The Confederate

by Tony Roberts

  “Major,” Case said slowly, thinking furiously, “I’m not in the dock. This isn’t a court of law.”

  Mosby held Case’s look for along moment, then nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. My apologies, Sergeant. You must have a perfectly reasonable explanation.” The sentence hung in the air, the challenge clear.

  Case held out his hand and Mosby, almost reluctantly, passed it over. Case scanned the message and his heart fell over backwards with a thud. He looked up at Mosby. “Have you read this, sir?”

  “Naturally. I understood most of it. Could you please explain to me why a Union soldier should bring a message in Latin from a Union officer to you demanding you return to your farm to rescue a woman?”

  Case glared at the prisoner again. “That man knows. Latin I learned many years ago. This man belongs to a secret society dedicated to hunting me down for something I did a long time ago. It’s personal between them and me. They’ve captured this boy’s mother,” and Case pointed at Billy, “who I know very well and are using her to force me to go to them.”

  The silence was heavy in the clearing. “He’s evil,” the prisoner began in a deep, gravelly voice. Case strode over to him and sent a full backhander across his face. The prisoner’s head snapped round and his legs buckled. The two cavalrymen grabbed him and the prisoner steadied himself, shaking his head to clear the effects of the blow.

  “You will shut up,” Case hissed. “You’re not a Yankee, you’re masquerading as one.”

  Mosby strode across and stood in the way. “No more of this, Sergeant, this man is my prisoner and I won’t have him treated this way!” He took the letter back and looked at it. “I assume then that this letter was written in Latin so that most people if they saw it would have no idea as to what it said.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s even more important that you take me back to Confederate lines now. This boy’s mother is in great danger and I must go to rescue her.”

  Billy came forward. “But Uncle Case! They’ll kill you! I’ve gotta come!”

  The cavalrymen muttered amongst themselves. A woman in danger got to them. Especially from Yankees or men who pretended to be. Mosby held up his hand. “Enough. Very well, Sergeant who understands Latin, I agree to take you and your men back to Virginia. But I can’t spare men to assist you,” and he looked at his crestfallen men. “But I shall arrange for nine spare horses to be made available when we do get back so you can get there faster.”

  Case looked surprised, then smiled. The prisoner snarled. “Foul agent of Satan! You shall all burn in hell for assisting this Beast!” He writhed in the grip of the two men who clearly wished they could vent their anger on him.

  “My mom is in the hands of people like him!” Billy cried loudly. “You’re all sick!”

  Case looked at the other seven. “I can’t ask you to come with me and Billy to rescue his mom. If you wish, you can make your own way to the unit once we’re back in friendly territory.”

  Munz spat at the prisoner. “It’ll be nice to see Lynchburg. You in, Randy?”

  Furlong slapped the butt of his rifle into the ground. “Of course. Rescuing women in peril is my specialty.”

  Case smiled weakly. He looked at the others, ragged, thin and tired men. Buckley scratched his head. “Well, things ain’t exactly unexciting with you, Sarge. Rescuing a lady is much preferable to charging a Yankee line at Gettysburg. I’m in.”

  “Taylor, Gatscombe?” Case looked along the line of silent soldiers who nodded one after the other. All of them were as one. The Eternal Mercenary felt a lump of pride and gratitude rise in his chest. “Then those sick bastards holding Billy’s mom are in for a heck of a shock.”

  “You’ll all die screaming for helping him!” the prisoner snarled, pulling hard to be released.

  Mosby faced the sweating man. “Be silent!”

  “You will all die long and terrible deaths!”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Case said. “Major, he’s no Yankee. He’s a spy, sent by those twisted people. Want to bet he’s got no regimental insignia anywhere?”

  Mosby looked surprised, then gestured to one of his sergeants to search the man. The sergeant, a bearded, thick-necked man who looked as if he could tear up trees for a laugh, roughly inspected the uniform of the prisoner. “Nothin’, Major.”

  “What unit are you?” Mosby demanded of the man. He got a sneer in response. The Major waved again at the sergeant. “Bind him, put him on one of the spare horses and we’ll take him back to Winchester and turn him over to the garrison commander there. He’ll be off our hands. And gag him; I don’t want to listen to his ravings the whole way back!”

