Casca 27: The Confederate

by Tony Roberts

  “James…” Case said helplessly.

  “Get out of here, Sarge. I’m not going anywhere. Might as well see what Yankee food’s like anyway,” he said, then screwed his face up in agony. Case looked around. Nobody was nearby in a fit state to carry him. “Take care, Llewellyn,” he said and began carrying Billy away from the wall. Just ahead he could see Munz staggering back, taking a badly hurt Siddeley. Bodies lay all around, and Case stopped as he saw the corpse of Colonel Williams, lying with a group of his men, some moving awkwardly, some not. “Farewell, Colonel,” he said and stepped over him.

  “Hold it right there, Reb!” a deep voice commanded him from behind.

  Case turned slowly to see a Pennsylvanian sergeant aiming right at him from behind the wall. Case stared at him for a moment. “The boy’s hurt bad, I promised his mom I’d see he’d be safe.”

  The sergeant, a burly, mustachioed man, stared in surprise for a moment, then glanced at the soft features of Billy, head lolling against Case’s back. The two sergeants then locked eyes again, and some unknown message was sent between them, warrior to warrior. The sergeant pulled the barrel away from Case and jerked his head. “Go on, scram.”

  Case nodded slowly, gratitude in his expression. It was heartening to find compassion still on the battlefield, even between civil war combatants. He turned and stumbled down after the remnants of his regiment, painfully few of them, stepping over the fallen, recognizing one or two as he went. He wondered just how many of his men would be left when he got back to the safety of his lines.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ann looked at Smith in dismay. “Why must we stay here in this place, and what are all these men doing here?”

  Smith glanced for a moment at the unshaven, rough looking squad lounging around the house outside Burkesville, to the south west of Richmond. He smiled as he turned back to the patently cross woman, wondering for the umpteenth time when it would be the right moment to get rid of her. “We have reason to believe the Demon has gone north to Pennsylvania but may return soon to Richmond. This may be due to me releasing your sister.” He hadn’t, of course, told Ann he’d left Liz to die in the cellar. Ann had believed his story that he’d arranged for her to be released after they had left the house in Richmond.

  “And these men?”

  “Guards, to make sure you’re safe, of course! They shall also help in preparing a trap for the Demon once he’s back in Richmond. Now go prepare food for us.”

  Ann stood up, indignant. “I’m not a piece of furniture ye can drag across America at your whim! I thought once we’d left that city we’d be finished with all this. Why can’t we go back to my home?”

  Smith eyed Ann sharply. Behind him the Brotherhood guards waited with amusement at how Brother Smith would deal with this woman. Each of them would obey Smith provided he adhered to the general plan of the Colonel. If Smith ordered the woman killed, they would. Smith stood before Ann, his eyes boring into her. “You agreed to help me trap the Demon Lonnergan and to save your son. If you no longer wish to help me then so be it and I’ll send you back to Lynchburg. Of course, you’ll have nobody to protect you; you’d be on your own.”

  Ann was shocked. “Ye’d abandon me? With him still at large?”

  “Your choice, Ann. You could try going back to the farm but he knows that place and he’d find you there. With me you’d be safe. Now make your mind up. Either stay with me here or go back to Lynchburg.” He dismissed her with an offhand gesture and turned his back.

  “Ooh, men!” Ann stomped off, furious. Sniggers followed her and she stopped. “And ye can stop that noise, ye filthy lot!” She flounced out of the room. Smith pursed his lips and looked at the guards who looked unrepentant at such behavior. “We shall have to put up with that fool for a little longer. I shall reopen the courier links to the Colonel and find out where the Beast is. Once we know I shall prepare a trap for him. I shall use that foolish woman as bait and bring him to us. Then he will be ours and I can dispose of her for good. So in the meantime do not incur her displeasure. I shall allow you all to use her for your pleasure before she is discarded.”

  The guard corporal, a Cockney from Shoreditch in East London, grinned in pleasure. “Fuckin’ loverlee. Whatever you say, Bruvver.”

