No Good Like It Is Read online

  Private Jeff Jones, who had some of those same attributes, was made the supply clerk. Hell, he was a thief.

  ***

  “I wouldn’t have missed New Orleans, though, for all the rice in South Carolina,” mused First Sergeant McConegly.

  He, Dobey, and Jones were setting up the ‘C’ Company command post, a rather grandiose title for the open tent, with an order/movement log, a personnel ledger, and a supply ledger. Those were Dobey’s ideas. Later, they would all agree that the supply ledger was a great source of toilet paper. No one wanted a written record of Jones’ supply transactions, and besides, he couldn’t write.

  “You still thinking about that girl, Mac, uh, ‘scuse me, First Sergeant?” Jones stopped stacking cartridge boxes and wiped his forehead.

  “You may call me Topkick. I’ve always liked that title. ‘Your Majesty’ don’t sound bad, neither. But yes. Yes, I was thinking about her.” McConegly stopped smiling. “Think about her all the damn time. I mean to go back there and marry her. Who do you think I was writing on them trains?”

  They’d all had varying measures of luck with the ladies of New Orleans, but McConegly was smitten with a raven-haired, sloe-eyed, slow-talking beauty named Diane Duquesne. The eighteen-year-old widow had already lost two husbands in duels.

  No one doubted McConegly’s ability as a swordsman. He was bigger and better looking than Melton, a great talker, and according to his friend Harvey, something of a legend among married women, around certain army posts. But Lady Diane had taken him off the market, tout de suite.

  Corporal Hodges from Melton’s section approached with a request for supplies, and heard the last comment.

  “Jesus, Mac, you gonna marry that Frenchy? She must ‘a been some kind of a seamstress.”

  Before McConegly could get to him, Jones stood, drew his Colt, reversed it, and said, “Looky here a minute.” He then bashed Hodges with the butt. Hodges trembled for a second, then toppled.

  “She won’t that kind of seamstress, you dumb sumbitch. She sewed ladies dresses, made ‘em up, entire. And you don’t never talk about a man’s intended, even was she a hooker.” Hodges got up and wobbled off.

  McConegly and Dobey were astounded. That was more than they’d heard Jones say about any one subject, ever, and with more emotion. He apparently approved of Mac’s choice.

  “Thank you, Jeff. But you can’t go around hammering corporals on the forehead.”

  “Him? Hell, Top, that’s just Prissy Hodges. I’ve knowed him for months. He ain’t right.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  They drew horses in Bowling Green, fresh Kentucky mounts, and the regiment was now split up to “show the flag” in company-sized patrolling operations. Not expecting to meet Union forces, they wanted to learn their horses, learn each other, gain confidence, and intimidate any locals who were still on the fence.

  “That would be about half the population,” surmised First Sergeant McConegly. He, Dobey, and Jones were scouting for a campsite for the night.

  “Yeah,” answered Jones. “Some of these good ol’ boys opened fire on ‘D’ Company yesterday. What kind of campsite we looking for, anyways?”

  “Tell him, Dobey.”

  Dobey figured he was being tested again. “Well, me, I’d want a little hill, with trees or rocks for cover. Creek at the bottom, so we could refill canteens and water the horses. Road nearby, so we could find ourselves on a map, and let regiment know.” He paused.

  “Good so far. Go on.”

  “Lieutenant Harvey said they’d meet us at a church this side of that next little town around four p.m., so I’d want a place not too far from that. Not too close to that village, though, or the boys’ll be sneaking away tonight looking for ladies and liquor.”

  Lieutenant Harvey and the rest of ‘C’ Company had circled to the north of the crossroads village, and would ride back through it late in the day to impress the townspeople. “See if we can pick up a few recruits,” he’d said.

  McConegly’s group found a good site by two-thirty, and headed for the rendezvous. As they approached, they saw a small gathering by the church. “Well, I guess we get to meet the local churchgoers,” said McConegly, after scanning them with his telescope. “Bunch of old men in black suits.”

  “Ain’t Sunday,” said Jones.

  As they rode close, the civilians turned to stare. McConegly doffed his hat and said, “Hope we’re not interrupting a service.”

  All of the civilians were armed. Alarm bells went off in Dobey’s subconscious.

