by Phil Dunlap
In a thin shaft of sunlight just inside the woods, the glint from an officer’s brass got Tom’s attention. He was in a bad position to warn his own squad before the inevitable charge from the Union Cavalry. If he did nothing, his men would be shot up as badly as the Yankee infantrymen had been minutes before. If he fired a warning shot, he’d be spotted and brought down like a wild turkey from his perch. He was torn over what to do. He couldn’t let all those boys die if he could do something to save them. And, to a man of honor like Tom, the answer was obvious, he’d have to sacrifice himself for the good of all the young men he’d come to know as brothers.
He raised the Spencer to fire a warning when the cavalry began their drive out of the woods and into the clearing beyond. Although it was an unlikely scenario, the first rider to emerge from the natural cover of the forest was a colonel, too high a rank to ignore. If Tom could get the colonel, his shot would be sufficient warning to his own men. He shouldered his rifle, and drew a bead on the officer as the man spurred his mount and raised his sword in command to charge. Tom’s first shot caught the colonel squarely in the chest, tossing him backwards off his horse and into the path of the man right behind him. The second man, a lieutenant yanked back on his reins to avoid trampling his colonel, and in doing so caused a chain reaction that brought confusion and chaos to the small contingent of riders who were already too tightly bunched trying to exit from the restrictive confines of the forest. Tom’s squad saw what was happening and trained their fire on the woods, even though they couldn’t see far enough in to pick specific targets. The Yankee cavalrymen scattered through the trees in a panic to get free of the withering fire. Horses could be heard squealing, and men crying as bullets found their mark. Chunks of tree bark flew in all directions.
While the Yankees were still in a state of confusion, Tom slipped from the massive branch that he’d been straddling and dropped to the ground while the hollering continued. The bluecoats would soon enough gather their wits about them and charge through the trees into the clearing. If he hung around, he’d be buzzard bait. He kept low as he headed for his squad. He hadn’t taken the time to chamber another round because time was of the essence. Twenty yards from the safety of the hedgerow, he felt something sharp slam into his shoulder and tug at his shirtsleeve. He fell to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. A bloom of crimson was running down his sleeve. A bullet had found its way to him with a direct hit to his shoulder. He lay gasping in the tall grass for several minutes before regaining his breath sufficiently to make an attempt to get up and continue on. Pain shot through his shoulder, chest, and down his arm. Blood flowed freely, soaking his shirt. He couldn’t seem to lift his left arm. It was numb. But he had to make it to his men or he’d be left to the mercy of the Union troops who’d be pouring over the hills any minute now.
A large troop build-up was within five miles of where his confederates had intended to blow the bridge over the Clinch River, and were probably headed his way after hearing gunfire. Without the access that bridge afforded, the Yankees would be delayed for weeks in their advance. Without the transportation afforded them by the rails, they’d be at a disadvantage trying to maintain a disciplined force winding in and out of the thick woods. The Johnny Rebs were at their best fighting Indian style, running from cover to cover, firing and moving. The Yankees needed more regimented troop movements, forming lines and advancing shoulder to shoulder. That was a style of warfare that suited them best with their superior numbers. But steep ravines, rocky creeks and hills of thick brush and saplings worked against their accepted European-style troop deployment. That made Tom’s particular skills even more important.
Struggling to drag himself through the thick underbrush using his good arm, he tried to bridge the gap between him and the rest of his squad. He dragged his rifle along with his good arm, but levering in another cartridge with one hand would be extremely difficult. As he neared the stream he heard renewed shooting and suddenly, not twenty yards from where he knelt down behind an outcropping of rocks and a lush growth of reeds, came the unmistakable sound of horses on a dead run. He tried to part the leaves of a low-hanging willow where they touched the ground to see what he could. The horror of what he saw tore at him worse than his wound. The Union cavalry had regrouped and was in full charge, easily overrunning the thin Confederate line. Shouts and cries of the wounded, the smell of cordite and the sounds of explosions surrounded him. His stomach churned at the possibility his brother was in the midst of what sounded like a massacre.
