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Rancor of Honor

By Jkay

 

 

 

Clash, clash goes the saber against my steed’s hide
Kling, kling go the Ravels as onward I ride
And all my bright harness is living and speaks

Under my horseshoe the frosty ground creaks

I wave my buff glove to the girl that I love
Then join my dark squadron, and forward I move.
("Dragoon's Song," by George Boker)

 

 

July 1st 1863…

 

 

The 1st Cavalry Division under Brigadier General John Buford had engaged the enemy. You will have to fight like the devil until support arrives. Colonel Thomas Casimer Devin replayed his commanding officer’s slowly spoken words over again in his mind. It seemed so long ago that Devin had stood alone side John Buford overlooking the countryside on the morning of June 30th.  Standing next to Colonel Gamble on the eve of battle, Devin had listened carefully as Buford, with uncanny foresight, had prophesied the coming attack from Lee’s main body of infantry.

 

Buford’s two Brigades, the First, under William Gamble, and the Second, under Devin’s command, had to hold the high ground from the Confederate Infantry until Reynolds’ First Corp Infantry arrived to take the field.  For the last two hours, the brigades had been continuously fighting with no relief in sight. Devin’s own brigade was fighting a delayed action on the north side, while Colonel Gamble engaged the enemy in battle towards the west, four miles from the center of a little crossroad town called, Gettysburg. Buford’s objective was to stand and fight, then slowly fall back, making a fighting withdrawal.

 

From the loud noise of the cannon shots in the west, Devin knew that Gamble’s brigade had already fallen back to Herr’s Ridge. For the last forty-five minutes, artillery fire could be heard thundering across the countryside. Already at half strength, Devin’s brigade had grudgingly withdrawn to their last fallback position. There was nowhere else to run. 

 

Devin's weary eyes glanced over to his men.  He was proud of his boys. Their bloody and exhausted faces spoke volumes of what they had endured. His battle worn eyes turned towards the countryside as he repositioned the holster and sword against his hips. No matter how stubbornly they had held, Devin’s men were about to break. Pulling out his percussion revolver, Devin rechecked to make sure it was loaded as cannon shots exploded all round. Small puffs of white smoke rose in funnel shapes as other shots exploded overhead, showering the men with dirt and mud.  The sound of a galloping horse forced Devin’s attention away from the approaching rebels. He was surprised to see one of Buford’s young lieutenant’s raced to his side. 

 

“Sir, with General Buford’s complements, you are to fall back.” The young lieutenant’s high-pitched voice was hard to understand as he rapidly repeated the orders he had memorized. 

 

The man Buford called his ‘Hard Hitter’ raised his right hand, stalling for time, he stopped the yellow haired lieutenant on the black gelding from saying anymore. The Colonel eyed the young man, taking in the pale, mud covered face, and recognition settled in the back of the Devin's mind.  “Colonel Sackett.” The Colonel urgently called for Colonel William Sackett over the cannon fire. Devin saw no reason to have the exhausted lieutenant repeat his report.

 

Sackett, the regiment commander of the 9th New Yorkers had seen the young lieutenant race towards his brigade commander. From past experience while serving under the tall Irish soldier, he sent his aide to gathered his surviving company commanders in anticipation of new orders. 

 

Colonel Kellogg of the 17th Pennsylvania and Major William Beardsley, commanding the 6th New Yorkers were the first to reach the regiment commander’s side. Sackett’s youngest commander, Captain Seymour Conger arrived a few minutes after the older two, covered in mud and blood. The tall, colonel eyed his young captain, and with a sigh spoke, “Seymour…”

 

Clear blue eyes pierced the Colonel as the Squadron Commander of the 3rd West Virginia replied, “I’m fine…” and in afterthought the young man quickly added, “Sir.” Turning his face, he fixed his eyes over his regiment commander’s shoulder.  “Sir, the Colonel is waiting for us to join him.”

 

William released another frustrated sigh, the young captain took too many risk and by God, he, Colonel Sackett was determine to keep this one, honest, daring young man alive. The Union Army would need this courageous young man and men like him after the war was over.  “Well gentleman, since young Seymour says his ‘FINE’, the Colonel paused, fixing his dark eyes on the young man’s left leg, “lets join Colonel Devon.”  The older man turned and gradually made his way to his commander with young Seymour slowly limping behind the other two company officers.

 
The continuous sounds of musket fire toward the north made Devin’s eyes narrow. Davis was pushing the attack.  The Colonel waited for William Sackett to reach his side. It only took a couple of strides before the tall New Yorker and his officers were standing beside the Colonel, giving the Lieutenant time to dismount.  The Irish colonel shook his head at the sight of Sackett’s youngest commander before turning his eyes back to Buford’s newest lieutenant. Finally Devin was ready for the young soldier to continue. “Take a deep breath son, and then continue.”  

 

The young lieutenant, just out of West Point, squared his slim shoulders and released his breath. Under the watchful eyes of Colonel Devin, the Lieutenant slowly repeated his report.  “Sir. General Buford requests that you move your brigade back to Cemetery Ridge, Sir.”  

 

Staring off to the North as more and more musket fire rained down on them, Devin’s strong voice said, “William, pull your sentries back slowly. As soon as they’ve met up with us, the brigade will fall back through town.” The tall New Yorker snapped to attention then motion his officers to follow him as he started to give out the order to withdraw.  Ignoring Conger’s protest, Beardsley and Kellogg each took an arm and help the young captain along.

 

As the officers moved, the nearby front line, one of the dismounted soldiers gave a yell and fell; his carbine fell out of his hands and landed by his side. The Union soldier’s lifeless eyes stared up at the overcast sky. 

 

“Hold the line boys. Sackett, plug that hole. We must not let them flank our right,” Devin shouted over the cannon fire. Devin turned his attention away from the Lieutenant as more and more cannon shots landed close to the ground where they were standing.

 

Devin stepped forward to join his men on the front line when a voice stopped him cold. “Sir, you must fall back now.” The Lieutenant shouted anxiously, “Sir, Colonel Devin, Sir, that is Union battery firing on you from the rear.” When Devin turned to the Lieutenant, the fire in his eyes didn’t stop the young man from adding, “Sir, you are ordered to withdraw.”

 

The anger in Devin’s eyes never reached his lips as he coldly stared into the eyes of the young Lieutenant.  What he saw made his heart proud.  As Devin looked into the Lieutenant’s sea green eyes, the young man held his stony gaze, undaunted. There was fear hiding in the background of those eyes; however, there was also determination and raw courage riding herd on that fear. The boy was certainly his father’s son, thought the Colonel. Devin started to say, “Lieutenant…“

 

“Dent, Sir.” The young Lieutenant answered before Devin could finish, using his maternal grandmother’s last name, as Buford had ordered him. However, as Devin’s eyebrows went up, the Lieutenant couldn’t help but stand his full height and in a loud voice repeated his full name proudly, “Lieutenant Christopher Dent Larabee, Sir.”

 

A bewildered look crossed Devin’s face as he glanced around. He turned and glared back at the Lieutenant, shaking his head. “Lieutenant, report back to General Buford that we will hold the right as the brigade falls back through town.” The Colonel watched the young man standing at attention and forlornly frowned. The boy’s father was a fool and Devin was determined to tell the man exactly how he felt the next time they met. Devin lowered his voice saying, “Son, drop the last bit, there is price on that name and it would not be wise to mention it in the face of the enemy.” 

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

Christopher snapped to attention; he turned to mount his horse when Devin called after him, “Lieutenant Dent, you are to report back to General Buford personally.” Devin’s eyes harden, he watched as the young man’s back stiffen, and then straightened to stand taller. A grin tugged at Devin’s mouth. He knew it; Buford didn’t send the boy over. “Dent, I said report to the General, not to one of his aides.” The Colonel chuckled as Dent’s shoulders slumped in defeat. Devin wondered how the lieutenant maneuvered out of Buford’s sight, a cold tingle went up Devin’s back as he thought of his Commander. His gut reaction told him the young Lieutenant was not telling him everything and it made Devin nervous. The Colonel needed to get back to Buford at all possible speed. He turned back towards his men ready to issue orders to mount, when the young Lieutenant’s low voice reached his ears.   

 

“No, Sir. I mean, Yes, Sir, Colonel Sir. I’ll drop the last name.” Before he could say anything else, a cannon shell landed a few yards away. The hot shell ejected dirt, mud and shell fragments in the air, leaving a small crater in the earth. Grabbing his horse’s reins, the lieutenant pulled the horse’s head around to control the frighten animal.

 

“Off with you, boy!” Devin shouted as he picked himself off the ground where the blast had thrown him. Musket fire flew over their heads, forcing them to retreat behind a wooden rail. A mile long, the rail became the new skirmish line.  Then, like an enormous wave, the rebels flew out from under the trees, racing across the muddy field. The front line broke under the mammoth pressure of the rebel charge. The Second Brigade found them-selves stubbornly falling back, giving ground till they reached a stone hedge. As a brigade, they climbed over and turned, forming a new skirmish line. Some of the men were on their knees, using the stones for cover. Every fourth man held horses a few yards back, but not one man turned to make a run for it. With the new Spencer repeating carbine, Devin’s New Yorkers had five to one firepower superiority over the rebels and the dismounted cavalry soldiers refused the line. The rebels fell back to the tree, reforming to charge again.

