Flight of the Southern Cross
By Karl David Klein
Flight of the Southern Cross
Dedication
In memory of
My brother-in-law
Frank O. McCullough
Whose words of inspiration
will be with me always.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my loving wife Hazel for her unflagging support and encouragement as well as the endless hours spent at the computer converting my hand written manuscript into legible print.
I also want to thank my life long friend Tom Vallely for his patience and Herculean labor correcting and editing this work.
Without their invaluable help Flight of the Southern Cross would never have left the ground.
Contact the author at cross@kar-zel.com or on the web at kar-zel.com
©Copyright 2010 Karl David Klein All right reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions Published by Smashwords.
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The future inhabitants of the Atlantic and Mississippi states will be our sons. We think we see their happiness in their union, and we wish it. Events may prove otherwise; and if they see their interest in separating why should we take sides? God bless them both, and keep them in union if it be for their good, but separate them if it be better. – Thomas Jefferson
PART ONE
Quest for Sanctuary
To escape evil one must only seek the light -–Book of Common Wisdom
CHAPTER 1
Maggie awoke weak and shaky as she always did after the visions came. The floor where she lay was cold beneath her naked body and she shivered uncontrollably as she rose on trembling legs. She groped in the near darkness for her blanket and draped the coarse wool over her shoulders as she crossed the room to the fireplace. She stoked the dying fire and sat wrapped in her blanket watching the rekindled flames climb along the logs.
As she stared into the fire the memory of her visions returned, washing over her with startling clarity. She saw the Northern leaders, cold and unforgiving as the land that spawned them; ambitious men, ruthless men of great wealth and little character.
Now the un-named battlefield was before her. The acrid smoke stung her eyes and filled her nostrils and she could smell the death it carried. The screams and groans of wounded and dying men combined into a great howl; a pleading, wordless prayer; a petition to God and a reproach to mankind. In the midst of the smoke she saw the face of the sad-eyed one and as she pointed an accusing finger the words came unsummoned to her lips, “Abraham, oh Abraham, your ship is sailing toward the dark shore from which there is no return.”
At her words the vision evaporated and the smoke was swept away to reveal an opulent, sunny land; a land of contradictions, a land of aristocrats and bondage, of enlightenment and unbridled ignorance. Most of all this land was jealous of its independence and would sacrifice all that it was and all it would ever be to maintain it.
She saw the Southern leaders, proud and arrogant, but pride would not be enough to win this conflict.
Maggie spoke into the flames, “Oh hear me Southern men your righteousness will not sustain you. The aggressors are many and you are few, but your redemption is at hand when a war ship floats above the land.
***
Abraham Lincoln sat sprawled behind a desk in the telegraph office. His lean lanky frame settled on and in the chair like a discarded string puppet. In the past few months he had begun walking the short distance from the White House to the telegraph office where he would spend the evening waiting for news of the war to come in over the wire. On these evenings he was never sure whether his visits were prompted by anxiety or the desire to escape Mrs. Lincoln.
Tonight the wire was conspicuously silent. The operator fiddled with the equipment and even found time to sweep the floor.
Lincoln was deep in thought when a familiar voice said, Mr. President.”
He looked up into the face of Ward Hill Lamon. “Oh Hill. Here, have a seat and tell me what news you have.”
“I’m afraid it’s not too good Mr. President.”
“Well let’s have the worst of it.”
“In the first place, our people in Tennessee seem to have confirmed Mr. Black’s information about the existence of the machine. Secondly, Mr. Fletcher and possibly his machine, certainly part of it at any rate, managed to get out of Murfreesboro before our people got there.”
“Is he moving with the Confederate Army in their evacuation?” asked Lincoln.
“No Sir, Mr. Black thinks he got out before that.”
“Do they know where he’s bound for?”
“They don’t know where he’s going, but they think they may know where he is.”
“Where?”
“Corinth.” answered Lamon.
The President was silent. He leaned forward and studied the floor for what seemed a long time before looked up and said, “Hill do you believe this thing is possible? I mean do you believe it is more than just a balloon, that it can actually be maneuvered in any direction at any height, actually move itself like a ship?”
“I don’t know sir. I’ve talked with Mr. Black and he says he saw the first one, the prototype if you will, saw it explode and kill Fletcher’s partner. But Black’s a fanatic and maybe just a little insane. I just don’t know.”
The President stood. He walked over to the stove which the clerk had lit earlier against the chill of the March evening. He held his big hands, palms out, toward the stove. Long years in law offices and court rooms had removed the calluses, but they were still the hands of a laborer. He turned to Lamon and said, “Hill we must make no mistake in this. Just the demoralizing effect of such a machine, if brought to bear against us, would be devastating. Our Democrat friends on the hill would use it against us to great effect, you can be sure. They already clamber for a peaceful settlement of this war and every setback we suffer, whether large or small, only fuels their cause.”
“What is your opinion, Mr. President? Do you think it is possible?”
Lincoln walked to the desk and seated himself on the corner. One leg hung off the side, the other foot on the floor. “I asked Professor Lowe if he thought it possible that a machine of that nature could be built. His answer was someday.”
“Someday? What does that mean?” Lamon asked.
“He said the engine to drive it would be so large and heavy as to make it impractical.”
“He did however believe that it was possible in principal?” Lamon asked.
“Oh yes.” Lincoln laughed, “But you must understand our Professor Lowe. He is so enthusiastic about everything to do with balloons that I scarcely hoped for any other opinion.”
Still smiling, the President regained his feet and said, “If you asked Professor Lowe if the Army of the Potomac could be carried from Washington to Richmond by air he would deem it possible, I’ll wager. Yes, yes, Lowe is quite a dreamer.”
“What does General McClellan think?” Lamon asked.