  “Well, brother, we are about to conduct a service, of sorts. Sort of doing your job for you.” The leader, a tall severe man with scar tissue for his right eye, waved toward an open wagon. The old man and two boys in the back were tied, hands behind them, and were gagged. The hair stood on the back of Dobey’s neck.

  Realizing that the soldiers still didn’t understand, the big man continued. “Slave holding scum. We warned them to leave the county. They didn’t, so today we’ll hang them.” He smiled a fierce, hideous grin. “Already gave their farm to their slaves.”

  Dobey realized that he, Mac and Jones were all wearing their blue capes against the autumn chill. Mac looked at him, dumbfounded. Dobey said “Abolitionists,” and cocked his shotgun. Mac flipped his cape aside to draw a Remington, and shouted, “Don’t move!”

  The sight of Mac’s gray uniform under his cape startled the entire seven-man lynch mob. Their leader pointed his cane and shouted, “Secesh! Get ‘em.” A cross-eyed man dropped his rifle; another ran.

  One man raised a carbine, so Dobey shot him first. Their leader dropped his cane and tried to pull a big horse pistol from his belt, so he went next. Jones shot the driver off the wagon with his Sharps. Mac banged off four shots with his Remington as Jones and Dobey got their pistols out, and then it was quickly over, with the abolitionists only managing a few shots.

  Jones galloped after the runner, and rode him down. The man lost his shotgun in the trampling, but jumped up and drew a short sword. Jones reined around and pointed the big Dragoon at him.

  “Put that down this minute, Edna.”

  The man threw down the sword, and Jones shot him, knocking him off his feet. He struggled to get up again, so Jones shot him twice more.

  Only the cross-eyed man remained standing, hands raised, terrified.

  “We’re trying to discourage the taking of property and the hanging of families,” said McConegly, as Dobey freed the prisoners. “Perhaps you’ll tell others how this works. Now get out of here. Spread the word.”

  The cross-eyed man’s head bobbed as he slobbered, “Yessir. Yes, sir, I will. I din’t mean no harm. Din’t know they was going to hang no one.”

  “Liar. Lying, nigger-loving son of a bitch,” the man in the wagon sputtered as he ripped off his gag. “Two of the others said to let us go, but he voted to hang us. Over two old niggers we’ve had for fifteen years. Liar.”

  “I’ll jes’ head on out, start spreading the word, Captain, like you told me.”

  “He ain’t no captain, Ruth Anne. And you’re just having a bad day.” Jones leaned down and shot him between his crossed eyes.

  “Damn it, Jones. I wanted him as a messenger.”

  Jones looked at McConegly, astounded. “Hell, Top, you knew I was gonna kill him, the minute he lied to you. ‘Sides, we don’t need him. These three we saved can tell everyone. Don’t worry so much. Are you all right?”

  McConegly gave them a wan smile. “I don’t know. May just need to borrow this wagon for a ride back to Bowling Green.” He fell from his saddle.

  ***

  The musket ball had broken two ribs on Mac’s left side, and a pistol ball had broken his left forearm. Heavily bandaged and sedated with Kentucky whiskey, he lay in a wagon full of straw, waiting for the Corinth train.

  “You look like a cigar, or something,” said Melton.

  “Mummy,” offered Dobey. Mac had also cut his head when he fell from his horse.

 
“ ‘Wrapped in swaddling clothes, laying in a manger,’ is what I am.”

  “My mummy didn’t look nothing like that,” Jones looked askance at Dobey, then faced Mac. “Now, I still don’t know who shot you. I didn’t know you was shot ‘til you passed out.”

  “Well, I certainly knew it. Immediately. You hadn’t been so busy killing prisoners, you might have noticed, too.”

  “They wasn’t prisoners, Top. Like Dobey explained to the captain, they was murderous particles.”

  “Partisans. You mean to say partisans.”

  “Whatever. Whatever they was, they just had to go.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “How many, son?” Colonel Ben Terry believed that leaders should lead, and on this bitter December day he was riding with his lead company. Which just happened to be ‘C’ Company.

  The scout took a deep breath. “I ain’t sure, Colonel. Some of ‘em is in the trees. I’d guess a hundred or more, skirmishers, and a whole bunch more a couple or three hundred yards behind ‘em. Got to be the ones we was looking for.”

