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  “Was that—“ Custer began, but Rumble heard another familiar sound and dove for the dirt. “Get down!”

  A solid shell ripped through the farmhouse, passed through the tent’s canvas, and bounded onto the ground on the far side, its energy finally expended. Rumble got to his feet, dusting off the dirt.

  Custer also got up, a crazed grin on his face. “Battle!”

  A mile to the south, on the other side of Bull Run Creek, Seneca Rumble heard the cannon fire and paused while buttoning up his uniform blouse. He took a deep breath, noted his hands were shaking, took another breath, then finished the task. He strapped his belt on, the weight from pistol and saber pulling it low around his narrow hips. He picked up his walking stick and exited the tent he’d shared with fellow officers after arriving late the previous evening from the rail junction at Manassas.

  Seneca’s vastly under-strength company of forty-five Mississippians had been brusquely rolled into the 33rd Virginia Regiment, specifically, the 10th Company, the Shenandoah Riflemen. Seneca was uncertain of his role in the command structure given the scant information he’d been given the previous evening. In fact, he was uncertain about damn near everything. Shortly after arriving at the tent, he’d become aware that his, and his men’s presence, was a political gesture by the Governor of Mississippi to gain leverage with the Secessionist government. No one had asked for them and no one seemed to care that they were here. The Virginians were quite convinced they could lick the entire Union Army by themselves.

  The regiment was on the march. And nobody had informed Seneca. Shadowy figures flitted about in the pre-dawn, forming into columns and heading down a dirt road. Seneca quickly gathered his troops and slid them into the long snake of men moving north. He had little idea where he was and no idea where he was headed.

  But the sound of cannon fire was growing louder directly ahead.

  This was not Mexico.

  Rumble rode his horse through forest and brush, avoiding the trails crowded with units trying to move forward. And not only soldiers filled the roads. In the early dawn, Rumble saw dozens of carriages carrying the very sycophants and civilians who had stood ahead of him in line for appointments in Washington. Today’s battle was to be their entertainment. The carriages were piled high with picnic baskets and bottles of wine.

  The sun was slanting through the trees, indicating mid-morning, by the time Rumble reached Sudley Springs Ford, the needle through which McDowell’s main assault was to be threaded.

  And threaded it was. A steady stream of soldiers marched across the ford. Their uniforms were a colorful mixture. Mainly variations of blue, but there were the Zouaves with their bright red pantaloons, and a rather large number of companies and regiments in gray

  Not Zachary Taylor’s regulars at Palo Alto.

  But they were turning the Confederate left. McDowell’s grand plan just might work.

  Seneca could swear they were going in a circle. First they’d marched north. Then east, being told to prepare to attack. But that order had come to nothing. Then south. And now they were heading west and the word was they were to defend.

  Seneca had unbuttoned his collar, a concession to the late morning heat. He was mounted on his best horse and bags containing his camps goods dangled from each side. It didn’t occur to him how different this was from the men on foot all around him, their gear consisting of musket, ammunition box, bed roll, and whatever food they could stuff in their pockets.

  There was firing in every direction, but all the 33rd Virginia had experienced so far was the sound, not the sight. There was grumbling in the ranks, but Seneca had his own complaint, one he dared not utter aloud: Most of the 33rd Virginia were clad in blue, the color their militia units had been clothed in before Secession.

  The column was marching down a road covered over by tree branches, a tunnel of green. Finally, a ripple of excitement coursed down the human snake.

  Battle was ahead. The Yankees had turned the flank and it was up to them to stop disaster.

  “For glory, men!” Seneca cried out, waving his cane.

  And for the first time since Natchez, the men responded with a cheer.

  “Colonel!” Rumble rode up to his old acquaintance.

  William Tecumseh Sherman was riding along a column of troops, exhorting them to move forward, to press the attack up Matthews Hill. The column was splitting, spreading a wave of blue across a green field on the south side of Bull Run Creek. Sporadic rifle and cannon fire twinkled from the brow of the hill about a half-mile distant.

