Valley of the Shadow: A Novel by Ralph Peters

thinking as an old redleg, dreaming of double canister and sudden, barked commands.
    Wishes were useless things.
    He had followed the clash down at the ford by the noise, first the brisk skirmishing, then the sharp eruption of rifle fire, climaxed by a ruckus and wild Reb cries. As the first fleeing horsemen found the high road and galloped back along it, he warned his men not to jeer, curt when he was briefly disobeyed. He could imagine only too well what that handful of cavalrymen had faced. They’d bought what time they could.
    To his rear, down by the bridges, the firing picked up. He could read it well enough not to find it worrisome, but he did spare a thought for what might happen if Early brought the full weight of his forces to bear.
    No sign of it yet, thanks be to Providence.
    Reversing his course along the line, he let his horse slow. He could not afford to look anxious, either to his own men or to the Rebs, when they appeared. “Just keep yourselves quiet,” he told his men. “And we’ll give the Johnnies a welcome they’ll remember. Just rest and be quiet, I’ll tell you when to stand.”
    Ricketts felt no fear—only the usual quickening, the tightening of the muscles, and, yes, the thrill of impending battle. It was a terrible business, and this time the stakes were incalculably high. But there was a part of any true soldier that, against all reason, longed for the game to begin.
    He rode past officers down on one knee. “Keep your heads down, boys. And wait for my order.”
    All of the faces were earnest now, the jokesters and campfire bullies as taut as the silent sorts, some praying, Ricketts was certain, and others merely bothered by the flies. These were men who had seen not only the elephant, but every hideous beast in war’s menagerie. They knew what they were about. But they could not know if they would live or die in the next half hour.
    He preferred setting troops in motion. Activity worked its own charms, while waiting passively led the mind astray.
    Even his own thoughts were not strictly disciplined, despite the weight of command upon his shoulders. Frances intruded. And Harriet. Should this day be his last, he would leave some practical matters in disorder, burdens unfair to his present wife. But nothing could be done. Not now.
    A wry smile dented the set of his face. If he was killed … and if the priests and parsons were right about the great beyond, be it Purgatory first, or straight to Heaven or Hell, would he be reunited forever with Harriet? Or did a subsequent marriage take precedence before the Judgment Seat? Surely Heaven would not be some sort of Mormon confederacy or a Mussulman’s harem? Would Harriet still be young and fair, while he appeared old and fat? And Frances, with her enormous heart and steadfast will, deserved her due. He had married good women, better than he deserved, his greatest good fortune.
    He stopped himself, coming back to the glint of sun-heated steel, of blue cloth on brown earth, of eye-burning sweat. Here and now. This day, this hour. In this field, under this sun. All of his life had aimed him toward this.
    “Don’t drink that canteen dry,” he told a youthful soldier. “You’re going to want water long before you see another well.” He sought to balance his tone between authority and bantering, something he had never fully mastered. Artillerymen did not jabber like the infantry.
    “Stay down, stay down now.”
    When the firing ceased down at the ford, he had known it was only a matter of minutes before the Rebs came at them. He was almost surprised at their slowness. Waving off another assault of black flies, he halted his horse. Facing the house beyond the cornfield.
    And there they were: emerging from the trees, men who had become his mortal enemies because of pride and political skullduggery, darkies and busybodies. Most of the Rebs were on foot. Those who rode soon dismounted.
    The officers were easy to spot: They were the only men who