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PROLOGUE

Near Unger, Virginia on January 2nd, 1862

Corporal Jamison’s makeshift grave was already covered with a layer of snow by the time Dan Fields laid on the last rock. Dan made the sign of the cross, picked up his rifle and pack, and headed into the storm. Jamison had been his best friend. He was one of the many soldiers Jackson’s army had lost already, and not a shot had been fired. Fleetingly, Dan considered hightailing it for home. Born and raised on a rocky hill farm not five miles to the west, this was his country. He’d traveled this road many times taking produce down to Winchester.

But General Jackson was headed for Bath and he had to rejoin the army.