Ella Wood Novellas: Boxed Set

by Michelle Isenhoff

  She stood and tucked the blanket around him, just as their mother did when they were children. “You need your rest, and I need time to mull over the things you’ve already told me.” She kissed his cheek. “Get some sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  Jack took in the sight of her face. His precious sister. So stubborn. So overwhelmed. So filled with sadness at the mad turn their lives had taken. He nodded. Jeremiah knew the truth. He’d promised to watch out for her. And Jovie loved her still. Emily would be in good hands.

  He closed his eyes with a soft sigh. He was so weary.

  Amy was waiting for him in his dream. She smiled and beckoned to him, holding out a hand. He clasped its cool smoothness in his fingers. “Come,” she whispered.

  “Where?”

  She tugged him softly, pulling him to a doorway. Beyond lay green fields filled with sunlight. “It’s time for you to go on, Jack.”

  He held back. “But I want to stay here with you.”

  She shook her head sadly and pressed a gentle kiss against his lips. “You’re ready. You’re brave, you’re noble. You’ve finished well. And I am so very proud of you.”

  A single tear slipped down her cheek as she released his hand. He took a step forward. The sunlight was warm, beckoning, the field filled with the fragrance of wildflowers.

  “I won’t be long,” Amy whispered behind him. “I love you.”

  Jack stepped through the doorway and into the sun.

  He died with a smile on his lips.

  Don’t miss the final Ella Wood novella…

  Alone in enemy territory, anonymity means the difference between life or death.

  Available for preorder.

  Thanks for reading!

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  Historical Notes

  Even a historical novella takes a surprising amount of research, and with two featured battles, Jack required more than the other two. Pinterest has been an invaluable tool for recording information I uncover and for tracking some of the source materials I draw from. As usual, I’ve made Jack’s Pinterest page available for anyone interested. In addition, I’d like to share some of what I’ve learned here.

  First, a brief overview of the Confederate army’s organization early in the Civil War: A company was made up of one hundred men and led by a captain. Ten companies formed one regiment (colonel). Four to five regiments formed a brigade (brigadier general). Three to four brigades formed a division (major general). Three to four divisions formed a corps (lieutenant general). Three to four corps formed an army (full general).

  For the sake of immediate action as well as brevity, I took some liberties with the events of Bull Run in chapter 1. The 2nd South Carolina did not actively participate in this battle, though they were subject to an hours-long artillery bombardment as described. They simply sat tight all day until the Union line broke on the far left, initiating a frantic retreat of the entire five-mile line. At this time, twelve hours after the battle began, the 2nd was ordered to cut off the Yankee retreat as I have described—an order that bogged down because Richardson’s brigade did indeed block their way. The 2nd simply followed them to Centreville where they camped for the night. (The entire Union army was allowed to retreat to Washington unpursued—a monumental error on the part of the Confederacy.)

  The action I inserted at the bridge (Blackburn’s Ford) in the middle of the day wasn’t actually part of the Bull Run battle; it was a skirmish that took place there three days before. I have described the four waves of fighting as accurately as I was able; I simply condensed time and placed them on the same day. However, I also took some further liberties. The 2nd wasn’t involved in that Blackburn’s Ford skirmish, either. They were entrenched at Mitchell’s Ford half a mile upstream. In truth, the 2nd didn’t see battle at all until nearly a year later at Yorktown in April 1862. So to engage Jack sooner than 1862, I moved his regiment downstream for the skirmish, which I placed on the wrong day.

  With those notable exceptions, I followed closely the actions of the 2nd South Carolina in the months after Bull Run as described in History of Kershaw’s Brigade, by D. Augustus Dickert. The long march leading up to the Battle of Antietam and the actions of the 2nd South Carolina during the battle are faithfully portrayed. Engaged at 9:00 a.m., they were successful in driving back Sedgewick’s division, but at 9:45 a.m., their attempt to take the battery was unsuccessful, resulting in casualties of nearly 50 percent dead and wounded within fifteen minutes.

