THE REBEL KILLER

by Paul Fraser Collard

  The Union soldiers let them go. The fight for the farm track had been hard fought, the men from both sides battling with ferocious courage. The Union men had held the line, and now they held their fire. They knew they would need their bullets if they were to defend the lane.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Jack hissed the oath as he broke into a thick tangle of greenery. He stopped running, dropped his sword to the ground and bent double, sucking air into his tortured lungs, dragging it down in great gasps. The pain came then. His side was on fire where the Union bayonet had scored his flesh, and his left hand was sending shooting twinges up and down his arm.

  ‘Form up! Fix bayonets!’

  Around them, another column was being formed. Fresh regiments had been summoned to the fight and now men with clean, pale faces prepared to cross the ground that had already claimed so many lives that day.

  ‘You there! Join the ranks!’ An officer with a loud, pompous voice shouted the command at the stragglers in the treeline. None responded to the command.

  Jack sucked down one last breath, then straightened up, wincing at the pain as he did so. Martha handed him back his repeating rifle. The weapon felt impossibly heavy. He saw the dark marks on the brass hilt, and dozens of scratches and notches all along its length. He could not recall how many men the weapon had killed.

  Martha’s face was grey with exhaustion.

  ‘Thank you.’ He reached out to her, laying his bloodied hand on her shoulder. ‘You saved me.’

  She had no breath for a reply.

  ‘I was going to die.’ He said the words softly, as much to himself as to her. He had been a fool, an arrogant fool. And he had been one for a long, long time. ‘You saved me. And now I’m going to save you.’

  He took her by the hand and led her along the treeline until he found his knapsack. There were dozens of Confederate soldiers around them. Some lay slumped on the ground, whilst others sat and stared at faraway objects only they could see. These were the men who had crossed the field.

  The next attack was about to begin. Officers shouted and drums rattled into life. Bright colours led a fresh brigade forward in another frontal assault on the farm track and its nest of deadly defenders. Some of the men who had fought before joined the ranks, swelling the column’s numbers. Jack could understand why they did it. He knew the fury of battle as well as any. But this attack would go on without him. The lesson had been a long time coming, but it had been learned.

  ‘You ready to get out of here?’ he whispered as he led Martha towards his horse, which had remained where he had left it. The animal whinnied in recognition.

  ‘Yes.’ Martha gave the reply firmly.

  ‘You saved my life,’ Jack said again. He sucked down a breath, then boosted himself into the saddle.

  ‘I didn’t nurse you back to health just to see you die.’ Martha stood next to the stirrup and looked up at him. ‘My pa wouldn’t have wanted that. He’d cuss me out for the wasted effort.’ She reached up a hand for him to help her.

  Jack grunted as he swung her up into the saddle behind him. ‘I’m in your debt, Martha.’ With her behind him, he could not see her face and she could not see his. He was glad of that. He would not want her to witness his emotion. She had done something incredibly brave, rushing back into the fight when any sane person would have been running for their lives.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ He could not hold back the question.

  ‘Because you’d do it for me.’ Martha slipped her hands around his waist.

  ‘But . . .’ Jack clamped down on the words that had sprung to his lips.

  ‘But I’m a woman?’ Martha pulled her arms tight, squeezing with enough force to make him gasp.

  ‘Yes. You don’t belong here.’

  ‘No one belongs here, Jack, ’cept maybe the devil hisself.’ She released the pressure. ‘Now get on with you. Get us out of here.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Jack felt her weight settle behind him, then he kicked back his heels and forced the horse that would carry them to safety into motion. It was time to do as he was told.

  Behind them, he heard the rebel yell as the fresh column tried to take the farm track. He rode away from the fight as the first Union volley drowned out the attackers’ cries and the screaming began once again.