 

Devin paced behind his men; in front of him stood Lieutenant Larabee, reloading his revolver, and beside the young soldier was his black gelding. Devin was astonished that the animal was still alive, not a scratch on him.  “Sackett, get the boys back into their saddles.  Fall back! Fall back!” Devin ordered, firing his revolver as the rebel infantry were lining up to advance again. Devin stood his ground, refusing to leave the men whose horses had been killed earlier. Devin’s own gray horse had his legs shattered with the first round of cannon shells. He was on foot. Devin locked eyes with Colonel Sackett, turning command over, ordering him to get what was left of his brigade out of harms way. The soldiers that were left gathered closer around Devin and the dismounted lieutenant, pulling the skirmish line tighter to cover the cavalry soldiers racing to their horses.  Devin studied his men. They were all good men. He pulled out his saber, stepping closer to young Larabee and said, “Lieutenant, mount your horse and return to Buford, at all possible speed.”

 

Larabee stared hard across the field at the advancing rebels, studying the landscape. He knew this land. If he remembered correctly, there was a gully about a yard to the right, just before the tree line. A plan formulated in his mind as musket shots buzzed past his head. In his mind’s eye, he could see what needed to be done.  If they could surprise the rebels, it would work. Larabee turned and faced Devin, handing over the reins of his horse saying, “Sir, take my horse.” Devin shook his head no. 

 

At Devin’s reluctance to move, the Lieutenant turned his attention away from the enemy. “Sir, General Buford needs you. I didn’t want to tell you this, but he is down, wounded in the shoulder. He needs you. The First Division needs you. Sir, please get on the damn horse.” Larabee moved his horse around and threw Devin the reins and helped Devin reluctantly mount. As soon as the Colonel was on, Larabee smacked the horse’s flank, sending the horse towards Sackett and his awaiting men. 

 

For his plan to work, the Lieutenant needed to move the men now, “You, over there?”  Larabee called to one of the older men.

 

“Private Tobin McKenna, Sir,” answered the man.

 

 “Take out those Rebels to the right.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” McKenna guaranteed the Lieutenant as he aimed and fired his carbine, taking out a soldier with his first shot.

 

Larabee turned his eyes to another man, one with brown hair, a few years older than him and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, asking, “Soldier?”

 

“Private Anton Danielson, Sir,” the soldier responded.

 

“See that group of trees, the tall one? When I give the word, fire with all you have and make us a path.” 

 

With the Colonel heading towards the Union cavalry and safety, Larabee turned to the twenty or so men gathered along the hedge, all from the 9th New York. Almost all of them were older than him, and they were looking to him for leadership.  As the men continued to fire at the Confederate rebels, he yelled. “Listen up, men. We don’t have a lot of time, when I give the word, Danielson over there, is going to start firing. Then we’ll all stand and fire the carbines at the same time. With luck, we will surprise the beggars and they will fall back.  When I give the word we charge forward, go to the left, then turn and go right. About a yard out past the first line of trees is a little gully. Jump down into it and follow it around. It’s deep in some places so be careful, but run like the devil and don’t stop. No matter what, don’t stop. The gully runs through the back of the town and those that make it can meet up with the rest of the brigade. Understand?”

 

Each man mumbled “Yes Sir,” and quickly loaded their carbines, waiting for the Lieutenant’s signal to move forward.

 

Checking his gun, Larabee waited. A rebel officer was moving to stand in front of the gray coats, pulling out his saber. “Ready men,” he said, then more loudly, “Now, Danielson,” The rebel officer was the first to go down, “Steady…Steady… Now….” All twenty men stood, and fired repeatedly, sending white puffs of smoke in the air.  The rebels were startled, some fell back to the trees, and others dropped where they stood. Larabee yelled, “Charge!” and the men raced forward, firing their carbines as they ran.

 

Larabee fired his revolver. As he reached the gully, Chris turned and faced the rebels, firing his last shell, giving cover so his men had time to jump down. He moved to cover the last four men running towards the gully, when a large shell from a 12-pound Howitzer cannon exploded behind the last of his men. The force of the explosion sent Larabee flying. Landing hard on his back, blood spattered his face and clothing. Dazed, Chris lifted his head to stare at the remains of the four men. Struggling to get to his knees, Chris grunted as a sharp pain lanced up his leg and he fell back to the ground; thick, warm blood ran down his inner thigh.  Closing his eyes, he fought to keep the pain at bay as inch by inch he crawled towards the gully.  Reaching the edge, he opened his eyes as he felt hands on his shoulders. Lifting his head, he found both Danielson and McKenna staring into his blood-covered face.  Both privates took one of Larabee’s arms and dragged him down into the gully. With Chris between them, they ran for their lives.  

 

At the sound of the Spencer carbines firing at the same time, Devin turned his mount around and watched in dreaded amazement. “Good God!” he whispered, as he watched the Lieutenant and the New Yorkers stand, and fire their carbines. He heard the Lieutenant yell, then Devin’s New Yorkers charged straight toward the rebel line. The rebels turned and ran from the charge.  The Union soldiers, turned left and suddenly a yard out, they turned right, as one body the New Yorkers jumped down, disappearing from the Colonel’s sight, leaving only four men and Buford’s blond lieutenant on the grassy area, returning cover fire. The men disappeared from Devin’s sight when a cannon shell landed and swallowed them up. “Good God,” he repeated as the smoke cleared and the slaughter of his boys was exposed. 

 

Desperately Devin searched the carnage for the blond lieutenant. Failing to recognize the boy’s body from the carnage the Irish soldier could only pray that the shell had killed the young man. There was a reason Buford kept the boy at his side. If he were still alive and fell into the Confederate hands, Christopher Larabee would be dead before the fortnight. There would be no Prisoner Exchange for the lad, like other sons with well-placed fathers. Musket fire over his head shook him out of his shock. Slowly, he moved his exhausted men through town, dodging heavy shelling from his rear and the shots being fired at them from the Confederate line. 

 

The sun was setting before Devin rode into sight of the flags of the 1st Cavalry Division, waving proudly in the air. They were encamped in the Plum Run Valley.  Devin rode straight for the flags knowing that was where he would find General Buford. His heart was heavy that he would be the one to bear the news to Buford that his godson was lost, presumed dead.  Worst yet, Devin feared that Buford, his mentor, was dead or dying. Coming to a halt, he issued orders to Major Beardsley and Colonel Kellogg to make camp and then turned on his youngest commander, Conger, riding between the two older commanders and personally ordered him to go see the surgeon.  It didn’t take long for his men to issue the orders to make camp and Devin shook his head as he watched young Seymour argue with the Major as Beardsley dragged him towards the make shift hospital.  Knowing his men were being taken care of, Devin slowly headed over to the tent flying the Division colors to find General Buford. 

 

Dismounting the horse that was forced on him, he heard a boisterous voice coming from inside the tent. There was no mistaking the stern voice of Buford and from the tone of his voice the old dragoon officer was enraged. Taking a deep breath, Devin moved to enter the tent as Buford yelled.

 

“How could you have lost him? You were ordered to stay by his side. He’s your lieutenant,” Devin heard a weary voice answer, his words too muffled to understand.  “I don’t care what Christopher told you to do. He was your responsibility, Sergeant Wilmington.” Again the muffled voice tried to explain. “No, I do not care. Find him,” Buford yelled. Devin lifted the flap, took a step inside the tent, and raised a small prayer to the Lord as he saw Buford sitting at the edge of a cot, while his surgeon poked around his right shoulder. Devin studied the young man standing before Buford. The sergeant stood over six-foot, slim and dark haired, and young, so very young. 

 

Finally, the surgeon pulled a long, narrow piece of shrapnel out of the shoulder. Buford’s face tightened around the eyes, but the man never gave a cry. “Keogh, give me my shirt,” Buford hastily told his aide, Captain Myles Keogh. The surgeon, and Keogh, both used to the General’s way, just ignored him and the surgeon finished wrapping the wounded shoulder. Carefully Keogh helped Buford back into his blue cotton shirt, and tried to keep the general off his feet.

 

Devin quietly listened as the sergeant, in a low voice, explained what had happened after Buford was wounded and pulled off of his horse by Lieutenant Larabee.  Larabee had ordered Wilmington to stay with Captain Keogh and look after the general after the courier that was dispatched to Colonel Devin fell from the same cannon shell. The Lieutenant said that he would personally take the orders to Colonel Devin.

 

Buford’s eyes bored into Wilmington, turning away only when he saw Devin standing at the opening of the tent. Buford searched behind Devin, hoping to see Christopher slide around and in his youthful stroll, cross to plop down in the empty chair, laughing about his adventure with Keogh. His eyes dropped and he turned his head away at the sad expression on Devin’s face.  Dismissing Wilmington, Buford half heartily listened to Devin’s report, his heart heavy with sorrow. How could he write and inform his best friend- the man he went to West Point with, the man who was a brother to him- that his only child was dead and that he, Buford, broke his promise to watch over the boy?