  Furloughs were freely passed out to Confederate soldiers in winter quarters that first year, but only to those willing to reenlist for a three-year term (an additional two years plus the year already served). Those who waited it out in hopes of returning home in the spring found they wouldn’t be going home at all once the first Conscription Act took effect in April, making that three-year term a requirement for all enlisted men. Dickert’s rosy history, written thirty years after the war, made it sound as if most of the men were fairly philosophical about this, but other sources claim it prompted a good deal of rage and feelings of betrayal, even desertion, among the ranks. I suspect the latter is more accurate.

  Each officer’s surname that occurs in Jack was actually taken from the 2nd South Carolina Company K roster. However, I did not research most of their individual histories or death dates. (I made up Sgt. Wayne’s history.) Major Franklin Gaillard did take command at Antietam when his superior was wounded. And at Gettysburg a year later, a lieutenant colonel by this time, Gaillard again took command when his superior was wounded.

  Confederate regiments really did elect their own officers under the rank of brigadier general, although there is much evidence that these elections were manipulated or overridden by ranking officers.

  Vivian Siddons is named after a real-life Victorian actress, Sarah Siddons, who was known in England for her role as Lady Macbeth.

  Company bands were enlisted with much fanfare at the beginning of the war. As the true length of the war became apparent, they were mustered out to save costs, and smaller regimental bands were created.

  You can listen to “Lorena,” the song referenced in chapter 1. It was popular among both Northern and Southern troops.

  Two men were sometimes assigned as company cooks, but soldiers generally prepared their own food in “messes” of four to ten men. This allowed men to combine cooking supplies and rations—and by extension, clothing, shelter, and friendship. The mess became a primary social unit that sustained these soldiers through four years of blood and hardship. Often improvisation was used in cooking, especially on the march. Tin plates or split canteens were often used as frying pans with a bayonet as the handle. Bayonets were also used as a multipurpose tool, performing as a knife, a flipper, or even a spit. A ramrod could also be used as a spit to cook meat or bread dough wrapped around it in long strands.

  Rations were virtually the same between Union and Confederate armies, and only differed due to availability or logistics, though the South’s rations were cut as the war progressed and supplies dwindled.

  Garrison Daily Rations

  Every individual received:

  12 ounces of salt pork or bacon OR 1 pound 4 ounces of salt or fresh beef

  1 pound 6 ounces of soft bread or flour OR 1 pound hardtack OR 1 pound 4 ounces of cornmeal

  Every company (100 men) also received:

  15 pounds of dried beans OR peas

  10 pounds of rice OR hominy

  10 pounds of green coffee OR 8 pounds of roasted coffee OR 1 pound 8 ounces of tea

  15 pounds of sugar

  4 quarts of vinegar

  1 pound 4 ounc
es of candles

  4 pounds of soap

  3 pounds 12 ounces of salt

  4 ounces of pepper

  30 pounds of potatoes

  1 quart of molasses

  Marching Rations (“Three Days Rations”)

  Every individual received:

  12 ounces of salt pork or bacon OR 1 pound 4 ounces of salt or fresh beef

  1 pound 6 ounces of soft bread or flour OR 1 pound hardtack OR 1 pound 4 ounces of cornmeal

  Every company also received:

  10 pounds of coffee

  15 pounds of sugar

  3 pounds 12 ounces of salt

  Marching rations were easily carried in a cloth “haversack,” which predictably got very nasty, and would last three days in terms of quality and quantity. Fresh beef was usually prepared immediately then carried.

  Jovie

  1

  Gettysburg, Pennsylvania

  July 2, 1863

  The thunder of artillery stripped all serenity from the countryside. In Jovie Cutler’s ears, its volume was exceeded only by the sound of his own panting breaths. He peered from behind the trunk of a maple tree, steadied the muzzle of his rifle, sighted down its length, and fired. A blue-coated soldier crumpled with a muffled cry. The sight hardly fazed Jovie. After two years of war, he had killed scores of men. He leaped from his hiding place and bounded forward to take up a new position behind another tree. With his back to its shelter, he reloaded.

