Casca 27: The Confederate

by Tony Roberts

  Sumner laughed unpleasantly. “That may be for the present, sir. I doubt that shall remain much longer!” He turned and left the post, his back stiff with outrage.

  * * *

  Case took a canteen of water offered by Munz gratefully. He was damned thirsty. He wiped his brow, pushing his hat back from his forehead. They had survived – just. But the carnage had bled the army white. The battle, which would come to be known as either Antietam or Sharpsburg, depending on what side of the war one was on, had cost the North 2,108 dead, 9,549 wounded and 753 missing – a total of 12,410 casualties. It was worse for the South; they had lost 2,700 dead, 9,024 wounded and 2,000 were missing – a total of 13,724.

  “What d’you think will happen now, Sarge?” Furlong asked, sitting with his back propped against the wall.

  “We’ll return south. We’ve lost far too many men to stay here. Once they have regrouped,” he jabbed a thumb over the wall in the direction of the Union forces, “they’ll come after us, and we’re in no state to fight anymore. We need to get back to re-supply and replace our losses.”

  * * *

  At the bottom of the slope amongst the recovering Union forces, a colonel slowly rode his horse through the scattered groups of resting soldiers, a company of men marching in his wake. All were fresh and unmarked, and had the look of those not yet tested in battle. The colonel stopped before the hastily erected tent of the 8th Connecticut regiment’s commander, Major Ward, and dismounted. The look of disapproval on his face could have been directed at the state of the soldiers around him, the fact he had to dismount or his general disposition. He wasn’t going to tell anyone.

  Major Ward looked up from writing his report and frowned. Who was this colonel with no regimental markings? Where was his men’s flag? He stood up, more out of curiosity than anything else. “Colonel?”

  The colonel saluted and Ward did likewise automatically. “Major Ward, I am reliably informed your regiment came into contact with the 1st Virginia regiment at the top of the hill?”

  “That is correct, Colonel. They caused a terrible number of casualties amongst my men, including Colonel Appleton. What is it you wanted to know?”

  The colonel looked up the slope towards Sharpsburg. Only the dead and badly wounded claimed it, and a few surgeons and orderlies from both sides were slowly checking them to see if any could be saved. Those already beyond help were left to join the dead. “Did you see a Rebel sergeant with a scar on his face by any chance?”

  Ward stared for a moment. “Sir, we were too busy surviving to worry about identifying particular facial attributes of the enemy!”

  One soldier looked up from cleaning his rifle. “Sir!” he stood up.

  Ward and the colonel turned to stare at him. “Yes, soldier?” Ward barked.

  “Begging your pardon, Major sir, but I saw this man. He was the one who shot Colonel Appleton.”

  “You did?” the colonel stepped forward his eyes transfixing the suddenly apprehensive soldier. “Where was he?”

  “Uh, behind the stone wall on the southern road out of Sharpsburg, Colonel. About 500 yards from the edge of town. To the left of the small group of trees up there.”

  The colonel turned once more to look up the slope. A smile slowly spread across his face. “Thank you soldier. Major Ward, your men are very brave soldiers indeed. I commend you on your regiment’s valor.”

  Ward felt a glow inside. He smiled and stood stiffly to attention. “Why, thank you sir.” He was still baffled by the presence of this officer and his silent and somehow sinister company of men, but the praise was welcome to his ears after the battering they had taken the evening before. And why did he want to know about this particular sergeant in the Confederate army? Ward decided to forget about it and waited till the colonel had remounted, saluted and tuned around and walked off, before sitting back down to continue his report.

  The colonel looked up the slope again. His men would have to wait before their baptism of fire. They had been waiting at the bottom of the slope yesterday, ready for the victory, so that he could then inspect the men of the 1st Virginia that would have been taken prisoner, and taken the man known as Case Lonnergan, but who really was Casca Rufio Longinus, Roman soldier, murderer of Jesus. His mission was to capture Longinus for the Brotherhood of the Lamb, and he would, even if it took him years.

