Brings the Lightning (The Ames Archives Book 1)

by Peter Grant

  He cut a hand-size piece of the laundry soap and scrubbed himself from head to toe, using a square cut from a discarded blanket as a washcloth. It was his first opportunity for an all-over wash in hot water in more than a month. He smiled at the unaccustomed whiteness of his body as the dirt fell away, leaving him feeling clean and refreshed. He didn’t shave, deciding that his shaggy hair and bushy beard would help to disguise his features if need be.

  It was after noon by the time he finished. He was tired, but he knew he couldn’t afford to sleep. If the other bushwhacker was due back this evening, he’d have to be ready. While he waited for the sun and wind to dry his body, he dabbed at his injury with whiskey once again. He tugged a comb through the tangles in his newly-washed hair and beard until he had them in a passable semblance of order, then wrapped a clean bandana around his neck to stop his collar chafing the wound. He dressed in the first laundered clothes to dry. He cleaned the guns he’d taken from the bushwhackers the night before, then began to sort through their possessions, stowing everything he wanted in the panniers of his pack saddle and the additional one he’d found in the cave. He tossed what he didn’t need on top of the discarded clothes and blankets. As the rest of the laundry dried, he folded the clothes and made two bundles of them by wrapping them in blankets and tying them with twine.

  By late afternoon the clouds were moving in again, gray and ominous, threatening more rain. Walt brought the horses back up to the cave, watered them, and secured them in the lean-to; then he fried up half a dozen thick rashers of bacon, eating them with the last of the pan bread for a quick but delicious supper. He turned up the lantern in the cave to provide light that would silhouette anyone entering, then took his Spencer carbine to a tree about ten yards beyond the mouth of the cave, on the far side of the lean-to.

  He waited for over an hour, the daylight slowly fading as the sun set, the clouds grew heavier, and the first slow, fat raindrops began to fall. He fought off the urge to close his eyes. That could get a man killed in a hurry. Too many of his friends and comrades had died that way during the war.

  At last he heard, faintly in the distance, the sound of several sets of hooves. He jacked back the side hammer of the carbine, lined it from behind the tree trunk, and waited, wondering if he’d miscalculated. The sounds grew nearer. He was relieved to see just one man appear in the gloom astride a sweating, foam-flecked horse, leading three pack mules with empty saddles.

  The tall young man called out as he drew near, “Paw! Maw! It’s Tay! We gotta pack up an’ head out right now! I robbed the sutler! He had gold! They’ll be comin’ after me soon. We gotta get away!”

  Tay sprang from the saddle, allowing the reins to fall to the ground, and staggered on stiff legs to the mouth of the cave. “Paw! Maw! Where are you?”

  He must have realized from the silence that something was wrong, because he started to turn around, his hand reaching for the revolver stuffed into his belt. Walt pulled the trigger, the shot crashing out, sending a gush of sparks and white smoke into the air, making the horses and mules start and rear with surprise. Tay screamed and clutched at his stomach, staggering backwards. Walt levered another round into the Spencer’s chamber and cocked the side-hammer as his victim half-fell against the rock face beside the cave mouth.

  “Damn you! You’ve kilt me!” Tay screeched. “Who are you?”

  “I’m one of the Johnny Rebs y’all have been robbing,” Walt replied, not showing himself.

  “Where’s Paw an’ Maw an’ Sim?”

  “You’ll be joining them soon enough.”

  The man clearly understood what he meant. “W– Why’d ya kill ’em, ya murderin’ scum?”

  “They tried to ambush me. What did you expect me to do, let them shoot me?”

  “You’re lyin’! No one could take ’em that easy!”

  As he spoke, Tay suddenly scooped the revolver from his belt. He fired a fast, unaimed shot at the sound of Walt’s voice. The bullet thudded into the tree behind which Walt was sheltering, and he couldn’t help a sudden flinch at the sound. Cursing his stupidity at allowing himself to be distracted, he lined his carbine again and fired another round into the man’s chest. Tay dropped his gun, reeled in a half-circle, then groaned and fell forward onto his face.

