by Tony Roberts
This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.
CASCA: #27 The Confederate
Casca Ebooks are published by arrangement with the copyright holder
Copyright © 2008 by Tony Roberts
Cover design by Dynamic Arts
All Rights Reserved
Casca eBooks are for personal use of the original buyer only. All Casca eBooks are exclusive property of the publisher and/or the authors and are protected by copyright and other intellectual property laws. You may not modify, transmit, publish, participate in the transfer or sale of, reproduce, create derivative works from, distribute, perform, display, or in any way exploit, any of the content of our eBooks, in whole or in part. eBooks are NOT returnable.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 28 The Avenger
PROLOGUE
Billy Brady screamed and clutched at the sudden rip in his worn gray sleeve, now stained with red. The Yankee lead bullet fired from a Springfield rifle fifty yards up the hill had been meant for his chest, but the growing darkness made accurate shooting difficult. Case swung his head to the left and anxiously watched as the boy, no more than sixteen years of age, staggered back from the wavering line of hard-pressed Confederate soldiers to join the drift of the wounded making their way back to the retreating lines of their comrades.
The delaying action the unit was engaged in was allowing the rest of the brigade to get away to Sharpsburg. The Union forces, vastly superior in numbers, had pushed them back off the ridge of the pass they were trying to hold and now they were giving ground downhill. Bodies marked their retreat and their line had shrunk as their casualties mounted. Most of them, like Billy, were merely wounded, and these men made their way as best they could down to the surgeons or along the road to Sharpsburg where the retreating Army of Northern Virginia was heading.
“Hold firm!” Sergeant Case Rafferty Lonnergan screamed, frantically ramming yet another lead bullet down the barrel of his rifled musket. The men of his platoon, part of ‘J’ company of the 1st Virginia infantry regiment, grimly stood and kept on firing as the advancing blue uniforms closed in. To their left the South Carolinians of General Evans’ brigade were firing rapidly against the Pennsylvanians, the same who were pushing the Virginians back. To the right the sound of shooting had worryingly passed behind them, a sign that the exhausted Alabamians there had almost collapsed. He fumbled in the small leather pouch on his belt and withdrew another small percussion cap. He fitted it to the nipple of the musket and fully cocked the hammer.
Case glanced once more up at the darkening sky. Night was almost upon them. Ammunition was running out and their supply wagons would be halfway to Sharpsburg by now. Damn! Unless they got out of there pretty soon they’d all end up dead or captive. “Captain!” he snapped. The platoon had no lieutenant, their last one having fallen victim to the battles they’d fought outside Richmond earlier that year. The company commander was Captain Skivenham, a scarred veteran who’d become captain by virtue of having not been killed so far. The bullet meant for his brain at Manassas had merely left a red furrow on his face that would fade with the years. Case had a scar himself, but that hadn’t been earned in battle; this had been a result of short-changing a whore in Greece nineteen centuries back. That had been before Case, then known as Casca Rufio Longinus of the Roman legions, had been transformed into an immortal by the dying Jesus at Golgotha.
Casca had wandered the earth, seeking God-knows-what, always having to move on before his unique condition became known and the superstitious and frightened people did unthinkable horrors to him. He always ended up doing what he was best at; fighting. So now he was here fighting for money and a free Virginia, part of the Confederate army.
“Sergeant?” Captain Skivenham came running across the angle of the slope, glancing warily uphill as more shots rattled down on them, one whining off a rock and sending chips flying. Skivenham grimaced and crouched by the side of the bulky but reassuring figure of the sergeant. Sweat ran off his face and he was filthy, like his men. The saber he clutched was more decorative than useful, but it marked him as the leader and the men needed leaders in the thick of a fight.
“We’re outflanked,” Case jerked his head to the right. “If we don’t get out of here soon our war will be over.” He suddenly spotted a dark shape rising up ahead of him no more than twenty yards away. A Yankee had scuttled along a small gulley, hidden by rocks, and sprouted up as if out of the ground too close for comfort. Case leveled his firearm and loosed off a shot that smashed into the Yankee’s shoulder, causing him to spin round and yell in agony. The man dropped out of sight.
“Nice shooting, Lonnergan,” Skivenham nodded in approval. “I’ll go tell the Colonel. Hopefully we’ll be given the order to get out of here. The men are pretty well finished.”
Case nodded and began reaching for his cartridge case. He cursed. Empty. Well, now it’s back to the old fashioned way, he mused. “Corporal Munz, how are the men for bullets?”
Munz, a tall, phlegmatic man, spat out some powder and pulled a face. “We’re jus’ about outta them, Sarge.”
Case cursed again. They were finished now unless the order came for them to get out of there. The Union troops were coming down at them, supplied and with reserves. The Virginians had done all that could have been asked of them, and now it was time to get out of there yesterday. Facing a whole brigade with a shrinking company was suicide. No matter they killed three to every one of them, they would still be overrun. The line gave ground again and the men looked nervously at the stony surface they were stumbling down. A fall now could be fatal with the enemy so close.
