Casca 27: The Confederate

by Tony Roberts

  Smith stood up and paced the small room. “He’s seeking your sister out. We’re going to have to move.”

  “To where?” Ann felt frightened, claustrophobic. If Lonnergan found them now, she was in no doubt she would be torn limb from limb and her soul damned to all eternity. “You can save us, can’t you?”

  Smith nodded. “I must plan our escape carefully. I made a mistake in bringing your sister here. It’s put us all in jeopardy. I must also find out where the demon is. The last thing according to the papers was that the army was at Fredericksburg. Hopefully they have been defeated and half our work is done.” He walked along the corridor and paused outside the door to the cellar. “If not, then I fear he will come here to find your sister. We’d best not be here if he does.”

  “Oh, John!” Ann sobbed in terror. “Please, please get us out of here!”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll arrange things now. Go pack your things. Don’t go into the cellar, whatever you do.” He went to the front door and stepped into the street. One of his agents had obviously posted the sheet to attract his attention. He looked along the street and saw to his relief his man, leaning against a railing. He walked up to him. “Where did you get it?”

  “Outside a newsagents, brother,” the man, a thickset unshaven individual with a broken nose, replied. “According to the newsagent, it was given him by a Michael White, a carpenter.”

  “White?”

  “Yes, brother. I did a little checking and this White was formerly in the Beast’s unit until wounded a few months ago.”

  Smith’s face took on a feral look. “Then, acolyte, it is time this carpenter was put out of business. Gather the brethren and put this interfering fool to the purification of fire.”

  The man bowed. “It will be done. Praise to Izram!”

  Smith nodded in response. “I also plan to move fairly quickly. Find a place away from here, out of Richmond. Arrange all travel and bookings for two. In my name. I must have it within the next twenty four hours.”

  “It shall be done.” The henchman bowed.

  Smith returned the acknowledgment and returned to the house, thinking hard. The Beast’s woman was too much of a liability to take, but he still believed it best he kept the other with him. He was normally clear-headed about his plans but the pressure of his mission and the fact Longinus was not far away clouded his thoughts. Richmond was going to be a little risky to stay in much longer, but it all depended on how the battle at Fredericksburg had gone and how many people had noticed Ann or her sister. Best to show these meddling fools that the Brotherhood had teeth; it would dissuade them in any further interference. He knew the Beast would never stop in coming for him, but maybe he could turn that to his advantage. If he still had one of the women he could use that as a bargaining tool. Best Ann was with him; she trusted him.

  Ann was busy upstairs packing, so he unlocked the cellar door and entered the smelly room. He realized it was about time they left anyway; the smell was beginning to intrude into the other rooms of the house. Liz raised her head, her eyes dull. All that kept her going now was the hope her man would come to rescue her. Smith wrinkled his nose. “Your suffering here is soon to end. In a few days it will all be over. Then I shall not have to see you again.”

  “Case is coming for me!” Liz’s face lit up. “I told you!”

  Smith grunted and turned away. “Yes you did.” He shut the cellar door with a sense of finality. He pocketed the key and moved slowly into the kitchen, pondering on his next move. He would have to move fast and hard and trusted that Ann was up to it.

  * * *

  Michael White leaned back from the lathe and studied the shaped piece of wood. It looked fine, and the length seemed to match the other table leg he had carved earlier that day. His face was bathed in sweat, despite the coldness of the air, and he gauged it was time to stop for the evening. He was tired and tired men made mistakes. He was about to put the chisel down when the door of his workshop opened and two men came in, bulky, dark, nondescript men. One had a broken nose. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

  “You’re Michael White,” the broken nosed one said in a voice pulled up from the depths of his boots. “The one who put those notices out.”

  “Yes,” White answered, gripping his chisel tightly. It was below the level of the table and so unseen by the two men who had moved apart, one to either side, so that they were coming round the table from two directions. “Have you information for me?”

