by Gina Danna
“My wife and child, sir. Got Stanton’s approval to take them to family, using that as a way to sort out Confederate numbers.”
Sheridan stood, his hands clasped behind his back. “Sounds a little off to me, Captain.”
Jack shrugged. “Seen General Bragg’s army, sir, marching south of here.”
Sheridan’s face was unreadable, but his eyes bore into Jack’s. “You realize, sir, I don’t believe you.”
Jack had no choice but to stand his ground. He looked straight ahead, but, from the corner of his eye, he saw Sheridan apparently debating with himself.
“If what you say is true, I’ll have you go to Murfreesboro and check the numbers there. Your damnable southern tongue oughta get you in as a secesh.” He spat on the ground, disgust on his face.
“Yes, sir.”
“Captain Wright’ll go with you.” When Jack nodded and turned to go, Sheridan added, “And Captain, I’ll give you to noontime but no longer. If you’re not back here by then, I’ll shoot you myself for desertion.”
#
Jack rode into Murfreesboro unarmed and alone. Wright hovered in the tree line above the town proper. The bastard was armed with a Spencer repeating rifle, and the heat of the man’s gaze burned Jack, the awareness of the loaded weapon aimed at him. He tried to ignore the growing fear that Wright would shoot him just because he could get away with it. Instead, he fought to concentrate on his mission, which was to find supplies for Emma and Nathan while pretending to scout out Rebels.
Confederate soldiers loitered about, watching Jack warily, but he saw few civilians. He knew the Rebs were as cautious of him as he was of them. The air was heavy with tension; it even made Goliath skittish.
Jack stopped in front of the general store, throwing his reins over the hitching post. Murmuring in Goliath’s ear, he eyed the soldiers, looking for sudden movement. They obviously admired his mount. As fighting continued, good horses were becoming more rare in both armies. Jack knew they’d try to take the horse, but he’d trained Goliath to his commands. The horse had a wild streak in him, which made him hard to handle by anyone but Jack. Comforted by that knowledge, Jack took his saddlebags and strode into the store.
Standing at the counter, the balding storekeeper, head glistening with sweat, nervously wiped his apron. “Can I help you, mister?”
Jack smiled easily. “Yes, sir. I’m in need of some supplies.”
The man’s eyes darted to the front door. “I’ll see what I have if you’ve a list…”
Jack tried hard to look relaxed. “No, sir, I just came for a few items. I need a sack of flour, salt, some meat and sugar.”
The man looked at him. “I may have some of what you need, if you have real money.”
Jack fished out a wad of paper money from his pocket, dumping it on the countertop. The storekeeper’s eyes widened.
“That’d be Union money.”
Jack nodded. “Didn’t think you’d be wantin’ Confed.”
The man greedily took the cash. “I’ll get your stuff. Ya’ be needin’ anything else?”
Jack spied a bar of French-milled soap on a ledge against the wall. He picked it up and sniffed. It smelled like roses. He closed his eyes and was reminded of Emma. He put the soap on the counter, along with a metal teething ring. “Add these too.”
The man nodded and left for the back room.
Jack glanced out the store windows and snorted. Two lads were trying to untie Goliath.
The storekeeper returned with Jack’s items, placing them on the counter.
“Thanks,” he said, opening his saddlebags to put them inside.
“Mister, you be careful. If they find you got Union money or you ain’t conscripted…” his voice trailed away.
Jack nodded and thought, if the man only knew… Slinging the bags over his shoulder, Jack walked out to find Goliath gone. He shook his head and pursed his lips, whistling loudly.
Down the street, behind another building, he heard a ruckus of men swearing, boxes falling and hooves clattering. Around the corner came his bay stallion, reins flying and the saddle askew.
“Whoa,” he ordered and Goliath halted in front of him, nostrils flaring. Jack patted his neck. “Good boy,” he whispered softly. He squared the saddle and adjusted the straps, throwing the saddlebags across Goliath’s flanks and securing them.
“Mighty fine horseflesh you got there, boy.”
Jack nodded in agreement and put his foot in a stirrup.
“Ain’t seen too many Yankee horses ‘round here much.” The man spat his tobacco juice within an inch of Jack’s foot.