A bullet spat past Case’s face, the sharp crack making his ears cringe. “The hell with this!” he growled. Cheers came to him from the right and behind. The Northern troops had broken their opponents. Now their retreat line was threatened. The crash of rifle fire and the bright flames of each shot filled the air, which was heavy with smoke, bringing an unreal quality to the scene, like a painting of Dante’s works Case had seen many years ago. What had it been called? ‘Inferno’. Yes that was it.
“Sergeant,” Skivenham’s voice came to him.
Case scuttled behind the line of cursing, sweating and exhausted men. The captain was pointing his saber downhill. “Get the men out of here. One last volley and then run like crazy. The flanks have collapsed.”
“Captain!�
� Case ran back, stumbling over some rock and nearly falling on his face. He tapped the men as he ran, whispering fiercely for them to fire then get away downhill. The shooting uphill slackened and the Union men sensed things had changed. They stood up, confident. “Now!” Case snapped and pulled Private Joseph Siddeley after him. He saw Munz loping off downhill, hand on hat, and the others fleeing left and right. A whoop of delight came to him from behind as the enemy realized they had the Rebels on the run. Now was the time for stout legs and lungs. Anyone who lacked either or both was in deep shit.
So they ran, ran for their lives. The sound of pounding feet behind them urged them to greater efforts as their last reserves of energy were tapped into. Case wondered again at the complexities of the human body; here they were, almost spent, yet the fear of being captured pushed adrenaline through their bodies, giving them a second wind. As night closed in the men ran hard, fear driving them on. Would any of them make it? Case hoped they would as he leaped a black rock that hreatened to trip him up. He pounded on, hoping no Yankee was right behind him. Men to left and right ran downhill, all wild eyed and fear driven.
And behind them came the Pennsylvanians, intent on catching as many of the fleeing Rebs as they could.
CHAPTER ONE
Casey Romain paused as he stepped up the three wide stone steps to the large looming door in front of him. He’d been here to this shady, brick-faced, neoclassical mansion off Boston’s Louisburg Square on Beacon Hill once before, many years ago. He smiled in remembrance. That had been early in the days of retelling his remarkable life story to Doctor Julius Goldman M.D., formerly of the 8th Army Field Hospital in ‘Nam. Goldman had been the doctor who’d spotted the seemingly mortally wounded Sergeant Casey Romain’s head injury heal itself in front of his stunned gaze, and ever since then had been drawn into the impossible story of the Roman who had speared Jesus on the cross.
Casca Rufio Longinus. Casey Romain. Same guy. Casey saw the brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head and recalled the last time he’d used it. How long back was that? Twenty years and more? He’d scared Goldman’s housekeeper half to death and she’d excused herself, he recalled. She’d been old then, and he doubted the same woman was there now, if indeed Goldman still employed one. He thought he would; Goldman was well into his sixties now and keeping a house of this size needed a fair amount of work, and a single man of Goldman’s age wouldn’t be able to keep on top of it as well as perform his job of a medical practitioner.
Casey rapped the curving handle that hung from the jaws of the lion. It echoed within and the bulky caller stood under the stone canopy of the doorway and surveyed the dark street. It was late autumn and the chill Boston air made things uncomfortable to remain outside for very long. Impatiently, he turned back to stare at the door, willing it to open.
The sound of a bolt being drawn back on the other side alerted him and he tensed. The door opened inwards and a small white face peered at him. “Yes?”
“Doctor Goldman is expecting me,” Casey said softly. He looked at the woman, a middle-aged unremarkable figure, a different one to the housekeeper he’d encountered before.
“Mr. Romain?” the woman queried. She stared at his scar, running down the side of his face. She had been told to look for that feature. She had also been told once she let him in to retire for the evening. “Come in. Doctor Goldman is in the study. I presume you know where that is?”
“Yes, thank you.” Casey shrugged off his coat and the housekeeper placed it on a rack, smiled nervously at the stranger, then retreated swiftly up the side staircase. Casey gave her one last glance before passing through the foyer into the hall proper, then right into the book-filled study.
A sense of déjà vu came over him. It had been in here he had retold that part of his life following his return from the Teotec lands to the time he left the Great Wall of the lands of Chin. Now he was back, and there, standing by the dark mahogany table and the deep leather-backed chairs, was the graying figure of Goldman. “Casey – or Casca, should I call you?”
Casey smiled briefly. “One name is as good as another. Casey will do for the present. You enjoyed our meeting in the Museum three weeks ago?”
Goldman nodded, his eyes hungry behind the glass of his spectacles. Another feature of his advancing years. Goldman almost hated the unchanging features of Casey, but then remembered what horrors he’d been through and crushed the irrational feeling with a feeling of shame. “You left me hanging halfway through the damned story!”
“Time ran out,” Casey said, looking round the dark room. A few lamps in period glass bulbs illuminated the rows of leather bound books resting on mahogany shelving. “But as promised, I am here to complete that period of my story. Are you ready?”