“Oh he knows nothing of this matter, thank God. If he knew, I’m quite sure he would demand another one hundred thousand troops and Mr. Pinkerton would swell this one possible ship, shall we call it, into a veritable fleet.”
“You do not seem to accredit Allen Pinkerton with a great deal of veracity, Mr. President.” Lamon said smiling.
“Well, his information so far reminds me of a piece of tough meat: the more you chew it the larger it gets until it cannot be swallowed and must be spit out.”
The smile faded from the President’s lips and he said, “What are we to do about our southern brothers? Is there no end to their inventiveness: ironclads, torpedoes and a submersible I think they call it? And now this flying ship. What an age we live in.”
“If it’s all true.” Lamon commented.
“After the thrashing the Merrimac gave our wooden ships, I think we can safely assume their ironclads exist.”
“Yes, but we have ironclads also.” Lamon replied.
“We do for a fact, Hill and I don’t fear for our Navy at the hands of anything that floats. But flies, Hill, a ship that flies. Consider what just one such ship could do, say above the Potomac, or heaven forbid, over Washington itself. My God, several of them supported by ground forces would be unstoppable.”
“Mr. President, we don’t think this thing is even assembled yet and we only have one man who claims to have seen one actually fly and he is a very excitable person and as I said, he may be unbalanced in the bargain.”
Lincoln watched his old friend brush nervously at his drooping black mustache and said, “I don’t mean to sound overly alarmed Hill, but because this affair is so politically sensitive it must be kept secret and that leaves it solely in your hands. I’m depending on you. This matter must be resolved in our favor, Hill and I would just as soon see Mr. Fletcher and his machine recovered uninjured for a variety of reasons. But if they must be destroyed that can be accommodated also.
“I’ll do my best Mr. President.”
“I know you will, Hill. You’ve always done your best for me and the country.”
Lamon rose to go and the President grasped his hand and, patting him on the back, walked with him to the door. “Give my best to Mrs. Lincoln.”
“I shall, that I shall.” Lincoln replied.
Ward Hill Lamon stepped out into the cool of the Washington night, the President’s words still echoing in his head. Recovering Mr. Fletcher and his machine uninjured would not be easy but he would try. Although he doubted if Mr. Black, President’s wishes or not, would be disposed to preserve the life of Archibald Fletcher. As he walked down the empty Washington street toward the train station he remembered the words of the President: Heaven forbid; over Washington itself.
He stopped and could not help but look up apprehensively, searching the clear sky above the unfinished Capitol Dome.
***
Fletcher dreamed of the machine: its bright work glistening and the drone of its equipment beautiful to their ear. As he looked at the machine its sound started to change from a drone to a buzz. His left eye twitched and opened. The eye rolled and fought for focus. A green bottle fly was angrily trying to escape through the hotel window next to his bed. He marveled at nature’s engineering. That the bloated body of the fly could be supported by the flimsy, transparent wings was truly a miracle. Fletcher opened both eyes and studied the fly, trying to guess what its weight would be. Fletcher looked at the world, all of it, as an engineering miracle. Fully awake now, he sat up and realized he had fallen asleep in his clothes again while reading. He swung his legs over the bed and picked up the book where it had fallen to the floor and placed it on the nightstand.
The trains had been running all night and the rail yard at Corinth was a beehive of activity. Fletcher watched the activity outside his window until a knock at the door drew his attention. He opened the door to a pleasant looking Negro boy of about fourteen who had brought his bucket of hot water.
Removing his clothes he stood naked in front of the mirror. At forty five his muscles were still well defined and his blonde hair and beard showed little or no graying. A slight roll of extra weight around his middle was all that hinted at his age. He stepped into the half-barrel washtub the hotel had supplied and ladled water over himself. He soaped himself and rinsed, performing the bends and contortions that long practice had taught him would rinse every crevice. As he stood in the tub toweling himself he thought of the mixed reactions his intimate friends had exhibited at his un-natural custom of bathing daily. Some were shocked, some amused, and some even thought it unhealthy and certainly un-natural.
His father had been the owner of a large textile company in New Orleans and he had traveled with him as a young man to China, where he had picked up his bizarre habit of bathing daily. While his father dealt with silk merchants, the young Fletcher examined Chinese culture. It was also in China that he observed the people’s pre-occupation with toys that flew. Kites, ornothroptors and the like were what germinated the seed some thirty years ago of his dream: his machine.
Dry, clean and wide awake he removed a clean suit and fresh shirt from the armoire and dressed quickly, fumbling with the black neck scarf, the tying of which he had never mastered. He checked the loads in his small Colt revolver, tucked it in his waistband and stepped out into the hallway. He went directly downstairs to the dining room.
A few soldiers and civilians were scattered among the tables. Fletcher walked to a table near the back wall and ordered breakfast. He retrieved a two day old newspaper someone had left on an adjoining table and skimmed through it while he drank his first cup of coffee. The news was all of the war and as usual, largely inaccurate.
A group of officers came in and seated themselves at a table near the door. A general with a swarthy complexion seemed to be the center of attention. A young lieutenant excused himself from the table and headed for the rear door of the dining room.
Fletcher assumed he was going out back to avail himself of the facilities. As he approached Fletcher’s table, Fletcher stood and said, “Pardon me lieutenant, may I ask you a question?”
The lieutenant stopped and almost came to attention. “Certainly sir.”
“Who is the general at your table?” Fletcher asked.
“Why that is General Beauregard and I am Lieutenant Miller, aid-de-camp to the general. Might I ask who you are sir?”
“My name is Archibald Fletcher.”
“And are you with the military, Mister Fletcher?”
“I am a civilian engineer on General Johnston’s staff. I thank you for your courtesy lieutenant. It has been a pleasure meeting you.” Fletcher said as he re-seated himself at the table.