  “We have a message,” Broken-Nose replied, hauling out a revolver from his fading red jacket. The other withdrew a long sharp knife, a skinning knife, and advanced from the left. White’s hand moved quickly, grabbing a handful of wood shaving and chippings lying on the table and threw them at Broken-Nose, blinding him for a second.

  The shot intended to blow his chest apart went high and shattered the oil lamp hanging from a bracket set in one of the pillars holding the roof up. Burning oil splashed out, mostly over the second man who screamed, his hands to his face, so White hopped backwards and sent the chisel into his gut, twisting it as it tore through the abdominal muscles. Off balance, and unable to use his wooden leg properly, White fell backwards onto the floor, the screams of the man he’d disemboweled filling the room.

  The burning oil had set alight some of the wood shavings and light flared up in a number of places. Broken-Nose trod over the sawdust covered floor and stood over a helpless White. He glanced across at his associate, flopping like a landed fish, his face blackened and the chisel protruding from the mess of a stomach. “Stop screaming,” he growled and blew a hole through the man’s chest, splintering the rib cage and turning his heart to a red pulp. Abruptly, the screaming ceased.

  He looked down at a desperately squirming White, attempting to reach a wall to get upright. “You ain’t going anywhere, White,” he said and aimed at his good leg. “Something to remember before I go; don’t go interfering with other people’s business.”

  He grinned and shot him cold bloodedly in the thigh. White screamed and writhed in agony. “Maybe you’ll survive,” Broken-Nose said, and looked at the fires spreading on the table and floor. “Maybe you won’t. Your life ain’t worth a thing to us. Remember that. Be a good boy and mind your own business.” He turned and left, leaving White to clutch at the agonizing pain in his thigh. The smell of burning wood filled the air and smoke began spreading along the underside of the roof. Broken-Nose shut the door of the workshop and walked away, aware of eyes peering at him from behind windows and across the street. White would be saved, but he’d done what he’d intended. Maybe the Beast would get the message. He hoped to Izram he would. Laughing, he passed into the darkness of the alleyways and left behind him a gathering crowd at the entrance of the workshop.

  * * *

  Fredericksburg slowly recovered. The Union army had retreated during a night of driving rain, their passage muffled by straw and the elements. The Confederates stood stunned at the open spaces where their enemy had been camped only the evening before. The dead would have to be buried, and gangs of Rebel soldiers were assigned to the grisly task of taking care of the fallen. The North left behind around 1300 dead and had suffered another 9,500 wounded and 1750 were missing. The South lost 460 killed and 3,700 wounded.

  Case cleaned his gun and watched as Billy talked to Rosie nearby. She had come out to find him once it was all clear to reassure him she was alright. There had been no problems with the Union soldiers except for widespread looting. The town was picked clean. It would take time for the town to get back to anything like normal. Men wandered to and fro, miserably muffled against the cold and wet. Winter was never a good time for soldiering and thoughts turned to home and the more comfortable surroundings to be found there.

  “Corporal Munz,” Case called to the tall, rangy man, “get the boys ready to move out. I heard we’re to march away soon to winter quarters.” Privately he was relieved; now he could get to Richmond and find out what the hell was going on. He had spoken to Capt
ain Skivenham and requested an extended leave of absence. The Captain had been reluctant but eventually agreed, telling Case they were planning to march through Richmond in the middle of February to North Carolina after re-supplying and retraining. “You settle your affairs, whatever they are,” Skivenham had said, “by the time we march through the capital.”

  Case wouldn’t take any of the others with him this time. Best they stayed with the unit and he sort out whatever was going on without involving the others. Billy came up, his face full of joy. “She’s going to wait for me till the war’s over,” he announced. “Then we’re going to get married!”

  Case stood up, his mouth opened, then shut. Munz scratched his head, a thoughtful look on his face. “Well, congratulations,” Case said, slapping the youth on the shoulder. Billy grinned widely.

  “Best keep yourself safe for her then,” Munz advised and walked off to collect the rest of the small squad. Billy shrugged. Case nodded. “Whatever the situation is once the war’s over, things won’t be the same as they were. You’d better start planning where you’re going to live together.”