  Sherman wheeled his horse around. He was a different man from the young cadet at West Point. Thinner, eyes somewhat crazed, red hair cut short and a thin beard etching shadows into his face.

  “Master of the Horse Rumble! What the devil are you doing here?” He didn’t wait for an answer as a courier came galloping up. Sherman issued orders, and the courier was racing back from whence he came.

  “We’re moving them, Lucius,” Sherman said. “We’ve got the flank and we can roll it if McDowell sends the reserves.” He cursed as a bullet creased his shoulder, splitting cloth and skin. Then, without another word, he galloped forward, barking orders left and right.

  Rumble put the spurs to his horse and followed, caught up in the excitement of the charge. Two batteries of regular army flying artillery galloped to his right, officers exhorting their men to get to the top of Matthews Hill.

  “Get in a line, men, in a line,” Seneca yelled, not quite sure of the proper order to achieve what he desired.

  The rest of the 33rd was deploying, moving forward among retreating soldiers, some of whom started in fear, seeing the blue uniforms in their midst. For a moment all was turmoil, but then a colonel stood up in his stirrups, his shockingly blue eyes aglow.

  “Virginians. Advance!”

  The men gave a shout that made the hair on the back of Seneca’s neck curl. Before he knew it, he was screaming the same inarticulate yell and pressing forward. They crested Henry House Hill in time to see a line of blue with a smattering of gray crest Matthews Hill, not quite a mile distant. The low ground in between was cluttered with retreating Confederate troops.

  Union artillery suddenly began belching canister from Matthews Hill and wide, bloody swaths were cut in the men in the valley.

  The blue-eyed Colonel rode along the crest of Henry Hill, now ordering the men to form and hold a line, to take the defensive and be prepared to face an attack. Seneca dismounted, handing the reins to one of his men. He saw a lieutenant in blue running by, a Virginian and grabbed him by the arm.

  “Who is that?” Seneca demanded. “Why’s he ordering us to stop?”

  “That’s Colonel Jackson, sir. Brigade commander.”

  Seneca looked to his right and saw a Confederate unit flowing down the hill in the assault, another officer in the lead. “And who is that?”

  “General Bee, sir.”

  Seneca glanced once more at Jackson, weighed Colonel against General, the glory of the assault against that of the defense, then ordered his men to follow. He charged downhill, following Bee’s advance as fast as he could.

  The General rose up in his saddle and looked over his shoulder, waving his sword. He saw that most of the Virginians were not following. “There stands Jackson like a stone wall,” he cried out.

  Rumble rode toward the artillery batteries, now unlimbered and firing with deadly effect into the Confederates from the brow of Matthews Hill. He dismounted, pulling the Henry Rifle from its scabbard and Delafield’s telescope from its case.

  He scanned the battlefield, trying to make sense of it. Clouds of smoke from gunpowder and dust from thousands of feet and hooves obscured portions like a low-lying fog. From one of those fog banks a cohort of men in blue burst, running furiously, closing from a quarter mile.

  The captain in command of the artillery shouted at his gun commanders to cease-fire. Rumble twisted the focus on the telescope.

  “Sir!” he yelled, pushing toward the offic
er. “They’re rebels!”

  His words went unheard as precious seconds were lost and the Confederates halved the distance. Rumble reached the Captain and grabbed his shoulder. “They’re rebels, sir!”

  The Captain’s face went white as he recognized his mistake.

  “Fire! Give them hell!”

  Seneca had his cane in one hand, saber in the other and was screaming insanely. He tripped over a body, scrambled to his feet and kept going up the hill. The Union guns were less than a hundred feet away.

  The two Union batteries erupted.

  Seneca was aware he was flying through the air. Everything moved slowly. Seneca saw a private hurtling back next to him, head missing, blood spurting out the carotid arteries from a still beating heart.

  Seneca hit the ground on his back. He blinked dirt out of his eyes and stared blankly up at the blue sky for a moment. He raised his empty hands. His cane and saber were gone. That was the first cognizant thought that passed through his mind.