  Walt waited for a few moments, watching the body carefully, alert for any sign of movement, ready to put another bullet into his victim if necessary. Mentally he cursed himself again. I shouldn’t have given him time to talk. I must be getting careless now that the war’s over, he admitted to himself. I can’t afford to do that. There are trigger-happy Yankees out there who’ll think nothing of killing me, then claiming it was my fault. They know no one will ask any questions about another dead Reb. They won, after all.

  He moved cautiously up to the fallen figure, placed his foot on the outstretched hand nearest to the revolver, then picked up the weapon. He kicked the body over onto its back. Tay wasn’t breathing anymore.

  A sutler, he mused. Some of them Yankee sutlers made a lot of money out of the troops they supplied, or so I heard tell. Union prisoners we took didn’t bear them any love, that’s for sure.

  He checked the bushwhacker’s gun. It was a Starr double-action revolver, its exterior rusted and dirty. Walt shook his head at the dead man’s evident lack of care for the tools of his trade. He checked his victim’s pockets, finding nothing worthwhile. Rising to his feet, he walked over to Tay’s horse, unstrapped its saddlebags and carried them into the cave to examine their contents in the light of the lantern.

  The first bag contained a change of clothes, a spare pair of shoes and a compact leather-covered brass spyglass. Walt opened it, his eyes widening as he felt the tight smoothness of the mechanism. This was no cheap toy. It had probably been stolen from the sutler, or from another wealthy victim who could afford such a high-quality instrument.

  He turned to the second saddlebag, and whistled in pleased surprise as he emptied it onto the table. Four loose gold twenty-dollar double eagles fell out, followed by two heavy, paper-wrapped rolls of coins of the same diameter. There was also a thick wad of greenbacks held together by a money clip. He split open the paper rolls and counted the double eagles quickly. There were fifty-four of them—a thousand and eighty Yankee gold dollars! The greenbacks were in one, five, ten and twenty-dollar denominations, totaling three hundred and seventy-five dollars. It was more money than he’d ever seen in his life.

  Walt sat down with a thump on one of the tree trunk sections serving as stools, eyes wide as he calculated. Last year the Yankees were giving two and a half greenbacks for one gold dollar. Last I heard, it still ain’t much better than that. This is going to give me a good start when I get back home. I should be grateful to that Yankee Tay robbed. His loss is my good fortune!

  He gathered up all the money and swept it into the saddlebag, thinking quickly. They’ll be looking for Tay in nearby towns where they’ll expect him to spend this. I don’t want to be there when they do, or have anyone asking questions about what’s on my horses. I’ve got plenty of food, thanks to these bushwhackers, and I can hunt for fresh meat, so I don’t need to stop at a store. I think I’ll stick to back trails like this one. If I bear down towards Knoxville, I can turn west there and head for home. It’ll take me about three weeks, if I ride slow and careful, and sleep in the woods. I’ll take my time and keep well clear of anyone looking for these folk.

  He unsaddled Tay’s worn-out horse and mules, driving them down into the clearing to rest and graze. They would find their own way out of the woods in due time, long after he’d gone. He strapped both pack saddles onto the bushwhackers’ horses, put one of their riding saddles on his spare horse and tied the blanket-wrapped bundles of clothes to it, then covered all three loads with the tarpaulins from the beds.

  Swinging into the saddle of his riding horse, he led the others into the darkness and the rain. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d pushed on through the night to evade pursuit, and he wasn’t about to
let this foul weather go to waste. The rain would wash away his tracks. By tomorrow morning there would be no sign he’d ever passed this way, except for Tay’s body at the mouth of the cave and those of his mother, father and brother slowly decaying in the woods.

  Outside the town of Crossville, Tennessee, Walt went through his clothing, deciding what to keep and what to abandon. The cold of winter was over now, so he no longer needed the heavy greatcoat that had kept him warm. He threw out anything captured from the Union Army, making up three nondescript outfits that blended civilian and Confederate military items into unremarkable ensembles. He’d seen many travelers wearing the like on the road from Knoxville. He stood for a moment, looking down at the unneeded clothes and shaking his head sadly. For the past three years, ever since he’d been old enough to fight, he’d worn Confederate uniform. It felt like being naked to take it off at last, but the war was over, and the gray had been overwhelmed by an irresistible tide of blue.