Jack silently cursed. The Union saddle, with its oblong air hole designed to reduce a horse’s sweating and increase its stamina, stood out plain as day. Damn!
The man and his companions, Confederate soldiers all, stepped closer. “I don’t see you in uniform, boy.” The older man obviously was the leader, but Jack couldn’t determine his rank because his uniform had no markings.
“No, sur,” Jack drawled. “Ain’t involved till I get my wife and son to my folks in Lou’s’ana.”
The older man spat again, his face scrunching as he thought about what Jack had said. His weathered skin made him appear old and wise, but the glint in his eye bespoke pure evil.
“You ain’t one of them parolees?”
Jack stood up straight. “No, sir. I ain’t takin’ no oaths.” Some captured Confederates were released if they swore not to fight anymore against the Union. Knowing the southern mentality, though, Jack wagered that many broke their oaths the minute they got away safely.
But Jack knew he was no better than them. After proudly swearing to fight for the Union, he had not only deserted the North but was a traitor to the South as well.
“Where’s your woman?”
“Waitin’ for me to return. Good day.” He pulled himself up onto the saddle and backed Goliath away from the reach of the men and galloped out of town.
#
“I counted a company, maybe,” Jack reported to Sheridan upon returning with Wright.
The general chewed a piece of straw. “Captain Wright, you have anything to add?”
“Just that this man’s a traitor,” Wright snarled.
Jack’s hands clenched.
“Explain yourself,” Sheridan demanded.
“Saw this stinkin’ bastard talking to secesh, bold as brass,” he spat.
“What do you have to say about that, Captain Fontaine?”
Jack seethed. “Yes sir, I did talk to them” Sheridan continued to glare at him. “The man in charge asked me about my horse. Saw he had a Union saddle on him. Told him I stole it.”
Sheridan laughed, but it was brief and humorless. “You say you counted a company, huh? We’ll see.” His went to his table, pulled a sheet of paper to him and grabbed his pen. “Fontaine, I’m having a tough time believin’ your claims. Till I hear otherwise, I’m assigning you to my command. We’ll see how good you are at scouting when we march out of here tomorrow.” He finished writing and signed his name with a flourish. “I’m placing you in the ranks. Wright, get Captain Fontaine quarters…”
Jack’s gut twisted. “Sir, I have supplies and food that I need to get to my wife.”
Sheridan eyed him. “And you left her alone in the woods to get them?”
“Had no choice, sir.” He’d say whatever it took for him to get the items to her, anything. “She lost her family’s home last fall because of the war. I’m taking her and my infant son to my folks. Then I’ll gladly return.”
Sheridan laughed out loud. “Captain, if I gave into half the sad stories my men told me, we’d have no army. No, I won’t let you go. Lieutenant Rhinehart, find someone to take these goods to Mrs. Fontaine and then report back here. We’re moving in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack ground his teeth, swallowing hard. He had become a captive of the Union Army. His stomach twisted and the pain in his chest grew as his heart sank. He’d left them
alone, in the wilderness, with only a rifle and nothing else. More and more, John Henry was slipping away mentally. Nathan was only a baby. Tilly was a slave, trained to submit to white people. And Emma, his darling Emma. What had he done? They’d all starve or be killed–or worse. He had to get out, somehow, some way, without being killed himself.
One thing was for certain. If Emma survived, she’d hate him forever.
The South must be made to feel full respect for the power and honor of the North.
—New York Times, June 26, 1861
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jack adjusted the cartridge box on his belt, sliding it to the familiar spot. He sighed with resignation. This war would never end. Neither would the one raging in his soul.
Sheridan’s man had found a sack coat for him to wear because he’d left his officer’s frock and greatcoat with Emma. His navy blue pants with the matching sack coat showed obvious rank. Regulars wore sky blue pants with navy jackets. Officers wore navy all around and fitted frocks. Goliath snorted, his hooves dancing in readiness as the order came to move. A light but icy cold rain began to fall. Jack felt its sting against his face and hands. The physical pain matched the pain in his heart. He prayed that the soldier charged with delivering the supplies and food had made it to Emma and that she had heeded his message to continue to his boyhood home without him.
