Northern Blood

by Daniel Greene

  Her eyes narrowed a bit at him as if she could read his mind. “Some of them were hulking brutes, a few were Dutch—I could tell by their ugly accents, and a few were redskins. All of them were horrible, disgusting men.”

  “Did they wear uniforms? How did you know they were soldiers?”

  She shook her head. “No uniforms. They were dressed like regular people.”

  Payne filed the information back into his mind. He rolled over the “civilians” that would coordinate a kidnapping on one of the most important generals of the Confederate army.

  Union sympathizers? It couldn’t be. They would never be so brazen. They’d be burnt out in a week’s time and hung from the gallows with some swift Southern justice. Brutes and immigrants didn’t surprise him. Red men? That wasn’t unheard of in Virginia, but most of them had been coerced westward years ago.

  “How did you know they were soldiers?”

  “They acted it well enough. Called each other sir, and the like. Fancy guns. Talked about Sheridan. Isn’t he that chunky Northern general from out west?”

  “Little Phil Sheridan is the commanding officer of the Army of the Potomac’s Cavalry Corps.” Perhaps they were the escaped prisoners from Beaver Dam Station.

  “Did they mention anything about being prisoners?” It seemed far-fetched in his mind. These men had been well-armed, mounted, out of uniform. Aside from the uniform, all those things went against them being escaped criminals on the run.

  “No, captain. I heard none of the like.”

  “Was there anything unusual about them. Anything that sticks out in your mind?”

  “Aside from the savages and the Dutch riding together? No.” She thought for a moment. “Well, their leader had a bad leg.”

  Payne blinked several times before he spoke. Bad leg? “What do you mean bad leg?”

  “He wore some sort of metal brace around his knee.”

  Payne leaned in even closer. His eyes took on a hard cutthroat glint. “Did you catch his name?” It can’t be him. He’s in Libby Prison. Where I’d left that mangled pup.

  “Can’t say I caught it.”

  He eyed the other women. “Did any of you catch his name? The man with the brace? What did he call himself?” He stood, scrutinizing everyone in the room. A house slave avoided eye contact with him, a clear form of deception. “You? What do you know?”

  Fontaine chimed in. “Answer him, Frieda.”

  “I dunno nothing, massa.”

  Payne walked over and grabbed the slave by her arm, letting his grip do the talking. “What do you know?” He squeezed her arm harder and harder, his fingers pressing painfully into her flesh and muscle. His hand would leave bruises, but who would rise in her defense? Bruised slaves could work as well as others.

  “Please, I don’t know nothing.” She turned her face away from him.

  “I know his name,” squeaked the four-year-old boy.

  “Hush now, Junior,” Rosalie said.

  With a slight shove, Payne released the slave girl. He stepped over to the younger woman with her hands atop the boy’s shoulders.

  “And you must be little James E.B. Stuart. Is that right?” he said, squatting down next to the young boy.

  The boy stuck out his chest and lifted his cherubic chin, imitating soldierly toughness. “Named after my pa, Jeb.”

  “Yes, you are.” The boy was too young to remember he once held a different namesake: Philip St. George Cooke Stuart, named after his grandfather and “Father of the Cavalry.” But that was before the war.

  A series of humiliations had driven Cooke behind a desk, some of those coming from his estranged Confederate son-in-law. Must make for fun family holidays. The war had plunged a wedge into their family like it had so many others and showed that no one was immune from the divide.

  The boy squeaked. “My pa’s gonna save my mom.”

  “No, that’s what I’m here to do, son.”

  The boy stuck out his lip in defiance. “He’s gonna do it. He’s my pa and he loves my ma. He can do anything in the world the best. He’s the best soldier, and I’m gonna be the best soldier just like him.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Payne’s tone hardened. “So what did you hear, young cavalryman?”

  The boy puffed out his chest. “I heard one of the big men call him Woof, sir.”

  “Woof?” Payne narrowed his eyes in confusion. “You mean like a doggy?”

  “No, Woof.” The little boy shook his head, angry at not being understood. “Wooolf,” he sounded out.

