24
During the grim year of 1863, the war had taken a heavy toll. Among the dead was Stonewall Jackson, killed at Chancellorville; a death that was mourned throughout the entire Confederacy.
For the first few months of the new year, the Confederate army was in disarray, with retreats on nearly all fronts. The Army of Virginia was holding, but cracks were appearing even there as the Union army grew stronger. Longstreet had been shifted up to Virginia to reinforce the Rebels there; Robert E. Lee was now recognized as the overall commander of the Confederate army. President Lincoln had called for volunteers to aid in the fight against the Rebels, and more than half a million men had lined up to enlist.
Jamie found himself without orders, and attached to no particular division. In the haste to reorganize, the Marauders had been left out of the planning.
The spring of 1864 brought with it several of the most unusual and least written about events of the bloody struggle. Colonel Aaron Layfield loudly and publicly stated—to anyone who would listen—that once the war in the East was over and the Union was victorious, he was going to take his men out west and stamp out any lingering pockets of Rebels and then turn his attentions to the Indians and wipe them out.
Jamie found the latter highly amusing, for Layfield would last about a day against the Ute or the Cheyenne or the Dakota or any of a dozen other tribes.
Then Layfield specifically mentioned Valley, Colorado, and the MacCallister clan, calling the area a “Hotbed of insurrection, filled with Southern whores, white trash and traitors fit only to be wiped from the face of the earth and the land they squat upon burned bare and the earth salted down so nothing will ever live there again.”
“What the hell is the matter with this lunatic?” Jamie questioned, after reading the article in a Eastern newspaper which thrived on such news.
Jamie and his men were camped in North Georgia, with no orders from the Confederate high command. They had seemingly fallen through the cracks of the military bureaucracy.
Jamie had lost his temper when he rode the train down to Atlanta to try to find out what they were supposed to do—he kept getting the runaround, and when he did get to see a senior officer, the man didn’t have the foggiest idea of what to do. So Jamie decided to send the smooth-talking Pierre Dupree to see if he could find out something. Dupree found out a lot of things, including the reason for Layfield’s wild hatred of Jamie Ian MacCallister.
“He’s being bankrolled by a rich turncoat Louisiana man name of Jubal Olmstead, who’s in cahoots with the Yankees, and they have promised him the governorship of Louisiana once the war is over. This Olmstead fellow is originally from Kentucky, I think, and for whatever reason, he has an almighty deep hatred for you, Colonel.”
“Dear God,” Jamie whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. “Is it ever going to end?”
Over coffee, Jamie told his men the long and twisted story of Kate’s father and brother and all their kin, and about the Jacksons and the Saxons and Newbys and all the rest of the men who carried a blood feud against him.
“What about orders?” Jamie asked.
“I finally got in to see a General Carson, and he said he didn’t have the authority to order us to do nothin’, Colonel. We don’t even show up on any official war documents that he has, and he’s got a whole damn room filled with them.”
“So . . . officially, we can do whatever we damn well please?” Jamie said with a smile.
“I reckon so, Colonel.”
“Including,” Lieutenant Dawson said, with a glint in his eyes, “maybe goin’ after this damn Layfield, if we was to decide to do such a thing, that is?”
A low murmur of approval came from the throats of the over five hundred men all gathered around, minus ten who were on picket duty and Sergeant Major Huske, who had asked for and received a few days’ leave to go visit some kinfolks who lived in a small town about forty miles away from the encampment.
“But if we don’t exist, Colonel,” Captain Sparks pointed out, “we can’t draw supplies. I’m not worried about gettin’ paid; Confederate money isn’t worth a damn, anyway. But how would we get supplies?”
“Steal them,” Lieutenant Broussard said.
“From our own boys?” Sergeant McGuire asked.
“Here comes the Top Soldier,” a picket called out.
“He’s comin’ back early,” a Marauder remarked. Sergeant Major Huske’s face was set in anger as he marched up to Jamie and said, “Colonel, I don’t want you to think me a quitter, but I would like to be discharged from this outfit. I got me some manhuntin’ to do.”
“Have some coffee and food, Louie,” Jamie said. “Let’s talk about it.”
Louie calmed down enough to eat a plate of bacon and beans and swallow two cups of coffee. “That town I went to, Colonel? It ain’t there no more. Burned to the ground. What men they didn’t shoot, they hanged. Then they had their way with a lot of women who didn’t run off into the woods. Then they branded them on the forehead with a W—for whore. They hanged my brother. Only reason he didn’t join up with the Confederacy was because he was born with a clubfoot; he didn’t get around too good.”
“Who did all this, Louis?” Dupree asked.
“I can answer that,” Jamie said. “Colonel Aaron Layfield and his Revengers.”
“That’s right, Colonel. I’m gonna kill that man. If it’s the last thing I do on God’s earth, I’m gonna kill him.”
“One of us will,” Jamie said softly. “Sparks, I want you to pick five other men who don’t have a pronounced Southern accent to change into civilian clothing and get ready to take a trip.”
“Sure, Colonel. Where to?”
“New York City. Somebody get me pen and ink and paper.”
“What’s up, Colonel?” Louie asked.
“We’re going to have us a very private and personal little war, Top. That’s what Layfield wants. A private and personal war with me. None of you have to go on this. It’s strictly volunteer all the way.”