***
For several minutes Tom lay in the tall grass trying desperately to lever a cartridge into his rifle’s breach. His paralyzed arm wouldn’t let him maneuver without being seen. The bleeding seemed to have slowed, but the pain was as intense as when he’d first been stuck. He felt around with his good hand. He couldn’t move his left arm. Pushing himself up just enough to peek over the top of some deadfall, he could see the Yankee soldiers through the tall grass and low-hanging branches. The Bluecoats were picking over the dead bodies, searching for anything of value they could scavenge.
“Hey, James, lookee here. This fella had himself one of them gold watches that plays a tune when you open it,” said a grinning private, polishing the cover on his grimy jacket.
“I reckon it’s yours, now, Barlow. That ol’ boy ain’t going to be needin’ no timepiece where he’s headed.”
The one called Barlow grinned as he stuffed the watch in his pocket. As he moved over to another body, he must have seen some movement because he shouted to the others, “Hey! Over here. There’s one of these stinkin’ Johnny Rebs still kickin’.”
A sergeant turned from stripping a body of its boots and yelled back, “Kill the bastard; we don’t have the means care for prisoners. Best we don’t leave none alive.”
“But what if one of the officers finds out we shot a wounded soldier?”
“Ain’t nobody gonna find out, you idiot. Whoever drilled that Colonel scattered ‘em to hell and gone. They ain’t even figured out we wiped out this bunch of Johnny Rebs, have they?”
“No, Sergeant, reckon they ain’t,” Barlow said.
Tom could finally see clearly the wounded soldier and his tormentor. It was a boy who’d been his lifelong friend. They’d grown up, gone to the first three grades of school, and ridden horses together. Tom watched in horror as the soldier put the barrel of his Springfield to the head of the groaning Confederate and pulled the trigger. The smoky blast threw bone, hair, and a spray of blood several feet. The soldier with the rifle spit on the corpse, shrugged his shoulders and shuffled on to see what else of value he could find. A shiver went up Tom’s back as hatred welled up in him, and tears filled his eyes.
Watching them desecrate the bodies of his fallen comrades made Tom’s blood boil. I will make them pay for this, I swear to each and every one of you, my friends. Even if it costs me my life, I will get even.
As the Bluecoats regrouped at the command of their sergeant, Raley could see they were about to continue their foray deeper into Confederate territory. As soon as they were out of sight, Tom began the laborious task of trying to find his brother. Could he still be alive and just overlooked by the cowardly scum that shot down his friends? He dragged himself along by grabbing handfuls of thick grass and low branches. Sharp rocks cut into his stomach, tearing his already badly worn shirt. The pain came in waves and he tried stopping every few feet to let the agony in his arm and back ease just a bit. Slowly he reached the place where his brother and the others of his squad had been attacked. He saw his brother no more than ten feet away, and he knew there was no point going any closer. His brother, whom he’d been closer to than any other human being, lay crumpled in a bloody heap. One arm was completely severed and half his head had been blown away. The boy he’d spent his whole life tagging along behind lay nearly cut in two by cannon shot. His beloved musical pocket watch and chain had been ripped from his pocket. Tom couldn’t look, tears nearly blinding him. He turned away from the aw
ful scene to concentrate on his mission.
He shuddered at the thought of another small contingent of his brethren being caught in the open by this same bunch. Then, his muddled and confused brain began to clear sufficiently to start thinking straight. The objective of his squad had been to blow the railroad bridge over the Clinch River. The bridge had been originally built to move Confederate troops, but was now firmly in the hands of the Yankees. The plan had been to try disrupting the flow of Northern troops and supplies that had seemed to be penetrating ever deeper into Southern territory.
He was certain his brother and his comrades had set the charges as they had been directed, but the Yankees had come upon them before the fuses could be lit. If Raley could make it to the creek, crawl down the embankment and swim across to the base of the bridge, he might just be able to set off the explosives in time to keep the next Union train from delivering its carloads of murderous munitions and soldiers to the enemy, his enemy, the South’s enemy.