“And you sir.” Lieutenant Miller said as he strode away toward the back door of the dining room. The young lieutenant returned shortly and so intense was his scrutiny of Fletcher that he nearly collided with the waiter who had just brought Fletcher’s breakfast. He excused himself and, with somewhat less military bearing than before, returned to his table.
Fletcher ate slowly and watched with interest as General Beauregard held his audience of officers spellbound with stories and anecdotes of which Fletcher caught only bits and pieces between bursts of laughter from the general’s table.
Fletcher had heard a great deal about the Creole General from New Orleans, the hero of Manassas, the little Napoleon, but Fletcher was not so sure his reputation was justified. He knew Beauregard had commanded the defenses at Charleston harbor at the beginning of the war and had been instrumental in the decision to fire on Fort Sumter. To be sure, Jefferson Davis and his cabinet had been consulted and shared the responsibility, but Beauregard had been the commander on the scene and, in Fletcher’s opinion, he and the Confederate government had played right into Lincoln’s hands. Any fool could plainly see that Lincoln had gone to great lengths to goad them into this act, which placed the responsibility for starting the war squarely on the Confederate shoulders and increased support for Lincoln’s fledgling administration a hundred-fold.
By the time Fletcher had finished his breakfast, the general and his party were finished and were standing outside the dining room door, lighting cigars and still talking with great animation.
As he walked out the door, Beauregard turned smiling to him and said, “Mister Fletcher I believe,” and extended his hand. His grip was firm as he said, “Lieutenant Miller tells me you are a member of General Johnston’s staff. Tell me is he as good a general as Jeff Davis thinks him to be?”
Fletcher looked him in the eye and still holding his hand said, “The best, general, the best.”
General Beauregard returned Fletcher’s steady gaze and releasing his hand said in a sincere voice, “For the sake of the Confederacy, I pray you are correct, sir.”
Suddenly Fletcher became acutely aware that the officers in Beauregard’s party had become silent. He said, “General, the Confederacy will need all that General Johnston can offer and much more. I fear without God’s blessing all our skills and talents will not be enough to see us through to victory over such a formidable foe. They have more of everything: railroads, munitions, food producing ability and most of all sir, manpower.”
Beauregard studied him carefully for a moment. He said in an even voice. “Indeed sir. But we have right on our side.”
Fletcher was about to answer when two soldiers appeared with six horses in tow. One delivered the reins of the general’s horse into his hand. Excusing himself he mounted with a flourish. He and his entourage rode off down the crowded railroad tracks that ran beside the hotel. Fletcher stared after them in disbelief. He hoped to God the general’s strategy included something more than being right.
***
Major Aaron Hunter left the Army of Northern Arkansas after the inconclusive battle at Elkhorn Tavern. He left on orders handed him personally by his commander, General Earl Van Dorn. Cryptic orders direct from the War Department in Richmond and signed by the Secretary of War Juda P. Benjamin himself. The brief, unembellished orders stated simply that he was relieved of his duties as an artillery officer with Van Dorn and was to report immediately to General Albert S. Johnston’s headquarters at Corinth Mississippi. He was to show his orders to no one but the general and he was to travel by the swiftest most direct route possible.
When he had left Northwestern Arkansas he had ridden the rocky trails that followed the streams as they tumbled down off the Ozark Plateau. When these trails reached the Arkansas River Valley they had quickly turned to mud.
The early spring rains were incessant and Aaron’s wool uniform had not been completely dry in days. Now as he neared the Mississippi River his boots were wet and uncomfortable, his uniform was damp and itchy and he was simply in a foul mood.
He rode along a narrow lane that roughly paralleled the Mississippi. The road sometimes dipped down almost to the river’s edge and sometimes drifted as far as a half mile from the river as it avoided sloughs and other obstacles. He was approaching a trail that angled across the road when he heard the first scream. He reined the mare in and listened; another scream that sounded like a man screaming in pain. The screams had come from his right toward the river. He urged the mare forward and off the road onto the trail. Freeing the flap on his holster, he stopped and listened.
He could hear men’s voices and laughter punctuated by the unmistakable sound of a man in pain. He let the mare take a few more steps around a bend in the trail where he could see a small clearing. In the middle of the clearing a Negro was on his knees, his hands tied behind his back. At the other end of the rope was a white man. He was jerking the rope with his left hand while menacing the Negro with a club that he held in his right. Another man sat on the trunk of a fallen tree with his feet almost on the trail. Between his feet, the butt of an old flintlock shotgun rested on the ground, the barrels over his shoulder. Aaron spurred the mare and as she bolted past the seated man, Aaron leaned left and swept the shotgun from the man’s grasp. He reined hard and stopped almost on top of the startled Negro and leveled his Colt at the chest of the man with the rope.
Aaron held the reins and the shotgun in his left hand and as he lifted the shotgun and balanced it across the front of his saddle he said,”Good morning gentlemen. Would one of you care to tell me what in hell you’re doing to this negra?”
The man who had been sitting on the log recovered first and came shuffling excitedly over beside his companion, whining, “What you go and grab mah shotgun fo? You gonna’ give it back rat now.”
“Shet up Jack. Cain’t you see the Cap’n got a pistol on me?” Jack was about five foot eight, fat, dirty beyond description and stupid.
“Yes, Jack, shut up,” Aaron said, shifting the muzzle of the Colt in his direction. “Now, since you seem to be a little smarter than your fat friend here, suppose you tell me why you’re beating this boy?”
“He’s a runner, Cap’n and Jack an me we done catch him fair an square. Gonna take him to Helena an git the reeward money.”
Jack looked at the ground between his shuffling feet and mumbled, “Did’n hafta take mah shotgun.”
“I tole’ you to shet up.” The other man said.
“Wull he did’n, Robert. It jes’ ain’t right ta grab a man’s gun thet way.”
Robert pulled his hat off and hit Jack across the face with it. “God damnit Jack, jes’ shet up. I’ll handle this.”