  “Easy. The farm by Lynchburg.”

  “Even with those maniacs on the loose?” Case said. “You know they’d kill anyone who goes there!”

  “You’ll take care of it, Sarge,” Billy said with confidence. He turned as the rest of the squad came running up, grinning, congratulating Billy, slapping him on the back and promising all kinds of alcoholic heaven to celebrate.

  Case cursed and walked off to inspect the other squads. Sure he’d take care of it; he’d have to take care of it. Nobody else knew fully what was going on. Somehow he’d have to stamp out the damned lot and that would have to start in Richmond. He knew there would be the place to start. They had Liz, and he would have to find her. For her sake.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Richmond had the air of neglect, and Case knew the blockade was beginning to bite. People looked greyer than before; whether this was because it was December Case didn’t know, but the effects of civil war were starting to show in the population, and that wasn’t a good sign.

  The house seemed to have taken on an air of menace since he had last seen it, but that was probably his mind playing tricks. A letter lay on the floor just inside the door and Case picked it up. It was addressed to him and he opened it hungrily; it contained what he dreaded, a letter from the Brotherhood. Longinus, we have your woman. In exchange for her life you must surrender yourself to us. If you agree to this you must attend the Cathedral of St. Peters on any Sunday at 6pm. You will be watched. Do not try anything or your woman will be sacrificed.

  He screwed the letter up and threw it savagely across the living room. It was unsigned, but he knew it must have been from the man with a mole on his chin. He’d seen him at the farmhouse and Edward Siddeley had mentioned a man with that description putting the letter through the letterbox at this very house in his recent note to him. Leaving his weapons behind on the table, except his knife, he left and made for Siddeley’s metal workshop.

  Old man Siddeley welcomed him with an air of….. relief? “Hell, am I glad to see you! Michael’s been shot and his place burned down!”

  “What? What the hell happened? Is he okay?”

  Siddeley assured case the wounded White was fine, albeit unable to walk for the moment. The leg had been saved but he was in Seabrook’s Hospital close to the railway station. According to old man Siddeley, there were numerous hospitals now in the city, mostly catering for wounded soldiers. White had been in there already so his return was nothing new. Case was filled in with other details. “According to the many witnesses, there had been two of them who did it. One died in the fire, the other walked away. He had a broken nose and a leather jacket of some sort. They gave a warning to drop the ‘wanted’ posters or else. I took mine down. I don’t want that to happen to me!” he ended defensively.

  “That’s okay, Ed,” Case reassured him. “Don’t want any more unnecessary suffering. Must’ve hit a raw nerve though, for them to react so fast. I had a letter waiting for me; they’ve definitely got Liz. I’m to go to the cathedral on Sunday.”

  “Well, that may not be necessary,” Siddeley said. “I got someone who told me they’d seen the broken nose man speak to a guy with a mole on his chin outside a house on Canal Street, close to 5th Street’s intersection.” He looked smug. “This guy – one of my customers – had read the poster and heard Michael being shot, so he followed this guy from the workshop. That was a week ago or so.”

  Case laughed; it was the first piece of good news he’d heard about the whole thing. “You haven’t gone to look at this place?”

  “What d’ya take me for? I’m too old to get mixed up in stupid things like this, and since Michael’s been shot I’ve kept my head down. I’ll leave those things to younger people like you. But go careful, these guys play tough and they’re not kiddin’.”

  Case thanked the old man and left, intending to sort the entire thing out once and for all. He’d go in, get Liz out and kill the Brotherhood agents. But he’d best wait for night. So he retraced his steps to the house and pondered on taking the gun, but decided it would be too noisy. He had his knife and his fists and the element of surprise. Wrapping himself up against the cold, he left once more as night fell and made his way downhill towards the river.