  He left the discards lying next to the path and rode away without looking back. Passersby would scavenge them soon enough. He’d buy better clothes as soon as he was safely home.

  He found a hidden clearing on the wooded slopes above the town. He picketed his own horses and the best of the bushwhackers’ steeds there, then went through his belongings to fill a pair of saddlebags with what a homeward-bound Confederate cavalryman might reasonably be expected to own. He cached the rest in the brush a couple of hundred yards away, along with his money and most of his weapons. It would be too risky to show the Yankees how much he had, particularly his guns and gold. He put the oldest, most-weathered saddle on the remaining horse, then headed down the hill.

  There was a small Union Army garrison in Crossville. As he rode up to it, he reminded himself to speak as simply as possible. He didn’t want to sound like an educated man to these soldiers. There weren’t many in these parts, and he didn’t want to be remembered here. Better to play the country bumpkin on his way back to a hardscrabble hill farm. Fortunately, he’d served with many such men, and could imitate the way they spoke. His heavy beard, thick, straggly hair and well-worn shabby clothing should suffice to disguise his appearance.

  He stopped at the entrance and looked down at the sentry on duty. “I wuz told t’ see th’ Officer of the Day when I got here. I need my parole recorded.”

  “Reb, are you?”

  “Was. Ain’t no more. War’s over.”

  “Yeah.” The soldier raised his voice. “Sergeant of the guard!”

  An NCO clumped out of the guardroom. “Yeah, what is it?”

  “Another Reb wantin’ his parole recorded.”

  “Uh-huh.” The big, burly man came over, looking suspiciously at Walt. “What unit?”

  “First Virginny Cavalry.”

  “How’d you get here?”

  “I wuz sent with a message to the 43rd Battalion in northern Virginny in late March. Took me a while t’ get there through your pickets an’ patrols. I’d jes’ delivered it when word came of the surrender at Appomattox. Th’ Union garrison at Winchester hadn’t got the details about th’ parole terms, so they gave me a letter tellin’ me t’ report to th’ garrison here soon as I arrived, t’ sign the paper.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  Walt reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a grubby, well-creased form. The NCO took it, unfolded it and read.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen a few like this already. Took you long enough t’ get here, though. It’s halfway through May already.”

  Walt shrugged. “Hoss wuz plumb wore out. Had t’ travel slowly so’s not to founder him. He still ain’t in great shape.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. Give him some grain t’ fatten him up and he’ll soon be right again.”

  “Man needs money t’ buy grain. Guess I’ll have t’ sell my sidearm.”

  “Sidearm?” The sergeant looked up alertly. “You ain’t supposed to have one. The terms of surrender say only officers get to keep ’em.”

  Walt had expected that. He’d figured that if he gave the authorities something small to bite on, they’d probably not worry about anything else. He shrugged again. “The Winchester garrison didn’t say nothin’ ’bout that. They took my rifle, but not my revolver.” He’d chosen the Starr, least valuable of the bushwhackers’ weapons, for this encounter, after cleaning it so that it at least looked serviceable.

  “I’ll have to take that.” Beside the sergeant, the sentry hefted his rifle in readiness for any trouble. The click as he drew back its hammer to full cock was clearly audible.

  Walt tried to look reluctant. “I guess I ain’t in no position t’ argue. It’s in my saddlebag.”

  He made as if to reach back, but the sergeant stepped forward, his hand up. “I’ll get it.” He opened the saddlebag, reached inside and took out the revolver, stripping the percussion caps from the cylinder nipples. He glanced at the brand on the horse, and his eyes hardened. “That’s a Union Army horse you’re riding.”

  “That’s what they issued me, two years back.”

  “Well, you lost, an’ now we want our horses back. You’re sittin’ in a Union Army saddle too. I’ll have to take ’em both.”

  “I got a long ride still t’ get home,” Walt objected angrily. “How’m I supposed to get there without my horse?”