 

7777777

 

July 3rd, 1863

 

After three ghastly days of fighting, the Union Army was still entrenched on the high ground near Cemetery Ridge. The Union line looked like a large fishhook, starting at Little Round Top Hill, along the length of Cemetery Ridge, curving around at Cemetery Hill and pointing down past Culp’s Hill. The Confederates were pushed back across the peach orchard and the wheat fields to the Potomac River into Virginia. The death cry of thousands of wounded soldiers penetrated the air.

 

The night was muggy and dark, as James Longstreet, Pete to his friends, stared into the fire. The dark sky was filled with angry clouds. Soon the heavens themselves would be weeping. General Robert E. Lee had sat with Longstreet for a while, worn and lost, feeling old.  

 

Longstreet’s eyes fell on the half-lighted tent off by itself as if the person inside was no longer part of the whole, where he had just managed to get General Pickett to fall asleep. It was the first time the forty-two year old general had led his division into battle; he was an inexperienced general, lovable and young at heart. Picket was devastated. All it took was fifty minutes for over six thousand men to lose their lives, a footnote in time. Those short minutes changed the course of the war, for Picket no longer had a division. 

 

We should have never of fought here. Longstreet kept telling himself as he placed his left hand over his face. His right hand held tightly onto his saber, so tight that if he didn’t have his worn-out gloves on, blood would have been dripping between his fingers. If he survived the war and the South lost, Longstreet would never forgive himself for the wasted lives lost during the past three days.  He should have been more forceful with General Lee, should have been able to convince Lee to go to the South, get between the Union army and Washington. Find good ground and force the Federal Army to attack them on grounds of their own choosing.

 

He was tired and drained. His heart lay heavy with the regret of breaking his vow as an officer, the loss of honor. Longstreet loved the boys that he led into battle. However, some of those boys in blue were his boys, too. Three years of bloody battle couldn’t change the fact that he used to wear the Union colors. 

 

A soft cry rose from the direction of Pickett’s tent and Longstreet looked over with sad eyes, shaking his head. He would have to keep a watchful eye on George for a while, make sure that his friend didn’t get himself killed charging into battle. Longstreet picked up a small branch, poking the fire mindlessly. Saying silent prayers to the Lord, he asked forgiveness and for the Lord to take into his hands all his boys who had bravely lost their lives on the battlefield- no matter if they wore the blue or gray.  Poking around the fire with the stick, Longstreet, lost in his grief never heard the soft footsteps of Goree coming up behind him and addressing him.

 

“General, Sir,” T. J. Goree repeated. The frail Texan stood at attention waiting for Longstreet to acknowledge his presence. “General Longstreet, Sir.”

 

“Captain Goree.”

 

“Sir, the men are redeployed, the sentries are station as far as Dax Ridge,” Goree answered. He was tired, sore from being blown off his horse earlier in the day when he followed Longstreet across the field towards Pickett’s brigade as the rebels retreated from the Union forces. He was also worried about how the general would take his next report.  As Goree toured the encampment, he had heard the men talking, blaming General Longstreet for their defeat. He had heard other things as well, things that greatly disturbed him. Rumors that Union prisoners were being searched, mistreated, their officers being taken away and never heard from again.  

 

“Captain?” Longstreet asked looking up at the Texan. Goree had been his aide for two years and Longstreet could tell something was troubling the boy.

 

“Sir, the men… the men… I heard them talking. Sir, you must be careful. The men, they are blaming you, Sir,” Goree said.

 

“It is to be expected. The boys can’t blame Old Lee. They worship the ground he walks on,” replied Longstreet sadly, eyeing the boy carefully. Feeling Goree was holding something back, he asked in a low voice, “What else, T.J.?”

 

“Sir, there are rumors about the Union prisoners, about them being questioned and searched.” Goree could almost see Longstreet’s hair stand on it ends. “I’ve talked to a couple of the bluebellies and they say, they say that a couple of rebel soldiers came and took their young lieutenant away. The two Union boys were worried; it seems the wounded lieutenant had been taken two nights ago. They wanted to know how he was and if I could find out. Well Sir, I asked around, and no one knows where he is.”

 

Longstreet looked long and hard at Goree, “Why all this interest in a Union Lieutenant?”

 

“Sir, I went and checked the field hospital and the surgeon said he hadn’t seen a Union Lieutenant go through the hospital, as the one I’d described,” Goree answered.  “Sir, when I asked the Union boys the lieutenant’s name, they hesitated and looked at each other before answering, as if not sure and one of them finally said his name was Dent, a Lieutenant Dent. Sir, I think you should know, those Union boys were from one of General Buford’s cavalry brigades, under Colonel Devin.”

 

Dent…. Hum, the boy could be family, a cousin perhaps. Longstreet thought. His mother was a Dent. Under Buford, a cousin old enough to be…No! Longstreet jumped to his feet, his heart racing. Before he could say anything, a soft voice spoke out of the darkness. “Pete, do you smell it, that old rotten smell of dead meat?” Longstreet turned as Pickett moved closer to the fire. The light reflected off Pickett’s pale face, his eyes red and bloodshot.

 
“One of Hood’s aides just delivered this message; the aide says his name is Lieutenant Francis. He is waiting in my tent for a reply. It reads as follows, ‘General Longstreet, Sir. Beware. The mad dog is sniffing around the wounded. Rumor is the Blue Ghost may be in our hands.’ Sir, there’s more, however you should read it yourself.”  Pickett neatly handed the message over to Longstreet. He watched as Longstreet’s body stiffened. His old eyes turning dark with anger as he read the remaining message from his wounded Brigade Commander, John Bell Hood. Longstreet read the message again, his mind going over what Goree was trying to tell him. Suddenly as if a light flickered on to show him what was happening a few yards away, Longstreet looked up at Pickett and both men said at the same time, “Shellburne.”

 

“Captain Goree, find the dog.” Longstreet turned around as he issued the order harshly to his aide. Taking Pickett by the arm he led him back to the tent where Lieutenant Francis waited. 

 

7777777

 

~Slap~

 

“I ask again, lieutenant, your name?” a tall, lanky man, dressed in a Confederate Major’s uniform angrily asked. 

 

“Dent, Lieutenant Dent.” The prisoner answered through bleeding lips. His whole body hurt, for the last day and a half he had been taking a beating at the hands of the major and his men. He tried to raise his hands to the side of his head, to stop the pounding, but two strong arms held him in place.  The young Union soldier’s eyes wildly searched the tent, settling on the occupied chair in the corner.

 

The chair where the young union boy’s greatest fear, a man with the eyes of the devil, sat. The rebel, dressed in a neat, clean colonel’s uniform, quietly sat, watching as his younger brother tormented the union boy once again.  Colonel Clayton Shellburne sat studying the young union officer as his brother, Charles, instructed one of his men to hit the boy in the ribs again and again, leaving the young man fighting for breath.  A small trail of blood continued to drip from the corner of the boy’s mouth.

 

Shaking his head, the rebel officer promptly stood ready to once again call a halt to the beating when movement from the tent’s entrance caught his eyes.  In a low, odious voice the Colonel yelled towards the young rebel soldier shuffling his feet back and fourth at the tent’s opening, “Come in and stand at attention, boy.”  Promptly the young soldier entered the tent as ordered.

 

The young blond haired rebel raised a shaking arm up to salute the officers and stuttered in a squeaking voice, “Sirr… you… you… General Hood reqqqqqqessts yourrrrrrr presencessss.”  The blond rebel stepped closer inside the tent, handing the colonel the dispatch to read.  His light blue eyes roamed the tent, taking in the condition of the union soldier.  

 

Clayton read the dispatch and almost laughed, his gray eyes danced with pleasure, “Heth thinks he has the Blue Ghost and wants to know if I will come over to his camp and collect him.”  He quickly tore up the dispatch and glanced back over to the young blond.  For a moment Clayton could of sworn the young man’s light blue eyes turned dark gray when they fell upon the wounded prisoner’s bloody face. “Your name, boy,” Clayton snarled.

 

“Ltttt… Ffffffrancis  “ Once again the blond soldier stuttered his words nervously as he backed his way towards the tent’s entrance.

 

“Don’t move, boy.” Clayton shouted, bringing the young rebel to a standstill.   Slowly, the colonel turned and approached the tormented boy, lying beaten and bloody in the dirt.

 
The young blond rebel, his uniform two sizes too big, making him look younger then he really was, stood at the back of the tent, silently watching as the Colonel towered over the Union boy.  The youthful rebel stared into Dent’s wild, confused eyes, hoping to give the Union boy strength and courage to hold out till help arrived.  

 

Clayton looked over his shoulder at the blond Rebel; there was something about the blond that made the Rebel colonel nervous.  Shifting his slim body around, Clayton looked back down at the union boy.  Slowly he leaned over and ran his finger down the boy’s pale, bloody cheek.  Catching the boy’s eyes with his own, he said, “vous avez le garcon des yeux de votre mere.”