  Smith nodded and turned away. Disgusting brute. He turned back briefly. “Go check the grounds. I don’t want anyone snooping around.” He watched as the soldiers shuffled out before sinking into a handy chair and put his head in his hands. Things were not going well. His neat, ordered plans had unraveled, and now he was torn with indecision, which was something he’d not experienced for years, and it unsettled him. What was causing this?

  Ann’s crashing around upstairs came to him and he suddenly realized what it had been that had thrown his plans. He should have killed Ann, not the Beast’s woman. It made more sense. So why did he do that? He closed his eyes. He had deliberately spared Ann because he didn’t want her to die. Smith sucked in his breath with the shaft of realization that he loved her. He actually loved a woman! He hardly could bring himself to admit it, yet there it was, staring him in the face. He groaned in dismay. No! He couldn’t! He couldn’t!! It was against his training, his brief, his mission! A woman would only mess things up, and here was evidence of that; he’d made the wrong choice of killing one of the sisters.

  He stood up suddenly, his fists clenched. He had decided to send Broken Nose back to Richmond to arrange the courier link before making plans. Once the Beast was found he would wait for the Colonel to agree to allow Ann to write to her son, explaining she was safe and where she was and to desert the army. That should bring the Beast running. That was unless things had gone well in Pennsylvania. If, as he suspected, once again they hadn’t, then he’d be waiting for him and this time there’d be no mistake. He could still rescue the mission from the mistake.

  Deciding to salvage his ego he ascended to the bedroom where Ann was furiously throwing some dusty sheets into the corner of the room. She turned at his entry. “Look at this filthy place” she complained, “ye’d think nobody lived here for years, so ye would.”

  “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again in front of my men,” Smith said, ignoring her complaint.

  “What?” Ann faced him, indignant. “Ye don’t tell me how to speak to ye, man!”

  “I’ll tell you what I like,” Smith countered and stepped up to her. Ann’s eyes went wide and she struck out, intending to slap him across the face but Smith caught the wrist and pinned it against the peeling papered wall. Ann gasped and tried to use her other hand but Smith caught that one too. Now Ann was pressed firmly against the wall and Smith was up against her, feeling her warm body through his clothing. And try though he might, he couldn’t stop the swelling in his groin in response to the physical contact. No… no! he thought, I should have more control than this!

  Ann stared at him in fear, recalling the beating her ex-husband had given her, and she believed Smith was about to deliver the same. Smith saw the look and it gave him an extra thrill. He pushed harder against the woman and moved his left arm so it was pinning both hands above her head, then used his free hand to rip open her dress. His loins were on fire and the fire was coursing through his body.

  He kissed her hard, roughly, and Ann breathed hard through her nose, wondering what was going to happen next. She felt his free hand tearing her dress apart and his hardness pressing against her loins and it excited her. She began responding and her soft cries gave Smith more impetus, exulting in the power he was exerting over this woman. He pulled out of the kiss and snarled at her, part in lust, part in hate. The hate was directed mostly at himself, recognizing his own weakness.

  Ann gasped as her dress was torn in two and thrown down past her waist, and her legs were roughly forced up so she was off the ground, held there against the wall. His hands now pulled her legs up wider and higher and she felt him penetrating her, slamming himself in hard. She cried out and began mewling in pleasure. Smith growled and
pushed hard into her, gasping words she’d never heard before; shocking, insulting words hurled at her, but it just made her more excited.

  Harder and faster he moved and Ann clutched at him, uttering high pitched squeals, begging him to continue harder and faster, and Smith obliged, delighting in giving the woman what both of them wanted, but at the same time cursing his weakness. He was never going to kill her, he knew. And for that he would forfeit his life.

  * * *

  The groans of men filled the clearing. Case walked amongst the wounded, his heart heavy. They had been decimated. Most of the regiment had been killed or wounded, and General Kemper was in a bad way, even though he’d made it back. Either he would die or be made a prisoner. The surgeons would have plenty of work to do on the long road back to Virginia – if they made it – and then he’d have to see just how many were left in his platoon. There didn’t seem many left, that was for sure. Billy was sat up, his upper chest and left arm swathed in bandages and a sling. Blood showed through the mass of white but he didn’t seem too worse for wear. He’d be up and moving before long. The bullet had ripped muscle, before tearing out under his armpit, and he’d been patched up a few hours ago in a painful session of screaming; they’d had hold him down to stop him moving. Case hadn’t enjoyed that.