“Ain’t no runnah.”
Aaron looked down as the Negro stumbled to his feet and repeated. “Ain’t no runnah. No suh Marsa. I’se a free man. Gots de paper too.”
Aaron surveyed the mess of dirt and blood that stood unsteadily in front of him and decided that, if cleaned up, he would be a handsome enough specimen, as Negroes go. He was tall, almost as tall as himself. Six feet anyway and well muscled, about twenty five years old he’d guess. “You say you have manumission papers, boy?” Aaron asked.
“Huh?” Said the Negro.
“Papers to prove you’re a free man.”
“Nigger ain’t got no paper,” said Robert. “Thet ole carpet bag over there all he carryin, an ain’t nothin’ in it but some ole rags an a picher.”
“I gots em Marsa, hones I does. If you gits mah hans free, I shows ya.”
“Untie him.” Aaron said, motioning toward the Negro with the Colt.
“He’s a mean one Cap’n. Yo’ don’ wanna be settin’ him free.”
“I said untie him.”
“Yasuh, Capn, any thang yo’ say.” Robert started forward, reaching for the skinning knife at his side.
“No you don’t.” Aaron said, cocking the Colt and thrusting it at Robert. “I said untie him. You won’t need the knife.” Aaron had seen these country folks before and some of them could throw a knife and stick it in your throat at twenty paces, before you could pull a trigger.
When he was loose, the Negro reached down the front of his trousers and produced a wadded and wrinkled envelope. He handed it to Aaron, smiling through his busted and bruised lips. The paper read in part: To whom it may concern, let it be known that on my death the Negro known as Jed, about fifty years old and his son Henry are then and forever free.
The paper was written by a planter named O’Conner who lived about twenty miles west of Helena, Arkansas. His death was noted on the lower part of the paper, as having occurred on Jan. 10, 1862; about two months before. There were also distinguishing marks listed and it said Henry had a scar on his right shoulder. The paper had the proper notaries and seemed legitimate.
“Henry.” Aaron said.
“Yasuh Marsa.”
“Take off your shirt.”
“Yo’ ain’t gonna whup me is yo’ Marsa?”
“Henry, do you have a scar on your shoulder?”
“Yasuh Marsa sho nuf does,” Henry said as he slipped the shoulder of his shirt to expose a huge expanse of muscle with a three inch scar.
“Henry, why didn’t you show these men your papers?”
“They’da jest toe it up, Marsa. An sides, I don think them peckerwoods kin read nohow.”
Aaron tried not to smile and said, “Robert, Jack, take your pants off and throw them over here.”
“What fo’ Cap’n? Thets crazy, it’s too cole ta be runnin’ aroun’ nekid.”
“You won’t be any more uncomfortable than you’ve made this negra here. Now get them off.”
Robert undid his pants and let them fall. He was almost as dirty underneath as on the surface.
“Do I hafta Robert?” Jack whined.
“If you don’t want me to send Henry over there after them you best get them off and throw them here,” Aaron growled.
Aaron jammed the barrels of the shotgun a full three inches into the soft earth and twisted the gun a quarter turn and pulled it out. He tossed it to the fat man just as his pants fell to his ankles. The gun went high and as the fat man lunged for it he tripped and fell in a jiggling pile of white flesh, the gun fell with a thud on the damp ground behind him.
“Henry, stop grinning and go get their knives.”
Henry handed Aaron the knives and he threw them into the underbrush. He told Henry to get his bag and pick up the men’s pants.
“Now be good fellows and don’t follow too soon and I’ll leave your pants on the road, north a ways.” Aaron holstered the Colt, turned the mare and left the clearing with Henry trotting after him. As he glanced back over his shoulder, the two men were still standing, staring after him.
When they had traveled north a ways, Henry said, “Marsa, is yo’ really gon leaves dese britches fo’ dem peckerwoods?”
“Yes, Henry, I really am.”
“Well yo’ jes say when an I’ll drop em Marsa.”
Aaron’s face split into a large grin. Henry was busy tying knots in the legs of Robert and Jacks britches.
***
General Albert Sidney Johnston had ridden out of Corinth early. His staff had been busy turning the home of a Corinth family into a workable headquarters, so no one noticed him leave alone. By now, Captain Higgins would be furious. Albert smiled to himself as he thought, mother hen, that’s what the captain reminded him of, a mother hen.
He had ridden along the incoming column of soldiers that stretched back to the railhead, some forty miles to the northeast. Small and large units had been coming to Corinth from various directions for several days.
The main body of troops had taken the cars from Murfreesboro to Decatur, Alabama where they had connected with the Memphis and Charleston railroad. The Memphis and Charleston had been pouring men with their supplies and equipment into Corinth faster than he had been able to find places for them. The men that he watched now, struggling with their equipment had been shunted down an unfinished spur that left the main line at Columbia, Tennessee and stopped forty miles or so short of its goal of Corinth. Why these troops had come this way he did not know, maybe error, maybe necessity. What was happening back towards Nashville was anybody’s guess.
He had found a small knoll some fifty yards off the road and had ridden to the top so he could see more of the column. It also allowed the column to see him and a cheer would go up now and then as different units saw the unmistakable image of their general on horseback silhouetted against the western sky.
Clouds were starting to build in the northwest, black and ominous. A cold wind stirred the young shoots of grass on the knoll. A rider separated himself from the moving column and was headed toward him. Albert smiled, it was the captain “Begging the general’s pardon Sir, but I thought we agreed you would not ride out alone anymore.”
“I’m not alone captain. There’s probably two thousand good men down there. Didn’t you notice them?”
“Indeed I did general, indeed I did and not twenty miles north of this spot there’s maybe ten times that many Yankees. I’m sorry sir, but what if a Yankee patrol was to see you sittin’ up here, pretty as you please, with no one around you? You know general, there’s Yankee sharpshooters could part your hair for you at a five hundred yards and they’d admire nothin’ better than to take your cap and braid back to that Grant fella’ at Pittsburg Landing off yonder.”