  Jack sat and stared into the darkness. Martha lay close beside him, sharing his blanket. He could see little of the world around them, but he heard the sounds of other men. The Confederate army had made their camp on the field of battle, the men sinking to the ground wherever they happened to be. They were exhausted, but they were confident. Jack had heard whoops and catcalls as the tired men had made their camp. The Yankees were as good as beaten. The Confederate army had fought all day and they had fought hard. They had taken heavy casualties, but what was left of the Union army was now trapped with the Tennessee river at its back and the Confederate army to its front. The men from the South settled to their rest certain that the morning would see one last push, one more fight, and the hated Yankee army would be destroyed.

  Jack and Martha could not have gone more than a mile when they had stopped for the day. The roads leading away from the battle had been clogged with men and wagons going in the other direction, as the great Confederate host pushed the Union army back towards the river. To slow their progress still further, other officers, desperate for knowledge, had stopped them at least a dozen times. Jack had shared what he knew, then asked questions of his own.

  He had discovered that the farm track had eventually been taken. A Confederate column had broken through the Union line in a peach orchard to the east, turning the flank of the men holding the blood-soaked ground. Still the Union had held, even as their line had been bent back like a horseshoe. A Confederate officer, sickened by the bloodshed, had massed every piece of artillery he could find. Jack had heard that more than fifty cannon had brought down a bombardment on the Union position. He had not been there to see it, but he had heard it. The roar of the massed guns had created a wave of sound so powerful it was as if the very fabric of the world was being ripped apart. Under such a bombardment the Union line’s hold on the lane had become untenable, and a stand of nearly seven hours had finally been broken, the bloodied remains of the Union forces pushed back towards Pittsburg Landing.

  There they would spend a desperate night. From what Jack had heard, their army was in tatters, with a huge number of men deserting. Those that stayed formed a final line of defence, the battered, stubborn defenders sure to be beaten within hours of the sun’s rise.

  It began to rain. The water was icy on Jack’s skin, yet he relished the sensation. It was a reminder that he was alive. He looked up, letting the frigid raindrops run across his face, and searched the sky for a glimpse of the stars. He saw nothing but blackness, the battlefield smothered with a thick blanket of cloud. He reached out a hand and rested it gently on Martha’s hip. He had no idea if she slept, or if she too passed the lonely, cold hours of the night thinking on what might have been.

  The fight over the farm track replayed itself over and over in his mind. He searched the memories, looking for something that would give him comfort. He failed. Without Martha and her comrades rushing to his aid, he knew with utter certainty that he would now be dead.

  He felt the touch of death on the nape of his neck and shivered. The notion of his own death appalled him. He had believed that he did not fear it. He had watched the light of life leave a man’s eyes on so many occasions that it had become commonplace. Yet now the thought of oblivion terrified him. The idea of not being, of not existing, was almost more than he could bear.

  ‘Are you cold?’ The voice came from beneath the blanket. ‘I can feel you shaking.’

  Jack did not answer. He was lost in thoughts of nothingness. Fear seared through every fibre of his being, the sensation like nothing he had ever felt before. He was no master of war. He was no hero, no great warrior. He was just another soldier. That realisation had changed him, and he wondered how he cou
ld go on knowing what he now knew. Could he fight again, burdened with this fear, or would it unman him? He had witnessed other men lie down and refuse to fight, no matter what punishment they were threatened with. He understood them now and feared he would prove to be one of them.

  ‘Here.’

  The blanket lifted and a hand reached out, the touch warm on his cold flesh. He took hold of it, engulfing it between his own, savouring the warmth. He did not move for a long time.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Again the voice came from beneath the blanket.

  ‘What for?’ The words struggled out of Jack’s throat.

  ‘For what happened. For making you join that fight.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry.’ Jack was finding it hard to speak. It felt as if his mouth was disconnected from his mind. His thoughts lingered on the notion of his own mortality. The fear of death would not let him escape.

  ‘So are you still going to try to find that man?’ Martha wanted to talk.