Tom watched the small group of Yankee soldiers regroup and disappear over another hill to the south. He made a concentrated effort to push through the pain and crawl towards the creek. He couldn’t get his footing. Standing up proved to be more of a task than he’d counted on. Making good time to where the dynamite had been set was looking less and less likely. When he did manage to get near enough to the creek without being seen by enemy soldiers, he’d have to slide down the embankment to the water, dragging his rifle along as if it were an afterthought. The bridge was about four hundred feet downstream and the creek itself went from a shallow, gravel-strewn bed to deep holes that could surprise the unsuspecting. Though the water was usually no more than four feet deep, in his condition drowning was a real possibility. He thought he could swim with one arm, but with his wound, he wasn’t certain how successful he’d be trying to stay afloat with the weight of his rifle pulling him down. His determination at completing his squad’s assignment kept him focused, oblivious to the throbbing in his arm and chest.
At the edge of the swift moving water, he dragged himself through the sucking mud littered with sharp stones, and clumps of brush deposited from upstream during recent downpours. His struggle to remain focused and overcome the pain had nearly drained him of the strength he needed to forge on. A Raley never gives up, he recited to himself over and over.
When he finally got to the base of the single-track trestle, he leaned the Spencer against one of the thick beams. There was no way he could haul it up to where the charges had been set with only one arm. It would take every ounce of strength he could muster to pull himself up to where the bundles of dynamite and the exposed fuses had been planted by the two men in his unit that knew the most about explosives. One of them was a forty-year-old former coal miner named Otis who had been blowing things up since he was a kid. In his youth he’d spent time in one jail after another for his propensity to demolish with a fiery blast things others built, like barns and outhouses, his favorite target. He was one of those killed in the Yankee charge. Tom thought about how Otis had finally found acceptance in doing what he loved doing only to be brought down in the surprise attack. Tom vowed to finish what the old man had started.
Every inch of progress toward his goal brought with it the most awful, stabbing pain. It radiated down his arm and through his back. The pain was increasing. He knew he was in bad shape, but he had put his mind to the job and by damned he was going to see it through. No matter what the consequences. The remembrance of seeing his beloved brother blown apart and lifeless in the bloody grass gave significance to his purpose. As he pushed through the stabbing pain to haul himself up the framework of the trestle, his foot slipped several times and his good hand, his only hand, was covered in creosote and blisters. Every inch he gained was a victory. He spotted Otis’ handiwork and marveled at the talent it took to fashion a fairly simple explosive device in such a way as to guarantee the complete destruction of tons of heavy timber, lag-bolts and forged steel connecting brackets. The importance of the task nearly overwhelmed him.
Perspiration poured off him and he was struggling to get his breath when it came. The sound he dreaded. A distant squeal. Steel on steel. Hearing the distinctive chug of an oncoming locomotive, he knew he had no time to dawdle. He tugged at the tin match container in his shirt pocket. He grasped it in his good hand and managed to pull the lid off with his teeth. Shaking one of the sulfur-tipped sticks free, he replaced the cap but held the container in his mouth. He struck the match on a metal bracket.
The fuse sputtered to life and he knew he had better get his butt out of there before the flame reached the first stack of dynamite. If he didn’t make it, he would be little more than a few barely recognizable bones in less than a minute. Losing his grip, he tumbled ten feet to the muddy back. The pain of the fall was unbearable. He thought he might have further damaged something. He struggled to gain his feet, lost his balance, unable to stand and finding he’d likely broken an ankle in the fall, he fell back to land on sharp rocks. He managed with great difficulty to crawl over to a tree stump, trying to use the roots that stuck out from the embankment to pull himself up. Now, bent over in excruciating pain, he tried to pick up the rifle, but it fell from his severely weakened grip. He pulled himself over to the edge of the riverbank, half rolling, half sliding, until he came to an abrupt and excruciating stop at waters edge. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming. The great steam driven monster was rumbling onto the trestle as his head began to whirl into dizziness. He lost consciousness before learning whether his mission had been successful.
