen. “Sandie … if there’s any way I can help the man … genuinely help him…”
    Weighing his words again, Pendleton said, “I’m sure you’ll get your chance, sir.”
    July 9, 1:00 a.m.
    Monocacy Junction
    Weariness pinned him to the floor, but Wallace couldn’t sleep. When tired, he slipped too readily into pessimism. And he was morbidly tired.
    Two additional regiments had arrived from the Baltimore docks, with claims that the rest of their division was on the way from Virginia. Nonetheless, he felt less confident than he had before the first veterans appeared, asking himself yet again if he was being vainglorious, demanding that men die in a hopeless fight. Was this about redeeming his reputation, even as he lied to himself that the battle’s outcome must ruin him? Was all this born of the romance of novels, a child’s dream of a gallant forlorn hope? Played out at the expense of other men’s lives? The visions that kept him from sleep conjured slaughter and panic, fleeing men and disaster. Nor did the vermin haunting the blanket that served as a mattress soothe him.
    Was this what theologians meant by the dark night of the soul?
    Or did he just need sleep?
    The withdrawal from Frederick had gone smoothly, untroubled by the Rebs. The townspeople had been furious, though, cursing him and the troops they had recently cheered. Wallace consoled himself by recalling the cries of “Go ahead! Run for Baltimore!” That was precisely what he wanted people to tell the graybacks when they arrived, that he had withdrawn his small force toward Baltimore, his little ruse. And then he would be waiting for Early when the Rebs strolled down the Washington road.
    Even that slight surprise might help, buying an extra hour.
    He turned from one side to the other, feeling uneven planks through the blanket’s nap. Another creature scurried along his calf, making him jerk and slap at himself. The heat’s embrace was smothering.
    As sleep teased Wallace, Ross stumbled in. He looked a sorry wreck, but had insisted on keeping his post.
    “Sir?” His voice rasped. “General Ricketts is here, he’s just behind me.”
    Wallace sat up and fumbled to a knee. “My coat.”
    Before he could dress, Ricketts entered. The division commander wasn’t especially tall, but broad enough to give the door frame a fright. By candlelight, the man had an Irish look of the hardest sort.
    Wallace held out his hand. The other man slapped his own hand against it, gripping firmly but quickly letting go.
    “General Wallace? Jim Ricketts. I hear Early’s on the loose.”
    “He’ll be in Frederick by morning. Three miles from here.” Wallace thought for a moment, rubbed an eye. “He could be there now.”
    “I suppose I’m in it, then. What’s Early’s strength?” There was absolutely no nonsense in the division commander’s voice. “Railroad fellow made it sound like the Mongol Horde was upon us.”
    “Reports claim twenty to thirty thousand, so I figure fifteen to