He’d promised to return to her, but when he spoke the words, he knew it was unlikely he’d be able to fulfill the promise. Having a wife and child–something he’d found himself thinking about a lot recently—was against his better judgment, especially in war time. Forced to return to the fight, Jack prayed for only one thing—that the Almighty would protect Emma and his son.
Thoughts of her warmed him inside—how she smelled, how she felt, how she tasted. Remembering the look on her face as she climaxed while he was buried deep inside her made him twitch in the saddle. It was a beautiful memory, one that would sustain him through whatever was to come. And then a thought suddenly brought him back to the present. He’d spilled his seed inside her. She could be carrying his child now, but he prayed fervently that she wasn’t. Damn!
Jack shook the thought from his mind and looked at his troops. He’d been given roughly half of Company A, Wright the other half. The Army of the Cumberland had been drilled repeatedly by Rosecrans, and the men ached to be put to the test–or that’s what Jack had heard. The battle ahead would be fierce, more deadly than Sharpsburg or any of the other battles Jack had been in.
Despite the responsibility Jack had been given, he wasn’t trusted. Wright rode only a few feet away from him, watching him closely, preventing any attempt at escape. Wright’s hand stayed close to the revolver sticking out of his belt, and he itched to use it. Jack had to watch his front as well as his back. Perhaps he would die in battle, ending his misery, but he probably wouldn’t be that lucky.
Rosecrans split his army into three columns and assigned a different route to each to meet the growing number of Confederates at Murfreesboro. Jack’s column marched south out of Nashville to take the Nolensville Turnpike to Triune, then head eastward to meet the others and attack. Approximately half of the force of eighty-two thousand that Rosecrans commanded at Nashville now rode along the same stretch Jack had traveled alone only two days earlier.
The rebel cavalry under Brigadier General Joseph Wheeler constantly harassed the Union troops, racing in, striking a blow and disappearing into the Tennessee wilderness. Their latest attack had been that morning, just as the line began moving, before the rain picked up. Jack actually enjoyed the diversion. He relished any means to expend his pent-up anger, although what he really wanted was to sink a bullet between Wright’s bushy eyebrows. Unfortunately for the Union, Wheeler’s horsemen knew the territory, and their riding skills far surpassed the futile defensive maneuvers of the enemy. They struck with the speed and deadliness of lightning. And at no time was Wright positioned so that an “errant” bullet might hit him. But then again, Jack wasn’t an easy target for the lanky Yankee either.
“I’ll shoot you if you help those damn secesh,” Wright threatened after the last raid.
“Go ahead, try. But God help you if you miss,” Jack retorted.
Even then, Wright rode slightly to the side and back, waiting and watching.
#
Emma waited and fretted. An entire day had passed and still no Jack. And no additional food or supplies.
It’d taken her an hour to find her father, who had wandered off into a stand of trees, calling for her mother. When he saw Emma, he looked bewildered. She knew he slipped away a little more each day.
Tilly, thankfully, was still with her. She feared the slave might disappear, especially with Jack gone. So many slaves had simply left after the Yankees invaded. But Tilly remained. She had become attached to Nathan, and Emma could only hope that he’d hold her there longer.
A cool sprinkle brought her back to the present. Glancing upward, she grimaced. Grey clouds filled the sky, and a brisk wind swept through their small encampment. She shuddered, pulling Jack’s greatcoat tighter around her. Trudging to the wagon, Emma grabbed the canvas flap and rope.
“Tilly, put Nathan down and come help me.”
Struggling with the rope, they pulled the cover taunt for shelter. It was a simple task that allowed her mind to wander. She wanted Jack back. Why had he left her, them, there, promising to return? At first, she feared he’d been taken by one of the armies or even killed. But now she believed he’d simply gone off. Willingly abandoned her. He’d taken her that night, ravished her like a man driven to stake a claim. He had even marked her skin. He’d stroked her, kissed her, devoured her, but all of it had been for naught. Now, he was gone for good. She had to accept that he’d never come back.
But a small voice struggled to be heard, deep from within her heart. It entreated her to believe what Jack had said. He’d promised before he’d return for her and his son, and he had. This time was no different.