 
With a final grunt at not finding what he was seeking, the Colonel turned back towards his Rebel brother, the major, and said, “You’re wasting my time Charles. This boy is not the Union’s Ange de la Mort.  You can see it in his eyes. He has not seen death or held it close to his heart.” Reaching over he ran his fingers through the dirty, blood caked hair before adding, “You’re your father’s son. You have his courage, boy.”

 

 The Colonel turned around to face his brother once again and added, “See that you don’t go too far in your thirst for revenge against the father. Don’t be fooled into believing that the father will come running to rescue the boy this time, Charles.”

 

The Colonel walked out of the tent, lost in thought, motioning the blond Rebel to follow. Clayton knew his younger brother Charles was insane and would end up beating the boy to death, bringing down the wrath of the Blue Ghost on his young, foolish head after the war was over.   No, the Blue Ghost wouldn’t turn his back on his duty… on Grant, but once his duty to the man was done, his fury would be directed at the younger Rebel officer.

 

Clayton wondered if he could talk General Lee into handing the boy over to him, getting him away from his crazed brother. And if he was really, really lucky, Grant, in his attempt to help his friend the Blue Ghost, would send the Ange de la Mort to rescue his friend’s son. Lost in thought, Clayton never noticed the blond Rebel slowly moving in the opposite direction, blending into the mass of exhausted, tattered Rebels lining the countryside.

 

The Colonel’s cold gray eyes stared across the field towards the Union lines. Somewhere across the field; near the small town of Gettysburg, sat one of his nemeses, John Buford.  The old horse soldier would get Grant to send Ange de la Mort.  An evil grin pulled at Colonel Clayton Shellburne’s lips, he changed directions in mid-stride and made his way around camp to find General Lee.

 

7~7~7

 The Colonel’s words echoed in Dent’s mind as he tried to focus and ride out the pain. As soon as his older brother had left, the major had returned to torturing him once again.  He tried to raise his hands to the side of his head to stop the pounding, but two sets of strong arms grab his shoulders and forcibly picked him up off the floor and held him in place. His right leg burned like it was on fire, as renewed wetness trickled down his leg.

 

He thought he had stopped the bleeding. Dry blood was caked down his face, along his cheekbone and down his neck where, a few days ago, a cannon shell had nearly took his head off.  Not wanting the major to know how badly he was hurt, the lieutenant put his full weight on the leg, his face turned pallid, an unhealthy gray color.  The young union soldier was exhausted, bloodied and confused. ‘Why was he here? Why were these men hurting him?’  

 

~Slap… Slap~

 

“Don’t lie to me boy, your name?” the Major yelled.

The Union prisoner said nothing, just stared at the Confederate officer, his eyes fixed on the small locket hanging from the broad red sash around the Major’s waist. His mother’s locket, the locket they ripped from around his neck.

 

Two days ago he was with the two men who had been captured with him, gathered with all the other Union prisoners. Then the Confederates separated the officers from the enlisted men. That is when they came…the men…the men who wore the neat, clean gray uniforms.

 

Again they were separated, this time by rank. Standing in a long line, each man was questioned, one by one, starting with the majors and working down. Every officer was bodily searched at gunpoint, and then released to go back to the other prisoners. When they reached him, he stared and refused to answer any questions, just like the officers before him.

 

His heart started to race. no matter how hard he tried to stay calm. He knew who they were looking for, the man who kept slipping through Confederate lines, the man the Confederates called the Blue Ghost. He searched his mind to see if he had anything on him that would give his father away. When the hands grabbed him to start their search, he was satisfied that he had nothing, he only had his mother’s locket…. 

 

~Slap… Slap… Slap~

 

A pool of green defiantly looked up at the Major, for a second the man looked familiar. Then it was gone, lost in painful memories. With all the courage he had, he spit into the Confederate man’s face. The spit, mixed with blood, ran down the Major’s face.

 

~Slap… Slap… Slap… Slap~

 

“Say it…just say the damn name,” the Major roared as he reached up and encircled the Lieutenant’s neck with his bare hands. The major’s thoughts went to the golden locket tied to his sash and the young, beautiful woman pictured inside.

 

His brother, Clayton was right. The boy had her coloring, her yellow hair and pretty green eyes; this could be his son. No, the boy held his gaze with the defiant look of his father.  Should this have been his son?  As he placed his fingers around the boy’s neck, it was the boy who stood in front of him but he envisioned the man he had pledged to destroy.  The man who had stolen his life, stole his woman.

 

Loosing control, the Major started to squeeze and squeeze. The young Lieutenant soon found his hands free as the two soldiers holding him backed away from the outraged major. Instantaneously, the lieutenant’s hands flew to his throat, clawing at the hands squeezing the life out of him.

 

As darkness closed in and surrounded the Lieutenant’s mind, he finally choked out, “Larabee.  My name is Larabee.” He heard a sickly laugh as the pressure was released from around his neck and he fell to his knees, taking deep breaths into his starved lungs. Handprints of blue and green started to appear around his neck.

 

Without lifting his head, Larabee heard the mad man moving away from him, and then returning. Shaking his head, he subconsciously tried to edge back away from the pain he knew was coming. He soon found his head tilted up with a barrel of a revolver. He looked up at the major’s face, and saw that he was about to die. Shutting his eyes, he tried to turn his head to the side. “Father, remember me”, the young lieutenant whispered.

 

~Click... Click~

 

He waited for the pain, waited. Then he felt a presence surrounding him, a warm embrace, one he hadn’t felt in a long time, comforting him, holding him from harm. Slowly, the darkness claimed the young man as he fell forward into the angelic arms of his dead Mother.

 

“Back away, Shellburne, or I swear to God I’ll put a bullet between your eyes,” Longstreet calmly ordered, walking all the way into the tent.

 

“NO… you have no right here,” Major Shellburne yelled, his revolver still pointed at the unconscious lieutenant’s head. With the madness crawling back into the corner it was released from, Shellburne’s quick witted mind snapped into place. “I have General Lee’s permission to question the prisoners.” His snarl turned into a sneer as Longstreet’s revolver wavered. Longstreet would never go against the Old Man. Shellburne’s head snapped up at the next hard voice he heard, his eyes going wide.

 

“By God Sir, move away from the boy or I’ll…. put a bullet into your blackened heart.” George Pickett’s voice was cold and hard as he moved to stand to the right of Longstreet. Right behind him, to the left stood Goree, his revolver covering the other two soldiers. After what happened yesterday with Pickett’s brigade, Shellburne knew that Pickett would carry out his threat. Slowly, Shellburne threw his revolver across the tent, and gestured to his men to get out.

 

“T.J.,go get the horses,” Longstreet quietly commanded his captain, leaving just the three old friends. George moved to stand in front of Shellburne, his gun pointing at the major’s chest, forcing the man to back away.

 

“General Lee will hear of this,” Shellburne shouted as he moved to leave the tent.

 

“Charles,” Longstreet called to his one time friend. At the soft calling of his name, Shellburne stopped, but didn’t turn around. “For god sakes man, look what you have done, what you have become. Have you lost your entire sense of Honor? Elena would never have wanted you to be this bitter; she loved you like a brother.  I loved you like a brother.”

 

“This. Is. War.” Shellburne snarled back. “That so called boy is the key to break the Blue Ghost’s back and I will have him- mark my word. Go ahead, take him with you, but don’t fool yourself, Pete. Lee will order you to hand him back over to me or worst, hand him to Clayton.  I won’t give him up, I’ll have my bait, the traitor will come running to save his son, just like he did when…” Shellburne stopped, he almost said too much.

 

“Like when you killed his wife,” Longstreet said, through clenched teeth. The gun in his hand pointed back at Shellburne, his fingers ready to release the trigger.

 

“You have no witnesses, just the accursed word of that traitor,” Shellburne whispered. “I never touched her.” He closed his eyes and saw the young mother holding her son in her arms singing, in that sweet lovely voice of hers. “I loved her and my…Damn you, Longstreet. I’ll have my revenge.” Shellburne snarled as he pushed his way out of the tent.

 

They did not have much time; Shellburne would be back. Longstreet moved over to where George was now bent down, turning the young lieutenant over to see if the boy was still alive. Longstreet held his breath until the younger general nodded his head, yes. The boy was a mess; his once blue uniform was covered in mud and blood. Bending down next to his friend, he watched as George slowly took out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the boy’s head. 

 

“Is it he?” George Pickett asked, for he never had an opportunity to meet Elena’s only child. Together the two officers examined the boy.

 

“Yes, this is Christopher, Elena’s child. George, what are we going to do with him?” Longstreet’s eyes pleaded with his long time friend as he looked down upon his beloved sister’s only child for the first time in years.