  They rode off shortly afterwards and made their way west along the river plain, skirting the ridge of hills that lay to the north. It was quiet and the riders were thankful for that after the noise and carnage of what they had gone through recently. To Case it was yet another journey on a beast he hated; he’d ridden countless times in the past but he could never quite get used to remaining on horseback. It always left him with a tender behind and he was always thankful when he got his feet back on terra firma.

  He spoke often with Mosby on the long ride and found him to be opposed to secession; he’d found many who fought in the Confederate ranks either opposed to that or slavery or both, yet they fought all the same for the South. It was, just as Lee said, a case of sticking with the state of your birth. Some didn’t, of course, but in any civil war it was the same. Brother against brother, father against son. Dreadful destroyer of families, a civil war.

  They crossed the Potomac into Western Virginia and slowly descended into the Shenandoah and into Virginia proper. The men visibly relaxed and began talking more and more. Case’s men filled out on the good food they ate with the riders; much of it had been stolen from Federal supply wagons. Mosby reckoned if it was there and the Feds unable to guard it properly, then it was better to give it to those who could. They got to Winchester and the prisoner was handed over. It was there that the two parties bade each other farewell. Mosby and his men rode off east towards Leesburg, waving as they went, while Case and his eight remained in a group in the tree-covered road junction just outside the town, staring south-west.

  “Lynchburg, Sarge?” Billy asked, keen to get his mother away from those who held her.

  “Yes, Billy, Lynchburg,” Case sighed, knowing that it would be a bloody business and Ann may already be dead, but he had to try all the same. And at the same time destroy those of the Brotherhood who were there.

  So the nine rode off slowly, each determined for their own reasons to fight against a deadly enemy who waited for them, knowing there would be no quarter given.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The ride took four days; it was over a hundred miles to Lynchburg but the horses made a huge difference. The sight of nine ragged Confederate horseman riding through the neighborhood brought civilians out in curiosity, asking about the Maryland campaign. All were worried at the news of the defeat. Rumors abounded about Lee surrendering at Williamsport, then of their escape and the pursuit by Meade’s army through Northern Virginia. Case dismissed them all; he would soon learn the truth but for now other things mattered more.

  They ate well, using the last of the rations given to them by Mosby and accepting meager offerings by the generous folk of the Shenandoah. The people had suffered with the campaigns along their land and all regretted the loss of Jackson at Chancellorsville. To them all he was the hero of the struggle.

  It was at Port Republic that they got firm news of what had happened behind them. Lee had indeed got away and his rearguard held off the Union forces until they could all march off unhindered. Meade was criticized in Washington for allowing the enemy to escape. According to the excited youth who had ridden up to them while they were taking a break, the army had crossed the Shenandoah at Front Royal; he’d seen them himself.

  Case drew on the local knowledge of Passmore who knew this area well and he guided them south towards Waynesboro and t
he Rock Fish Gap where they crossed the mountains and rode down towards the James River. Here the area was richer and more productive. The war hadn’t touched the area yet and gradually things became more familiar.

  “They’ll have pickets out,” Billy said, the worry in his voice clear to Case.

  “I know,” Case replied. “But not too far out. Lynchburg will definitely be covered, so we avoid the town and ride round to come in from the north, across Burke land.”

  “What will we do when we get there? I mean,” Billy waved a hand in the air, “they’ll kill you if you give yourself up, and then they’ll kill mom. They’re only keeping her alive so they can get you!”

  Case turned in his saddle in surprise. “Yes, you’re dead right, Billy.” It had come as a shock to hear Billy make reasoning based on strategy. Another sign he was growing up. Munz had been very quiet for some time, but now he spoke out. “We hit them hard and fast, from different directions at once.”

  “Yes, we do.” Case recalled the layout of the farmhouse. There were two entrances, the front was approached by a large open space and no cover for a hundred yards, but the rear was cluttered by a yard, a half burned barn and a pig sty. He’d leave a couple of sharpshooters at the front and take the rest round the back and force their way in there. He outlined his basic plan as they rode on and all listened carefully, not wishing to miss anything.

