Noble Cause

"But one of them would make war rather than let the nation survive; and the other would accept war rather than let it perish. And the war came.” – Abraham Lincoln

Northern Virginia, 1862

A piercing bugle blast preceded the sound of galloping horses by mere seconds. Captain Alexander Hunter tore his eyes away from the horse and rider he pursued and focused on the Federal cavalry unit now pursuing him.

Blast it. Tricked again.

This was not the first time the large black steed with its agile rider had been spotted in advance of a Union assault—but Hunter swore today would be the last. Signaling his men to scatter, he spurred his mount toward the forest where his foe had disappeared. His band of warriors took off in every direction, their escape aided by a roiling mass of dark-bellied clouds that launched their own assault. With the storm as an ally, Hunter knew the Federal cavalry would not long sustain the chase. He worried not for the welfare of his men, who were familiar enough with the land to evade the enemy no matter what the weather. He cared only to find the Yank who led him into the trap and see him punished.

Punished severely.

Hunter lowered his hand to one of the revolvers at his hip. Damn that scoundrel. The timely arrival of Union reinforcements over the past few months could no longer be considered a mere coincidence. It was time for this cunning adversary to pay for the disruptions he’d caused.

Hunter guided his mare through the underbrush and around fallen trees, but entertained little hope of finding his antagonist. The rider possessed a habit of appearing, only to disappear into thin air. Even today, when he’d thought the elusive character within his grasp, Hunter had instead found himself in another trap.

The distinctive sound of running water replaced the hushed patter of rain and called Hunter from his thoughts. “How about a drink, ol’ girl?” He urged his mare forward, leaning low over the saddle to avoid tree limbs, then jerked on the reins at the sight of a youth crouched on the opposite bank gulping water by the handful. Hunter’s gaze shifted to the horse hungrily grazing on green shoots at the water’s edge. Enormous and coal black, its chest glistened from being ridden hard.

Hunter reached for his revolver and blinked to make sure the fading daylight was not playing tricks on his vision. The scout was smaller and younger than he expected. He cocked his weapon and shouted across the fast-moving stream, “Don’t move!”

Startled, the youth stood and challenged him. “What do you want?” he asked, holding nothing but dripping water.

Hunter’s confusion intensified as he stared at his opponent. Dressed in an oversized coat, slouch hat pulled low, and baggy trousers, the boy looked harmless enough. Can this really be the Union scout I’ve been chasing?

One more glance at the horse answered his question. Few such horses existed in this part of the country, certainly none of such quality that had not already been confiscated by one or the other of the armies. This was no guiltless civilian. This was a Yankee. And a cunning one at that.

“I think you know what I want. It appears we’ve spent the last week watching each other, and still have not been introduced.”

He urged his mare down the bank to a sandbar, but hesitated. The creek was not wide, but the swift-running current and slippery rocks made fording here treacherous.

"If I may offer you some advice, sir?”

“Begging your pardon, son, but I don’t think you’re in any position to offer advice.”