 

Longstreet reached into his gray longcoat and pulled out a cream handkerchief that had ‘JL’ embroidered delicately in gold thread, a gift from his sister. Gently he wiped along the left side of Christopher’s bloodstained cheek, turning the handkerchief to an ugly brownish color.  As he attended the unconscious boy, Longstreet was amazed at how much Christopher resembled his mother, Elena Larabee. Longstreet’s eyes turned red and watery as he remembered the few cherished memories he had of his sister.

 

It was autumn of 1847, the Mexican War was winding down, and the commanding generals planned to have the men home by the end of February.  Elena had traveled home to their paternal grandfather’s plantation near Edgefield, South Carolina, for a visit. At the same time, Longstreet had been granted leave from his post in Mexico. It was the first time he had the opportunity to spend time with his nephew, the four-year-old child, Christopher.

 

Tyrone and Elena had been married after a yearlong courtship. The couple kept the engagement a secret until Tyrone had graduated from West Point, third in his class. James had considered the couple too young to be married. Tyrone had barely turned twenty-one and James’s strong-willed little sister, seventeen. But the two were inseparable, like one soul, in harmony when together, torn in half, lost and in pain when apart. At first, James had feared that Elena would marry Stuart Shellburne’s youngest son, Charles. The dashing Charles had filled young Elena’s head with stories of romance and adventure about the British courts and grand parties in Richmond. The young girl hung on every word Charles spoke, listening as young girls usually do.

 

James had been relieved when at a gathering of friends and family, his quiet, gentle friend, Ulysses S. Grant, had come to his rescue and asked permission to introduce a young cadet named Tyrone Larabee to Elena. The girl was promptly drawn to the coy, dark haired cadet and Tyrone had instantly fallen in love with the blonde girl as she tripped over her tiny feet in her excitement to properly curtsy to her bother’s friends, her green eyes flooded with embarrassment. With a timid smile, Tyrone had immediately asked the young blonde for the next waltz.

 

Later that night, Longstreet remembered his friend Grant, had pulled him aside, chuckling and said how handsome the young couple looked as they danced their second waltz. James turned to observe Tyrone in his dark blue military uniform, with his sister Elena, dressed in pale chiffon blue, and had to agree with his friend. They all failed to notice Charles, off to the side, glaring hard at the couple, his eyes full of hatred for the young cadet and his face red from what he saw as Elena’s betrayal.

 

A few months later, with James’s support, Tyrone had asked Augustus Longstreet for Elena’s hand in wedlock. The two shy people were perfect for each other, madly in love. Unfortunately, Tyrone was not the only man to ask for Elena’s hand in marriage. James had gone to school with the other man, Charles Shellburne and had regarded him suspiciously, knowing the man was only in love with the Longstreet’s name and wealth. He had also heard the rumors through the years of Charles’s high gambling debts in New Orleans. James had surmised that the Shellburnes needed Elena’s rather large dowry to keep their tobacco plantation running. James had told his father of his reservations about Shellburne and after careful judgment, and tears from Elena, Augustus consented, giving cadet Larabee permission to court and marry his young daughter. 

 

However, the Shellburne family didn’t take the announcement of Elena’s impending wedding gracefully. Thinking to humiliate Tyrone and force Elena’s hand in marriage, Shellburne’s youngest, Charles, along with his older brother had confronted Tyrone. James remembered it well; it was hard to forget the sight of Tyrone holding Charles by the throat against the marble fireplace. James had heard Tyrone’s teeth grinding as he and Grant entered the parlor at Raven Hurst. John Buford stood guarding his back against Clayton Shellburne.

 

The two older officers moved to intervene when Tyrone snarled into Charles’s face, his teeth shining through his wolfish grin. James had made his way to Tyrone’s side, when the cadet suddenly tore off the glove on his right hand and like a raptor striking its prey, reached back to slap Charles across the face.

 

A shiver went through James’s body as Charles waited for the young man to call him out. Whatever Charles had said, this had been the wanted outcome, a duel, with Charles having the choice of his favorite weapons, sabers.

 

James reached out and grabbed Tyrone in a bear hug, and pulled him away from Charles just before the glove struck the man’s cheek, the glove floated to the floor.  James could feel the young man’s body shake with rage, as he demanded to be release between snarled threats, and calling Charles a liar, a coward. 

 

With his hands full, James failed to stop Tyrone’s fellow cadet, John Buford, from maneuvering around him to take his friend’s place. Buford rested his right hand on his saber attached to his waist; unlike his friend Tyrone, John Buford was an expert with the saber. Buford never touched Charles, but whatever he said reflected in the coward’s face as Charles nodded his head up and down.

 

The men could see Charles’s adams apple moving as he cleared his throat, and in a quaking voice, retracted what he had said earlier and apologized to his fellow officers for his rudeness. Tyrone’s predator eyes burned into Charles’s back as the coward and his older brother retreated from the parlor, leaving Raven Hurst to return home. James never learned what Charles had said that night.    

 

Longstreet turned his memories away from that terrible night to more pleasant memories and remembered that Tyrone had been the first of his brothers to marry and the first to have a child. Looking down at his unconscious nephew, James’ memories flashed back again to their last visit and how happy he was when Elena had pulled her little bundle of joy from behind her skirt and introduced the child. James never forgot that week as Elena’s little imp followed him everywhere, especially when he went out to the stables where young Christopher was forbidden to go.

 

The child had no fear, and before the sun went down on the first night of his mother’s visit home, the toddler had been caught crawling under the fences to pet the plantation’s stud horses. Longstreet had heard the commotion coming from the horses’ stalls and quickly grabbed his musket from over the fireplace and ran out the door. Assuming that a pack of hungry wolves were on the hunt, James’ first thought had been to head over to the corral full of mares with their young colts. He was still on the porch directing the other men when he heard his sister’s cry. “My baby! Where’s my baby?” 

 

A cold hand grabbed his heart as he raced to the horses’ pens. He threw the musket down before he jumped the top rail. Landing on his feet, James moved slowly so as not to startle the two-year-old black colt nuzzling the four-year old boy. The child had turned at the sound of his footsteps and with a playful giggle reached out for his uncle to pick him up. Longstreet grabbed the boy away from the colt as Elena flew out of the main house, screaming Christopher’s name.  He carried the boy over to the fence and handed him to his terrified mother. Her beautiful face streaked with tears, Elena clutched her son to her bosom. Christopher sucked on his right thumb as his left fingers played with his mother’s golden hair, happily content.

James chuckled as he remembered the little boy, so full of life running in the yard the next day as if nothing had happened. Elena lovingly kept a watchful eye on him as he chased butterflies or happily jumped up and down, clapping his hands together, yelling ‘horsy…. horsy’ as the plantation stud horses trotted by.

 

A single tear ran down his cheek as he remember the last night of Elena’s visit, they had a family picnic and Elena had dressed up the toddler as a cowboy and had made him a stuffed pony stick. The pony was black and white with a long black mane. Julia Dent, his cousin, had made the trip over from White Haven, the Dent family plantation, near St. Louis. The two women had spent their day laughing and giggling as they made plans for Julia’s up coming wedding to his friend, Sam Grant, in late August. 

 

Tragedy struck a few months later. The two newly promoted Lieutenants, Tyrone and Buford, were heading home to Raven Hurst to celebrate Tyrone’s son’s fifth birthday. Tagging along were Tyrone’s mentor and friend, Sam Grant, along with Tyrone’s brother in-law, James Longstreet.

 

James remembered how much Tyrone was looking forward to celebrating his young son’s birthday. They had spent the night in Galveston so that Tyrone could pick up the surprise present he had specially made for his small boy, leather cowboy boots. They were black, to go with the black and white pony stick that Elena had written and told him about.

 

The men laughed and joked as they made their way past the main house and rode to the two-story cottage were Elena had set up residence. Tyrone was the first off his horse. He quickly tied the reins to the post and ran two steps at a time to stand on the porch as he impatiently waited for his friends, waving them to hurry up so they could surprise his family together. Tyrone opened the door slowly and walked ahead, as he had wanted his face to be the first that his dear Elena saw.

 

Longstreet closed his heart to what he remembered next, Tyrone had gestured for them to go to the parlor to wait and he would go find his wife and son. Tyrone never looked into the parlor as he went down the hall towards the kitchen. The other three men stood in shock looking at the overturned chairs and shattered glass dishes laying on the floor, party decorations torn in half. The most disturbing sight, the small crumbled birthday cake resting where it had been destroyed, a bloody knife shoved in the middle. Taking charge, Grant motioned Longstreet to follow his brother in-law and then he pointed over to indicate that he was going to check the second floor and for Buford to follow Longstreet. Dreading what they would find, the men pulled out their revolvers and made their way out of the parlor. Grant was half way up the long staircase when he heard Tyrone’s cries of grief, and Buford’s shouts of “Find the boy… find the baby.”

 

Longstreet’s memories turned dark, as dark as the room where he had fallen against the wall, his hands covering his pale, tear stained face as his brother in-law, rocked back and forth, as he held Elena tightly against his chest. 

 

Tyrone’s painful voice filled the room as he choked and weakly whispered for Elena not to leave him.  Pete had looked across the room when he heard John Buford’s outcry and a moment later John pulled a small bundle out of the lower cupboard under the wash bin.

