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  “Yassuh. Mister Dobey, don’t you take no chances wid dese whores here. Ain’t had no doctor since Miz Laval left. Now, you ain’t changed sides, is you?”

  “No, Old Bill. These capes are just to fool the Yankees. Any soldiers in there now?”

  “Yassuh. Yankees got them some mean-assed provosts too, same as us. Two of ‘em up dere wid Miz Fancy all night.”

  Ordered from their room into the hallway, the two provost sergeants were feisty and threatening until it sank in that these two blue-clad troopers holding guns on them were in fact Confederates. They now wore a distinctly worried look.

  “Y’all been out doing your job, we wouldn’t even be here. Cap’n, you think we should shoot ‘em, or just turn ‘em out naked and unarmed, maybe let the locals and looters take care of ‘em?” As he spoke, Melton turned to face Dobey. At that moment, the irate and drunken Madame Fancy suddenly pushed between the provosts and stuck a little .41 Deringer almost in Melton’s face. Melton threw up a hand as she fired, and the two provosts bolted back into their room.

  The underpowered fat little ball took off the top joint of Melton’s left middle finger, and hit him in the forehead. His shotgun went off as he fell backwards, cutting the madame’s legs from under her.

  Dobey pumped two rounds from his Spencer through the wall into the provosts’ room, drawing a yelp and a flurry of pistol shots in return. He slung the Spencer, drew a Colt left-handed, and grabbed Melton’s collar with his stronger right. The madame, moaning, sat up in the doorway. She was immediately hit by one of the provosts’ pistol shots, and slumped.

  The semiconscious Melton still held his shotgun with one hand as he wiped the blood from his eyes. As Dobey dragged him around a corner, one of the provosts stepped into the doorway, firing. Melton fired the second barrel at the noise, driving the man back into his room, dinged by three ricochets and splinters.

  Dobey bounced Melton down the steps, missing the last few himself and winding up in a heap on the floor with Melton on top of him. Melton rolled off him, drew a Colt and fired two shots up the stairs to discourage pursuit.

  In a stage whisper, Old Bill said, “Mister Dobey. Mister Dobey—over here.” They crawled toward him, and out a side door onto the verandah.

  “Can you ride, Jimmy?”

  “Hell, I can dance. I just can’t see.” He tumbled backwards down the step into the yard.

  Dobey and Old Bill got him to his horse. He mounted, and said, “Where to?”

  Dobey grabbed Jimmy’s reins, and said, “Just hold on to that pommel and keep your head down.” They galloped off, expecting a bullet in the back, but the provosts had had enough. As they swung onto the railroad tracks, Dobey asked, “When did you learn to dance?”

  ***

  At the depot, Speer wiped the wound clean to find solid bone. “Judas Priest, First Sergeant, it glanced off. I knowed you was hardheaded, but Jesus. It did take the top off your ear, howsomever. Lay still, and I’ll sew up your forehead.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Listen, Daddy, it was a good raid. Top Sergeant Melton was the only one hit, and we must of killed twenny deserters from both sides, and captured seven regulars. Now, why in Hell would you . . . owww!”

  “Mind your tongue, Marcus Aurelius.” Reverend Skipper waved his cane at his oldest son. “Your mother would choke in her grave if she heard that filth pouring from you. And you can tell your heathen comrades that while I ride with you, I’ll not tolerate such profanity. I’ll smite them heel and toe.”

  “Ain’t that ‘head and toe,’ Daddy?”

  “Buddy, just shut up. I’m talking to your brother.” The old man ran his hand through his tangled mop of hair to regain his thoughts. “I am not sent here to correct your conversation, though I may. Your captain expressed concern about the executions. He doesn’t want to exceed his authority. So, if there is a life or death question for these pond scum that we wish to exterminate, I will be a sort of moral compass to the Raiders.”

  “Well, good,” said Melton. “Now they’ll have a fair chance.”

  The old zealot’s eyes blazed with religious fervor, as he nodded agreement. He was, at such times, the incarnation of John the Baptist, raving in the wilderness. In a white suit, of course, and shaking a fist at the heavens. During the next three months, over four hundred deserters and looters were shot or hanged by Shannon’s Raiders; for many of them, their last earthly vision was of that deadly apparition, the right Reverend Jerry Ray Skipper.

