No Good Like It Is Read online

  He spun back to cover the door as he heard yelling in the hall. Not well lit to begin with, the room was now filled with his gun smoke. His ears rang from the enclosed gunfire and his eyes still smarted from the soap.

  “Walk through that door and you’ll die,” he said, not realizing he was shouting.

  “Lieutenant Walls, it’s Marie Laval. Don’t shoot.”

  “All right. Come in,” he shouted.

  She eased in holding a Colt Pocket Model. Behind her, Just Bill stepped in with a shotgun. “Ain’t no more of ‘em, Boss. I brung you this gun.”

  “Thank you,” Dobey said, too loudly. Just Bill stepped back.

  “Nice outfit,” Laval said.

  “What?” Dobey shouted at her.

  “I said, ‘Nice outfit.’ You look like a pervert.” She smiled and shouted back. “Were you and Bridget playing games?”

  Dobey realized he was wearing his shoulder holster and boots. And a dumb smile. He brought the rifle to the position of present arms, which covered him. Sort of.

  ***

  “You’ll be fine here. Those bodies won’t never be found. Old Bill and Just Bill will sell their horses and traps, and ain’t no one in Atlanta going to miss those men. Their mothers could not have loved them. You’re bleeding.”

  “Why do you call him Just Bill? He some kind of darky magistrate?”

  “No, honey. He used to be named William Rice. He ran from a bad owner, so now he’s Just Bill.” Laval dressed his wound, pouring equal parts of brandy on it and in him. “You smell good. Where’s Bridget?” He winced. “We didn’t finish.”

  “That’s lavender. And I gave Bridget the rest of the night off. You relax here a while, and I’ll send some one else up, special for you. She’ll have a key. And wear this for her.”

  “What is that?”

  “Called a sheath. Sheep’s gut. You’ll figure it out.”

  An hour later, he heard the key in the door. A husky voice whispered, “Blow out that light.” He put down the Colt and snuffed the candle.

  He made out her dim outline, as she dropped her robe. She slipped under the cover, and snuggled against him. Buxom, he noted. Small-waisted.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sue,” she whispered. “Just Sue.”

  He caught a whiff of lavender.

  ***

  “Hey, Lieutenant Dobey, cap’n ith doing better, and tho am I. You ‘bout ready to get back to the wegiment? Sthit. Sthill can’t talk good.”

  “No rush, Jeff. I just want to make sure y’all are fully recovered. We’re still all right on money. I sold that Henry. Y’all take your time. I’ll find something to do.”

  Captain Hunter came back from the privy. “Hey, Dobey. I see you growed that mustache again. I like that. Covers some of your scars. You smell good, too. You wearing foo-foo water?”

  Chapter Twenty

  They finally ran short of money and excuses. The cash disappeared quickly once Hunter and Jones were able to get passes from the hospital, and began to spend time at Marie Laval’s White House.

  Before the war, Dave Hunter raised hunting dogs outside of Houston. At Chateau Blanc, he settled in with Linda, who loved most animals. She kept a small dog, Poco Charlie, in her room. For anyone other than Hunter, some of Charlie’s licking might have been considered inopportune as to timing and location.

  Kathy the compounder and her cousin Bridget adopted the wild man Jones. In the last week, a stream of well-dressed, well-heeled staff officers, bootleggers, and merchants were humiliated as Bridget passed them up for Jeff’s energy and humor. Kathy brought experience to the table, as well as painkillers and a salve to help with his facial scar tissue.

  The same men, pouting over Jones’ good fortune, also deeply resented Dobey.

  “What’s that lieutenant got that we don’t have?” A passed-over lumber broker moaned.

  “Let’s see. Youth, fearlessness, good looks, and Madame Marie Laval. Not a damn thing that I don’t wish I had.” The colonel shook his head, and patted the arm of the skinny young whore he settled for.

  ***

  There were invariably women present for train departures from Atlanta. Seldom was the platform so graced with well dressed beauties as it was this morning.

  Kathy and Bridget sobbed over Jones, begging him to desert and let them take care of him. Linda cried softly, telling Hunter she’d go to Texas with him if he’d let her. She’d help him with them dogs. Promise. Even though they was trained to hunt other poor animals and birds.