“Shit, Colonel!” Lieutenant Lenoir said. “You think any of us would miss this?”
“Sparks, you and the men you choose will be bringing back a hundred thousand dollars in gold and Federal paper money. From my personal account. One of many, I assure you.”
That shook his men right down to the rowels of their spurs.
Jamie started writing to his banker and attorney in New York City. If Layfield wanted a war, he was damn sure going to get one.
* * *
Jamie took a few men with him and rode over to where the town used to be. It was exactly as Top Soldier had said: burned to the ground. There were several dozen fresh graves in the cemetery, and the ropes used to hang the men were still dangling from the limbs of trees. Huske had marked his brother’s grave and now set about carving him a wooden marker until he could get a stone mason to chisel a permanent stone.
Jamie walked the paths of what had once been a permanent settlement, filled with people of all ages, working, playing, worshipping, living, loving. Now there was nothing except the smell of ashes and death. Jamie looked up at the sounds of shuffling footsteps. An elderly Negro was making his way toward Jamie.
“What army is you?” the old man called, staying a safe distance from the big man.
Jamie smiled. What army, indeed? “The Army of the Confederacy,” he finally said.
“I didn’t have nothin’ to do with this,” the old man called, waving his hand at the burned-out remnants of buildings.
“I know it. I know who did it.”
The old man came closer. “Turrible thing, this. I knowed most of these people here. They was some bad amongst ’em, but mos’ of ’em was good folks. Them Yankee soldiers didn’t have no call to do this. I never seen so many white men so filled plumb up with hate agin they own kind.”
“A tall, loud-mouthed man with side whiskers leading the bunch?”
“Yessuh. He personal tooken the hot iron and branded the furst lady on the forehead. That was after his men had they way with the white ladies that didn’t run off. Them men of his, they lined up to take they turns with the ladies; some of ’em they raped no more than chillen.”
“The men who did this were not really Union soldiers,” Jamie said.
“They wasn’t?”
“No. Most soldiers of the Blue are like the soldiers of the Gray. They would have no part of rape and torture.” Jamie left out the burning of homes and businesses, for the Yankees had begun to do that; something that Jamie found disgraceful.
“The men who done this, they rampaged through all the stores and homes ’fore they put ’em to the torch. They give the money and the finery to any colored folks they could find. Mos’ of the colored I know threw the clothes away; they feared of bein’ punished if they was caught with it later. The money ain’t no good. It’s Confederate money.”
“Where do you live?”
The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Nowheres, now. Them bluecoats burned down the massa’s house and stole the horses and mules. They gathered up all the livestock and took ’em when they lef’. Massa Nations, he dead and so is his wife. The bluecoats kilt ’em both. There wasn’t no call to do that, ’cause they was both old and didn’t treat us bad like a lot of white folks do. Tell me, sir, is it true that President Lincoln done freed all the slaves?”
“Yes. It’s called the Emancipation Proclamation. You’re free.”
“Lord have mercy. You mean I could just walk down that road as far as I want to go?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Well . . . what do I do when I gets to where it is I might be goin’? That is, if I had anywheres I wanted to go.”
Jamie then realized the enormity of what Lincoln had done. What he had done was a wonderful thing; only a hate-filled fool would deny that. But on the other side of the coin, with one stroke of the pen, Lincoln had turned loose millions of Negroes who had no training, no jobs, most of whom could not read or write, and had no place to go in a part of the country torn and ripped by war and hatred.
“Who is gonna feed me?” the old man asked. “I’m hungry, mister.”
“We have some food with us. We’ll share with you.”
“But that’s today,” the old man pressed. “What about tomorrow and the next day and the day after that?”
Jamie shook his head. “You’re on your own. You’re free. Making do is part of being free.”
The old man thought about that for a moment. “What are we ’pposed to do from here on out, mister?”
“Plant a garden. Hire yourself out for wages.”
“I be somewheres around eighty years old, big man. Hands all stiff and no good to work no more. All I know is workin’ in the fields. Liftin’ and totin’. Something ain’t quite right about this here freedom. Seems like Mister Lincoln done a good thing with one hand and put a turrible burden on us with the other hand.”
Jamie didn’t quite know how to answer that. “Come on. I’ll get you some food.”
“Nosuh. I bes’ not. I got to be lookin’ after myself from now on, so I bes’ get to doin’ it. I know where they’s some greens and I’ll get that and some poke. I’ll get by.”
Jamie stood and watched the old man shuffle off into the woods. “The slaves should have been freed from bondage immediately, but total freedom should have been a gradual thing,” Jamie muttered. “Over a period of years. With education and training. This is going to be a great big mess.”
“Did you say something, Colonel?” Louie asked, walking up behind Jamie.
“Just talking to myself, Top.” He turned around to face the sergeant major. “What are all these ex-slaves going to do now that they are free, Louie?”
“I don’t know, sir. Damn sure won’t be much work for a long time to come . . . not any work they can be paid to do, ’cause there isn’t any money. It’s goin’ to be bad, isn’t it, Colonel?”
“I’m afraid so, Louie. For many, many years to come.”
“Now what, Colonel?”
“We go after Layfield.”