  He grasped for the pistol, determined to rejoin the fight. His holster was empty. Seneca cursed and looked for it.

  His left leg was gone from knee down.

  Then the pain reached his brain and he screamed.

  The volley of canister had decimated the Confederate lines, but they were too many and too close. There was no time to reload or limber up the guns to retreat. The wave of soldiers over-ran the two batteries.

  From the flank, Rumble threw the Henry to his shoulder. He saw a General yelling orders, waving a sword wildly about. Rumble fired three rounds as fast as he could lever in the bullets and pull the trigger.

  The first one shivered the General in the saddle, the second knocked him back a bit, and the third sent him tumbling to the ground.

  The assault broke, rebels running to the rear in disarray, but the guns had been over-run and spiked, putting them out of action.

  More Union troops came charging over the top over Matthews Hill behind Rumble and down into the low ground in front of Henry House Hill. Right into a scathing volley from the solid line of Confederates who were holding the position there. The Union officers tried to rally their men, but southern artillery was now supporting the rebel infantry and the assault wavered.

  Rumble ran forward. He found the General he had shot. A Confederate lieutenant was trying to stem the flow of blood from his commander’s stomach. The lieutenant didn’t stop his efforts, even seeing Rumble approach with the Henry at the ready.

  “Who is it?” Rumble asked, but then he recognized the wounded man. Class of ’45 and one Rumble had tested with York’s jump. He’d stood fast.

  “Barnie? Barnie Bee?”

  General Bee looked up. “Master of the Horse! Did you see Jackson? Stood fast. Didn’t support me. I had to order my men to halt. To halt, damn it! Why didn’t Jackson follow me?”

  “He’s holding the line, General. He did the right thing.”

  Bee raised his body off the ground and cried out in a command voice: “Let us determine to die here, and we will conquer. Rally behind Stonewall Jackson and the Virginians, boys!”

  Then he collapsed.

  “Take him,” Rumble said to the lieutenant. “Take him back to your surgeons.”

  The lieutenant looked at him in surprise. “We aint got no surgeon with the regiment. Just some old country doc.”

  The lieutenant grabbed a couple of scared privates and got them to put General Bee into a blanket. They hurried away with him as the volume of the battle increased, the Union forces in the low ground unable to maintain their charge, Jackson’s Virginians holding the high ground in front of them, pouring hot lead into the Yankees.

  The Confederate left was saved.

  Rumble picked his way back among the bodies littering the ground, Henry at the ready. He passed by a dead man, mouth open in a final scream that had not found voice. A man in gray was crawling, facedown, clawing at the dirt with his hands, leaving a smear of blood from a severed leg behind him.

  “Easy, soldier,” Rumble said, uncertain if he was Union or Rebel, not that it mattered in his condition.

  Rumble grabbed the man’s shoulder and turned him over.

  “Brother!”

  Chapter Three

  24 July 61, Palatine, Mississippi

  Violet Rumble pressed the gun into Samual’s hand. It was an old piece, a flintlock pistol her father had given her the night before her wedding, which had seen better days and better cleaning.

  “I don’t know if it works,” she confided.

  It was just before dawn and they were in the center of the garden, the wings of the angel hovering over their shoulders as if hiding their meeting from a greater power. “I loaded powder and ball. And a new flint. Here are more.” She gave him a leather pouch.

  “Slave with a gun means death, Miss Violet,” Samual said.

  “I tried to get you a certificate of registration as a free black,” Violet said. “But Mississippi laws are currently so tight, it would be easier to thread the eye of a needle from a mile away by wishing. You must go.”

  “They catch me, they kill me, Miss Violet,” Samual said.

  “Things are different now, Samual,” Violet said. “Go north. You’ll be safe with the Yankees. There’s a man with the Federals. His name is Elijah Cord. You met him at West Point delivering my note and saw him here for the wedding. Use his name when you run into the Yankees. Tell them he’s a West Pointer. That might carry more weight than using the Rumble name right now.” She sighed. “And Mary is gone. You have no family here any more. You stay here, you’ll die alone and broken. Nothing is holding you here, Samual.”