  Payne heard him clearly now. “Wolf you say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Payne stood upright. “Wolf.” He eyed the slave with hostility. She avoided his eyes again, confirming the young boy’s story. That was the thing with slaves; they were always hiding something, sneaking something, slacking on labors, or being deceitful. He assumed it was in their nature, and it was necessary to keep them in constant check.

  If she were his property, she would be promptly beaten for not sharing all she knew. She deserved a reminder for next time, a going-away gift. However, each man must handle their property as they see fit.

  He respected that common courtesy and didn’t raise his fist in anger. Instead, he turned on the colonel.

  By the looks of Fontaine, his slaves probably had free reign of his house and lands. This “soldier” lacked the strength to properly control his people and that included his wife. Payne didn’t think it was age that had caused this laissez-faire attitude but a fundamental weakness of constitution. He was deficient in all traits required to be an effective plantation owner.

  “Colonel Fontaine, I suggest you discipline your slave accordingly.”

  Fontaine paled to an almost sheet-like white. “I will address it.” He averted his eyes away from Payne’s.

  Payne searched the man for some sort of strength, a will-to-do preserve but found nothing. He let his eyes crawl over the other man’s body and dig deep into his soul, seeing every cowardly fiber in his being. A quick grin snapped upon his lips like the crack of a bullwhip. “I am sure she will be taught her due respect.” His unfeeling eyes fell on her, and they removed flesh from her back with their gaze.

  “You take care of Stuart’s kin. He’s coming like wildfire back down this way, and I’ve never seen a man itching for more of a fight than him. You would do well to remember he wants to fight Yanks, but he’ll kill a man who lets harm come to his kin. You understand, Colonel?”

  If Fontaine could pale himself into a ghost, he’d already done it. His mouth quivered around the edges. “I would never let anything happen to his kin. We are one and the same.”

  “Yet here we stand.” Payne shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes it is better to fall in defeat than live with its shame.”

  Fontaine dropped his eyes to the floor.

  “Do not speak to him in such a manner, Captain!” Maria said.

  Payne snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “Enough, woman.”

  Her mouth drooped closed. Fontaine’s eyes remained downcast.

  Payne stepped closer to him, smelling his disgusting weakness. “Do not fail him or you will be seeing me again.” He let his eyes speak volumes, telling what he was capable of, and all they spoke of was vicious calculated violence. “Very good.” He stared down his nose at the boy. “We will bring your mother back, little Jeb. You have my word,” Payne bowed to the child and marched from the room with a swagger. That kid had more guts in him than the grown man protecting him. Stepping outside, he donned his slouch hat and gloves. His eyes skimmed over his men still in the saddle, waiting impatiently.

  “Looks like we have a Wolf hunt, boys.” His men did not know about his interrogations at Libby, but they smiled all the same. They had Federals to hunt down and bring to heel and send to hell. Something these men were bred for.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Night, May 9, 1864

  South of Taylorsville, Virginia

  Wolf awoke to the soft cra
ckle of the campfire. The night pressed in around him like a quicksand of darkness, sucking away the light.

  His heart leapt in his chest with the sudden departure from the world of dreams. His blood pumped, a giant horse galloping in his veins. It was as if his body knew something he did not. An unseen threat was near.

  His fingers closed around the handle of his Army Colt .44 caliber pistol as he scanned the campsite searching for the cause.

  Lazy flames lapped the air like an ocean’s waves but with less force. Orange embers glowed. Aside from the fire, the forest stood still, holding its breath. His thumb crept overtop the hammer of his pistol. The gun’s click cracked the air much too loud. Without exhaling, he waited a moment before he moved it into full cock.

  The forms of his fellow soldiers didn’t move; they were lost in an exhausted slumber. His eyes shifted from man to man, searching for the culprit until they found a person in the trees.

  They locked eyes, and Wolf almost snapped his gun in their direction, but recognition slowly took over. George. The sharpshooter put a slow finger to his own lips.