  ***

  They camped at a destroyed plantation, west of Savannah. The slaves’ quarters had been spared by Sherman’s men, but the slaves had followed him to Savannah. Dobey, Captain Shannon, and Reverend Skipper were having coffee when the first patrol came in.

  Sergeant Cullen took a swallow of coffee before reporting. “We got one of ours, says he escaped from the Yankees. Got three Yankees, had two little nigger girls in a barn, taking turns with ‘em. Is that the same as raping white women? I mean, to us?”

  The reverend stood and trembled. “It’s worse. Far worse. These men are seen by the Negro as liberators. It is a terrible betrayal of trust, on top of a heinous crime.”

  “Yessir. They was on top of their hineys, for sure.”

  The three officers walked out to face the doomed men, shivering in cold and fear.

  “Now you shall know the wrath of God.”

  “Hey, ain’t you John Brown? I thought you was hanged. I seen your picture in a newspaper.”

  “You, sir, will meet John Brown in Hell in a few minutes. Hang all three of them.”

  “Over by the road, Cullen. Put a sign on ‘em. ‘These raped the girls they set free.’ Buddy will write it up for you.” Captain Shannon turned to the Rebel prisoner. “Where you from, son?”

  “Augusta, sir. I ain’t no deserter.”

  “Which way was he heading when you took him, Cullen?”

  “West. But he run from us.”

  “You Goddam right I run. Y’all wearing blue capes, I thought I was captured again. Oowww!”

  The reverend had stepped off the porch and caned him.

  “Jesus Christ, you old fool, I might take that damn stick and . . . owww!” He went down.

  “I was you, I’d stop cussing. Reverend Skipper is against it.” Cullen smiled. “I seen him whack his own son.”

  “All right. All right. But you listen. I ain’t no deserter, and this ain’t right. Only reason I’s captured in the first place, was our Goddamned major surrendered. Hold on there, Reverend, I’m sorry, but I’m hot about this. We run out of bullets, and I wanted to run, but he surrendered. Hell, you give me a gun and some cartridges, I’ll ride with you. I’m sorry again, Reverend.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Skip Todd, sir. And I was a sergeant. My uniform rotted off me, so I got this old coat with no stripes.”

  “You take him and watch him, Cullen. He can help hang those three. It’s a good thing you wasn’t walking toward Augusta, Todd.”

  Melton returned from checking the guards and joined the officers back inside the cabin. “Reverend, we got some captured Spencers. You still want to carry that cannon?”

  “That cannon, James Melton, is a very well-made Pennsylvania drilling. The name comes from the Germanic word for three, ‘drei,’ as it has three barrels. I chose a fifty caliber rifle, with two twelve gauge smooth bores. But they come in all sorts of combinations. I almost chose one with a .32 caliber squirrel rifle, a .40 caliber rifle for deer, and a ten gauge for ducks.”

  “Or Yankees.”

  “Amen, Brother Melton.”

  ***

  In December ’64, they rejoined the regiment, now down to two hundred and fifty men. Melton became the regimental sergeant major, Dobey the operations officer.

  With the rest of Wheeler’s cavalry, they screened the Confederates retreat north into North Carolina, first ambushing Kilpatrick’s Yankee cavalry near Aiken, then fighting them around Columbia. They overran Kilpatrick
’s camp at a small crossroads near Fayetteville, and would fight their last real battle at Bentonville, North Carolina, from March 19-21, 1865.

  ***

  Dobey was exhausted as he rode into ‘K’ Company’s lines. Two wounded Rangers looked up from reloading their pistols, stared at him blank-faced for a moment, then pointed to a tobacco curing shed at the edge of some pines.

  One of the grimy soldiers stood, wiped blood from his face, and said, “Doc, uh, Captain Matthews is having a meeting with what’s left of our sergeants and officers. In that corn crib, or whatever it is.” He touched a Colt to his temple in a salute, and sat down again.

  The meeting was breaking up as Dobey rode up. Doc Matthews, the youthful company commander, shielded his eyes against the afternoon sun and faced Dobey expectantly. Nervously. Resigned. Hell, a visit from regimental staff couldn’t be good.

  “Y’all better stick around til I learn what Captain Walls has in store for us. Prob’ly wants us to go on one of his little rides.” His subordinates gave strained laughs.

  Dobey dismounted, and saluted Matthews. “Captain Matthews, men.” He nodded to the others. “Y’all did a fine job today, And no, I don’t have any special mission for your company.”

