The Confederate

by Tony Roberts

  The lieutenant was clearly impressed. Almost as impressed as the Colonel was with his improvised story. “Sir, do you wish for any help?”

  The Colonel smiled and shook his head. “Thank you Lieutenant, but my men should suffice. You may be of some help though. I know these Rebels were heading in this direction. Which way do you think they could have gone?”

  The lieutenant nodded off to the north. “That way, Colonel. We have plenty of units lined along the road in the other direction and nobody could get through that way. The north is open and anyone could go that way and move away from our army. But there’s no way across the Potomac for miles.”

  “Indeed, Lieutenant. We’ll run those Rebels down before they get halfway to the next crossing.” He saluted and waved his men off in the direction Case and his men had gone. The lieutenant and his guard detail watched their departure for a moment, then looked at each other in wonder, shrugged, then returned back to the tedious job of guarding their lines.

  Case had gone perhaps half a mile from the Federal lines when he became aware of something behind him. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly it was that registered, but it was probably the honed instincts of centuries of being in similar positions. He would never be able to put it into words, but he knew something wasn’t right behind him. He motioned to Gatscombe to continue and slipped behind a mulberry bush and crouched, his ears straining for any sound. After a short wait the sound of foliage being pushed aside came to him and he tensed, eyes fixed on the route back, the thick bush providing the perfect concealment for him. A man emerged from the undergrowth, gun forward, head slowly moving from side to side. A Union trooper, but with no unit markings. Case frowned. The same people that had been following his men all this time, but he was curious as to who they were and why they were so determined to run him down. The path the man was on was slightly at a lower level than where Case crouched and he would pass within ten feet of him.

  As the man glanced the other way as he came alongside, Case launched himself out around the bush. The Yankee reacted fast but Case was already swinging his fist up. It connected under the breast bone and the soldier grunted and began to collapse, so Case grabbed his collar and pulled him off the path and threw him behind the bush. The soldier groaned and tried to get up but Case pressed a palm onto his chest.

  “Okay son,” he said softly but with menace, “who are you?”

  The Yankee looked up at him and his eyes took in the hard lines of a soldier who’d suffered countless times; the tell-tale scar that ran down his face; the thick muscled neck that sprouted from the frayed collar of the gray uniform of the enemy. “Longinus,” he gasped hoarsely.

  “Oh crap,” Case groaned. “Not again!”

  “We will get you,” the man said, lips drawn back across his teeth. “There is no escape.”

  “You think so?” Case growled and slammed his fist into the Brotherhood agent’s temple. The man went limp and Case grabbed his gun and loped off after Gatscombe, his heart pounding wildly. Just then the second Brotherhood soldier appeared and shouted out, raising his firearm in alarm. The shot shattered the serenity of the afternoon and birds rose up in frightened groups, calling wildly. The bullet meant for Case smashed into a tree trunk ten feet away from his head and Case swung, gun at hip level, and fired back. The soldier staggered sideways but Case didn’t check to see if he’d hit him or the man was simply taking evasive action; rather he was more concerned in getting as much distance between him and the Brotherhood as possible. Now he knew who it was after him he knew urgency was the most important thing. They’d kill the other eight without thinking if they were caught.

  He ran, finding the environment less suited to concealment. The bushes were less frequent and the country more open as he came onto the river plain of the Potomac. Here the river flooded when too much rain fell, but thankfully it wasn’t flooded here quite yet even after the rain of the past couple of days. The terrain was flat and open, and he saw the others up ahead. “Move!” he yelled as he came pounding out of the last cover. How far behind the chasing men were he had no idea but he didn’t want to hang around to find out.

  They turned, having stopped on hearing the shots and began forging through the long grass, following a rough half hidden path. Case caught up with Gatscombe and jerked his thumb back behind him. “Keep watching back there, they’ll be here pretty soon. Don’t stop, keep moving.”

  He pushed past and waded through the grass towards the front. As he passed Billy he bent forward to whisper in his ear. “The same group who took your uncle Pat prisoner a couple of years back!” Billy gasped and Case pressed on ahead up to Corporal Buckley. “Keep on moving, Buckley, they’re not far behind. Find some cover and detail the men to take up shooting positions. One good thing about this plain is they can’t take cover either and we can hold them off until nightfall.”