  The whispered word went back through the regiment like the wind. Yankees, right ahead. The Eighth Texas had been waiting for this word.

  “And, Colonel, some is in a hayfield. We go hard at ‘em, we can get right amongst ‘em ‘fore they’s sure who we is.”

  “Captain Ferrell, bring up ‘A’ and ‘D’ Companies on line on our left. I’ll take ‘C’ and ‘E’. Scouts, you lead us. Soon as we see them, get up close and blister them with shotguns and pistols. Major Harrison, you hold the reserves. Billy, you ride back and tell that General Hindman what’s happening. Tell him to hurry. We’ll hold ‘em for him.”

  ***

  Corporal Hans Winkler was having a bad day. As if being on the skirmish line, hundreds of yards in front of the others, wasn’t bad enough, he’d missed the sausages and dark bread at noon, and twisted his ankle. And the Herr Hauptman seemed to believe that they would run into Rebels today. “We’ll burn their asses today,” he’d said. Of course, the Herr Hauptman was back there with the whole damned Thirty-Second Indiana Infantry Regiment, solid German riflemen, all around him. And, suddenly, here was the enemy. He fired, part of a ragged volley, and the enemy charged right at him.

  The screaming and yelling startled him, but he wasn’t afraid. At a glance, he saw dozens of gray-clad horsemen charging across a wide front through the trees and underbrush. One big officer, lots of braid and waving a pistol, shot the men on either side of him, and bore down on him. He braced his Springfield against a tree and fired again. The rider and horse tumbled out of his own gun-smoke, and almost rolled over him. He thought, My bullet must have gone through the horse’s neck, and hit him in the face.

  “Back to the main line, men. Steady. Fix bayonets and fall back . . .” The rest was lost in the booming of shotguns and the banging of pistols. Winkler fixed his bayonet and began backing up. He turned to run, only to face another horseman. Behind him.

  He thought, this isn’t good. The blast caught him in the shoulder and knocked him down. He thought he heard the man call him “Trudy.”

  ***

  Lieutenant Colonel Lubbock, regimental executive officer, stopped for another fit of coughing. He was not a well man. The assembled officers were not smoking as a concession to his condition.

  “In case somebody don’t know, Colonel Terry was probably the first man killed this afternoon in the charge. I’ll take over ‘til we can re-vote, but I think we should adopt the name of Terry’s Texas Rangers, in his honor.” More coughing. “We had three others killed and eight wounded, but the Yankees left thirty-eight dead and wounded. Tell the men to be proud. Major Harrison will sort of run things ‘til I get back on my feet.”

  There was some muttering when Lieutenant Harvey relayed the information to ‘C’ Company’s non-coms. Their captain was one of the wounded, and Harvey was now the acting commander.

  “I’m just glad I ain’t the supply corporal no more, is what I’m saying.” Jones had taken over Melton’s section, when Melton replaced McConegly as first sergeant.“That damn Major Harrison is a stickler for paperwork. And they didn’t do much over on the left today.”

  “Didn’t do much paperwork?” Dobey winked at Melton.

  “No, I mean fighting. That major was in charge on the left, and they didn’t do nothing.”

  Melton poured coffee. “Jones, there was a hell of a fight on the left. I talked to First Sergeant Baines from ‘D’ Company, and he said they charged just fine, but the Yanks was behind fences and haystacks, and shot ‘em up pretty good. And Major Harrison was back with the reserves.”

  “All’s I know is we did all the killing. I think Harrison’s a old woman. But I do admire this Colt carbine that Top Sergeant Mac left me. Anybody know how he’s doing?”

  A month later, they would find out.

  ***

  “What’s the name again? McConkle? I don’t think he made it.”

  “It’s McConegly, sir. Come in here maybe six weeks ago.” Lieutenant Harvey was beat, dripping wet, bedraggled. So were Dobey and Jones. The pullback to Corinth, Mississippi, in the first month of 1862, was through constant rain and snow. They had left Melton to set up camp, and came straight here.