And yet, it was in so many ways. Uttering a frustrated, strangled noise, she pulled the fabric taught, lacing the rope through the copper eyelets.
The sprinkle turned to a steady, cold rain. If it fell any harder, they’d have to spend a cold and wet night without the comfort of a fire. Intent on feeding the current feeble flames with wood that had been stored under the wagon to keep it dry, she almost missed the sound of leaves crunching beneath a horse’s hooves. She glanced up to see a horse walking toward them, its rider dressed in blue. Jack!
“Jack,” she greeted, taking a step toward the man, until it hit her that the horse wasn’t bay but black and the rider was dressed in full Yankee uniform. He was just a boy, really, his brown eyes sorrowful.
“Mrs. Fontaine?”
She gulped as her heart sank.
#
December 29, 1862
Murfreesboro sat near Stone’s River, in a valley of rich soil. The townspeople were sentimental to the Confederate cause and warmly embraced General Braxton Bragg’s army. A flat, open area, it was not a defensible position but one Bragg simply refused to leave. No land in Tennessee was to become Union controlled. Areas close to the Nashville Pike and the Nashville and Chattanooga Railroad had dense cedar forests, virtually impenetrable to infantry. Small outcroppings of limestone, like teeth scattered throughout the area, also slowed the movement of artillery and wagons.
Not only was the land spiteful in its makeup, but scouts reported Confederate forces in the area equaled those of Rosecrans. In some cases, they numbered more than the federal army, with the cavalries of Nathan Bedford Forrest and John Hunt Morgan in the vicinity. Wheeler’s riders still attacked Union lines, and Southern horsemen danced around them, making Rosecrans uncomfortable.
Jack removed his hat and swiped his brow. Sweat still formed despite the cold. It had taken three days to make it there, three days of Wheeler’s incursions, three days of watching Wright and his itchy trigger finger. Three days of worrying about Emma and his son.
His thoughts were interrupted by yelling, gunfire and the pounding of hooves. Jack turned to look at the end of his command and found Confederate cavalry racing into their lines. They set fire to a couple of supply wagons, whooping and hollering as they hijacked another one loaded with boxes of ammunition.
Jack steered Goliath toward the rear, digging in his heels to make the horse fly into the attack. But by the time he arrived, it was over.
“Where are they?” he demanded from a mounted officer at the scene.
The horse was snorting and sweating hard from exertion as the officer gasped for air, pulling back on the reins. Blood on his thigh was quickly spreading. “Rebs. Came out of nowhere. Got three wagons, one full of ammunition, and” his breath skipping “even captured some of our men.”
Jack frowned. “Get to the surgeons.”
The officer nodded and left. Wright rode up next to Jack.
“Planned that well, didn’t you, you liar?” he snarled. “Wished I was here a moment ago. Would’a taken you off our list of concerns.”
“Wished you could’ve made it sooner. I’ve a bullet with your name on the side.” Jack spat without breaking eye contact with the bastard.
“Enough, gentlemen,” barked Sheridan. “Let’s assess the damage. Get patrols out and send the rest to bed. Tomorrow’ll be here soon, and those Rebs’ll be expecting a call.”
Jack watched as the general rode off, ignoring Wright. The man leaned forward in his saddle, staring at him.
“Yeah, we’ll see what tomorrow brings, all right. Gotta watch them bullets, secesh lover, one of them might stray too far, you hear me?” Wright laughed as he rode away.
Jack’s gaze narrowed. Tomorrow might bring all sorts of bullets looking to make his chest their target, and he welcomed them.
It took the next day to form the attack line. Rather a ridiculous effort, Jack thought. Displaying one’s troops to the other side, as if in a show of strength. Rosecrans’ men made a line two miles northwest of town. The Union line was four miles long and planted parallel to Bragg’s. Sheridan’s troops, including Jack and his co-commander, were in the middle, facing Major General Patrick Cleburne’s division. Near a copse of trees, Jack assessed the situation and didn’t like what he saw. Confederate numbers looked equal to the Union’s. But at least Rosecrans did not exaggerate the number of rebels the way McClellan always did. Perhaps that’s why his reputation was building in the West and why command in the East had floundered, unlike Lee’s.
