The Fateful Lightning (53 page)

The man lowered the shotgun toward the ground, moved away on the narrow path to his house. Seeley took the cue, pointed silently to Gladstone, four others, motioned for them to follow him, motioned for Gibson to keep back with the rest. Seeley spoke in a hard whisper toward Gibson, “You hear shooting, come running. Don’t trust this bird.”

The man led them onto a porch, holes in the planks, remnants of four pillars that were missing completely. Seeley looked up at the ceiling, saw the sag, thought, Nothing holding this place up. Doesn’t look like a soul actually lives here.

The man waved them to one side of the house, said, “You go on and look around out that way. Ain’t nothing for you to see in the house here. Look in the barn. Anything you see you can have. Then go on.”

The man closed a rickety wooden door in their faces, and Gladstone moved up close to Seeley, said, “He’s in a blamed hurry for something. Maybe he’s got a bottle in there. His last prized possession.”

“Not sure. He’s too anxious for us to leave. It’s more than a bottle of whiskey he’s hiding.”

One of the others moved up close, Private Clemons, said in a whisper, “Maybe he’s hidin’ his brother. Maybe the young fella done run off from the army.”

“Could be. But if the boy went to Gettysburg, by now he’s likely in Petersburg. Either way, he’s better off dead. Come on. Let’s look around back.”

Seeley stepped back off the porch, moved around the side of the house, saw the barn to the rear, caught a sudden glimpse of motion, the man scampering out from the back of the house, across the overgrown yard, disappearing into the woods behind the barn. Seeley jogged that way, said, “He skedaddled into the woods. Easy. Spread out. He might have more’n a bottle. He might have the whole fixings for a whiskey still back there, and he loves that shotgun.”

The men moved with him, wide formation, a quick glance into the barn, what Seeley knew would be empty. Gladstone moved up close to him now, said, “You smell that?”

Seeley sniffed the chilly air, smiled. “Fresh horse piles. Let’s go. Slow, quiet.”

They moved around the barn, the woods thick with briars. But there was little else to block their view, the trees tall and thin, the brush mostly empty of leaves. Seeley stepped high, crushed thin vines beneath his well-worn boots, thorns finding their way through thin leather. He motioned to the others to move ahead, worked to free himself from the tangle. He kept his eyes on his men, the others struggling with the briars, slow progress. Seeley pulled free of the thorns, his glove still grabbed by a stubborn vine, yanked it loose. He was moving again, farther into the woods, and to his front, he saw the flash, the burst of fire, then another. The men dropped low, calling out, but Seeley knew what they were seeing. It was musket fire. Seeley flattened out, thorns in his face, Gladstone calling out, “Yankees!”

A few feet away, one of Seeley’s men raised his pistol, fired without aiming, a musket blast answering. Seeley felt a frantic helplessness, the briars holding him in a painful grip, said in a hard whisper, “Hold fire! How many are there?”

The man kept low, shook his head. “Saw a few. Not sure.”

Seeley pulled his own pistol, looked for Gladstone, saw the older man on his knees, peering up, and Gladstone fired his pistol now, then again, more musket fire coming back.

“Get down, you old fool!”

Gladstone looked at him, the yellow toothy grin, said, “We done run into a fight! Hee!”

Behind them, Seeley heard the others coming at a run, looked back that way, saw Gibson now, leading the rest of the squad forward
on their knees, carbines in their hands. Seeley looked at his pistol, his only weapon, screamed at himself now, Stupid! You didn’t trust that fellow, and now you’re in a damned ambush!

Behind him, a carbine fired, then another, and he lay flat, still helpless, hard in the grip of the briars. There were shouts now, farther into the brush, what seemed to be an argument. There was another carbine blast from his own men, Gladstone’s pistol firing again. Gladstone called out now, “Give up, you damned fools! You ain’t getting out of this mess!”

Seeley closed his eyes, his heart racing, thought, Not the time for a bluff. How many are there? Not sure who’s in the “mess.”

To one side, one of Seeley’s men stood, his pistol aimed, Seeley wanting to shout the man into cover. But the man just stood, said aloud, “That’s right. Easy. One step at a time. Hands over your heads.”

