The Quaker and the Rebel Read Online Free PDF

you do go on.”
    Emily looked from one to the other but refused to glance at Alexander. Who is this Gray Wraith wreaking havoc on the Union forces? How dare he steal food and medicine from the very troops Matthew serves with? The veins at her temples began to throb as her hands turned clammy. She didn’t view the matter quite as blithely as the other three. No doubt this was the first of many differences of opinion she would have with Dr. Bennington. Fortunately, Mr. Hunt would soon return to his home. She wouldn’t have to deal with his cocky attitude or his forward behavior. The man had the exasperating ability to reduce her to a nervous, skittish doe, with her stomach flip-flopping each time their gazes met.
    Finally, the endless dinner drew to a close and she bade them all a good night. But neither Dr. Bennington’s complacent view of slavery, nor the exploits of this Gray Wraith, nor even Mr. Hunt’s effect on her composure was Emily’s chief concern as she climbed the staircase to her room. Someone had slipped a letter under her door from the evening mail packet. Carrying the letter onto her balcony, she could barely make out the address on the dirty, tattered envelope: Miss EmilyHarrison, c/o Bennington Plantation, Parkersburg, Virginia. In the fading light, she read two sentences that would change her life forever:
    Dear Miss Harrison, I regret to inform you that Pvt. Matthew Norton of the OVI has fallen in battle in Virginia at the Battle of Bull Run. He died a hero’s death, covering himself in glory on the battlefield and into eternity.
    She read the words over and over as her hopes and dreams crumbled to dust. A single tear fell on the parchment sheet before it fluttered to the portico flagstones below. Emily gazed over the lawns, gardens, and fields of the plantation that was not much of a plantation at all. In the distance, she saw men and women marching back from the fields in the last rays of sunlight. The sight of slaves salved her wounded spirit, galvanizing her resolve.
    “At least I know what to do,” she whispered in the humid, enveloping darkness. “My duty to God and my country is clear.”

    From their well-hidden position in the foliage, twenty men gazed down on the sleeping town, watching with satisfaction as blue-clad soldiers mounted and rode out in formation. None spoke, but they held their reins tightly in hand lest their horses draw undue attention. As the last of their adversaries disappeared into a cloud of dust, the men turned toward their leader.
    Sitting tall in the saddle, the colonel didn’t move a muscle until the last Yank disappeared into the haze and stillness returned to the hamlet. Then his lips formed a smile as he glanced left and right at his men. “Well, boys, it looks like Ellsworth worked his magic again.” Laughter broke the silence as their plan came together. But their leader didn’t wait for compliments or backslapping. Spurring his horse, he galloped toward the train station below with a singular purpose and his second-in-command close behind.
    “Dawson, ride up the track to the signal flags,” ordered the colonel.“Post the red to make sure the train slows well in advance. Jamison, you and Hobart throw the switch to turn the train into the siding. The rest of you men position yourselves among those trees. Any Yanks traveling with the train will either be in the first car or in the last, so that’s where you enter. Be quick, be decisive. Surround and create havoc. Shoot only if you must, but to wound not to kill. Boggs, Turner, follow me.”
    The men reacted with speed and proficiency. These were no green recruits, no nervous, trigger-happy youngsters eager to throw themselves into battle without thought or care. These seasoned professionals were the elite of trained cavalry, men who had been born to the saddle and who handled weapons with the same precision as their mounts. Yet regular Confederate cavalry they were not.
    The colonel ordered his