  Sooner or later he would have the chance. Sooner or later the Confederate army would be defeated, and when it was he would ensure Longinus was taken prisoner by his men. He had a company, many of whom were, like himself, men of the Brotherhood. Those who weren’t were eager volunteers who thought they were specially chosen for their abilities. They were men from all parts of the Union, therefore they had no particular state they could call their own. The colonel and most of his men were not even from the United States at all. “Longinus,” he muttered to himself, “once again you elude me, but I shall have you one of these days.”

  He was already composing a letter in his mind to send to his agent in Richmond, Smith, advising him he would have to wait a little longer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  They stayed on the battlefield for one more day before the order came for the Army of Northern Virginia to retreat. Lee’s men, battered and exhausted, marched away from Sharpsburg unmolested. They crossed the Potomac at Shepherdstown and made their way through Virginia, over a range of hills and down the valley of Shenandoah. Rumors of a pursuit were enough to force Lee to send Ambrose Hill’s men back to block the way behind them, but the Union forces didn’t push the issue. McClellan was happy to let them go.

  Billy’s feet were causing him problems again. He dropped out on the roadside and joined a growing number of men who straggled behind the main force. Case checked he was okay to be left before hurrying back to the platoon. The men marched with heads down. They had been beaten, even though on the battlefield neither side had chased the other off. The North had done enough to drive them back. Now they were going to winter on their own lands with the enemy coming after them.

  “Think they’ll come for us, Sarge?” Llewellyn asked as Case caught up with them.

  “The Yankees? Yeah, although they’ll have to hurry if they’re to catch us before winter sets in.”

  “Richmond again?” Siddeley guessed aloud. “Like earlier this year?”

  “Dunno, Joe. All we can do is try to stop them from breaking through. They got more men than we have. They should have done us good and proper back at Sharpsburg.” Case wondered about the lack of urgency the Northern army had displayed at Sharpsburg and now letting them march unhindered back into Virginia. It was as though McClellan was trying to win by mere maneuvering. A more aggressive general would pose dreadful problems for the South. And battles like the one they’d just come from wouldn’t help in the long run. They’d be bled dry.

  They carried on marching over the next few days, but without ‘Stonewall’ Jackson’s men. They remained in the Shenandoah to keep an eye on the enemy there. The Confederate cavalry under ‘Jeb’ Stuart scouted out far and wide and reported that McClellan’s army was moving south slowly on a parallel path to Lee but further east.

  Eventually Lee ordered the army to camp around Culpeper and the men gratefully threw up tents and began planning their foraging routes from the area. Food would be scarce as this had been the area fought over earlier in the year and it had been picked relatively clean. Case organized the platoon as best he could but they were almost down to two squads’ strength. He asked Captain Skivenham if they could be reorganized into two units but the captain shook his head. “Not yet, Sergeant. You might tread on the corporals’ toes. If we have any more losses then perhaps yes.”

  Case grunted; from an initial strength of 31 at the start of the war they were down to 19, including himself as sergeant and three corporals. It wouldn’t be long before they had to be reorganized if they had more fights like Sharpsburg. Then again, if they had many more like that the whole army would cease to exist. Billy and the other straggler
s gradually turned up, the youngster still complaining about his blistered feet and hunger.

  He decided to write to Joe Siddeley’s dad, Edward, at the forge close to his home. Edward had taken Case on when Case had arrived in Richmond nearly two years back looking for work. Perhaps he could find out what had happened. It was a worry and he sometimes felt like sneaking off to Richmond, but desertion wasn’t looked upon with favor, particularly in an army crying out for men. He’d not had any letter from Liz for some time and the others had been sent post, so it wasn’t a case of lack of post. He had a terrible feeling in his gut about this. It had happened too many times to him in the past and he dreaded that once more the fates had kicked him in the crotch.

  * * *

  Edward Siddeley was surprised to get two letters from the army. One was from his son and he looked forward to reading these dispatches from his offspring, but the other one caught his eye. He decided to open it first, dreading it was one of those ‘sorry to inform you but…’ communiqués.