  There was something else, something in the distance, a faint sound chipping at his ears. It grew into a low rumble, a rolling nighttime storm. Then little by little it became more apparent. The drum of horse hooves.

  His eyes snapped to the woman sleeping nearby. He’d respected her privacy as much as he could, giving her her own blanket and space, but kept her rope wrapped around his wrist.

  He rolled quickly to the side and reached for Flora, covering her mouth with a free hand. Her eyes shot open in terror. Mumbles of distress leaked out from beneath his palm.

  He held his pistol to his lips and shushed her. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He hoisted her upright by her tied wrists, and they made for the trees. The other men were awake now, rushing to mount their horses.

  “Into the woods!” Wolf half-shouted. His men were quick to obey, leading their horses away from the campsite. He hobbled over to Roberts, who held Flora’s horse.

  “I can’t mount a horse like this,” she said. Taking her by the hips, Wolf boosted her atop the animal.

  “Hey!” she complained. “I will tell all of my degrading mistreatment.”

  “Quiet,” he growled. Then he tossed her rope to Roberts then said, “Take my horse. Continue west about a half mile and wait. George and I will catch up on foot.”

  “All right.” With a hand on Flora’s reins, he ushered their horses away to the soft clip clop of hooves.

  They disappeared into the forest, and Wolf joined George’s overwatch of the camp.

  “They’ve been on and off since Taylorsville.”

  Wolf eyed the darkness unable to make out a thing. “On and off?”

  “They’ve been tracking us. I’ve done my best to cover what I can, but these men are good. They are no novices.”

  It was no surprise that Stuart would send men after them. After all that was the point: to take his mind off of Sheridan. To make him lash out unnecessarily. To force an excellent commander to make a hasty mistake. Why wouldn’t he send his best trackers? But they had come so quick. He’d expected at least a day’s head start on them. Perhaps we’ve underestimated Stuart’s resolve?

  They waited in the darkness, watching the dying flames of their campfire. Wolf’s belly churned with nervous agitation and a little tired nausea.

  He looked back the way his unit had gone. They would have to wait and then circle back behind their hunters. Perhaps they could cut west. It felt like the noose was tightening around his command, and they’d only just begun.

  George continued to stare out. A finger went up to his ear, and he softly tapped it. Wolf realized it too. No more pounding hooves. No more riders. They’d stopped somewhere, and that meant men now stalked the camp on foot.

  Wolf’s breathing became shallow as he waited, knowing full well the rebels crept through the surrounding forest. George took his rifle and propped it up on a tree branch. The move was slow and deliberate in order to deceive any enemy eyes. Wolf gripped his pistol harder.

  The fire continued to cast flickering shadows on the trees and brush around them, an inviting scene to any nighttime followers. A fire was an easy identifier in the rich ebony night, a signal beacon to friend and foe alike.

  Wolf’s strained, trying to make out the enemy closing in before him. He almost didn’t see the man as he slithered into the camp. He crept quietly along a series of trees, almost circling. He was followed by another and another. They were rebels; they had to be. Dressed in civilian gear, they were easily confused with Wolf’s men. Two held pistols and the leader, a long rifle. They circled around one more time, their eyes feeling the darkness before they walked into the light.

  “They be close,” the one with the long rifle said.

  “We just missed them,” a handsome man in fine attire said.

  “Aye, look at these tracks,” the homely one said. The three men studied the ground. Using the firelight, they walked with their heads down.

  The most savage looking of the three stopped where Wolf had slept. He dug his foot into the ground. Eyeing the forest suspiciously, he took a knee. He placed his face near the ground. Brushing aside dead pine needles and leaves, he carefully crawled to where Flora had slept. He turned his head toward his comrades. “This be them. See. Those feet be lighter than the rest. That be a woman.”

  “And here,” the homely one said. “Multiple heavy tracks. Those be the brutes Captain spoke about.”

  “It won’t be long now. We’ll catch the traitors,” said the handsome man, flashing white teeth.