  Marie Laval stood regally, holding Dobey’s arm and staring fiercely at the women who snubbed her, and smiling inside when men pretended not to know her. Several men were openly polite, realizing that with Dobey’s departure, they might once again have a chance.

  Old Bill touched her arm. “Miz Laval, that lady there, one in the blue dress, she ast can she come speak wid you.” He twisted his hat in his hands. “Say she doan want to bother you. She seem nice.”

  Marie smiled and nodded to the woman, a slim well-dressed matron. The woman approached and nodded to Dobey. “Lieutenant. Madame Laval. I apologize for the intrusion, and the rudeness of some of our citizens. I felt that I must speak. I believe that it was you who sent the food and clothing and money to the orphanage last Christmas. I recognized your Negro as the delivery man. I had long suspected it.” Pale, almost fragile, her smile was refreshing.

  Laval and Dobey were taken aback. Recovering somewhat, Laval said “I heard that there was such a gift, and that it was s’posed to be anonymous.”

  There was a brief impasse, as the matron’s head bobbed and tears welled up.

  Kathy whispered to Jeff and Bridget, “Miz Laval was a orphan, you know. She ain’t really French.”

  The woman reached out and touched Marie’s arm. “Yes. It was. Which makes the gift both gracious and generous. As a trustee, I can assure you it was one of the most generous gifts we’ve received. Perhaps, if you learn the identity of our benefactress, you could simply assure her that she has a friend in Mrs. Betty Todd. My card, Madame Laval.”

  As he boarded, Laval kissed him and whispered, “It’s Brendan.”

  “What?”

  “Brendan. Sue Brendan. Don’t tell, but don’t forget,” she sniffled. “It’s Irish. I ain’t really French.”

  Kathy elbowed Jeff. “You see? Orphan. Told ya so.”

  ***

  “Maybe we can get hit again, and come back.” Sergeant Jones was pensive, as the train pulled away. They waved again at the women.

  As they steamed north, Dobey opened the basket and passed out fried chicken legs. “It ain’t gonna be the same. Even if we do get back here, it won’t ever be the same.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  As they slowed for Cassville Station, Jones stood and announced, “I got to get off and go back.”

  Hunter stared at him. “You deserting?”

  “Oh, hell no, Cap’n. I mean, I got to go see my family. Wife and daughters. It’s been eight years. Ain’t been this close for a while. I’ll come back.”

  “Eight years? Didn’t want to spoil ‘em, did you? Where are they?”

  “Franklin, Georgia. On the Chattahoochee River. I got some stuff I stold and traded in that hospital. They might use some of it.”

  “Didn’t know you was married. I’ll write you out a pass.”

  ***

  From May through the end of summer, the Eighth Texas served as part of the rear guard for the Army of Tennessee as it retreated from Chattanooga to Atlanta. The Rangers fought at Resaca, Cassville, New Hope Church, and Big Shanty, trying to slow Sherman’s advance.

  Sergeant Major McConegly was commissioned a captain after Resaca, as they backed down the Georgia railroad toward Atlanta. He was judged deranged after being hit in the head at Cassville, and was discharged medically.

  The Union cavalry forces were always dashing and brave and well-equipped, but were largely untrained and inept during the early years of the war compared to t
he southern horsemen, who grew up with guns and horses. Things had changed. Yankee cavalrymen were still as dashing and brave as ever, but were well-trained, well-led, and armed almost entirely with repeating carbines. In short, they were more than a match for their Rebel counterparts. And there were way too many of them.

  Jeff Jones rejoined them just before the fight at New Hope Church. He had changed, too. “Laurie, my wife, she thought I’s dead, so she taken up with a cousin. Had to run him off, but anyhow, boys, I got me a son. Seems she was pregnant again when I left, so I got this eight year old boy named Ben Franklin, after the town, you see. I might ‘a worried, ‘cept he’s a spitting image of me. Not so tall, of course.”

  “And the girls?”

  “Nine, ten, and eleven. Pretty things, and just sweet as you please. Like to have spoilt me rotten. They help Laurie with the moonshine business.”

  “And your wife, she took you back?”

  “Well, not willful, not right off, but I begged and begged and she came around. I mean, damn, boys, y’all should see her. She ain’t all fat no more. Pretty as a ten-dollar

  bill, and put together nice.”