Seeley saw one of the men now, a heavy black coat, a scruff of a beard, hands high.

“Don’t go shooting us. We ain’t gonna fight you.”

Seeley fought to stand, the briars tearing through his pants leg, his pistol up. In front of him, six men were moving out of the woods, hands high, one man walking straight toward him, desperate fear in the man’s eyes. Seeley aimed the pistol at the man’s face, said, “Slow. What you doing out here?”

“Same as you. Looking for food and whatnot. Ain’t wantin’ no fight. We won’t be causing you no trouble, long as you treat us decent.”

Seeley couldn’t keep his hand from shaking, the pistol quivering, and he lowered it slightly, saw nothing that looked like uniforms, none of the men looking anything like soldiers. “What unit you with?”

“Ain’t been with a unit in some time. You a captain, then? Cavalry, I guess.”

Seeley felt a wave of suspicion, thought, Yankees wouldn’t know if I was a captain, or cavalry, neither. The men all looked at him, seemed to recognize authority, one of them the plantation owner. Seeley understood now. “You boys are working for Sherman, right? Done caught you scavenging. You know what’s happening to men like you? Both sides done agreed on an eye for an eye. Some in this army would
cut your throats. Might still. Might just shoot you down where you’re standing.”

He stopped, was never good at empty threats. I’m not murderin’ anybody in cold blood, he thought. But his words had the desired effect, one younger man breaking down in tears, dropping to his knees.

“Don’t kill us, sir. We ain’t with Sherman. We’re South Carolina. Just going home.”

Seeley stared at the man, scanned the others, said, “You deserters?”

The counterfeit landowner spoke out now, seemed to speak for the rest. “We done give all we had, Captain. This army’s got no use for us, no how. We all know what you know. It’s over. Few more killed, maybe. But not us. We got families. Let the generals figure it out. There just ain’t no more purpose to this.”

“That’s not up to you. You’re soldiers. You don’t just up and go home.”

“So, what you gonna do with us? They gonna see us hang? Shoot us down in front of a whole regiment? They’s horses back in them trees. Take ’em, and maybe let us go. We woulda rode on outta here, but the only way out’n them woods woulda been straight past you. Either way, we’d run out of luck.”

One of the others spoke up now. “Ain’t had nothing to eat in four days. These farms ain’t got nothing. This fella what lived here tried taking us on with his old shotgun. Not smart. We were hungry, that’s all.”

“Shut up!”

The shout came from the imposter, and Seeley felt a sick turn inside of him, said, “Where’s the farmer, then?”

“Sir!”

It was Gibson, a shout coming far back in the trees.

“What is it, Lieutenant?”

“There’s horses here, sir. Six of ’em. And a grave, just dug.”

Seeley looked at the imposter, said, “What your name?”

“Kincaid. Don’t much matter anymore.”

“You’re good with a lie. You also a murderer?”

The man fell silent, his eyes turning away from Seeley’s stare. The
younger man on the ground close to him was crying again, a low wail.

“We’s gonna hang. I know it. Help me, Lord.”

The others began to sit as well, the last sign of their surrender. Seeley saw Gibson leading the horses out of the trees, carrying the shotgun.

“The mounts ain’t in too bad a shape, sir.”

Gladstone moved forward quickly, one hand rubbing the neck of a large mare. “No, they ain’t in bad shape a’tall. This one’ll do fine. Call her Lucy Junior.”

Gladstone glanced back at Seeley, permission he knew he wouldn’t need. Seeley motioned to the horse, said, “She’s yours, Sergeant. Let’s get the rest back to the camp, and these fellows, too.”

Gladstone called out to Gibson, “Say, Lieutenant. I spent some mighty fine times shooting a scattergun just like that one. You mind if I have that thing?”

Gibson looked at the shotgun in his hands, shrugged. “No use to me. That okay with you, Captain?”

Seeley nodded, and Gladstone took the shotgun, aimed down the barrels. “Yes, sir. I got something for Kilpatrick now.”

Gibson said, “What you gonna do for buckshot?”

Gladstone eyed the imposter, Kincaid, said, “I’m bettin’ this fellow here knows where’s there’s plenty. He wouldn’t a taken this thing if it was useless.”

