Trapped by Yankees

Riding with the Gray Ghost: Episode 2

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 short story is part of the Tales from the War Between the States Series. Click on this link for subscription information.