  Buckley nodded and plowed on. Case stopped and encouraged the other men on, knowing they were tired, hungry and weakened through their wounds. Good men, tough men. And he was damned if those twisted swine back there would kill them.

  The Colonel checked his mount as he reached the edge of the undergrowth and looked out onto the fleeing column of Confederates. “So, Longinus,” he said grimly, “you think you can escape. Now we have you.” He waved curtly at the sergeant to take up the chase. He cared not if some of them would be killed, as long as his quarry was taken and immobilized. Then his mission would be over. And he could say goodbye to this damned messy affair and leave the Americans to kill each other to their heart’s content.

  A line of twenty-five men burst out of the bushes and began bounding after the small group. They jumped to keep up the momentum, not wanting to be held back by the long grass, guns held high. Nine men wouldn’t be able to hold them off for long. He walked his horse in their wake, making sure he wasn’t going to be a target. His men advanced in a wide arc, the edges slightly forward, the center back, so that they could surround the enemy when contact was made. That was how they had been trained, and now they began carrying out their orders. “Sergeant, push them towards the river; that way they’ve got nowhere to go!”

  The sergeant nodded and gestured to the men to his right to push on further and drive the fleeing men towards the swollen Potomac. The men there obeyed and ran on, leaping high and closing in faster on the flank of Case’s men.

  Gatscombe saw the danger and shouted a warning. Case, making his way back, also spotted the threat. “Faster!” he urged, beginning to walk backwards. He’d reloaded and gauged the nearest threat, raising his rifle. The three Brotherhood soldiers closing in all stopped and knelt, the long grass hiding much of their bodies. Case growled and backed off. It was still two hundred yards and one heck of a good shot would be needed to hit any of them. He turned and ran, spotting a muddy creek up ahead where some watercourse emptied into the river. The men were struggling to cross it, helping each other up over the energy-sapping mud.

  Case reached it just ahead of Gatscombe and leaped, landing on the edge of the tough grassy bank and the mud. One foot slipped and he fell forward. Cursing, he got up and looked back. The flanking men were almost parallel, about to cross the creek upstream where it was narrower and less of an obstacle. Gatscombe floundered through the mud and appealed to Case for help. The tough Eternal Mercenary reached down, grabbed Gatscombe’s wrist and hauled him out of the sucking mud. The soldier fell to his knees and eyed Case in wonder. “Hell, Sarge, what’re your hands made of? Iron?”

  Case smiled briefly. He couldn’t tell the man he’d got his grip thanks to years of rowing as a slave on Imperial Rome’s galleys. It had been hell but it had ended with him coming out of it stronger than ever. “C’mon, Isaac, let’s get out of here.” Gatscombe smiled in return, warmed by his sergeant calling him by his first name. Case decided enough was enough and aimed at the three Brotherhood soldiers, loosing off a shot that caused them to drop to cover. Not much to stop them but it gave him and the others a few more precious seco
nds.

  Up ahead Buckley slowed, his lungs on fire, his belly aching. He’d just about run himself into the ground. There still was no sign of cover and he knew he wouldn’t make it much further. Maybe here he would have to stand and die. He turned, his face gray, and shook his head to Passmore who came up alongside, panting heavily. “No more,” Buckley gasped, “I can’t carry on.”

  Passmore nodded in agreement and stopped, his rifle coming up to aim at the three Federals about three hundred yards off to his left. “At least we can take those out,” he breathed, gulping to steady himself. The others all slowed as they reached the spot, an unremarkable grassy patch about fifty yards from the river’s edge. Case arrived, sweat running down his face and waved at them to get going.

  Munz shook his head. “Can’t do it, Sarge,” he said, “the men are finished. Look at them.”

  Case slowly eyed them and realized the tall corporal was right. They were sweat streaked, breathless, caked in mud. A grim resignation was showing in their faces, a determination that they would at least take some of the chasing pack with them. Case sighed and turned. The chasing men slowed, seeing their quarry had stopped. They slowly closed, rifles at the ready, waiting for the Colonel to give the order.

