Day Nine

by Clayton Spann

July 1: 4:15 p.m.

  Through telescopic sight Mauer watched the hansom draw close to the seminary. He shifted to bring into view the waiting delegation, which included Lee.

  Mauer had debated shooting Lee after he downed Jackson. He ached to. How wonderful to send a bullet into that traitorous gray head.

  But his death would put Longstreet in charge. Longstreet would not make Lee’s go for broke attacks of tomorrow and the day after. Longstreet would turn the tables on the Union army, make them assault fortified positions. “Noble” Lee must live.

  Jackson would die. Mauer had brought down men from distances twice as far. In those cases he had possessed better rifles, but today this one would more than suffice. This Spencer repeater shot true and he had sighted it carefully. At five hundred yards the rifle would put a bullet inside a three-inch circle.

  He would give himself leeway by going for the torsos instead of the heads of the two men he would shoot. The repeater provided additional leeway. If he hit a shoulder instead of a lung, he could quickly put a second round where the first should have gone. If needed, five more shots remained to finish the job.

  But one round each should do it. These .52 caliber slugs would inflict mortal tissue damage. Whichever man was Jackson—though Mauer had a good idea—he would not come back from this shooting.

  Mauer wondered if Naylor thought she had really outmaneuvered him. He supposed she was in an impossible situation. Jackson had to get to Gettysburg. A dozen decoys sent in a dozen directions would not matter; Stonewall must show up here by the afternoon of July First.

  It was so simple, at least in hindsight. Mauer should have stayed put in Gettysburg. Hunting Jackson elsewhere had been a waste, and had almost gotten him killed at Carlisle Barracks. He should have selected this sniper spot weeks ago, and done target practice from here.

  Once he took the shots, he would abandon the Spencer. Down the wooded hill waited a rested horse. On which he would speed over the trail that would take him through South Mountain. On the other side he would change horses, then try to make it to Catoctin Mountain by midday tomorrow.

  He hoped Chloe was holding out okay. She must be desperate with worry. But that she still shrank modestly would tell her he was alive.

  It would be so great to see her again, especially with mission accomplished. Then they would step back through the looking glass.

  He had been worried that Naylor and Price would beat him to Transit One. If that happened Chloe was to shoot Price first, and without hesitation. Then gun down Naylor. She promised she would.

  But Mauer bet the two would turn left at Chambersburg and head towards Gettysburg. Naylor especially would not be able to resist learning how the battle turned out. She would have a rude shock coming.

  The hansom had rolled to a stop. Mauer watched Pendleton help Ewell out. The other man in the carriage followed. The man, wearing a wide straw hat and gray walrus mustache and goatee, had two arms. As he stepped down the left arm hung loosely.

  Good try, Allison. But not good enough. Though to be absolutely sure, Mauer would drop this gentleman anyway.

  He would take no pleasure in killing him. The man was a valiant volunteer, just like the decoy who had headed into the Cumberland Valley Monday with Naylor and Price. This man had to know what was coming.

  Mauer had hated killing those two soldiers at the Barracks. They were fellow Americans, doing their duty as they saw it, even if they fought for a bad cause. They were just kids, too.

  Try as he might, neither could he summon enmity for Stonewall Jackson. Unlike Lee, Jackson was not under oath to defend the United States when hostilities started. Mauer would kill Jackson only out of necessity.

  Mauer cocked the hammer.

  The man with the hat pulled low stood still as Ewell saluted an obviously ecstatic Lee. The man’s back was now directly to Mauer. Mauer squeezed the trigger.

  Providently cannon fire erupted as the Spencer recoiled. The artillery would mask his shot. Those around the hansom would have no idea where the sniper hid. They might even think it a stray shot from the Union lines.

  Mauer watched the round strike. It entered just to the left of the spine, probably square on the heart. The man threw out his arms as the blow flung him forward. The hat went flying. The volunteer landed face first on the grassy ground.

  As he moved the telescopic sight to the next target, Mauer worked the rifle lever to chamber another round. He cocked the hammer. Jackson, perched in the carriage driver’s seat, did not move.

  Mauer had to give Naylor her due. Her plan was actually decent. Use two decoys on the hansom instead of one, disguising Jackson as the black driver. She was in effect hiding him in plain sight.

  But she had failed. They had overdone the lampblack, American blacks were rarely that degree of ebony. The left arm didn’t fool him either. The arm that seemingly held the reins remained bent at a fixed angle, whereas the right arm had straightened. Nor had the fingers on the gloved left hand moved.

  Jackson was craning his neck in search of the shooter. Probably everyone else also did, but Mauer could not shift the scope to check.

  Mauer fired. The bullet struck a little high, at the neck. Mauer saw blood spurt before Stonewall Jackson toppled from the hansom.