 

Sam Grant ran down the stairs at the sound of John’s cry, and found a sleeping, tear streaked faced toddler wrapped within Buford’s arms. With the other two men watching, John Buford carefully bent down beside Tyrone, holding out his son for him to see that the boy was alive.  Tyrone reached out to gently brush the golden curls framing his baby’s face with his finger.

 

Little Christopher slowly opened his eyes when he felt the touch on his cheek and released a terrified scream of terror. Tyrone heard his son’s terror and instantly reached out for him. John handed the boy to his father, as Grant helped lower Elena’s lifeless body to the ground and used his long coat to cover her. The screams turned to muffled whimpering as Christopher stuck his right thumb into his mouth. Exhausted, Christopher cried himself to sleep. The four men watched the sleeping child, knowing full well that the screams of terror meant that the little boy had witnessed the murder of his mother.  

 

The weight of George’s solid hand on his shoulder drew Longstreet from his dark memories. “Pete…” George started to answer his friend’s question about what to do with the boy, but stopped at the sounded of whimpering coming from the lieutenant. 

 

Christopher moaned again as the two officers continued to poke and prod his body. As they examined his side, he felt a sharp pain, he couldn’t stop the painful moan that escaped his lips; he forced his eyes open halfway. He barely made out the two older faces hovering over him. The concern in their eyes made him feel safe, until he glimpsed the gray uniforms and he mouthed, No, please no more. He tried to crawl away, but gentle hands stopped him from moving. He struggled under the hands holding him down. He had to run and hide. His Mama was crying, telling him to hide from the bad man. He couldn’t hear the two officers trying to calm him down. All he heard was his mama yelling for him to run and hide in the cupboard, and wait for Papa. Papa was coming to save them.

 

Christopher glanced around the tent, past the gray uniforms with the eyes of a child looking for his Pa, but like before, his father was gone. He had failed to save them, save her, save him. Longstreet and Pickett watched as the boy’s eyes rolled up in his head and he fell back. unconscious.

 
Longstreet gathered Christopher into his large arms; slowly he got up on his feet. The boy’s head lay against his shoulder. Even unconscious, Christopher’s body trembled.  Longstreet tightened his grip, as he looked down on Christopher’s blood caked face. The boy deserved a chance to live, and if Shellburne got his hands on him again, his nephew wouldn’t last a fortnight. The mad dog would sweep in and destroy the boy, piece by piece and not because he wore blue and fought for the Union, Shellburne was too consumed with his hatred of the boy’s father for stealing what he thought was his, Elena. Shellburne would use the boy to snare the father, not for the war, or honor, but for his thirst for revenge. Longstreet made a hard decision; he would not give the boy over to Shellburne. Lee could order it, but then, Longstreet decided, he would resign and Lee wouldn’t let that happen, would he? 

 

 “Well, Sir, LaSalle would love to have him.”

 

George stood by Longstreet’s side watching the conflict pass over his face, honor or duty. Hand Elena’s son over to Shellburne, or give him a chance to survive this infernal war between, friends, brothers, sons and fathers. George smiled showing his ivory teeth as unrelenting determination showed in Pete’s eyes. His general had made his decision. 

 

Longstreet shook his head no, he knew that George’s young wife LaSalle would take care of Christopher, but without the two men there to protect them, the two would always be in danger. George had lost too much in the past few days for Pete to put his friend’s young wife in harms way. There was only one place for Christopher to be safe; a plan formulated in Longstreet’s mind, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Turning, he told Pickett, "We take him home.” 

 

7777777

 

July 5th 1863

 

Buford was exhausted; his shoulder wound still ached, as if there was more shrapnel still embedded deep inside.  It had been a long muggy ride as the 1st Cavalry Division snipped at the heels of the retreating Confederate army. His two brigades were weary, spent. He ordered the two brigades to stop and they settled into the small town in Maryland called Frederick for the night.

 

A slight breeze cooled Buford’s face as he sat on a chair outside his tent, smoking his old pipe. Earlier in the day, Colonel Wesley Merritt arrived with Buford’s third brigade. Merritt’s regulars joined in the search around town, looking to refit the brigades with horses and supplies. After the town was searched, Sergeant Wilmington had brought forth a civilian carrying passes from both General Lee and Longstreet. Buford had simply said to hang him and be done with it, turning his attention back to reading his papers. It didn’t take long and Sergeant Wilmington was back, this time with his lunch. Buford just sighed and looked over at Myles Keogh as he shuffled his feet from side to side. The young captain was becoming frustrated with the sergeant. The man was becoming a nuisance, taking over his job.

 

Buck Wilmington smiled at Keogh as he carefully placed the dinner plate with beans and a little corn in front of Buford and unfolded the napkin.  Placing the fork next to the plate, Buck started to move forward so that he could tuck the napkin under his General’s chin but stopped at the look in Buford’s eyes daring him to try. Buford’s eyes turn the color of coal, as Keogh turned and glared at the red faced Wilmington. The laughter in Keogh’s eyes slipped out of his lips in the form of a deep cough. Raising his hands in defeat, Keogh rolled his eyes and walked away before Buford had a chance to start yelling. 

 

Lowering his head to hide his embarrassment, Buck dropped the napkin into Buford’s lap. The old man, for that is what Buford’s men called him, even if he was only thirty-seven, didn’t understand that Buck was just trying to keep his promise to Lieutenant Larabee. Even though having only just met the Lieutenant, Buck felt the tug of friendship form between the two, and refused to let the man down. Buck hadn’t given up hope that the Lieutenant would be found. All morning, the two brigades had stumbled across Union soldiers escaping the fleeing Confederate army.  Buck turned around at the sound of some approaching men and moved to stand at Buford’s right, his hand resting on the butt of his revolver.

 

Colonel Gamble prowled towards Buford, slapping his hat against his breeches, releasing a cloud of dust in the air. His eyes twinkled at the sight of Wilmington standing guard over Buford; the old man deserved it. Keogh must be having a fit, Gamble thought. The three brigades couldn’t afford to lose their general, not now, not after what they all had been through in the last few months. “General, Sir. I’m afraid we found another spy.” Gamble pointed over to the tall, dark haired man surround by a couple of his 8th Illinois soldiers. “Found him asking questions around town. Funny thing, Sir, he was only asking the civilians about Thomas’s brigade. We searched him, General sir, and under that large ugly coat of his is a Confederate officer’s uniform, a captain. He keeps repeating that it’s very important that he talks to you.”

 

“Colonel, we don’t have time for this, hang him from that tree.” Buford said. He was in a foul mood and pointed over to the tall oak tree in the courtyard to the right.  

As if he knew that his brigade was being talked about, Thomas Devin galloped into view. Tilting his head up, John Buford shook his head in amazement, for somehow, Devin had found another gray horse. Coming to a halt, Devin jumped down off the horse and stalked towards him. “Devin,” Buford said to the roused Colonel.

“Sir, the pickets are deployed and we picked up a few more of our boys wandering the countryside. Two of the escaping men are from my brigade, and there was a major with them, one of Cutler’s commanders.” Devin moved closer to Buford, so that only he could hear what he was about to say, his voice low and hard. “Buford, this major said that there was a rumor going around the prisoners that the Rebel had caught the Blue Ghost at Gettysburg.” Both men knew that was not true. The Ghost was down in Louisiana, near the Mississippi line in Vicksburg with General Grant. Devin’s eyes were full of sorrow as he said, “My boys, McKenna and Danielson, said they were captured with Christopher. He was alive as of three days ago. John, you know who they will turn him over to.” The moisture in Buford’s eyes betrayed his inner emotions as his rigid expression softened for the first time in days. “Damn Shellburne’s black soul to hell,” Devin hissed under his breath, before saying, “Sir, we need to discover if the devil is in the area.”

 

Devin felt Gamble grip his shoulder and both turned and gave a momentary glance over to the oak tree where a few minutes before, Buford had ordered the spy to be hung. Buford frowned, and he followed their fixed glare. Standing, Buford advanced toward the tree with the two colonels moving fast to keep up.

 

Goree was worried, what if Longstreet was wrong about Buford, as they tied the rope around his neck. He was pulled around and his leg lifted as two Union soldiers struggled to get his foot in the stirrup.  Well, he wasn’t going to help the two imbeciles, and he let his foot slip out. The two soldiers started to argue on how to get him up on the horse to hang the man, when Buford stepped in view. Waving the soldiers off, Buford turned and faced Goree. The two men stood a foot apart. Buford looked over the frail man. The Confederate captain didn’t look like he had eaten in days, and his long dark hair was matted as were his long sideburns. 

 

The young Texan stood at attention as the four men surrounded him. He knew the man puffing the pipe was Buford. The clean-shaven colonel was Devin; a trooper had pointed him out earlier. The other colonel had to be Gamble. The fourth was too young to be of any importance, however when the sergeant grabbed the rope around Goree neck, the Texan thought to himself, well, maybe not the least. A fifth man, a captain, hustled over.