“Well, captain, if you think we’re in peril here, perhaps we should join the column at once.”
“Now why didn’t I think of that,” The captain said under his breath as the general spurred his horse and rode laughing toward the column.
The general and his aide rode down the column exchanging greetings with the officers and men.
“General,” Said Captain Higgins, “There’s a couple of dispatches that just arrived from the War Department in Richmond and they are marked urgent and confidential.”
More of this Fletcher business, Albert thought. Damned interesting business at that, but Albert had a war to fight. Although this business was a part of it, that Grant fella, as the captain called him, over at Pittsburg Landing was about all the war he had time for right now. He would do what he could to help of course. After all, this was an operation with connections clear back to Richmond and his friend Davis, who just happened to be the President. Just the same he’d be glad when Mr. Fletcher was on his way.
The captain was trying to throw a slicker over the general’s shoulders as he came back from his thoughts and was mumbling something about how a man could get to be a general and not have sense enough to carry a slicker in March much less ride out alone. The general smiled; it was raining and he had a wet hen for an aide.
***
General Beauregard leaned back from the table that was neatly arrayed with charts, maps and rosters. He put his thumb and forefinger to his eyes and rubbed briefly. I wonder how long it will be before I shall need glasses for this work, he thought. He stood slowly and walked across to the French doors which opened onto the rear gallery, paused for a moment to adjust his blouse and stepped through the door.
It had stopped raining sometime while he worked, but the water dripped from the huge Live Oaks that shaded the rear of the house and fell quietly to the sodden earth below. Beauregard stood with his hands clasped behind him and inhaled deeply. The air was heavy with the scent of spring and a mist was rising from the small goldfish pond in the garden.
He looked to the north, studied for a moment and in a low but audible voice said, “General Grant, I wonder if your recent victories have made you careless, careless enough that we might surprise you.”
He wished he know more about The Union Commander. He had met him briefly years before in Mexico, but had only a foggy memory of him today. He had been told Grant drank to excess and that he was a rather dull, plain man, but from what Beauregard knew of his recent military successes, this seemed unlikely. If Grant were even half what the Yankee papers indicated he was, Beauregard doubted that an army of thirty thousand green, unseasoned troops could even be formed up for the twenty five mile march without him becoming aware that he was about to be attacked, It was totally unthinkable that these same raw recruits, if by some miracle they were not detected in the beginning, could march to the vicinity of Pittsburg Landing and perform the intricate maneuvers required to put thirty thousand troops into combat formations, without drawing the attention of a single Union soldier. No it simply could not be done. He must convince General Johnston of the folly of attempting such a thing.
Beauregard considered the irony of his present situation. At Manassas Joseph E. Johnston had given over command to Beauregard when Johnston had arrived late on the field. Whether this had been done out of courtesy or timidity he had never known. Now his fate was repeating itself, he was second in command to Albert Sidney Johnston and he knew this General Johnston was not likely to relinquish his command for any reason.
Beauregard knew a good deal more about Albert Sidney Johnston than he did about Ulysses S. Grant and what he knew did not indicate that he was likely to be more than second in command in the upcoming battle. Johnston was a West Point graduate and a contemporary of President Davis. He had fought in the Black Hawk wars some thirty years ago. Following that, he had been commander of the Texas Revolutionary Army and had served as Secretary of War for the Republic of Texas in the late thirties. He had fought at Monterey for Winfield Scott and later commanded the Dept. of Texas. He also led the expedition against the Mormons in 1857 and commanded the Dept. of Utah and the Pacific. He had consequently been somewhat of a legendary hero before the war even started. Now in his late fifties, he was still a greatly admired man, even by Beauregard; but he still had grave misgivings about Johnston’s plan to attack Grant at Pittsburg Landing.
If only General Johnston would consider the wisdom of entrenching at Corinth, to await Grant’s attack which was sure to come. Green troops would do far better behind earth works, receiving the charge of green troops-- for the Yankees were in no better shape than the Confederacy in that regard-- than delivering one.
***
It was fast approaching dark and the woodlot the farmer had told him about must be close. Aaron had stopped at a small farm several hours back and the farmer had been kind enough to feed Henry and himself and watered and fed the mare. He had ridden maybe twenty miles since he had saved Henry from his would be captors and all the while the Negro trotted tirelessly behind the mare, saying very little. What the hell am I to do with a free Negro, Aaron thought. I couldn’t just leave him there, but what do I do with him now Well, I’ll take him as far as Memphis and that’s it. He’ll be on his own, Aaron told himself.
He heard the laughter of men and a Negro singing off to his right somewhere. As he moved on, the sounds of the Mississippi interspersed with the laughter. He rode into a wood lot and dismounted among the stacked cords of wood. A Negro looked around the stack of wood he was constructing and said, “Evnin’ colonel.”
Aaron smiled, he had been promoted. A white man, one of three that stood at the near end of a pier that ran maybe fifty feet out into the dark water of the river, came slowly over to Aaron and thrust out his hand. In a loud voice intended for the others to hear, he said, “Lawsee. What we got here, fellas? The wars done come to the Mississippi and we being visited by a genuwine Confederate soldier. Ain’t no blue bellies hidin’ out here, colonel, but you sho is welcome to sit a spell and tell us bout the war. We got some fresh coffee on da fire there, ifn you be interested.”
“That sounds fine,” Aaron said, “Thank you.”
The other two men came over to the fire where Aaron was pouring coffee and looked him over.
“Do you expect any boats tonight?” Aaron asked.