Seeley ignored the banter, looked at the prisoners, the six men sitting in an uneven row, one man now lying flat in the thick grass. He could see how scrawny they were, rags for shirts, threadbare coats split at the seams, their shoes an odd mismatch. He realized now, they had stolen those, and if it wasn’t from this farmer, there would be others in their wake.

“Let’s go. Get up. General Wheeler will want to get a look at you, maybe ask you some questions.”

Kincaid seemed to perk up at the name. “Looking forward to that. He’ll be proud, for sure. We done tole a bunch of folks that we ride with him. Didn’t help us get anything to eat, though. One fellow near took my head off with an axe.”

Seeley knew this would matter to Wheeler, that these men had never been cavalry, had most certainly made a contribution to the stories of Wheeler’s abuse of the civilians. But these weren’t just raiders, stealing food from wealthy landowners. Seeley wondered about the man who actually owned this land, if he had offered them anything to eat, if he had given them a plea for his life. In the end, he thought, he might have gone for the shotgun, tried to fight these men off by himself. And now he’s buried in his own woods.

“
G
ood job, young captain. You’re right. These varmints have caused me no end of trouble. We’ll get them off to Augusta at first light. There’s gotta be a hundred more just like ’em, scattered from here to Savannah. General Hardee told me about the desertions. He lost a good flock of men who just decided to go home. Got no patience for that, Captain, none at all. Man joins up to fight, he puts aside thoughts of his wife, or anything else he left behind him.”

“Sir, it’s pretty clear they murdered a civilian as well. The farmer.”

“Damn. You know his name?”

Seeley thought of Gibson’s unflattering nickname. “No, sir. Won’t be hard to find out.”

“All right, but there’s no time for that now. I want your men up in the saddle at first light. I’ve got a reception planned for Kilpatrick. Think of that, young captain. You might be the one puts a bullet through his heart. Prefer that to be me, but I’ll accept the outcome regardless. Report to Colonel McLemore, then go on back to your men. Get them ready for a good ride tomorrow.”

Seeley saluted, Wheeler returning it. He moved away through the small house, glanced around, small portraits on the wall, thought, Another landowner rooted out of his home. He saw children now, had missed them when he was called in to see Wheeler.

“Well, hey now. This your home, then?” There were two girls, younger than five, a boy slightly older. The girls pulled back, the boy standing defiant, and Seeley tried to appear as friendly as he could. “Where’s your mama?”

“Right here, soldier.”

Seeley turned to the voice, saw the woman in a plain drab dress, anger on her face. “Mighty nice family, ma’am.”

“You can get yourself out of here right now. I might have to put up with a general, but I ain’t gotta entertain no thief-of-a-horse soldier.”

Seeley tried to force a smile, tipped his hat, stepped out of the house. He was in the cold now, bright blue above him, couldn’t avoid wondering about the father. Never see the fathers, he thought. Either hiding from us, or off getting shot at. He couldn’t avoid thoughts of Katie, agonized over the image of his wife, that he might forget what she looked like. It had been many months, his transition from released prisoner to horse soldier far too brief. The letters were nonexistent, the cavalry too often in some place where the Yankees had cut the lines, occupied the trails. He had written a handful of letters himself, still carried them in his pocket, no faith that they could actually reach her in Memphis. God, but I miss her, he thought. He fought that, knew he had to stay in the moment, focus on getting his men fit to ride. Wheeler’s admonition rolled into him now, the lecture about desertions.

“Man joins up, he puts aside thoughts of his wife…”

Wheeler’s wrong, he thought. I feel sorry for a man can just forget what he has waiting for him at home. Those deserters, they remembered it all, maybe too much. Killed for it. That’s what this war is doing. What it’s doing to me. God, I just want to go home.

He moved toward his horse, past a courier just arriving, more horsemen moving past, Wheeler’s staff at work, other men carrying orders, dispatches, as though nothing were different, the war moving on as usual. He took the reins from a groom, climbed up on the horse, felt the animal sag under his weight, couldn’t escape Gladstone’s warning, He’s hurting. Seeley leaned down, patted the horse’s neck, but there was nothing he could say, no kind words that would make any of this better. He straightened, reins in hand, pulled the animal toward the side, rode slowly into the road.