Splinters of wood rained down as the massive explosion echoed off the hills for miles. Unable to stop in time, the wood burning steel engine came crashing down into the deep ravine where a sturdy bridge had stood only minutes before. It pulled with it eight cars full of troops, cannon, and gunpowder headed for the front. The steam boiler was the first to explode as it hit the cold water, followed by kegs of powder and ammunition, killing every living thing within a hundred yards. Bodies were hurled into the air and dropped like rag dolls to litter the area with bloody blue uniforms and the ghosts within them. Fires spread all along the creek due to a long dry spell. Everything in that horror-filled gulch was consumed within minutes. Tom’s unit had been revenged. His brother’s death had been revenged.
Tom hadn’t heard a thing. But he died with a smile on his face.
***
NEVER TRUST A WIDDER
“I’m so damned hungry I could eat this ornery cayuse. We gotta do something, Huck, and soon, before we both drop from our saddles and go belly up.” Trumble Barlow held his stomach as if it might just take a notion to fall out and leave him with nothing but a hole. The two out-of-work cowboys reined in, and dismounted. Dust swirled around them from the severely dry ground. They’d been riding for several days and hadn’t seen a hint of rain.
“Awww, Trumble, quit your bellyachin.’ We been hungry before. We’re still here, ain’t we?”
“Dammit, Huck Bannister, I ain’t foolin’ this time. I’m thinkin’ of takin’ a chaw outta my saddle. It’s bad, real bad.”
“Okay. I’ll come up with a plan. Sure as shootin’ we’ll find a ranch hereabouts that’ll give us some grub.”
“The last one we tried got us nothin’ but a good run for our money to beat the lead shot from that scattergun.”
“Yeah, thanks to you. Why the hell did you have to go stumblin’ over everythin’ in the yard on yer way back to the kitchen window whilst tryin’ to filch them pies off the sill?”
“Well, they smelled so damned good, I was drawn to ‘em like a bee to a posy. I was called to come sample their–”
“They was there ‘cause they was hot, ya dern fool. Yer hollerin’ when you burnt your hand give us away. That’s what done it.”
“I still got a blister.” Trumble said, holding up his thumb.
“You’d a had more’n a blister if that old hag was a better shot.”
“I’m still hungry. So what’re we gonna d
o about it?”
“I’m thinkin’ on it.”
“We could shoot us one of them beeves we saw back about a mile.”
“Uh-huh, and get invited to a necktie party for our trouble? Folks round here don’t kin to rustlers, you know,” Huck said.
“’Bout now I ain’t sure I care. I’m wastin’ away to nothin’. Hope it don’t come up a blow or I could end up in the next county. Cain’t hardly hold my britches up, now.”
“Yeah, well, like I said, I’ll come up with somethin’. You see if you can’t find a few sticks to build up a fire over there by that creek, and I’ll go find somethin’ to shoot.”
“How ‘bout if we both go, different directions. That way, we’re twice as likely to bag somethin’.”
“You’d as likely shoot yerself in the foot, again, Trumble.”
“Aww, leave me alone about that, will ya. Anyone could shoot hisself in the foot if he was to drop his gun.”
“You ever think maybe you shoulda stuck it your belt instead of lettin’ it dangle half outta yer pocket?”
“I cain’t afford a holster. Lots of folks stick ‘em in their pockets.”
“I don’t recollect seein’ many folks got a limp like the one you come away with, though.”
“I got other qualities, some I ain’t never let on to no one about.”
“Just you never mind. Now git to gatherin’ some sticks and be ready to start up a blaze when I get back. Think you can do that?”
“I reckon.”
Huck Bannister climbed back into his saddle and slowly rode off across the grassy plain. The day was cloudy and a gusty wind swirled the tall grasses with a heat that drew sweat like a sponge draws water. He pulled off his scarf and wiped at his brow. Drops of moisture clung to the ends of a droopy, graying mustache. After having ridden for one outfit after another, twenty years of being a cowboy had left him as poor as when he left home right after the war to seek his fortune out west. He hooked up with Trumble Barlow somewhere in Kansas on a small ranch. He couldn’t recall just why.