  With some relief he realized it wasn’t about any unfortunate incident concerning his son, but a letter from Case Lonnergan, Joe’s friend, sergeant and Edward’s former employee. He read the short letter a few times and frowned. He knew the address, not too far away. His brother owned it, on Marshall Street. He’d go see after he’d finished work for the day. He opened the other letter and read it keenly, the campaign in Maryland brought to his home by his son. He thanked God Joseph had been spared and was now resting in Northern Virginia.

  After work Edward shrugged on his heavy jacket and cap, and locked the forge up before walking along 9th Street up away from the waterfront. Night was falling and the temperature plummeted. He stuck his hands in his pockets and puffed out his breath in clouds of vapor. Winter was coming, alright. The house on Marshall Street was dark and had the look of being unoccupied. He rapped on the door a few times but got no answer. He tried the neighbors, houses where lights shone through gaps in the curtains.

  He had no luck with the first two he tried, but on an impulse he crossed the street and knocked on the door of the house directly opposite. An elderly woman answered the door, hair tied back in a severe silver bun. “Yes?” she queried.

  “Sorry to disturb you ma’am,” Edward took off his cap politely. “My friends opposite appear not to be home, and I was wondering when you last saw them. I haven’t heard from them for over a month which is too long.”

  “Oh!” she nodded. “Come in and I’ll tell you about them. He’s in the army, didn’t you know?”

  “Ah, yes ma’am, but I was asked to check on his lady while he was away,” Edward felt she looked the sort who’d know everyone’s business. She led him to a pantry where a stove was lit and she filled an iron kettle with water and placed it on the flames. “Tea?”

  “Oh, yes please ma’am. You said you knew something about them?”

  The old lady smiled and fetched out a glass jar with some cakes resting within. “I don’t get many visitors these days,” she said, opening the jar. “I hope you’ll join me. So tasty, these cakes. I made them myself!”

  Edward didn’t want to upset the woman. “Oh, that would be fine, ma’am. Thank you.” He hoped they wouldn’t taste of leather or sawdust. Or both. Anything was possible with wartime shortages.

  “He’s away with the army as I said,” the woman said by way of reply, “and the lovely young girl went away, oh, it must be nearly two months back, out in a hurry one evening with another woman. She’d visited them before. They rushed off together and since then, I’ve not seen either of them.”

  “Oh,” Edward digested that information. He hoped the cakes would be more digestible. “And nobody has come knocking on the door?”

  “Well, funny you should say that,” the old lady said, fixing him with a piercing look, “a man did come by a few weeks back and put a letter though the post box. No idea what it was or who he was, but he was dressed in a dark cloak. He had a mole on his chin.”

  Edward thought this would be an interesting fact to relay to Case.

  * * *

  The army trained at Culpeper and when they weren’t training went foraging for food. Hunger was becoming a daily companion and together with the lack of replacement uniforms they were looking more and more like the homeless ruffians that lurked in the poorest areas of town.

  Riders kept on coming and going from the command post and Major General Longstreet was promoted to Lieutenant General, as was Thomas Jackson, and the men cheered at the news. Case didn’t get excited, it just meant a different title. It made little difference to him whether Longstreet or Jackson were part or full generals. It was how they commanded the men that counted. He smiled slightly at the morale boost it gave the men, though. They needed good news.

  * * *

  The following day it was bitterly cold and heavy, wet snow began falling out of dull gray skies. The roads turned into a muddy porridge and pushing wheeled vehicles along them became almost impossible. At a place called Rectortown, 25 miles north east of Culpeper, two men slowly rode into a large army camp. Sentries huddled miserably into their coats while mounds of snow marked where men were trying to sleep under their blankets. Clouds of breath enveloped the heads of the red-nosed sentries who waved the horsemen on.

  They stopped outside a large tent and dismounted. Soldiers slipped on the hard, icy ground as they made to take the reins of the horses, and the two men passed armed guards and ducked as they passed into the tent, brushing snow from their greatcoats. Sat behind a fold-down table was the splendidly bewhiskered figure of Ambrose Burnside, commanding general of the IX Corps, Union Army of the Potomac. He looked up at the arrivals and stood up suddenly, alarmed at the senior rank of them.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, glancing to his left at his subordinates, standing in a group, “this is an unexpected pleasure. How is Washington?”