  “Well, my stars, Dobey, ain’t we formal? What’s up then?”

  “Doc, I don’t know if y’all heard yet, but Colonel Cook, Lieutenant Colonel Christian, and Major Jarmon have all been hit bad. You’re next senior. There’s no time for elections, Doc, so you’re the new regimental commander. Better turn things over here, and come on back with me. Tomorrow’s gonna be busy, too.”

  “Hell, Dobey, you should do it. You got a hell of a lot more experience than me.”

  “You know that’s not how it works, Doc. You outrank me by a week or two. Sir.” Dobey smiled. Artillery fire behind them caused the smile to disappear. “We better ride.”

  The regimental command post consisted of a group of messengers huddled around Sergeant Major Melton and three junior officers. As Dobey and Matthews rode up, so did General Wheeler.

  “Where’s the regimental commander? This is the Eighth Texas, right?”

  “I’ve just learned that would be me, General,” Matthews saluted him.

  “Well, Captain, that fire you hear is Yankees trying to take our bridge back there. We must not lose it. Our supplies and ammunition must come over it. I’ve sent some Tennessee infantry toward it, but they’ll likely not arrive in time. Mount your men, go as fast as you can and charge whatever you find at that bridge.”

  As they raced toward the bridge, Sergeant Major Melton shouted, “Welcome to regiment, sir.”

  Matthews looked askance at him and said, “Jimmy, you know I ain’t had any experience at this.”

  Melton yelled back, “Hell, Cap’n, we ain’t much more than a company no how.”

  They galloped past the Tennessee infantry, Brown’s brigade, double-timing along, and were cheered on. Topping a small rise, Matthews, Dobey, and Melton halted to allow the Eighth Texas to close on them. Here also waited General Hardee and his staff, with a great view of the enemy, five hundred yards away across an open field. They were in sparse woods, closing on the bridge.

  The Texans saluted, and General Hardee asked who they were.

  “We’re the Eighth Texas, sir,” said Matthews. “And General Wheeler told us to run off anybody ‘round that bridge, and hold it.”

  Hardee looked at the mass of blue infantry at the bridge, shook his head, and said, “Then execute your orders.”

  Matthews drew a Colt and yelled, “Charge right in front!”

  It was to be the last charge of the Eighth Texas, and the last cavalry charge of the Army of Tennessee. It was, in every sense of the word, a smashing success.

  Screaming to beat the band, the Texas horsemen plowed into the Union infantry, almost head to head, as the bluecoats ran toward the bridge. The angle of attack precluded all but the skirmishers and front runners of the foot soldiers from firing their single shot rifles, and they had no chance to form a hedgehog.

  Dobey trampled an officer waving a sword, then in rapid sequence, shot a sergeant trying to reload, a flag-bearer, and three more riflemen, while his big bay ran over four others. Deep in the ranks of the enemy, he drew a second Colt and quickly emptied it around him, as his charger kicked and bit anyone on the ground.

  At a full run, Melton fired both barrels of his 10 gauge into the packed ranks, slung it and drew his pommel Dragoon before slamming into the mass. He used the pistol to parry a bayonet thrust, then clubbed the rifleman before shooting four more. His horse screamed as she took a bayonet in the neck, then stomped the man that stabbed her.

  As the bluecoat scrambled to get away from the slashing hooves. Melton yelled, “You son of a bitch,” and shot him in the back. Another bayonet struck in the wooden part of Melton’s saddle narrowly missing his left leg. Melton shot the soldier in the face as he tried to withdraw his bayonet. Dropping the empty Dragoon back in the pommel holster, he changed reins to his right hand, and drew a belt pistol left handed.

  Doc Matthews shot two skirmishers as he rode toward the blue ranks, then singled out a mounted major. He hit the major in the leg with a pistol shot before ramming into his horse, broadsides. Yankee horse and rider went down in a tumble. As Matthews backed away, a sergeant jumped and grabbed him around the waist, trying to drag him from the saddle.

  Melton shot Matthews’ assailant in the back; the man arched, screamed, and fell away. Matthews spun his horse to step on the man several times, then began firing at other targets.

  Around the three riders, wounded men dropped their weapons and crawled to get away from the horses and pistol fire. Along the line, the scene was repeated a hundred times. And as the Texans emptied their third or fourth revolvers, Brown’s Tennesseans piled into the crush, their own blood-curdling yells helping to break the line.