  “Hellfire, Jones, she must ‘a been pregnant the whole time you was with her before. No surprise she’s some smaller.”

  “You know, Melton, you might be on to something there.”

  ***

  At Big Shanty, with the Rangers fighting dismounted, a Minie ball hit Jones’ carbine as he was re-loading. It took off a finger of his left hand, and the impact knocked him ass-over-teakettle. As he fell backwards, his left foot came up and a second bullet passed through his boot, taking off one and one-half toes.

  He hobbled back to the horse-holder, mounted, rode back to the front and yelled, “You know what? To hell with this. I’m going home. Y’all want some free likker, come to Franklin.” He spun and galloped south in a hail of bullets.

  ***

  After the fall of Atlanta, the Eighth was part of General Wheeler’s Cavalry Corps, harassing Sherman’s flanks as he pushed toward Savannah. It was decided that a special unit was needed to deal with the hundreds of Union and southern deserters who were looting and raping throughout the countryside. ‘C’ Company, now under Captain Alexander Shannon, had the highest concentration of veterans and repeaters. Fleshed out, they were completely equipped with Henrys and Spencers, and captured blue capes and pants. They became Shannon’s Raiders, with Jimmy Melton as first sergeant and Dobey, promoted to captain, attached as the regimental special intelligence officer.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Good to have you back riding with ‘C’ Company, Cap’n Walls. They’s just up ahead. Watch your step.” Sergeant Skipper led Dobey through heavy underbrush on the edge of a swamp, eighteen miles southwest of Atlanta. It was close to ten p.m. and there was no moon.

  “Good to be back, Marcus. Your father said to tell you, ‘Do God’s work, keep the faith, and the Lord will protect you.’ I’m pretty sure those were his words, exact.”

  “Yessir. Sounds like him, the woolly old fart.” Jerry Ray Skipper was the regimental chaplain, known for his white suit, his unruly thick black hair and beard, and his refusal to wear a hat, even in the rain. He was also, unofficially, the regimental commander’s personal bodyguard, carrying a three-barreled long gun and four Colts. His other son, Buddy, helped him with services and, as regimental clerk, tried to keep a history of the unit.

  They stumbled through a shallow creek. “Does daddy still think he’s the Protector of the Crown?”

  Dobey laughed. “Oh, yes. Don’t nobody want to mess with the Eighth Texas’ colonel, not with Reverend Skipper nearby.”

  “You’d think the fact that about every damn colonel we’ve had has been shot or died would depress him somewhat. Daddy’s always long on faith, short on logic. Here they is, sir.”

  Captain Shannon and First Sergeant Melton were in an old bootlegger’s cabin on the edge of a pond; a lantern fully lit the one room.

  “Hey, Dobey. Come on in. Skipper, get Sergeant Cullen, and y’all join us. Captain Walls is gonna tell us what we’re up to.”

  ***

  What they were up to was a raid into Atlanta. General Wheeler had civilian complaints of widespread looting and shooting by deserters; he didn’t think there were any regular units still there. He felt that if the Raiders made a quick sweep, performed a few public executions, that maybe the rest of the scoundrels would flee.

  “Any other guidance from on high, Dobey?”

  “No, Xander, and I think this is sort of how it’s gonna be for us. I don’t think they want to know too much about what we do. They’ll tell us a problem area, try to keep us from bumping into our own forces or main Yankee units, but we’re pretty much an independent command.”

  “Then we’ll do what seems right ‘til they tell us to stop. Here’s my take on it: we’re going after anybody hurting or stealing from civilians. I ain’t looking to hang every Confederate deserter I see, if they’s just trying to get home, but we better not catch ‘em twice. Any Yankee is fair game, specially foragers and deserters. Special crimes, rape or murder, we’ll hang ‘em, leave a sign on ‘em what for.” He looked around. “Y’all was here under Captain Hunter. Is this gonna go down all right with the men?”

  The sergeants nodded, and Dobey said, “They don’t hold with killing prisoners, not regular ones, but that’s not what you’re talking about here.”