“Well sir, you see them lanterns strung out there on the pier? Well they ain’t there for the fish to see by. Reckon they’ll be one by soon enough, ain’t no other place for a steamer to take on wood between here and Memphis, lest it be here and there’s a right smart of traffic on the river these days, with the war and all. Yes sir, they’ll be one along right enough.”
An hour or so had passed when Aaron heard the whistle. He looked down river and saw the steamer sliding along in the moonlight. He could hear the paddlewheel churning the muddy water and could see the tiny dots of light that were the cabin windows .Soon the boat was tied up at the pier. She was a charter packet bound for Memphis, with a few passengers, but mostly cargo.
After they had taken on wood, Aaron and Henry, with the help of a couple of crew members, managed to get the mare on board. Aaron stood at the starboard rail. The whistle split the night air as the steamer slid backward, lying with the current. The stacks belched black smoke as the huge stern wheel came to life and the deck trembled as the bow came around and pointed up river. Again the deck shook, settled down and the steamer headed north to Memphis.
The City of New Orleans was over two hundred feet in length and carried four boilers and her pistons were forty inchers. She had been built the year before at New Orleans and was one of the fastest boats on the river. Captain Bordeaux was proud of her. On her maiden voyage she had beaten the Henry J. to Memphis by two hours. Something only one other boat had done and not by as large a margin.
Captain Bordeaux leaned over the railing outside the pilot house and called to the purser, “Mr. Fleming find that Officer that came on board at the wood lot and ask him to meet me in the salon for coffee, if you would.” Bordeaux had seen his face briefly in the light of the oil lamps when he boarded and there had been something familiar about him.
The captain was seated at his table when Aaron came in. As Bordeaux rose to greet him, Aaron said, “Good evening, captain, I’m Major Hunter. Good of you to invite me, but I’m afraid I’m not too presentable after nearly two weeks on the road.”
“Nonsense major, you’re fine.”
Aaron doubted he was fine, as he settled into the chair across from the captain.
“Two coffees, Jackson,” the captain yelled out to no one Aaron could see. The salon was empty save for Captain Bordeaux and himself. In a moment a grinning Negro appeared through a back doorway, carrying two cups of extremely hot coffee. He set them down gingerly and asked, “Anything else captain?”
“Yes Jackson, the major here looks like he might find a little Brandy to his liking. Am I right, major?”
“Brandy would be most welcome captain; I fear I may never be warm again.”
The Negro, still grinning and showing perfect teeth, reached into his coat pocket and produced a bottle
“Damned smart-assed negra,” the captain grumbled, “Gonna feed you to the catfish one of these days.”
“Yassuh Cap’n, one a these days.” said the Negro smiling.
“Well, don’t just stand there grinning like an idiot, go find the steward and tell him he needs to find something for the major to wear, while he cleans his uniform.”
“Yasuh Cap’n I’m gone.”
“Damned smart-assed negra,” The captain repeated smiling.
“I appreciate your kindness,” Aaron said, as he touched his coffee with the Brandy.
“Think nothing of it, Major Hunter. Say, are you any relation to Mr. Broderick Hunter from New Orleans.”
The cup stopped halfway to Aaron’s lips. “My Father, sir, do you know him?”
“Know him?” said Captain Bordeaux, “We fought side by side in Mexico for old Winfield Scott. We were both in the Mississippi Rifles, under Jeff Davis, by God. Say, do you remember going up river with your Father some fifteen years ago?”
“Yes sir, to St. Louis. My Father took me along on a business trip.”
“Well, it was me took you both. I was captain of the General Scott. A miserable old scow, but sturdy enough. So, you’re Broderick’s boy. You’ve sure grown up, an officer in the army too. I hear your uncle is serving on Jeff Davis’s cabinet up in Richmond.”
“Yes sir, he is.”
The captain sipped his coffee and said, “Aaron, are we going to lose this river soon?”
“I don’t know captain, the upper part maybe. If we can get enough men and supplies out here, I think we can save the lower Mississippi. At any rate I don’t think they’ll get past our guns at Vicksburg any time soon.”
“Damn, I can’t get above Memphis now. We need one of them new-fangled Ironclads or something to keep this river open or the south will strangle to death. Aaron, you haven’t told me what you’re doing boarding steamers in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere?”
I wish I knew myself Aaron thought. “Well, I was with Van Dorn over in Arkansas. Now I’m on my way to Corinth to join Johnston.”
“Lord, I hear their massing all the troops in this part of the country at Corinth to try to stop the Yankees coming down the Tennessee. The army of Tennessee and the army of Mississippi are both coming in and they say your General Van Dorn is bringing his troops from Van Buren; but you must be a little ahead of him.” The captain paused and looked at Aaron questioningly.
Damn, thought Aaron, the civilians know more of what’s happening than I do. “Captain, I don’t even know where the Yankees are, or where our forces are likely to encounter them.”
“Well, I can give you a good guess. They’ve come down as far as Savannah, Tennessee, at least, maybe further and with Johnston at Corinth that narrows it down to about a thirty mile stretch of river and my guess is Johnston will wait on an attack at Corinth.”
“What day of the month is it?” Aaron asked.
“Say you have been out of touch haven’t you? This is the twenty fifth of March.” Replied the captain.
I wonder if I’ll make Corinth before all hell breaks loose, Aaron thought.
***
Sergeant O’Hara and Private Jones found the small farm, South of Savannah about noon. They each led an extra horse with a pack saddle. They were looking for fresh meat. Foraging was technically against regulations, but they were with General Sherman’s outfit and everybody knew Sherman winked at any regulation that protected the Southern non-combatant. Sherman held with the idea that all Southerners were the enemy.
The private was only nineteen and had seen little fighting so far, but he knew that was about to change. He tried to act tough like the sergeant, but his act usually only drew grins from his fellow soldiers. On this morning he’d had the chance to go foraging with the sergeant and he was determined to prove he could be tough. He rode up in the yard of the farm house while the sergeant headed for the barn and out buildings.