  Jack could not answer. Shadowy faces flickered across his mind’s eye. Rose, Lyle, Pinter, Hightower, Denton, and last of all, Martha herself.

  ‘I’ll help you.’ She filled the silence.

  ‘No.’ The word came suddenly and without thought. He released her hand and returned it to her.

  ‘You don’t want my help?’

  ‘No. I’m not going to try to find him.’ Jack paused as the thought settled. He ran it through his mind, testing it to see what emotion he felt. There was only one. He felt relief.

  ‘What about Rose?’

  Jack took in a long, slow breath before he replied. ‘I can’t see her any more. I can’t picture her face. Not like it was.’ He paused. ‘I’ve lost her.’

  He said nothing more and Martha left him to his silence. His quest for revenge was over.

  Dawn came slowly that morning. It spread lethargically across the sky, as if it too were too cold and too drained from the effort of the previous day to want to start another. Yet slowly, reluctantly, the light pushed away the darkness. It left the Confederate army smothered in shadow, but there was light enough to see, and so begin another day. Yet the Southerners did not move. They lingered in whatever meagre shelter they had managed to find, reluctant to get on with the second day of fighting.

  It had been a long, wet, cold night. Few men had slept. Union gunboats moored on the Tennessee river had shelled the battlefield through the hours of darkness. The noise had been constant, the bombardment a grinding misery that had to be endured, just like the fear it inspired that gnawed away deep in a man’s gut. It had rained all night, preventing many of the soldiers from lying on the ground. The dawn put an end to the wretchedness of the darkness, yet brought with it only the promise of more pain, and more death

  Eventually a few men emerged from their makeshift shelters to cook what rations they had, the first fires doing little to shift the cloud of miserable gloom. Most, though, stayed where they were, too tired and hungry to stir themselves.

  They were left to wallow. No summons came from the fife and drum to force them to their feet. Instead the troops greeted the day in lethargy, and not one man, not one officer, was concerned. For the Union army was trapped and almost beaten, and there was no need to hasten their end. They had been too badly mauled by the previous day’s fighting to put up much resistance. The Yankees could wait.

  Jack worked on his sabre. He had already cleaned and reloaded Martha’s musket, and he had loaded the Henry repeater with the last of the cartridges. Now he ran a whetstone up and down the blade’s edges. The weapon was battered from the previous day, the steel pitted and scarred. But if it were needed, it would still do the job for which it was intended.

  Yet he had no intention of using his weapons that day. He would bide his time and stay far from the fight. When the moment was right, he would get away from the battle, and away from the army. He had the vague idea of taking Martha home. From there his plans grew hazy, yet for now the simple objective was enough.

  ‘Fall in. Come on now, men. On your feet.’

  A lone officer finally arrived to stir the soldiers who had camped nearby. He gave the order in a mild tone of voice, like a clergyman asking unruly Sunday school children to listen. Some men obeyed, but others simply carried on with what they were doing. To Jack’s eye the men were in no condition to fight. The long, exhausting march followed by a full day’s hard fighting had taken its toll on them. Now they would have to find the strength to fight again, and he did not envy them one bit.

  It took a long time for the regiment to form. The men’s reluctance to rejoin the fight was obvious, and they were only spurred to greater efforts when the first sounds of battle broke the quiet of the morning. They came at a distance, yet there was no mistaking the opening salvos of cannon fire. The second day’s battle had begun.

  It was only when the regiment moved off that Jack got to his feet and began to gather his things. Martha had been up before him, spending her time tending to the mare they would both ride that day. The animal was as exhausted as the men around it, but Jack would not spare it. It was their one chance of salvation, and he would ride the beast into the ground if he had to. Nothing would stop him from getting Martha away from the battle.

  ‘Are you ready to go, Jack?’ Martha stood facing him. She still wore her soldier’s uniform, but her musket had been left on the ground. Instead she just had the holstered revolver they had taken from the fight at the cabin in the woods.