  “Cold,” the first of the two arrivals said briefly. “President Lincoln has sent you these orders. I suggest you read them.”

  Burnside hesitated at the peremptory manner of the man before slowly opening the envelope and reading the message that he took out. His heart missed a beat, then he looked up at the two men. “Sir, we had best go see General McClellan; he will have to be informed.”

  The man patted his pristine jacket. “I have his orders here. Please show us the way.”

  The group of men trudged through the falling snow to Major General George McClellan’s command tent. Burnside led the two arrivals in and McClellan, flanked by his staff, took the envelope proffered to him with some reluctance. He read his orders and sighed, slowly lowering the message. “Well, Burnside,” he looked at his colleague, “it seems you are to command the army now.”

  * * *

  The letter Case got back from Edward Siddeley filled him with dread. Liz was gone, almost certainly with Ann, from the description in the old man’s letter, to God knows where. She wouldn’t have left unless she trusted whoever had called, and her sister was the only safe bet. For some reason, Ann was connected to Liz’s disappearance. He would have to go to Richmond and search for her. But where to start? The description of the man who had called at the house matched the Brotherhood man who’d escaped at the fight at the farmhouse earlier that year. Case feared the worst.

  He sat in the small canvas foldaway chair in his tent and began to compose two letters. One was back to old man Siddeley, the other to Michael White. White had been part of Case’s squad until a Yankee bullet cost him his leg at the Second Manassas, and White had returned to Richmond an invalid. He’d left Case his home address before he’d gone, and Case thought it would do the former soldier good to help find the missing woman. He had no idea what Michael White was up to, but it was only a few months since he’d left the army so he doubted things had moved on much for him.

  Afterwards he sought out Billy and James Siddeley. He told them what had happened and that he was hoping the two he’d written to would come up with something. “I really need to get to Richmon
d but until I get some clue or place or something, there’s no point.”

  “Heck, Sarge,” Siddeley shook his head slowly, “I hope you do find her. My old man knows a lot of people and maybe somebody knows something.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” Case growled. He felt frustrated and his temper was becoming short. Someone would get the full brunt of it sooner or later, that was sure. His mind kept on going back to the time thirteen centuries back when the Brotherhood had taken his woman and adopted kid and killed both in Constantinople. He hoped history wasn’t going to repeat itself again. All he knew was that if he got his hands on any of those Brotherhood fanatics, there’d be hell to pay.

  Orders came to move east. Talk was all about the new Yankee commander Burnside and what he was up to. Billy came up with a surprising piece of information one evening as they camped in the open, shivering with the cold. “They’re heading for Fredericksburg.”

  The rest of the squad turned their attention to the boy. “And how in the name of God do you know that?” Llewellyn demanded, his eyes almost popping out. Even Case was surprised; Billy was hardly the one amongst the unit to know something like that. Llewellyn pushed his slouch hat further away from his forehead. “You got some secret we should be knowing?”

  Billy looked down and fidgeted nervously. Case swore his face was turning red, but the flames of the camp fire hid that. Munz opened one eye from his prone position and fixed it on Billy. “You know something Billy. The boys gotta know.”

  Billy looked at Case for help, but the Eternal Mercenary was just as intrigued as everyone else. “Could be anywhere along the coastal plain, Billy. No orders have come down to us yet. The generals know, but we sure don’t. Why Fredericksburg?”

  “Ah, well Rosie told me.”

  “Rosie?” Siddeley exclaimed. “You mean that pretty little barmaid at the Rising Sun?”

  Billy nodded, grinning suddenly. “We’ve been writing a few times since we were there and last letter I got two days back before we left camp she said Yankee was pitching camp over the river on the other side by a place called Falmouth. Seems talk in the town is that the whole Army of the Potomac is coming their way.”