The sergeant liked the private; the kid had guts and was always ready to learn. This morning he was letting the kid handle the farm women, who were sure to come out crying and cursing as they always did. Before he reached the outbuildings, the sergeant pulled up short and jumped from his horse, drawing his revolver as he hit the ground running. He’d heard a scream from the house and it had been the kid’s voice. He kicked in the locked back door and ran to the front in time to see the kid disappear through the front door.
He tripped over the first woman’s body and fell to the floor. He slipped to one knee and half-fell, half-crawled out the door. The private was leaning over the porch railing, retching.
The sergeant swung the revolver toward the sound. “Jesus.” He threw the muzzle up and lowered the hammer. “What the hell happened, Jones?”
The private did not answer; he only stared around at the sergeant, eyes wide and terrified and bent back to the rail.
The sergeant turned back to the door of the house and taking a deep breath, stepped inside. One woman had been stabbed in the throat once. The other one had been mutilated beyond description. There was blood five feet up the walls in places. He gritted his teeth and bending down, touching the youngest woman’s arm. The hair on his neck stood up and he backed quickly out the door. She was still warm. The private was white and shaking. “Who? Who would do a thing like that?’”
“Here, sit down,” The sergeant said, pointing to the steps at the side of the porch, “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
“Who would do that?” Repeated the kid.
The sergeant hit him hard with his open palm, “Just shut up and stay here. Got it?”
“Yes sergeant.” The kid said.
“I’ll be right back. I want to look around.” The sergeant whistled and his horse came around the side of the house and stopped in front of him. He mounted and headed for the barn door that stood open. Pistol in hand he bent forward over the neck of the horse and urged her inside. A horse with the U.S. brand on its flank was standing in one corner, it was lame.
The sergeant noticed the horse was still lathered and wet. Again the hair on his neck stood up. Searching the darkened barn with his eyes, he turned his mount and rode out into the sunlight.
Deserters, damn deserters, he thought. The horse pulled up lame and they, or he got caught stealing a horse from the farm and killed the women. Not long ago either. Must have happened not twenty minutes before they arrived. He realized that anyone happening by right now might think he and the kid had something to do with it. Get the kid and the horses and get the hell out of here. That’s what they needed to do.
As they rode away the private kept repeating, “Who would do a thing like that?”
CHAPTER 2
Gideon Black worked his way slowly southward through the maze of back roads that led into and around Monterey, Tennessee. He was getting close now; he could almost feel Fletcher’s presence. Soon, he thought, soon.
A young girl waved from the porch of a small house as he passed. He automatically shifted to his other self. He smiled and swept his hat off in a flourish and bowed in her direction from his position in the saddle.
Gideon detested women, although he had learned to hide his feelings about them, as indeed he had learned to hide many things about himself.
He remembered the maiden aunt who had raised him after his mother and father had died of scarlet fever. Gideon, that’s no way to eat. Gideon don’t leave that door open. Gideon, what would your mother, rest her soul, say? What am I to do with you? Oh, she had found something to do with him all right. The memories of that hot July night, just before his fourteenth birthday, came flooding back in sickening waves. He had been awakened by the knowledge that someone was in bed with him. A flabby soft body was suffocating him and the wet, sucking mouth of his aunt was draining his energy and the very life from him, it seemed.
Gideon had been terrified and lay still, not daring to move until his aunt had left his room; then he locked the door and sat on the side of his bed and cried. It was the last time Gideon ever cried.
Gideon continued to suffer the passions of his aunt in silence another three long years. One night in the spring, while his aunt slept in an upstairs bedroom, Gideon, smiling, calmly spread coal oil on the stairs and all through the lower portion of the house. After setting the stairs on fire, he closed the front door behind him and walked away.
As Gideon grew older, his hatred for his aunt grew until it encompassed all women and his parents for dying and leaving him to the mercy of his aunt. Indeed, it grew until little escaped his hatred. He hated other men, most of them at any rate, for not sharing his hatred of women. His headaches were getting worse and more frequent with each passing year. Now his pain would sometimes become a red wall behind his eyes when he was angry. He would lose whole hours out of the day, with little or no memory of what he did and now, after three years in prison, his anger had focused on the man who had put him there; Archibald Fletcher.
There was an angry red oval on the heel of his hand. The skin was broken in several places. Gideon studied the wound and remembered. The army horse had gone lame two miles or so before he reached the small farm outside Savannah. He led the horse into the yard and called out to the house. A man appeared in the door and after looking him over, sat the shotgun he carried against the wall and came out to the yard. “Horse there pull up lame did he?” the man asked.
“Yes sir, I’m on my way to Corinth. I thought maybe you would trade me a horse for this one and some cash.”
“Only got one horse,” the man said, “Couldn’t hardly do without it, sides, this’d of yours has a U.S. brand. Means it belongs to the army. I could get in a heap of trouble.”
“Well, I understand how you feel, no harm in asking though” Gideon said, “How about letting me water this one and I’ll be on my way.
“Don’t see no harm in that, waters down by the barn, come on I’ll show you.”
As they cleared the corner of the barn, Gideon pulled his Bowie knife and slit the man’s throat. He caught him as he was going to his knees and pushed him over behind a wood- pile. Gideon led the lame horse to the back of the barn and in through the back door. He saddled the other horse, led him out behind the barn, tied him and headed for the house. He stepped up on the porch, threw the shotgun into the bushes and stepped inside with the knife still in his hand.
A young woman walked into the room. Gideon grabbed her. “Who else is here?” He asked, putting the knife to her throat. “My mother, just my mother and I.” Answered the terrified woman.
Just then the other woman came in and screamed.
“Shut up that screaming or I’ll kill her where she stands.”