  “You here, Miss Violet.”

  Violet turned her face away from him. “Yes. But that is my lot in life.”

  “Without Master St. George, you have a better life here, Miss Violet.”

  “Don’t even think that,” Violet snapped. “And St. George, devil that he is, is not my true problem.” She took a deep breath and graced Samual with a brave smile. “It’s time for you to find your place in the world. I don’t know what that will be, but I am certain it is not here.”

  “And my Echo, Miss Violet?”

  She reached into her skirt and pulled out some pieces of paper. “Tennessee laws are less stringent. Here’s the certificate freeing your daughter. My family will honor it. And on top is a letter instructing them not to hold you under the Fugitive Slave Act. They will honor that also. You can retrieve Echo and then run to Canada to escape the Act. And here.” She thrust some bills in his hands. “Yankee dollars. They might not be worth the paper they’re printed on around here for much longer.”

  Samual didn’t take the money. “Miss Violet, I can’t—“

  Violet’s hands were on his, the money in between. “You must. Your freedom will be the only thing other than my grandson being in Europe that will allow me to survive the coming months. Both my sons are at war on opposite sides. I cannot bear to think about it.”

  Samual took the money.

  “Go now,” Violet said. “St. George is across the river in Vidalia. He’s up to something. It’s as good a time as any to leave.”

  Samual bowed his head. “God will bless you, Miss Violet.”

  “That would be nice and a change,” Violet said. “Go east and north into the swamp. Escape this place.”

  Samual disappeared behind the hedges. Violet sat down on the stone bench, utterly alone except for the stone angel.

  Samual didn’t go east or north. After retrieving the woodcutting axe and a cooking knife, he went down to the east bank of the fog-shrouded Mississippi. Visibility was less than twenty feet. In the brush not far from the old Palatine dock, he uncovered a small dugout. Settling his large frame into the boat, he took a moment to pray.

  “Lord. You please bless Miss Violet. She a good woman. And keep her sons safe, even da’ one who fights for the rebs. And, if aint too much, keep me safe now. I know I not doing what she said, but I have to do ‘dis. I owe the poor boy.”<
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  Then he grabbed the paddle and propelled himself into the current, muscles working furiously, going on dead reckoning. It took a while to cross and the fog began lifting. It was a race between the river, daylight, fog and his endurance.

  The Louisiana bank appeared out of the mist and Samual grunted with effort to go faster. The prow of the dugout scraped into the mud and he leapt out, dragging it further ashore. He hid it amongst some trees. Then sniffed the air. He pulled the pistol out of his pocket and checked it, working on memory of what he’d seen John Dyer do years ago with a similar gun. As near Samual could tell, the gun was ready. Gun in one hand, axe in the other, knife in his belt, he made his way along the bank.

  The fog was still thick, but night was giving way to day, gray light creeping through the mist. Samual began to run. A riverboat loaded with bales of cotton loomed out of the fog and Samual halted. The ship was tied to a dock, a row of empty wagons lining the shore.

  Samual moved stealthily, through the brush and trees lining the bank. He’d been part of this for many years and he knew everyone had worked through the night to load the boat. The difference was the boat hadn’t departed under the cover of night. It spoke of St. George’s ever increasing arrogance.

  Samual made his way to a clearing where dark bodies were collapsed in exhaustion. He picked his way among them until he found the young man whom he had promised ‘changing times’ to many years ago.

  Samual knelt and shook his shoulder. “It time, James.”

  James eyes snapped open. Eye actually. Where his left eye should be was a scarred hole. The result of St. George moving from torture that wouldn’t leave a mark, to torture that would send an obvious and permanent message since there would be no repercussions for damage to property from the big house. The wound was inflicted via a red-hot iron rod two years ago after James had tried to escape, been captured and brought back under the Fugitive Slave Act. St. George had promised that if James tried again, the other eye would be singed out and then he’d be let loose in the swamp, to be bait for the gators and snakes.