  “What about the horses?” Buckley queried, patting the neck of his mount.

  Case pondered on that. “Give them to the Burkes. I’ll tell them to pass them onto the local militia. If they don’t, then I guess the army will requisition them.”

  A few miles away Ann surveyed the cobwebbed kitchen and made a disgusted noise. “Oh look at it! Such a mess, it’ll take weeks to clean up!” She recalled how clean it had been, just over two years since she’d last left the place. Now it was dusty, filthy and had an air of neglect. Repairs would need to be done; two winters had done their work unchecked.

  Smith grunted and looked around. His memories of the place were more recent but he wouldn’t tell Ann that; it would make her very suspicious. Instead he smiled. “Well, that’ll keep you busy for a while. I’ll go check the rest of the house to make sure it’s habitable.”

  Ann rushed to the corridor. “Oh no! My room upstairs is mine! Ye can have ma’s old room. The others can find a place elsewhere.”

  “Whatever you say,” Smith said indifferently. They had only just arrived, taking three days to get there after receiving the Colonel’s dispatch. Smith remembered the feeling of excitement at learning of the plan to trap the Beast, and he would make sure the house was as secure as possible for when the trap would be sprung. The letter intimated that things would likely fall into place about seven days hence, and that the Colonel would track Longinus once he got to within twenty miles of the farm. He would have men positioned at every road leading towards the farm and once spotted, word would be sent to bring the whole platoon converging. Longinus’ small band would be obliterated and the Beast taken. Smith would then be free to dispose of the woman.

  Ann ascended the stairs and claimed her room, throwing herself on the bed, a feeling of familiarity soothing her. The dust billowed up and she sneezed. “Agh! Everywhere’s filthy!”

  “I’ll arrange for cleaning items to be purchased in town,” Smith said from the doorway. Clumping feet sounded from the stairs as the others came milling to see what quarters were available. Smith gestured to some to occupy the bedrooms that used to belong to Patrick, Liz and Bridget. “There’s another room downstairs that Lonnergan used to sleep in,” Ann said.

  “We found it,” one of the men replied. He wiped his nose in his sleeve and faced Smith. “Two men still to quarter.”

  “Try the barn; it looked half burned but probably still habitable.”

  He then busied himself arranging men to go into Lynchburg and setting up picket posts. Provisions needed buying so two men were sent to buy these. Their ride was watched from the trees that bordered the road but they were allowed to pass unmolested. Sergeant Lonnergan had insisted that until the shooting started, the two who were watching the front were to make no move. Wendell and Taylor shrugged and resumed their vigil, watching the front of the house in the late afternoon sun, hidden by the shadows of the leaves, branches and trunks.

  Case crept forward to a fence post and peered through the long grass that had sprouted there since he’d left. The untended farm had quickly gone to seed and the undergrowth hid the crawling approach of the seven battle hardened soldiers. He pointed at the ruined barn to Munz, Gatscombe, Passmore and Furlong and indicated they make for it and occupy the building. He then led Buckley and Billy through the grass towards the corner of the house, their approach blind except for one window high up on the top floor. Unless someone was looking out of the window, their progress would be unnoticed.

  No shout went up and Case reached the wall, pressing against it. He knew two of the occupants were away which helped the odds. From his position by the corner he could peer round and survey the yard. Two men were moving the more badly burned planks and stacking them away from the barn. From what he’d seen, there were about another six or seven moving around the yard.

  Munz, meanwhile, had reached the barn and lay flat in the grass, peering through a hole at the rear into the dark interior. Light streamed in at the far end where much of the fire damage had left holes and gaps in the wall, and shapes could be seen moving around towards that end. He twisted and put a finger to his lips and held up two fingers, then pointed firmly at the barn, turning his mouth down fiercely. Passmore grinned and drew out a knife from his frayed leather belt and Gatscombe fumbled inside his tattered shirt and withdrew a length of cord, twisted so to give it extra strength.