  “Yeah, I remember him. He’s gone, I’m sorry to tell you.” The old major commanding the hospital appeared to be near the end of his rope, too. “Likeable cuss. But that wound festered, and we had to take off the limb. He didn’t last a week after that. Shot himself. Told the orderly that he wasn’t a man anymore, and his woman wouldn’t have him that way.”

  They re-mounted in the freezing drizzle, and found nothing to talk about on the ride back to their base camp. Miserable sentries steered them to the ‘C’ Company command post, a line shack along the rail line that they were guarding. Melton had a lantern and a fire sizzling inside.

  Melton poured coffee all around, and gave Lieutenant Harvey a quick rundown on their positions. When he finished, it was quiet. No one wanted to tell Melton. Finally Melton smiled and said, “You missed him, didn’t you?”

  Harvey looked pained. “Yeah, Jimmy. He was gone long before we got there.”

  “I know. Well, least ways you know where the hospital is, so your trip won’t wasted.”

  They were shocked by Melton’s callousness. Dobey recovered first. “How’d you know?”

  “Hell, I’m the one that sent him back out for some liquor. Had some in his saddlebags, but he’d parked his horse at the regimental command post, and walked here. You must have just missed him again in the rain.”

  ***

  McConegly took a nip. “His name was McMonigal. Poor lad, hit in the balls and leg with buckshot. They couldn’t keep our names apart. Whose horse do you think I’m riding? Damn, it’s good to see you all. I have a letter from Lady Diane. Drink up—y’all act like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Where the hell are we, anyhow?”

  “Hell, Melton, we’s in the woods. Middle of nowheres, like always. You gone blind?” Jones bit off some jerky and laughed at his own joke.

  Melton kicked out the fire. “Throw some creek water on that, Corporal Smart-Ass. Maybe our brand new Corporal Walls knows something.”

  Dobey clattered up to them and dismounted. “Damn. Missed coffee, huh?”

  Melton passed Dobey his cup. “Finish mine. You know where we are?”

  Dobey gulped the coffee and took a piece of jerky from Jones. “Closest place on the map is a church named Shiloh. Harvey sent me to tell you we’re pulling back. General Johnston was killed, which has left some confusion.” Dobey remounted. “Anyhow, we’re on rear guard again. Major Harrison’s got us and another company. We’ll be with some Tennessee cavalry, under their Colonel. Name’s Forrest. Meet by the edge of that corn field back there.”

  ***

  “I hope this Colonel Forrest ain’t a ‘nother old woman, like Major Harrison. That’s all we need. Hell, I thought we was winning here. Thankee, Se
rgeant.” Jones accepted the tobacco plug from Melton.

  They wore their capes. Early April was still cool, and the sun was barely up.

  “We was winning, for a while.” Melton spat. They were on a trail, riding at the head of Melton’s section and just behind Major Harrison, Lieutenant Harvey, McConegly and Dobey. “Now, tell me something. Do you just hate women? Is that why you call people by women’s names?”

  “Naw, Sergeant. Hell, I’m married. Got three daughters. They just didn’t bring me no consolation, so I joined the cavalry.”

  “Jesus, Jones, how old are you?”

  “Damn near twenty-four.”

  “Riders on the left,” someone shouted. Major Harrison halted the column, and commanded, “Face left.”

  The three riders were led by a big man in gray on a huge black charger. He wore a saber, and two revolvers.

  “I am Forrest. Are you the Eighth Texas?”

  “We are, sir. I am Harrison, the major. I have two companies.”

  “I have but one of mine, so you are a welcome sight. There is a Yankee infantry brigade, not a quarter mile through those trees. If you’ll bring your men on line, we’ll attack and drive them back.” He drew his saber, wheeled away, and shouted, “Prepare to trot.”

  Major Harrison drew a Tranter revolver, and yelled, “They’re in those trees. Follow me.”

  As the Tennessee cavalry went through their drill of trot, gallop, and charge, Harrison led the Texans on a wild charge around their right flank and straight into the Union infantry. Their skirmishers heard the charge before they saw it, fired a loose volley, and ran back to join their main force.

  The Yanks were well drilled. They formed a rough oblong box, bayonets fixed to repel cavalry. As the skirmishers joined them, they knelt and placed their rifle butts on the ground and fixed bayonets too. They became a hedgehog for horses and men to impale themselves upon.