  A loud twig cracking under the pressure of a boot drew all of the men’s attention. Guns were trained in its direction. The men held their aim, and Wolf held his breath.

  Men in gray emerged from the shadows. Blood-red shirts stuck out beneath their fine Confederate cavalry jackets. Black, brown, and gray slouch hats along with a few gray kepis with yellow bands adorned their heads. Wary glances rested upon proud faces, and their eyes scanned constantly around them. They held their weapons with the confidence of men who knew how to use them. The tension released from the three men, and the groups greeted one another.

  A slow gulp trickled down Wolf’s throat. He recognized them immediately. He’d faced them once before and they were a deadly foe: battle-tested veterans, filled with an elite confidence and élan that oozed from their every pore. They had been forged in battle and it seemed that their ability to conduct war was genetically ingrained in them, passed from generation to generation.

  Those men were Hampton’s best and led by the vilest man that roamed the earth. Could have been gray-clad kin to the devil himself. The man that had tortured him. The man that had branded him like a common criminal. A man that Wolf knew he would have to kill before the war was over. A kill that would satisfy the very essence of his soul. He could think of nothing more gratifying that he had left in this life than to kill this son of a bitch.

  The ranks parted, revealing a shadowed man. He strolled into the campsite clearing, and the swaggering gray shadow transformed into Captain Marshall Payne. Even with his eyes masked by his slouch hat, Wolf was sure it was him.

  Payne’s brown curls brushed the tops of his shoulders. A lengthy umber goatee grew from his chin. Blue eyes hid under that hat, eyes that had been filled with cold-rimmed ecstasy as he pried secrets from Wolf’s flesh.

  All his secrets save one, a letter from Abraham Lincoln to assassinate Jefferson Davis, head of the rebel government. That secret Wolf kept inside, and with it, his only shred of dignity was denying the enemy the fruitful public relations victory to expose the plot.

  Payne regarded his trackers as if they were servants and not equal free men. “I thought you said we’d caught up to him.”

  The feral-looking guide spit on the ground. “I’m telling you they’re smart. Covered their tracks back there very well. Them Injuns must be helpin’ ‘em. Won’t matter, I can add a few more scalps to my wall when we
catch ‘em. They be clever, but I always find me prey.”

  Payne grinned like the devil in the flame light. “Scott, if you weren’t of such poor English stock, I’d let you join my Red Shirts.”

  The Red Shirts chuckled and laughed. Murmurs of Tiny Scott echoed from the men. Scott glared at them angrily.

  “My name be Scottish, and I wouldn’t join a bunch of fancy cavaliers that do more pony tricks than fightin’.” This caused a few angry comments from the Red Shirts.

  Payne spread his hands wide. “Ah yes, you are of Scottish stock. Figures.” He shook his head. “Our pony tricks are a part of our allure.” He appeared pleased with himself and spoke matter-of-factly. “Which direction did our prey flee?”

  “Well, it was hasty. But they want us to think they went further south, but I think they went west through the forest. Got a woman or a child with ‘em. Either way somebody lighter.”

  “Very good. Just as we expected. Through the forest.” He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Hmm. Those sound like the movements of a desperate wounded animal.” Payne sniffed the air loudly. “I can smell their fear.” Then he let out a fierce laugh. “And fear us they should. Right, boys?”

  His men laughed.

  “Gordon, take Baker and bring up the horses. We shall take whatever ground we can from them tonight.” Two men peeled off the back of the platoon and disappeared into the forest.

  Wolf didn’t realize his hand shook until his own ears heard the pistol rattling. Unfocused, he aimed his revolver through the trees, its bead sight level on the harsh outline of Payne.

  One slight squeeze of the trigger, and the man would be dead. He’d never know who killed him. Never have any idea of the man who’d claimed his revenge from behind a log at night. A man who would relish his death as he watched his blood soak the earth. He could reclaim a piece of his soul by sending the other’s to hell, extinguishing his life’s flame.

  A soft hand rested upon Wolf’s arm, bringing him back from his fantasies of revenge. He turned toward George and he whispered, “Enemy.”