  Furlong quietly loaded as did Munz, and the two moved to the biggest gap in the planking and lay flat again, sighting along the clean and deadly looking guns at the shadowy figures towards the other end. Passmore and Gatscombe slipped into the barn through the gap, just big enough to allow them access, and they moved left and right, dark agents of death, covered by two rifled muskets in the middle.

  Case was unaware of all this; he was peering from time to time around the corner he was leaning against but the movement in the yard was too frequent to allow him or his two comrades a free run to the rear of the house. He hoped Munz knew what he was doing; one careless action now and the shout would go up and they’d have half a dozen or more Swords of God on their necks. Case was confident of defeating them, but he might lose a few of his own men and he didn’t want that. Best to take out one or two first, then hit hard and fast and hope he got to Ann before any of the Brotherhood did. He knew the Swords of God well from previous encounters, and knew them to be heartless, pitiless killers without morals, remorse or feelings. They would do as ordered no matter what.

  Passmore sank to his knees behind a wet and rotting bale of straw and watched as one of the two occupants of the barn stacked another bale by the front. He was trying to build a wall that would act as a wind break. He glanced right and saw Gatscombe creep up to a wooden roof support and crouch, the cord tight in his hands. He looked ahead and the other man in the barn moved towards him, looking for something else to use as a wall, or perhaps a bed. As he passed, Gatscombe rose up and looped the cord over his head and pulled hard before the Brotherhood man could react.

  As the twisted leather closed round the throat of the Brotherhood man, the martial arts training ingrained in him took over, lashing out but missing, then twisting, trying to throw his assailant off his feet, but this didn’t work either. Locked together in a macabre dance, they staggered about the barn, seeking for a purchase to break free or to finish the job off.

  The scraping of boots on the floor alerted the first man and he whirled, teeth bared in fury and shock at the sight of his colleague being strangled. He rushed forward but Passmore jumped out and sent the knife arcing up under the breastbone and it sank deep into his chest, slicing into the heart. Passmo
re held the man as he sank to the ground, dying, his breath escaping in a long, slow gasp.

  Gatscombe had been pushed up against a wall but still held on desperately, pulling tighter and tighter, and the thrashings of his victim lessened and he sank to his knees, then was suddenly still. He inspected the man and saw his tongue protruding and eyes popping out of his head, and he’d gone an unhealthy color. Relaxing, he allowed the corpse to fall forward, thus blotting out the ugly sight, and he waved Munz and Furlong in.

  Case’s hands tightened momentarily around his gun as figures appeared at the exit of the barn but he felt relieved as he recognized Munz and the three others. Munz nodded sharply at the rear of the door and Case nodded back, then turned, beckoned Billy and Buckley to follow him and took one step round the corner and knelt on one knee, bringing his gun up. He was vaguely aware of the other two doing likewise, one of them above him, the other immediately to his right.

  Munz aimed deliberately, waiting for recognition. It couldn’t possibly be much longer. He was with his three buddies in plain view at the barn’s ruined entrance, pieces leveled in a very threatening manner. Surely one of the enemy in the yard would look up!

  It seemed like an age but one of the five men clearing the yard became aware of some danger and turned to see four men aiming at him and his group. He shouted a warning, his hand already reaching for the pistol in his belt, and the others swung round, reflexes sharp and honed through years of practice.

  But practice was all they really had been used to, not actual combat.

  “Fire!” Case said calmly but loudly. Seven guns blasted out death, sending Minié bullets spinning into the confined space of the yard at the five men. The man reaching for his pistol jerked as one plowed into his skull, shattering the cranium, sending his brains exploding out through the hole and throwing him backwards, now a mere nerveless rag doll. A second was hit twice, once from Furlong’s shot that blew his right elbow into pieces, the second from Buckley’s bullet that buried itself into his back and bored through the ribs, shattering two, before rupturing his right lung into a mass of jelly. Case’s shot drilled into a third man, lifting him up off his feet as he was still turning in reaction to the shot, his spine smashed in two. A fourth man was hit by Munz’s shot, blasting into his gut, forcing him to his knees and sending him into shock as his stomach tried to come to terms with a third hole in it.