  Herman Munz had helped. Munz had emerged unscathed, incredibly, and had carried Joe Siddeley back to Rebel lines. Siddeley was badly hurt and was likely not to recover enough to continue. He’d been hit twice in that murderous volley; his left knee had been shattered and it would be touch and go whether he kept that leg or not. Either way, he’d have to use a stick from now on. The other wound had been at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, tearing a great hole in his flesh. It had bled terribly and the loss of blood had left him weak and unconscious, and he was in the field hospital. Randolph Furlong had been hurt too, but had managed to get back under his own steam, his right arm saturated in blood. That had been operated on and he was likely to be able to rejoin the unit as soon as he was able to walk, weak though he was. He had no intention of remaining with the stinking putrid mess found in the field hospital.

  Case shook his head sadly at the pitiful sight of the men lying or sitting in forlorn groups. They’d been beaten, and now they had a few hours, maybe a day or so, to get out and begin their retreat. Meade’s Union forces would lick their wounds and then come after them. Their losses had been about the same as Lee’s forces, but they could afford that and the South couldn’t. Case realized from now on they’d be lucky to keep the growing strength of the North out of Virginia.

  Of the platoon, only fifteen remained. Hardly enough to make up a squad. Captain Skivenham limped past, his arm in a sling and one leg bandaged above the knee. He paused and looked Case in the eye. “We’re going to have to reorganize. Two squads. You’ve got two corporals fit for duty, and maybe a third later, depends on what happens to Buckley who’s under the knife as we speak.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Case saluted. “Who’s taking charge of the regiment?”

  “Colonel Skinner. With General Kemper wounded, orders are coming straight to the regimental commanders. Looks like we’re going to be detailed to prisoner escort duty.”

  Case groaned. “Aw, hell, why us?”

  “Because, Sergeant, we’ve suffered so many losses we ain’t good for anything else. We couldn’t stop a company of whores the shape we’re in at present.”

  Case nodded and turned to Munz. “Okay Herman, grab together the fit men from ‘A’ and ‘B’ squads. I want seven privates plus you in the new ‘A’ squad. The rest go with what’s left of ‘C’ to make up the new ‘B’ squad under Corporal Collins.”

  “Yup,” Munz nodded and began waving at the dispirited men, splitting them into two new groups. Case watched as Billy and Randolph, the only two surviving privates from ‘B’ were put in with Privates Gatscombe, Passmore, Taylor and Wendell, all of whom sported a wound of some sort or another. The rest were put into the new ‘B’ squad. Once they were all grouped, Skivenham indicated to them to follow him. The other companies of the regiment, similarly reorganized, shambled and shuffled in their wake, coughing, moaning or generally grumbling. On top of that it began to rain.

  “Now I’m just about as miserable as I could possibly be,” Private Steve Taylor declared, his unshaven face displaying misery as the rain dripped through a bullet hole in the brim of his hat and onto his nose. He was thin, gaunt and had a haunted look. He could pass for a scarecrow. Case glanced at him, but said nothing. He would have to make sure the new group molded together swiftly, and he’d have to watch out for any clashes. The sorry looking groups made their way – nobody could possibly describe it as marching – over to a clump of trees and a large group of sitting men, all dressed in the dark blue of the Union. Prisoners. They were roped together in groups of twenty or so, and Skivenham began to assign the groups of glum Confederates to a line of prisoners. Case and his group were given a line of twenty-one and the Union men stared up insolently at them.

  “From now on these are your responsibility,” Skivenham said, the rain plastering his hair to his head. “If they escape, you’ll have to hunt them down and bring them back. The division’s got 5,000 of these to guard and I don’t want to be the only officer giving excuses to General Pickett that my men allowed some of this lot to escape! Look like soldiers,” he growled, eyeing the unenthusiastic men, “and not homeless beggars!”