 

“Where is he?” Wilmington asked in an ill-tempered growl. At the same time, his hands tighten the rope around the captain’s neck.

 

“Sergeant Wilmington, he can’t answer you if he can’t breathe,” Buford stated.

 

“Yes, sir,” Wilmington reluctantly let go of the rope.

 

“Now, sir, what is your name?” Buford asked.

 

“Captain Goree at your service, sir.” His Texas drawl deepened, for he was nervous and feared that Buford wouldn’t catch on. “General James Longstreet’s aide, sir.”  His fears heighten when Buford stepped right up into his face and glared into his eyes, searching.

 

“Where and when?” Buford asked with the foresight that he was famous for.

 

“Sir?” Both Colonels asked as at the same time. Only Sergeant Wilmington kept silent. A slow grin spread across the Sergeant’s face as he realized what was going to happen. He turned and ran to get the horses.

 

7777777

 

It was midnight before Buford, and the three men accompanying him, made it to the small meadow, five miles behind the Confederate Army’s main body, just north of Harpers Ferry.  Raindrops fell from the sky, soaking the men’s uniforms, leaving them cold and weary.  They were off the main road, riding through the trees. The mud was making it hard for the horses to travel any faster.

 

Finally, Buford stopped and pulled his field glasses out of their pouch to scan the far trees for any movement. Behind him, Wilmington held the reins of Captain Goree’s horse and behind him was Keogh. Bringing up the rear, against Buford’s wishes, was Devin. Buford almost had a revolt on his hands, as all three colonels, haggled, pleaded and debated who was to go. It had turned into a free-for-all with Devin coming out on top. It took all of Merritt’s willpower to hold the three brigades back from following after Buford.

 

It only took a moment for Buford to spot the signal; they were at the rendezvous point. The group of men slowly made their way around to the signal.

 

Causally, Buck wrapped a white cloth around a stick and waved it in the air. A white cloth was waved back. Buford’s black gelding sidestepped closer to Buck and Buford grabbed the stick, with Devin following. The two men leisurely proceeded to enter the camp. Buck gave Keogh a strange look, then both men settled down with Goree between them and they waited.

 

Longstreet waited, shrouded in darkness as the two men on horseback enter the camp. The two Union soldiers sat tall in their saddles, unmoving. Longstreet slowly made out which one was Buford when the man reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe, lighting it and casually taking a puff.  Longstreet stepped out from under the tree, moving closer to the fire. A shadow moved to stand to his left. Another shadow moved to stand to his right, just behind the tree line. “John,” Longstreet called out.

 

“Pete,” Buford answered sliding off his horse, Devin doing the same. “May I introduce Colonel Thomas Devin.” Devin tilted his head, not moving from his horse’s side.  Buford’s dark eyes looked past Longstreet, waiting.

 

“Sir,” Longstreet acknowledged. “John, you know George,” He gestured with his left hand as Pickett moved to stand in the light. “Behind me is Lieutenant Francis, one of John Hood’s boys.” Longstreet waved to his right. However, the lieutenant didn’t move forward. Longstreet looked past the Union men, to where the three men waited, off in the bushes. “Captain Goree?” Longstreet asked.

 

“Christopher?” Buford asked in return, his eyes never leaving the Lieutenant. His eyes followed the Rebel as he bent to his knee by a dark bundle lying on the ground. “Christopher,” Buford whispered, making his way past the two Confederate men, toward the bundle. He bent down next to the lieutenant and placed his hand on the trembling body wrapped tightly in the blanket and got his first really good look at the Lieutenant Francis. Looking up, Buford gave Devin a  prearranged signal that all was well and that they were not walking into a Rebel trap.

 

Devin waved to the men waiting with Goree to move forward. The three moved in. Buck and Keogh stopped next to the horses, behind Devin. Goree continued forward and rode his horse past the fire. When he reached the other side, he stopped the horse and slid off the saddle to stand behind Longstreet.  All the men were quiet, as Buford checked Christopher over. “He’s running a fever,” Buford said. His eyes drilled into Longstreet after seeing the dark bruises around the boy’s neck.

 

“Take him and go….  Charles Shellburne is not far behind.” Longstreet told him, his voice low, embarrassed. Buford’s eyes turned hard, holding his temper from lashing out. Now wasn’t the time to talk about betrayal, lost love or what could have been. Or, more importantly, forgiveness. John didn’t have the right to grant Longstreet forgiveness. Longstreet had broken the vow he made as a Cadet at the Point; turned his back on his country, his friends, their pack of brotherhood and honor. 

 

Buford turned his back on Longstreet and moved to gather Christopher in his arms and was stopped by the Lieutenant Francis’ left hand on his wounded shoulder.  Realizing what their general was about to attempt, Devin and Keogh instantly flew out of their saddles and moved in to take Buford’s place.  With help from the Francis, they moved the wounded boy over to Buck’s horse. They paused as the sergeant jumped off his mare. It took all three to get Christopher on the horse, and then Buck slipped back into the saddle as Buford and the Lieutenant Francis leaned Christopher forward. Once on the mare, Buck wrapped his left arm around the wounded man’s waist, holding him in place. Francis bowed and then shook Buford’s hand pressing a small note into the Union General hand before he turned and moved back into the shadows.  Devin mounted his own horse waiting for Buford. They had to leave soon, while it was still dark to give them cover.  Buford stood still while watching the retreating foam of the young man dressed in the Confederate uniform, carefully concealing the small note in his coat pocket.

 

“John,” Longstreet called. Buford stopped and turned around to listen. “Tell Tyrone, Shellburne killed Elena. I know it now; saw it in the devil’s eyes. I’m sorry, I should have believed him.”

 

“God willing, you will be able to tell him yourself Pete after the war is over,” Buford said, releasing his anger toward the big man as he mounted his horse. “Take care, Pete,” he called back over his shoulder. The group slowly moved off towards the North heading back towards Union lines and home.

 

 

7777777

 

July 8th 1863

 

“Sir, these dispatches just arrived for General Grant,” the brown haired Lieutenant Thomason announced as he entered the large library that was now the new command center for the Union officers of the Army of Tennessee. The library was in a courthouse, sitting tall on a hill, in a town called Vicksburg, on the Louisiana- Mississippi border. Confederate General Pemberton had surrendered the town after the 47-day siege. The Union Army now had control of the Mississippi River, being able to put a chokehold around the Rebel throat.

 

Young Lieutenant Thomason instantly handed the dispatches over to Colonel Rawlins, General Ulysses Grant’s chief of staff. The Lieutenant immediately saluted as he saw who was behind Rawlins, Major General William Tecumseh Sherman and beside him was Major General Philip Henry Sheridan. There were too many generals in the room and the startled Lieutenant retreated back out the door as fast as his legs would permit. The force of will of the officers in the room was smothering.

 

Cracking a grin, Rawlins laughed at the terrified lieutenant, and then headed over to stand in front of General Ulysses Grant sitting behind a deep mahogany desk. The three Generals’ emotions were running wild, except for the officer who always stood apart, the one in the shadows. The one man that made Rawlins uneasy and awkward and a little bit nervous to be around. It was a rare occurrence for Rawlins to be in the same room with the officer the Confederates called the Blue Ghost.

 

Grant never looked up, only held out this hand, palm up.  Rawlins handed the four dispatches over, and waited. Grant glanced at the top dispatch. It was from Washington. He sighed, and then shuffled it to the bottom of the other three. The next one made his hands shake; it was addressed to a General TL Grant. All correspondents for the Blue Ghost went through Grant first. Very seldom did the man receive any personal letters and those that he did gain possession of were always cherished and read over and over again. General Grant glanced over toward the window seat, observing the weary soldier, his left hand stroking his chin before he handed the letter back to Rawlins and gestured towards the sleeping man. Grant quickly glanced at the next letter and from the writing style, the way the letters curved, Grant instantly knew the same man, John Buford, wrote them, a bad omen.

 

The fourth dispatch was the one Grant was waiting for and he tucked the letter from Gabriel into his coat packet to read in private. Grant grabbed his knife and opened the letter from Buford and started to read. The letter was to the point, a soldier’s letter in full detail. John left nothing out.

 

Rawlins glimpsed down at the dispatch, his face quivered in a nervous twitch as he read which officer to hand it to. With a short bow, the colonel moved across the room and placed the third dispatch on the window seat, next to the officer that seemed to be quietly sleeping against the window frame. Rawlins made his way back over to stand next to the brown stone hearth, not seeing the man’s hand move to retrieve the dispatch.

 

“I tell you again, Philip, though he has the high ground, George Meade will not attack. The man can’t make a decision to save his life. Lord, help those boys up in Gettysburg. Damn, where the hell is Reynolds?” William Sherman said, once again starting up their conversation the men were having before they were interrupted, thinking nothing of his brutal portrayal of Meade’s personality in front of his superior officer. Then he quickly added to his general, “I beg your pardon, sir.” However, Sherman was only sorry for the use of his crude language, for he knew General Grant detested rude manners. 

 

Grant paid him no attention.  He was too busy opening and reading the dispatch from Buford.