  Case got the men to form two lines and spread out so as to make it harder to be hit by one volley. It wouldn’t last long but at least he owed it to them to give them as much a fighting chance as he could. “Steady, boys,” he said quietly. “Make each shot count.” Their nine firearms came up in unison and they prepared to fire what might be for most of them their last shot.

  Just then a thundering sound came to them from behind and they turned to see a line of cavalry bearing down on them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Mosby?” Case asked, repeating the unfamiliar name. He paused in the act of putting another spoonful of the delicious hot thick stew the Rebel cavalrymen had made that evening.

  “Major John Mosby, Sergeant,” the cavalryman smiled, sitting on his saddle, facing Case across the small crackling fire. “You’ll be honored to meet him tomorrow. It was lucky we heard your shots as we was headin’ in the other direction to meet up with the Major.”

  “Glad you did,” Case grunted and slurped eagerly on the broth. God! He needed that! Smacking his lips he nodded at the cavalryman. “Good stuff. When you turned up we were just about finished.”

  Case remembered the feeling of dread as the horsemen has appeared, as if out of nowhere, pistols brandished, and had come thundering across the grass. It took a few seconds to realize the odd assortment of clothing they were wearing constituted the forces of the South. That and the fact they had started shooting rapidly at the dismayed Brotherhood troops. The pistols easily out-shot the rifles and the blue uniformed men had been sent scattering in panic. A quick exchange of shots had ended with one cavalryman wounded in the arm and two Brotherhood troops hurt.

  Case’s unit had been ordered to get up on horseback and the nine men had scrambled up onto the nearest nine horses and had been carried off to safety, jeering at the enraged men who had been so close to taking them. The Colonel had watched impotently as his quarry was snatched away from his grasp. He was last seen curtly gesturing to his men to follow him back to Union lines.

  “What unit you part of?” Case asked, feeling more human now the warmth of the stew was reaching his gut. He’d not had chance to talk to any of the rescuers on the flight from the river plain into the hills north of the Potomac. Night had come and in a small gully they had made camp, set up fires and posted guards. The horses were corralled nearby and watched by more guards. It seemed this was a large unit.

  “Forty-third Virginia Cavalry,” the cavalryman replied, biting off a chunk of bread and dipping it into his stew. “Like the food? Compliments of Yankee supply wagons. We sorta… uh – liberated it.”

  Case laughed. He liked this guy. “So how come you were close by? I thought all of Lee’s army was trapped in Williamsport.”

  “Not us; we ain’t no infantry. When the army left Gettysburg we rode out wide to screen you footsloggers. Still, some damn’ Yankee units got past and caused havoc. Lost a lot of men in the dark. We was nowhere close ‘cuz the Major insisted we rode north and west. He’s a Tennessee man and reckons Lee is too protective of Virginia.”

  “So how’s Tennessee?”

  The scout shook his head. “Too many damn’ Yankees there. The Confederacy can’t keep ‘em all out. Too many died tryin’. So the Major reckons we oughta head up north-west, cross the Potomac upriver and make our way across the Shenandoah and wait till Meade moves on into Virginia and then ride back out and raise hell with his rear.”

  “Sounds good,” Case agreed. “Be obliged to you if you take us there and we can make our way back to wherever our unit ends up. If they get out, that is,” he added thoughtfully.

  “All they gotta do is build a bridge and get across the river. Plenty of wood in Williamsport and the river’s going down. No more rain to swell it.”

  Case finished his stew and made his excuses to the friendly cavalryman. He had to check on his eight men, some of whom had seemed in a bad way when the horses had picked them up. The effects of marching, fighting, being wounded and having to run miles would test most fit men. These guys weren’t fit. Case was worried about one or two and checked on them. Blankets covered them as they lay sleeping by a fire, watched by the ever reliable Munz. “How are they, Munz?”

  “Well, Buckley ain’t too good and Taylor’s looked better. One or two others fell asleep no sooner we got here; they’re tuckered out. But they’ll be fit to move at daybreak.”

