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.
The fire sputtered down the fuse's powder-packed tube to leave a small trickle of gray-white smoke. Galloway was already assembling another small charge to place in the next wagon while more of his men were heading toward the artillery park, which was guarded by a handful of unsuspecting gunners armed with carbines. Galloway placed his second charge, then pulled his cloak back to reveal his blue uniform. He tugged his saber free and turned back to the sheltering teamsters. 'Make yourselves scarce, boys,' he told them. 'Go on, now. Run! We're Yankees!'
The first bag of powder exploded. It was not a loud explosion, merely a dull thump that momentarily lit up the interior of the wagon's hooped canvas cover with a lurid red glow. The canvas swelled for a second or two; then a fire began to flicker deep inside the stacked boxes. The teamsters were running. One of Galloway's men leaned from his saddle and plucked a burning brand from the remains of their fire and tossed the burning wood into a third ammunition cart. The first load of ammunition began to explode in a series of short sharp cracks that sounded as close together as the snaps of a Fourth of July firecracker string, and then the whole wagon seemed to evaporate in sudden flame. The wet canvas cover flew into the air, flapping like a monstrous bat with wings dripping sparks. One of Galloway's men whooped in delight and tossed a firebrand into a stack of muskets.
'Keep 'em burning, boys!' Galloway shouted at those of his men who had been detailed as incendiarists; then he led the rest of his troop in a charge toward the startled gunners. The Major's saber reflected the flamelight. An artillery sergeant was still trying to prime his carbine as the saber sliced across his face. The man screamed, but all Galloway knew of the blow was a slight jar up his right arm and the juddering friction of steel scraping on bone; then the saber was free and he swung it forward to spear its tip into the neck of a running man. Two of Galloway's troopers were already dismounted and starting to hammer soft nails into the cannons' touchholes, others were setting fire to limbers crammed with ammunition, while still more were cutting loose picketed team horses and stampeding them into the night. Saddle horses were being captured and led back to the road. A powder charge exploded, shooting sparks high into the night air. Men were shouting in the dark. A bullet screamed high over Galloway's head. 'Bugler!' the Major shouted.
'Here, sir!' The man put his instrument to his lips.
'Not yet!' Galloway said. He only wanted to make sure the bugler was staying close, for he knew he must sound the retreat very soon. He sheathed his saber and drew out the repeating rifle, which he fired toward the shadows of men beyond the guns. The wagon park was an inferno, the sky above it bright with flame and writhing plumes of firelit smoke. A dog barked and a wounded horse screamed. In the light of the fires Galloway could see rebel gunners gathering in the darkness, and he knew that at any moment a counterattack would swarm across the artillery park. He turned to his bugler. 'Now!' Galloway called, 'now!' and the bugler's call rang clear in the night's fiery chaos. The Major backed his horse through the gunline, where the cannons were all spiked and the limbers burning.
'Back, lads! Back!' Galloway called his men. 'Back!'
Adam was inside the farmhouse when he heard the bugle call. He had found the house empty except for two of his father's cooks, whom he had ordered to run away. Sergeant Huxtable had meanwhile chased away a group of officers standing on the lawn, killing a captain dressed in riding boots and spurs, and Huxtable now had Adam's