  “In that case let us swap uniforms,” Leonard Wendell, a thick-jawed, dark complexioned man muttered, loud enough for his colleagues to hear but not the Captain. Case moved to one side and trod on Wendell’s foot.

  Skivenham shook his head and moved off, intending to report to Colonel Skinner that the prisoners allocated to his men had all been put under escort. He looked a sorry sight, wet, limping, silent. Case looked round at all the men gathered in the clearing. All were disheveled, except for the prisoners. One or two, to be sure, were worse for wear but they sure as hell didn’t look like prisoners ought to. “Alright you lot,” he growled at the Union soldiers, “get to your feet. All of you.”

  The twenty-one eyed Case defiantly. There was some movement but nobody stood up. Case went over to the nearest man and kicked him in the thigh, hard. “Up!”

  “Hey,” the soldier complained, “you can’t treat me like that!”

  Case grabbed him by the collar and hauled him up, surprising the soldier with his strength. “You rooted to the ground? No, so get up! I’m in charge of you sorry pilgrims, and you’ll do as you’re damned well told. Soldiers follow orders and you’re no exception. UP!”

  The roar of Case’s voice echoed round the clearing, startling some birds off their perches. The others reluctantly stood up and tugged at their ropes unhappily. Their attention was focused on Case and none of their expressions could be described as friendly. “We don’t take orders from no slaver!” one snarled.

  Case moved along the line and confronted the man who’d spoken, a sharp-faced man with a New York accent. “I’m no slaver, Yankee. I don’t own slaves, and neither do any of these people here. So get that idea out of your head.”

  “You all support slavery,” the New Yorker glowered. He looked down at the ground, discomforted by Case’s blue eyes glaring into his. Case stepped back and looked along the line of blue coated men. “What you think of us makes no difference right now. You’re our prisoners and you’ll do as you’re told. We’re about to move off south, so it’ll make things much easier for us all if you behave.”

  He received nothing but glares and scowls.

  * * *

  Not too far away the corpse-strewn slopes of Cemetery Ridge was being picked over by Union burial parties. The wounded Confederates had been removed and now it was the turn of the dead to be moved. The rain made the task more difficult. The white corpses became sodden and the rain added to their dead weight. Walking along the slope in a line were a group of men, clearly not joining in the body removal detail, but on a mission of their ow
n. At the top of the slope, close to the wall, walked the Colonel, white gauntlets in hand, staring intently at the regimental insignia of the dead Rebels. His men picked through the dead, looking for the same thing.

  They kept getting odd looks from the burial parties but one glare from the Colonel was enough to make them more interested in their grisly job than worrying about what the devil these strange men were doing. None of these new arrivals looked as though they’d been in a fight, that was for sure. Suddenly, one of the soldiers bent low over a still form close to the wall, and exclaimed. “Colonel,” he looked up and called softly, “1st Virginia.”

  The Colonel strode over, his eyes excited. “Show me,” he commanded. The soldier picked up a wet kepi and showed his commanding officer, clearly revealing ‘1VA’ on the top. “Praise Izram!” the Colonel breathed. He stood up and looked around. “Check each one of these bodies here! Be wary, the Beast may be amongst them. If you think you find him, do not touch! Call me.”

  The men took to their task with vigor. The Colonel spotted a lieutenant lounging against a tree next to the wall, clearly an officer of the burial detail. “Lieutenant,” he snapped, walking up to him. “Did you see where they took the wounded from this area?”

  “Sir, over there towards Leister Farm.” The lieutenant pointed to the ridge behind him. The farm, Meade’s HQ, was out of sight.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Carry on.” The Colonel saluted and walked back to his men. They shook their heads at his unspoken query. “Very well. Those who survived this carnage are over this ridge. Fetch your weapons and join me at the top of that ridge there.”

  In a short while the Colonel and his platoon descended the reverse slope to where a large group of sorry looking Confederates were sat, under guard. “Who is in charge here?” the Colonel demanded.