  “No. I’m the same way. Hell, I was at Pillow. We’re talking about taking out criminals. Robbers, thieves, murderers, rapists. We overtake and capture some regular Yankee patrol, we’ll send ‘em back to regiment, or strip ‘em and parole ‘em ourselves. Dobey, you was in Atlanta not long back. How you think we ought to do this tomorrow?”

  ***

  They settled on splitting the company. Dobey and Melton would come in from the west on the Birmingham Road with Sergeant Cullen’s section, while Shannon and Sergeant Skipper would come up the Montgomery Road from the south. They’d move fast, taking targets of opportunity in broad daylight, and try to meet at the main train depot by noon. If there was no real resistance, they’d reassess then, and probably sweep on through to the northeast.

  In case of real resistance, rally points would be north of Stone Mountain, or back here to the swamp, depending on how they were pushed. If they were really separated, they’d meet in Carrollton in two days.

  Captain Shannon stood and stretched. “Let’s get some sleep. We’ll get up at six, and be rolling by seven.”

  ***

  Dobey’s group followed the east bank of the Chattahoochee River til they cut the Birmingham Road, and were in the city’s outskirts before nine a.m. As they got closer to the center they put out scouts and flankers to look for activity. Corporal Jack Sterne’s squad was the first to score.

  A flanker reported yelling from a large house hear the Marietta Road, and it was quietly surrounded. Before Sterne’s men could dismount, three bluecoat deserters burst out onto the porch laughing and carrying pillowcases, which jangled with silver flatware and candelabra. They shouted another threat back into the home before they saw the blue-caped riders along the front hedge.

  “Y’all come on down, boys,” shouted Sterne. “No need to haul them heavy bags. Just leave ‘em on the porch.”

  The sound of ten Spencers being brought to full cock caused the robbers’ hair to stand on end.

  “Hey, listen. We’ll share. And there’s some women in there, still got plenty of good use left.”

  “That ain’t what this is about.”

  “Are you provosts, or something?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You going to arrest us?”

  “Not exactly.”

  ***

  “First blood,” Dobey muttered. The volley, maybe a half-mile north, wasn’t irregular enough for a gunfight. Just ahead, an old black woman sat on the ground at an intersection, sobbing, nursing an obviously broken forearm. Speer, the Raider’s medico, trotted up and dismount
ed.

  “We’re looking for troublemakers, Mammy. I can set this. It’ll hurt, then feel better.”

  “Yassuh. And thank you, suh. Glad all you Yankees ain’t bad. Oh, Jesus,” she yelled as he reset the bone.

  “You seen some bad Yankees, Mammy?”

  “Right over there in that house. They hurt me and ever’body in there. They mean and drunk. Sleeping now. Already done their business.”

  “Any guns?”

  Cullen’s men dismounted and surrounded the home.

  “They boss, he gots a pistol. Other three, they gots bay’net knives.”

  Five minutes later, the sorry, hung-over lot stood on the roadside. From the porch, the battered family watched sullenly, not expecting much justice from the blue-caped Union cavalrymen.

  Melton dismounted, carrying his shotgun in his left hand. He faced the leader, a corporal, and said, “Well, girls, there’s good news and bad news. The good news is, we ain’t got time to hang you. Bad news is, we ain’t Yankees.”

  He drew the sawed-off Colt and shot the corporal in the head, re-holstered, and shotgunned two of the others. The fourth bolted, but three Spencers knocked him down.

  Melton tipped his hat to the people on the porch. “Compliments of the Eighth Texas. Just leave the scum out here. They’ll all be dead soon, and maybe it’ll discourage such behavior.”

  Dobey pulled up. “Jimmy, we ain’t far from that White House I told you about. No sign of Regulars, yet, so I want to ride by there and check on ‘em.”

  Melton nodded. “I’ll go with you. Cullen, keep criss-crossing this main road til you get to the train tracks, then turn left. We’ll catch you before you get to the depot.”

  ***

  “No suh, Mister Dobey, they gone,” said Old Bill. “Miz Laval, Mizzes Kathy and Britches, Mister Denny, Miz Linda, Just Bill. Gone to Savannah. Just Old Bill, that you might know. I’se here wid that trashy whore, Miz Fancy Stine, that Miz Laval sold out to. Her and her whores, that is.”

  “Savannah. Well, they’ll have to run again. Sherman’s going there now.”