  An early twilight had settled beneath the wood’s thick canopy, but he could see the dusky forms of his comrades in the 2nd South Carolina pushing forward all around him. Few original members of his regiment remained, their number whittled down by hard fighting at Malvern Hill, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, and twice at Manassas. He’d lost his best friend, Jack Preston, at Antietam nearly a year before. While Jovie still bonded with the new recruits who took their places, he could never forget the faces of friends buried beneath the bloodied fields.

  Jovie caught the movement of another Union soldier through the smoke and gloom and brought his gun to bear. The battle had been raging for over two hours, coming on the heels of a seventeen-hour march. His body was weary, but his blood ran hot. He sighted and fired again, advancing another dozen steps. His regiment had steadily driven the Yankees back from their salient near the Emmitsburg road until they were even with the rest of the Union line. Those few acres of ground—a peach orchard and a wheat field—had been purchased with the blood of hundreds. Now the 2nd pressed forward, using their momentum to pierce the Union line.

  The wood opened into a valley strewn with boulders that had fallen from the heights beyond. Jovie could see the figures of men darting through the lengthening shadows. “Push them back, men!” Major Gaillard yelled, urging them out of the wood and after the retreating Yankees. “Push them back to Washington!”

  Gaillard led the charge across the open field. The remnants of the 2nd and 3rd South Carolina mingled in the confusion of battle. Jovie lunged forward, the yells of his comrades in his ears, the surge of battle hot in his veins. With a savage cry, he sprinted with the others across the valley.

  The boulders erupted with gunfire, the fiery discharge of three hundred rifles visible in the growing darkness. A man beside Jovie fell. Jovie pressed on, splashing across a stream and gaining scant shelter behind the slender trunk of a river birch. He paused to fire at a moving shadow. A few steps more and he was in among the Union troops. The rugged landscape staged a writhing, seething drama of hand-to-hand combat.

  Jovie slammed the butt of his rifle into the temple of a Union soldier and leaped over his body to engage two more men closing on him from either side. He swung at the first, using his momentum to spin about and ram his bayonet into the stomach of the second. Shaking off the man’s weight, he lunged to intercept an attacker intent on the man next to him when hot lead suddenly pierced his left thigh. He collapsed on top of a Yankee who stared sightlessly up at the sky. An instinctive grab at his leg encountered the warm rush of blood. After more than two years of fighting unscathed, Jovie’s luck had finally run out.

  He ground his teeth against the pain as the battle raged around him. He had the presence of mind to keep both hands on his rifle to ward off any further attacks, but no one wasted energy on the fallen while able-bodied men still grappled on the field. A shadowy stream of reinforcements poured off the heights and swelled Union numbers in the valley. Within moments, the tide had turned in their favor.

  “Fall back!” came Major Gaillard’s cry. “Fall back to the wood!”

  Obediently, Jovie’s brothers in arms turned and followed their commander across the stream, melting from sight within the dark recesses of the trees.

  Jovie had been abandoned.

  Night fell swiftly. The Yankees hunkered in the shelter of their rocks, keeping an anxious lookout for a final Confederate charge that did not materialize. Gradually, the sound of gunfire sputtered out, and the rolling boom of artillery faded with the last glimmers of sunlight. Silence dropped over the valley, amplifying the sobs and entreaties of the wounded.

  Under cover of nightfall, Jovie gritted his teeth and tucked his good leg beneath him. He pushed himself to his feet, nearly blacking out with the effort, but his first step sent him tumbling back to the grass. He dug his fingers into the earth until the wave of agony lessened. Following his regiment would be impossible. He’d been left in enemy territory, at the very farthest point of the Confederate advance and well beyond the reach of any friendly ambulance teams. He’d have to rely on his own wits to stay alive, except he had no idea how to save himself.