  Jack nodded, then paused. The sounds of battle were intensifying. Long-drawn-out exchanges of gunfire were interspersed with the roar of artillery fire. Somewhere not so very far away from where he stood, men were dying.

  ‘Let’s go.’ He strode over to the horse and boosted himself into the saddle before helping Martha up. ‘We’ll look for a road heading south.’ He spoke without turning around, his tone even and steady even as she wrapped her arms around him and pressed close to his spine.

  ‘No.’ She spoke the single word firmly. ‘There is something we need to do first.’

  ‘What’s that?’ The authority in her voice took Jack aback.

  ‘We need to find my John. He’s out there somewhere. I cannot leave without knowing what has happened to him.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’ Jack sighed. ‘He beat you. You remember that?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’ Martha reached out and slid her hand onto his. ‘We’re married in the eyes of God. I can’t just leave him.’ Her voice was tight with emotion. ‘He wasn’t always so bad. We had good times. At the start we were happy and he was good to me. It was only after Joshua passed . . .’ She did not finish the thought. When she spoke again, her tone was firm and steady. ‘He’s my husband. It don’t matter what he did, or why he did it. I made a vow to God to stay with him until the end of our days. So I mean to find him.’ She took her hand back from his. ‘You don’t have to come with me.’ Her weight shifted as she started to get down. ‘I’ll go by myself.’

  Jack reached back with an arm and held her in place. Martha had saved his life the previous day. He owed her. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Yesterday morning. He didn’t know I was there, but I knew where he was. I heard he got hit early on. Then things got kinda busy. Later on, me and Hightower asked some men from his company, and they reckoned he was back at the brigade aid station. He was still alive then.’

  ‘That was then. A lot of men die.’

  ‘Uh huh. He could be with the Lord.’ Martha’s tone did not change even as she contemplated her husband’s death. ‘But I need to know for certain.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jack could not see her face, but her tight grip around his waist betrayed her tension. ‘We can ride on and get away from here. We don’t ever have to look back.’

  ‘No. I can’t do that. I have to find out. I need to know what’s in my future.’

  Jack inhaled a deep breath. He did not know where he would find the strength for what lay ahead if he did as she asked, or where he would find the coura
ge to fight if that was what it took to keep her safe.

  ‘I’ll go alone if I have to.’ Martha whispered the words as she sensed his hesitation.

  ‘No. I can’t let you do that.’ He let out the breath he had been holding, then kicked back his heels and let the horse walk for a few paces before pulling on the reins and turning it around. They would head back towards the battle that showed no sign of abating as it went into a second day.

  The Confederate army had been slow to rise, but now they had gone back on the offensive, and Jack could hear the sounds of battle coming from all along the front. If things were going as the Confederates had predicted, then he was listening to the final stand of the Union army.

  He rode towards the sounds, keeping to a cart track that led past a series of tangled thickets made of brush and young trees. He could see little, and not for the first time he wondered at the choice of battlefield. Soldiers could not fight what they could not see.

  Martha had said little since they had left their overnight camp. He did not mind the silence. She had only spoken to give him directions as she tried to follow the ground the 65th Virginia had taken the previous day.

  The noise of battle got steadily louder. At one point, they were forced to halt as they came across a Confederate regiment beginning an advance. Neither Jack nor the regiment’s officers could see the enemy, the thick undergrowth and saplings blocking their line of sight.

  Once again Jack heard the eerie rebel yell as the Confederates charged, and something of its unearthly madness resonated deep within him. Yet he felt no compulsion to join the attack, and he pulled his horse’s head around and kicked his heels back so that they trotted across the rear of the regiment.

  The yell was cut off abruptly as a storm of canister and volley fire ripped through the advancing ranks. Men dropped, shot down by an unseen foe. As Jack rode away, he saw the regiment’s attack repulsed, the men running back and going on the defensive, their broken ranks forming a battle line in the face of what he was certain could only be a determined Union counterattack.