  Case puffed out his cheeks. That was a relief. “Okay Herman, go get some stew, I’ll take over watch.”

  Munz threw a careless and totally wayward salute and Case grinned in the dark. He wondered how he’d do if Munz ever got killed, then shook his head to dispel the thought. No point in worrying about that. Fate would decide that, not Casca Rufio Longinus. He sat and peered at the small fire and looked deep into the flames, not seeing them; he was seeing instead the body of Liz and the implacable features of the Union Colonel who had pursued him so relentlessly from Gettysburg. It seemed he was in the middle of two groups of the Brotherhood. One lot was on the other side, while the other was hidden somewhere close to Richmond. He’d have to deal with both if he were to have any chance of ensuring he was free of them after the war. And the other thing, he thought worriedly, was what would happen to Billy if the Brotherhood was still at large? He knew he’d have to finish it one way or another.

  * * *

  The Colonel was busy dictating a letter that very night. He sent it by courier to John Smith, knowing it would take days to get to him, but by then the trap would be set and Longinus would take the bait, he knew it. All that remained now was for him and his men to move north and then west, and then south. And Longinus would be caught in a vise. The Colonel grunted in satisfaction. Now he would send a second letter, a mission that the courier would probably not return from, but the price of one life was nothing compared to finally snaring the Beast. He was fairly confident in which direction to send this man, and Rebel pickets would pick him up once he got close to the Beast.

  The next morning Case woke with the bustle of the camp and a burst of excitement as a Union soldier was brought in by the pickets. The men decided to hold the prisoner until Mosby turned up, which he did fairly soon after. By this time the entire camp was up and ready to move off. Case watched as the scouts retold Mosby the events of the previous day and the small, intelligent looking man cast a look in his direction. Case grinned and waited for the inevitable meeting. Mosby has a strong jaw and large nose, and he’d heard that he’d been a lawyer before the war. Laws are suspended in times of war. Where had he heard that one before? He thought deeply, searching the recesses of a mind that had nearly two thousand years of experiences to recall. It had been in Roman times, that was for sure. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it exactly, but it was as true today as
it had been way back then.

  “Sergeant Lonnergan?” Mosby’s voice interrupted his musings. Case almost jumped, startled. He’d not been aware of the Major’s approach, flanked by his men, but he covered up his surprise with a salute. “You must be the famous Tennessee lawyer, Major Mosby.”

  Mosby’s eyes widened, and he turned to look at his men who all shrugged. The Major turned back and smiled thinly. “Famous, Sergeant Lonnergan? I was a relatively small time lawyer in Howardsville, Virginia. Not Tennessee.”

  Shit, talks like a damned lawyer, Case thought. He smiled nonetheless. “I’m the equally famous farm hand from Lynchburg, Virginia, Major.”

  Mosby laughed, his teeth white and even. “Well in that case I’m honored, Sergeant. And these are your men?”

  Case introduced them to Mosby who was pleasant and courteous to each. “Good men, Sergeant. Glad my men could help yesterday.” He turned and curtly gestured to the two men who guarded the prisoner. “But there’s a small mystery to clear up, Sergeant, involving this man.”

  Mosby retrieved a folded piece of paper from his jacket. “This man was carrying this. It’s addressed to you, Sergeant.” Case looked in surprise at Mosby, then at the Union courier who glared hatefully at him. Case’s heart sank. “Major, I might have some idea as to who sent the message. The same men who were chasing us yesterday.”

  “Quite,” Mosby smiled thinly again, then opened the paper and peered at it, pausing theatrically. “So why, Sergeant, would a message from an enemy addressed to you be written in Latin?”

  Case closed his eyes and was aware everyone else’s were fixed on him. He opened them and glared at the courier who spat on the ground. The cavalrymen all regarded Case with interest and anticipation, while his own men were open-mouthed. Mosby, for his part, was intrigued. “I know quite a lot of Latin; I studied it when I was younger. But this,” he waved the paper, “is the work of an expert. Furthermore,” he went on, transfixing Case with a gimlet-like stare, “this is intended to be read by someone fluent in that language.”