  Old man Siddeley had told him which house it was, and Case found it to be dark. Typical, he thought. Nothing stirred, and the windows were un-curtained, which was slightly odd. No lights and the curtains open? He stepped across the street and moved cautiously up to the first window. He peered in and saw nothing through the lace of the inner curtain. The room was empty and dark.

  He tested the door handle but it was locked. Looking round again to check the road was deserted, he leaned on it but the door held. He listened through the letterbox for a moment and heard nothing. Dammit! He eased out the knife and slid the blade into the jamb and began working it where he imagined the lock was. He pushed and twisted for a minute but had no luck with it. He made a mess of the face of the door but achieved damn-all else. He felt his temper going. While he mucked around out here in the cold Liz was in there at her peril.

  There had been no reaction from whoever was inside, so he decided speed and strength would have to do. He tensed and swung all his weight onto one leg, then sent his other foot slamming into the door, causing it to shake. The explosive sound would have echoed throughout the house so he went for broke, kicking the door again and again, cursing it. On the fourth blow it splintered, the lock breaking through the groove and the door swung inwards.

  He went in there like a ferret down a rabbit hole, rushing along the narrow passage to the room at the far end. Everything was dark. No light shone at all, and he stopped, crouching, slowly turning back in the direction he’d come, knife thrust out ahead of him. His ears strained to hear anything, but no noise came to him, save the drip-drip of water somewhere, faintly. He inhaled slowly and detected something stale. His hackles rose.

  Eighteen and a half centuries of fighting, living, seeing people die, seeing death in piles had given him an acute knowledge of what death smelt like. This was death but not recent. It was days old. Not here, but close by. His heart slowly fell onto its back, then got up and slowly began beating again. He felt his mind screaming no, no no! even as he forced himself to walk slowly back along the passage, to the foot of the staircase leading up. He crouched there waiting for a moment, then began ascending, a step creaking. He froze and waited, then continued when nothing happened. He was beginning to feel the place was deserted. He had been too late.

  Upstairs was bereft and the open cupboards and wardrobes told their own story. There had been nothing of note to be found. Returning to the ground floor he looked around. The smell of faint death was stronger and he checked the living room, the one he’d seen from outside, but it revealed nothing. Coming back out he saw the one door he’d missed, and from behind it he knew death was there. His skin shivered and
hairs stood up on end. It was locked but he was in no mood to be thwarted by some stupid door and his kick was so savage he sent it off its hinges to fall in slow motion inwards.

  A blast of frigid air hit him, as did the smell of death, much stronger. It was pitch black in there and he searched the kitchen for light, finally finding a lamp and matches. He left the drawers over the floor, reasoning that he wouldn’t be returning here again. The lamp showed the gaping hole to be the entrance to a cellar and as he entered and looked down past the steps leading to the floor of the room, he spied a single figure lying there next to an overturned chair.

  With a sob he reached the figure and turned her over. She was stone cold and emaciated, and her dull eyes stared past him and he saw betrayal; he’d not come to rescue her this time, and she’d died alone. His voice came rasping out in sobs and he buried her face against his chest. The bastards had starved her to death! A ball of pain shot out from his heart and he threw his head back and howled in anguish. “LIZ!”

  The tears were cold and bitter as he wept for his loss and her death, an unnecessary and callous death. And out of the tears of pain and sorrow rose a burning hatred and desire for revenge.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The grey and butternut yellow dressed men laughed and sang as they snaked north along the road towards Maryland. It had been a long and hard winter and a tough spring. Their recent time in North Carolina had tested their resolve; the swamps and lack of food had made them silent and taciturn and only the pumpkin pies sold by the locals had kept the hunger at bay. Snakes and onions hadn’t been to everyone’s liking, neither had the army’s rations of cornbread and less than a pound of fat bacon per day.

  But now here they were in June, heading north together with the rest of the Army of Northern Virginia, passing through the hills and dales of the Shenandoah Valley. The green fields made such a contrast to the marshlands they had recently been camped in. All the men were relaxed and in good humor. Except Case Lonnergan.