Goldman nodded sitting in one of the chairs and indicated Casey to do likewise. As Casey sat, Goldman flicked a switch of a cassette recorder. “For my writing,” Goldman said.
“Yes. I understand. How is the good Doctor Landries?”
“Not too good. His health suffers these days. He’s older than me!” Landries had been Goldman’s superior in Vietnam and had also witnessed the oddities in Casey Romain. Ever since, Landries had corresponded with Goldman and the two shared Casey’s life story with Goldman writing each episode down.
“Of course. Well, let’s see where we got to…” Casey squinted up at the ceiling in remembrance.
“You were fighting on South Mountain on the eve of Antietam,” Goldman said breathlessly. His heart beat faster, knowing that in a very short while he’d be sucked into the mind of Casey and transported back to the time of the Civil War. He knew he’d suffer the following day; as he got older his ability to cope with the rigors of the emotional stress got worse and often he’d sleep for the best part of a day. But he couldn’t stay away. Like a drug, he craved it.
“Ah yes,” Casey laughed softly, the scar pulling his mouth up in a leer. “Antietam is what the North called it; we called it Sharpsburg. And it was a damned bloody affair; the worst day of the entire war in losses.”
“Yes I know,” Goldman nodded. “I’ve been reading up on the Civil War.”
“Then you’ll know the broad story, but not the details; let me take you to the day of September 16, 1862. Look into my eyes, Doctor and see what became of us after that fateful day…..”
Goldman looked into the blue-gray eyes of Casey, feeling himself being pulled into them, even though he knew he was still sitting in his study. The now familiar feeling of flying over a scene out of some movie hit him, and he looked down on a dusty road filled with columns of slowly moving men clad in a variety of uniforms; gray, butternut yellow and a plethora of colored patches.
A town came into view which he instinctively knew to be Sharpsburg and just to the east twisted a narrow creek. The gray and butternut colored men were on the town’s side of the creek while masses of blue were creeping up on the other. He zoomed lower and sped towards a small group of soldiers in gray camped round a cooking pot, and he recognized one as the man sat opposite him in the study talking to him, drawing him into the war of over fourteen decades back…….
CHAPTER TWO
Sergeant Case Lonnergan stopped by the large iron pot and stooped to pick up the spoon hanging by its side. Taking a small amount of the stew he tasted it, grimaced, and replaced the spoon. Private Joe Siddeley shrugged. Siddeley was cook, a temporary and dubious honor following the disappearance of Private Ben Schaffer at South Mountain. They hoped he was captive and not dead. Nobody had seen poor Ben fall and it was assumed he’d been caught in the flight from the slopes of the battlefield. Luckily most of them had gotten away, the Yankees being too tired to chase much after them.
“Joe, this tastes like horse piss,” Case said loudly.
“That worries me, Sergeant,” Private Randolph Furlong said, looking up from the tattered book he was reading. “That infers you have imbibed equine urine previously.” Furlong was the brainy one of the group, having studied as a lawyer in Richmon
d before the war, besides working in a printer’s workshop.
“Speak English, Randy!” James Llewellyn snapped. His prone position by the stack of rifles had fooled everyone up to that moment as him being asleep. Llewellyn was the joker in the squad, his red hair also testifying to a fiery temperament. “You saying Sarge here drinks horse piss?”
“He infers he does, Llewellyn,” Furlong said testily, peering at Llewellyn over the rim of his round-rimmed spectacles. “From the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”
“Horse’s prick, more like” Joe Siddeley grunted, cleaning his belt. Siddeley was the most fanatical and politically motivated of the entire platoon, and each loss in the squad increased his hatred of the Yankees. “Billy, you ever seen your uncle drink horse piss?”
Billy looked at Siddeley in outrage. Billy, at sixteen, was the youngest in the company. He looked on Case as his uncle since Case was living with his aunt Liz, and Case had been in the same household since he could remember. He also saw his ‘uncle’ as a surrogate father; his own father had been a dissolute drunk and had been kicked out of the house after beating up his mother years ago. “No! And I bet he hasn’t, too!”
Case grinned. “I’ve tasted worse in my time. Although,” he pulled a mock face, “not much worse than this.” He pictured in his mind the sour tasting wine his Roman squad had gotten their hands on in Jerusalem when on crucifixion duty for the condemned prophet Jesus. It was the best they had been able to get and it had been disgusting. They’d even forced Jesus to take some. Case grimaced and dispelled the thought – best not to think too deeply about the day he’d been cursed to immortality.
“We could give it to the Yankees and poison them,” Llewellyn suggested. “Win the war thanks to Joe’s cooking.”
“Drop dead, Llewellyn,” Siddeley snapped. “You have double portions then, in that case.”
“I’ll poop my pants double time,” Llewellyn responded. “What you say, Corp?”
Corporal Herman Munz slowly looked up from his sewing. His jacket was holed and he was sewing a white patch onto it, the material taken from a ripped canvas bag. “Smells fine to me,” he said and resumed his sewing. Munz was a man of few words, but what he did say was usually worth hearing.