  The Union forces abandoned the bridge, leaving two hundred prisoners, and many more dead and wounded. As they pulled away, the Rangers lashed them with carbine fire.

  ***

  Melton made a swing through the companies, speaking with each first sergeant. He caught up to Dobey and Doc Matthews as they followed the prisoners to the rear. Dobey could see that something was terribly wrong.

  “You all right, Jimmy?”

  “No sir. You remember General Hardee’s boy, that run away from school last year to join us?”

  Matthews said, “Yeah. Sixteen-year-old. General sent him home, but he come back yesterday, I heard.”

  “That’s right,” said Dobey. “General told Kyle to swear him into ‘D’ Company. Why?”

  “He was killed. First damn action, and the boy’s dead. Who’s gonna tell the general?” Melton’s voice cracked.

  Captain Doc Matthews, only twenty-two years old himself, said, “Shit. Murdering hellfire shit damnation.” He yanked his reins to the left and trotted up the little hill to General Hardee’s vantage point.

  ***

  Around a small fire that night, Dobey poured Doc Matthews a brandy. “You done good, Doc. It was a damn good charge.”

  Matthews just stared into the fire. After a moment, he looked around and said, “You know what he said when I told him? He said he thought he’d sent us all to our death, and that Jeb Stuart could not have done any better. Said his son was exactly where he wanted to be, and he was damned proud of him, and damned proud of us.” He took a sip. “Ain’t that something?”

  BOOK TWO

  April 1865

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Wrong answer,” said Jimmy. He shot the prisoner, then levered open the breech of the Sharps and loaded another linen cartridge. “Same question,” he said to the second man.

  They stood under a chinaberry tree in the empty back lot of an almost empty farmhouse. As he cocked the carbine, Jimmy thought, There ought to be chickens here, and goats, and cows. And children.

  “I ain’t no deserter, and I ain’t raped no nigger wench. He done it,” t
he man said, knees wobbling, nodding at the dead man.

  “Well, that’s better than he come up with.” Jimmy smiled. The blast, even half-expected, was startling. “Still wrong.” He reloaded, and turned to the Skipper brothers. “Dump both of ‘em in the well. I’m gonna grab a bite to eat.”

  As Buddy dragged one of the barefoot dead men to the well, he muttered, “I know our daddy would have approved, but I still think Melton’s a hard man.”

  Marcus grunted as he tilted the first body into the well; there was a thud as it hit bottom. “Listen, Buddy. The scouts caught these two, pants down, buggering that little contraband girl in that barn, right there.” He wiped his forehead; body disposal was warm work, even in April. “Besides of which, they had to be the ones as killed the old couple that lived here. Their bodies was still warm.”

  The second Yankee was heavier. They struggled to get his upper half over the edge of the well, then each grabbed an ankle and tipped him in.

  “Anyways, I guess these two wisht they’d stayed with Sherman.” Marcus wiped his bloody hands in the sandy soil. After inspecting the result, he added, “Let’s us go to that creek.”

  ***

  What was left of the Eighth Texas Cavalry was bivouacked comfortably somewhere in central North Carolina. The temporary commander, Captain J.F. ‘Doc’ Matthews of ‘K’ Company, didn’t know exactly where, nor did he worry much about it. The regiment had overrun a Union cavalry camp at Monroe’s Crossroads prior to their last battle at Bentonville, and was still eating well.

  Matthews was still in command since Bentonville, when Colonel Cooke and several other officers were wounded. Rocking on the porch of a small farmhouse, he was now pondering the awesome responsibility of leading a regiment, albeit a small one, in an army that had been defeated and was getting ready to quit. He was also enjoying his new boots, which a few weeks ago had graced the legs of Union Major General H.J. Kilpatrick; as he considered and waited for Captain Walls and Sergeant Major Melton, he sipped some captured brandy from a battered tin cup.

  Captain Walls and Sergeant Major Melton soon appeared from the back yard. Each had a metal plate tucked under his pistol belt and a tin cup hanging from a revolver hammer. Melton stopped at the bottom of the stairs and leaned on his Sharps carbine, but Walls marched onto the porch, stamped his heels, and with his best impression of a British open palm salute, snapped, “Captain Walls reports to the regimental commander as ordered, sir!”