  Rolling onto his back, Jovie felt a fresh rush of blood trickle down the back of his leg. First things first. He’d seen enough men bleed out on the battlefield, and he had no intention of joining them. Slicing off the leg of his trousers with his bayonet, he tied off the wound as tightly as possible, twisting the tourniquet with the fork from his mess kit. Then he flopped back into the coolness of the grass, exhausted from the small effort, and watched the stars emerge in the vast expanse overhead, wondering, as he always did, if Emily was looking up at the same points of light.

  He shouldn’t even be thinking of Emily Preston anymore, but it was an old, old habit. They’d grown up together. She was Jack’s little sister, and Jovie had loved her since they were children. While she counted him a friend, she’d given no indication that she returned his affection. He’d been devastated by her recent courtship and engagement to someone else.

  He pushed away the distraction. It was important that he keep a clear head. His survival could very well depend on his actions of the next few hours.

  What should he do? Clearly his leg needed medical attention. If anyone collected the wounded this close to the Union line, it would be the Yankees. Tomorrow might bring another Confederate advance, but he didn’t think so. The battle had already raged for two days, and the Union line had been thoroughly tested at this point. If fighting continued tomorrow, General Lee would focus on an untried location. The best Jovie could hope for was being captured and treated by the Union army and then sent to a prisoner of war camp to sit out the remainder of the war. And rumor had it that a camp was nearly the same as a death sentence.

  Jovie’s teeth began to chatter. The heat of day had dissipated, and the sweat of battle had cooled. Now the ground stole any warmth that remained to him. And he was so terribly thirsty. He scrounged in the grass for his canteen and shook it. Empty. Pierced clean through by a bullet.

  The stream was only fifteen yards away. He could smell it and feel the cool air wafting off the trickling water. He clenched his teeth and began dragging himself toward it—six inches, a foot. He cried out as fire shot up his shattered leg. It might as well be a mile. He could go no farther.

  The dead Union soldier lay close enough to touch—one of the men he had brained. Perhaps he had a canteen. Avoiding the man’s face, Jovie grappled in the dark. His hand knocked against something cold and hard. A rifle. A knapsack. A
blanket. There! A canteen half full. He uncorked the top and poured the water down his parched throat.

  He sank back, untying his blanket from his pack and wrapping it around his shivering body. Then he added the Yankee’s blanket, as well. It wasn’t uncommon, this robbing of the dead. As supplies dwindled in the South, raiding the battlefield had become the most reliable way to replace worn-out items. Confederate soldiers stole anything that might be useful—boots, canteens, rifles and ammunition, coats, trousers…

  Coats and trousers!

  Jovie jerked his eyes up toward the heights. He could see a few shadowy forms silhouetted against the sky above, but there was no way the Union soldiers could distinguish movement down in the valley. And even if they did, there were dozens of wounded lying around him, shifting, pleading, moaning, crying. His actions would go unnoticed. If he was to be recovered by Union soldiers, he would become one of them.

  He would switch uniforms with the dead Yankee.

  Shifting to reach his bayonet, he sliced through what remained of his left pant leg and peeled it off his hip. Then he shimmied his right leg out and set the trousers aside. Rolling toward the Union soldier, he unbuttoned the man’s braces and, with a significant amount of effort and no small discomfort, managed to slide the trousers off the stiffening corpse. It took a full twenty minutes. Another five passed as he pulled them over his right leg and slit the left, wrapping the tatters around his screaming injury. When that was accomplished, he had to stop and rest.

  It took two hours to complete the switch. The effort sapped every last shred of strength, but when the wounded were evacuated from the field, he would be taken to a hospital and released. He lay back at last, wrapped in his blankets, his teeth chattering from shock and exposure, and dropped into a pain-laced stupor.