The girl pulled her face around to the window. Gideon had heard the horses too. The woman he held screamed. Gideon clamped his hand over her mouth. The older woman ran at him. He stabbed her in the throat. The one he held jerked away violently and bit down hard on his hand. The anger, or maybe it was fear, welled up inside him and he stabbed her in the back. As she fell he slashed out again and again. He didn’t know how many times he drove the knife into her, but she had quit moving when he heard steps on the porch. He ran to the back of the house and found the door but it was locked. He heard the soldier scream. He stepped back against the wall and squatted down. The locked door exploded open and another soldier bolted through the room and toward the front of the house, without noticing him squatting in the shadows against the wall. Gideon slid silently out the door and ran for the barn where the horse was tied. He got behind the barn without being seen, mounted and made for a stand of trees. Not a hundred yards behind the barn. Gideon looked again at the injured hand and grinned, “Bitch won’t be bitin’ any one else, by God.”
Darkness had settled on Gideon as he rode toward Corinth. Gideon liked the dark.
***
Grady Abbott stepped out of the telegraph office in Nashville. He walked across the street, holding the telegram from Lamon, in his hand and angled toward the Crocket Saloon. When he was safely seated at a back table he opened the telegram and read it.
“God damn.” Grady’s big hand came down hard on the table, making the lamp and his bottle of Irish Whiskey dance wildly. A few customers looked around briefly and then went back to their conversations.
The telegram said, in essence, that Lamon had gotten as far as Cincinnati by train and expected to make Louisville the next day. From there, depending on the condition of the rails, he hoped it would be no more than two days to Nashville. It went on to say there had been some minor changes and that Fletcher, if located, was to be taken alive. Oh hell, no problem, the slippery son-of-a-bitch had eluded them for weeks now. The closest they had come to him was forty or fifty miles. No one but that crazy bastard, Black, even knew what he looked like and now Black had disappeared. The latest information placed Fletcher at Corinth, Mississippi and this asshole calmly informs me not to kill him. Hell, I’d just like to see him. Say howdy do, by God.
Ronald Bodine was standing at Grady’s table when he looked up. “Jesus Bodine. What are you, a damned cat? You scared the crap out of me.”
“Oh sorry, don’t get up.” Bodine said dryly.
Grady had shown absolutely no hint that he was getting up. “Set down and have a drink,” Grady said, “Try some of this Irish crap; it might make a man of you.”
Grady watched Bodine situate himself at the table and thought, Damned man never worked a day in his life. He’d climb a tree to tell a lie, when he could tell the truth standing on the ground. He had every vice known to man and some that were just hinted at. He was trusted by no one, least of all Grady, but for some reason he liked him and enjoyed his stories and bullshit.
Nothing happened in Nashville that did not come to the attention of Ronnie Bodine. Like most gamblers and hustlers, Ronnie listened to everything and everybody. He could carry on a conversation with a lamp post and had on occasion. Whores, pimps, bartenders, sheriffs, hotel clerks, boat captains--- they were all Ronnie’s friends. There was something intangible about the way he reacted to anything he was told, which made the teller feel that it was the most important, the funniest or most useful information Ronnie had ever heard. In return he enjoyed placing information in the right place and watching the reaction. He liked knowing things other people didn’t know. He liked intrigue.
“Do you know anything more about our friend?” Grady asked.
“A little”, replied Ronnie, “He’s traveling or was at any rate, with two men and a woman.”
“A woman. That’s the first I’ve heard of a woman. All on horseback?”
“I’m not sure, but there’s a wagon traveling with them part of the time.”
“What does that mean, part of the time?”
“It means,” said Ronnie, “That the wagon was with them when they left Nashville, but it wasn’t when they left Murfreesboro and I don’t know if they split up at Murfreesboro or not.”
“Have you heard from or about our lunatic Mr. Black?”
“No.” Ronnie said smiling. “But old Blackie’s not so bad. I kinda like him.”
“You would; he gives me the creeps.”
“I get along with him fine.” Ronnie said grinning.
Grady looked at Bodine shaking his head, he drained his glass and refilling it saying, “Sure you won’t try some of this?”
“No thank you.”
“Well I have some information about Mr. Fletcher that you might find interesting.”
Bodine sat up and said, “What have you found out?”
“He’s wealthy, for starters. He has holdings in Canada, Cuba and England, not to mention his holdings here, which are considerable.”
“Well I’ll be damned. Is he married?” Asked Bodine.
“Yes, but his wife is out of the country, or was. He sent her off just before the war got started.”
“Did you know he bathes daily?” Ronnie asked.
“No. How the hell did you find that out?”
“I know someone on the housekeeping staff at the hotel he stayed at here in Nashville.”
“A chambermaid I’ll wager,” Grady said.
“As a matter of fact.” Ronnie said grinning.
“Well, we had better find him before Mr. Black does. Washington wants him alive if possible.” Grady said.
Bodine looked surprised. “Do you think old Blackie would do for him, if he catches him first?”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt about it; that son-of-a-bitch likes to kill. Have you ever looked at his eyes? And what about all that hardware he carries? Biggest damn knife I ever saw and that revolver should have wheels and a limber chest.
“It’s a Walker Colt, Texas Rangers carry them,” Bodine replied.
“We leave as soon as Lamon gets here, so be ready and be where I can find you.”
“You mean I’m still on the payroll?” Bodine asked.
“Damn right and you will be until this thing’s over.”
Bodine wondered what Grady would think if he knew that he was on Fletcher’s payroll also and had been for a long time.
***
Aaron had left Captain Bordeaux at the landing in Memphis. The captain was busy seeing to the unloading of the City of New Orleans when Aaron walked up with Henry to say goodbye. The captain said, “Well. Aren’t you elegant in your clean uniform, simply elegant?”
He took Aaron’s hand and said, “Aaron my boy I know you’re going to make your father proud, but try to keep your head down, by God. A dead soldier don’t do his country no good.”