  “That’s your problem. I’m keepin’ the horse an’ saddle. I got my orders.”

  Walt glared at him, ready to argue further; but he knew he couldn’t win. The sentry was standing ready with a loaded rifle, and he was now disarmed. He slowly, reluctantly dismounted and handed over the reins, doubly grateful that he’d hidden the other horses.

  “That’s better. Bring your saddlebags an’ blanket roll into the guardhouse. I’ll search them for contraband.”

  Walt bit his tongue. Lee’s troops hadn’t been searched at Appomattox. They were all fighting men there, on both sides, he reminded himself. They understood each other. These are garrison troops—second-raters. They don’t have the respect one battle-hardened veteran has for another.

  The formalities didn’t take long. The sergeant wrote his name, rank and unit in blank spaces on a pre-printed form that listed the conditions of parole, had him swear an oath to observe them and sign the form, then signed and dated it on behalf of the Union Army. He applied a rubber stamp below his signature, entered Walt’s details in a log book, then pawed through his saddlebags and blanket roll.

  “You ain’t got much. Travelin’ light?”

  “I’m broke. Been on short rations all the way here. I hope my folks will have enough to feed me.”

  A flicker of sympathy appeared in the sergeant’s eyes. “Where d’you live?”

  “Their farm is north o’ here, up near Jamestown.” It was actually a few days’ ride east of Crossville, but he figured there was no need to tell the Union Army where to find him, just in case anyone looking for the sutler’s stolen gold ever managed to connect him to it.

  “That’s the best part of forty miles. You’ve got a long walk ahead of you, ’less you c’n hitch a ride on a farm wagon.”

  “I’ll take it slow. Been gone three years. A little longer on the road won’t kill me.”

  “Uh-huh.” The sergeant handed him the form certifying that he’d been properly paroled. “You’re free to go.”

  Walt didn’t bother to reply. He folded the paper and thrust it into his shirt pocket, slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, picked up his blanket roll, then turned on his heel.

  “Take this too,” he heard the sergeant say. He looked back. The man was holding out a greenback.

  “That hoss is worth more’n that.”

  “Ain’t for the horse. Man needs to eat.”

  Walt met the sergeant’s eyes. There was no contempt or satisfaction in the big man’s eyes, so he allowed himself to take the proffered bill. “Thankee,” he said gruffly.

  The sergeant nodded, and Walt walked out .

  The gate sentry glanced at him as he passed and said mocking
ly, “Enjoy the walk home, Johnny Reb.”

  Walt ignored him as he turned north towards Jamestown. He had to give the impression he was heading that way until he was out of town and out of sight of the garrison, when he could turn up the hill to retrieve his other horses and belongings. He trudged along in the heat and the dust, boiling with indignation. Maybe he had to take the horse, but that sergeant had no right to search my belongings. It’s a good thing I hid so much before coming into town. If I hadn’t, I’d probably have lost everything!

  Nevertheless, the man had still given him enough to pay for two, maybe three meals. Was it out of guilt for his army-sanctioned thievery? Or was it just compassion for a hungry traveler on his way home? Walt shook his head. If he’d learned one thing from the war, it was that there was good and bad in every man. It was only the proportions that varied.

  Walt used his spyglass to examine his parent’s farm carefully in the afternoon sunlight. From his position on the hillside two miles away, it looked calm enough. A saddled horse was hitched to one of the front porch rails. He frowned as he saw a blue-uniformed figure come through the front door, followed by a young lady. For a moment he couldn’t figure out who they were, then he suddenly recognized the woman. That’s Katie! Dang, she grew up! He felt a warm flush of pleasure as he looked at his baby sister, a child no longer.

  He watched as she said something to the Union soldier, her hand on his sleeve. He laughed, then swung into the saddle. They chatted back and forth for a moment, then the man turned his horse and cantered down the path towards the road. Is she sparking that Yankee? he wondered. For a moment he felt a surge of anger at the idea of a bluecoat courting his sister, then mentally reproved himself. War’s over—and besides, Pa and Ma never took for one side or the other.