 
“Well, what I want to know is which Cavalry unit arrived in town and where is that popinjay, Jed Stuart?” Philip Sheridan asked as he arched over the desk, again glancing over the map of Gettysburg and the surrounding towns.  Sheridan was a cavalryman with a hot temper to match his strength of will, his drive to lead his men and his dedication to win the war. Both men turned their heads toward the general as Grant cleared his throat.

 

“Well, it has been confirmed Gentlemen, John Reynolds is dead, killed on the first day of the engagement,” Sam Grant told the men around the desk, in his low quiet voice. The men stood still for a moment. Reynolds had been a fine officer and gentleman. They all knew him. He had been a former commander of West Point and all three of the men around the desk had attended West Point. Grant continued to outline the 3-day battle on the map, ending with the soon to-be legendary details of ‘Pickett’s Charge’.

 

“Sir, what of the Confederate cavalry?” Sheridan asked, his rivalry with Stuart well known. 

 

“It looks like Stuart was off joy riding again, getting his name in the papers, leaving Lee blind,” Grant told him, pausing as he read the second page of the dispatch, this one more personal. The expression on this face deepened, his normally easygoing attitude tensed as if he was standing in front of a sea of infantry charging the gates of hell.

 

“And our boys?” Sheridan asked impatiently. Sherman slapped him on the back, chuckling. Both officers failed to notice the growing anger in Grant’s face, his hands clenching the letter tightly.

 

“Colonel Rawlins, would you please excuse us?” Grant politely ordered after placing Buford’s dispatch on the desk. Rawlins saluted and quickly left the room. “General Buford’s first and second Divisions were the first to enter Gettysburg,” Grant said, finally answering Sheridan. His eyes fell on the cavalry officer before they wandered to an area of the room that was not very lit, past the sitting chairs and stone fireplace. For a moment, he thought the shadow would move forward, but no, it only seemed to fold more into itself growing darker. Grant could only imagine the anguish his friend must be going through as he read his own letter. 

 

“Buford and his boys, thank God for small miracles. General Buford picked the high ground. I knew it,” Sheridan shouted excitedly. Sheridan held the old Dragoon in high esteem. His only worry was that Buford would get Jed Stuart before he did. From the start of the war, a rivalry had grown between the east and west cavalry divisions on who would capture the flag of the cavalier Stuart. 

 

“Sir, if you will excuses us, it’s time for Phillip and I to leave,” Sherman said, as his eyes fixed on where Grant was staring. Sherman had few friends, even less in the news world that depicted him as a heartless man with a brutal hand against human life. His expression soften for a millisecond, as he thought of his own weakness, his wife and babies. The ghost of the Union did have one weakness and as the shadow moved closer to the window, a silhouette of a man appeared with his head bowed and his left hand leaning on the glass for support. Trembling, the other hand was grasped firmly around the second dispatch.

 
Unaware of the sullen, dark mood that extended from the man by the window, Sheridan exclaimed, “What?” Then he too turned and followed Sherman’s gaze towards the dark corner. “Good God, I was wrong, I’m so sorry my friend. I should have said yes. I should have taken the boy with me.”  Sheridan thought as he turned back around and saw the moisture in Grant’s eyes for the first time.  He softly mumbled, “Yes, yes, you’re right, Will. Need to check the men. Sir.” Both men saluted and made their way out of the library, starting an argument on what they would have done if they were the ones leading the battle at Gettysburg. Leaving the two men alone, total silence filled the room. Only the sound of the crackling fire was heard.

 

Sam Grant could only stand the silence for so long and said, “John reports that his boys held the high ground for over three hours before the Iron Brigade showed up. His boys were under heavy fighting. He says here, he almost lost one of his colonels.” Grant’s finger outlined the letter as he continued to read quietly. He looked up and asked at one point, “By the way, do you know John’s Brigade commanders? What is up with Colonel Devin and gray horses?” Not expecting nor receiving an answer, he continued to read. 

 

After a few minutes, he stopped reading and stood up, walking over to the tall picture window, pulling the curtains open all the way, letting the light from the full moon shine in. Grant turned around and faced the man the Confederates called the Blue Ghost. The letter from Buford was held tightly against his chest, unopened. “Devin and some of his dismounted boys were about to be overrun when Christopher took charge. With Devin back with his mounted boys, Christopher led twenty soldiers in a charge, covering Devin’s retreat.” When he finished speaking, Grant stood, watching the man’s face for any signs of emotions. There was none, only the trembling of his hand against the glass.

 

Grant went on talking, “John says here, that Rebel prisoners reported that the Confederates captured the Blue Ghost at Gettysburg.” Grant paused and looked up, “Now, Tyrone, did you forget to tell me something about running around up north?” The man Grant called Tyrone shook his head no. Grant lifted Buford’s letter and started to read it again, when a hoarse voice finally spoke.

 

“Sam, just tell me… is my boy dead?”

 

“Read your letter, I’m sure John went into more details. He wrote that they got him back. I don’t know how, nor do I want to know. However, Christopher is alive and on his way to Julia at this very moment. The boy needs his father.” Grant shook his head sadly, as his friend Tyrone mouthed, no.

 

Grant surrounded himself with stubborn men, like Sherman and Sheridan. The obstinate men of Grant’s inner circle always found a way to get the job done, often at great personal loss Tyrone was the most stubborn, and only one other officer beside Tyrone, a young man named Gabriel, resisted Grant’s authority. This time, Grant hoped his young friend didn’t make the same tragic mistake that robbed him the life of his beloved wife, Elena. Grant glanced at the door, wondering if he shouldn’t have kept Sherman and Sheridan from leaving the room, before adding. “He is hurt bad, he may… Tyrone he may lose his leg.” Grant paused as Tyrone closed his eyes, giving the man time to get his emotions under control. Sam Grant cleared his throat, and when he felt his friend was ready, he added. “Seems Christopher was a guest of our old friend Major Shellburne before he fell into friendlier hands.” Grant watched his younger friend’s body stiffened and for the first time, his friend looked him right in the eyes. 

 

The moonlight lit up the man’s face as he moved from out of the shadows. The tall, dark chocolate haired man, dressed in Union blues, started to mumble under his breath as he made his way to the door. “I’m coming for you Shellburne, as God is my witness, I’ll kill you this time.”

 

“Major Larabee!” Grant said, his voice low-pitched, commanding, stopping the major in his tracks, “I gave you leave to visit your son, not to go hunting all over Virginia for Charles Shellburne.”

 

“You said Christopher is alive. He doesn’t need me, hasn’t since he was five,” Major Tyrone Larabee growled. Without turning around he headed towards the door.

 

“Good Lord, Tyrone. You can’t still be blaming the boy for surviving,” Grant inquired.

 

“No…. I don’t blame him, he was only a baby.” Tyrone paused, taking a cleansing breath before he circled around to face Grant. “I can’t, I just can’t go to him, not with Elena staring back at me through his eyes.  I loved her. I still love her, even after all these years.  I have an ache in my heart…. my soul, that even my life with Monique hasn’t been able to heal.  I miss Elena so. I just can’t forgive myself for what happened. I should have killed Shellburne when I had the chance. I should never have let Pete stop me.”

 

“Tyrone, you could never kill someone in cold blood. Pete was right at the time. You had no proof and young Christopher still doesn’t remember anything from that dreadful night when he and his mother were attacked. We had to let Shellburne go.”

 

“Sam, please don’t get in my way. What kind of father am I, if I keep letting a monster like Shellburne live? Don’t you understand? He tried to kill my son,” Tyrone pleaded.

 

“Sir, I will not let you destroy yourself and your good name. Good God, man, think of Monique and the baby,” Grant paused to let his young officer settle down and think about his wife and newborn child. “If you will not go see your son, then I have a new mission for you,” Grant said, his tone of voice left no room for argument.  Tyrone shook his head and walked to the door. When he opened it, Sherman and Sheridan blocked his way.

 

All three men moved back into the room and Sherman slowly shut the door behind them. “Going somewhere without us, Tyrone?” Sheridan asked. 

 

“Yes,” he answered, looking back over to Grant, “Sir, I know where my duty lies, give me two weeks. That’s all I ask.” His eyes pleaded with his general. “If I can’t protect my oldest child from this monster, how can I protect Monique and the baby, they are defenseless. It’s past time to put the murderous dog down.”

“No.” Grant’s word was final, he wasn’t going to let Tyrone run off and possibly get himself killed. “We both know Shellburne will be waiting for you.” Grant could see in Tyrone’s dark eyes that he was counting on it. “Given the opportunity, Charles struck where you were most vulnerable, hoping to lure you out in the open. But, we could use this to our advantage.”

 

“Sir?” said Tyrone.

 

“First we move Christopher to Whitehaven to recover.” Grant said as he fingered the letter in his packet. “I have the ideal officer in mind for the job.”  

 

“How will we turn my son… my son being tortured by those mad dogs into an advantage?” Tyrone growled through clenched teeth.

 

“Think, man. Mad dogs travel in packs and it is the head dog that I want to capture.” Grant said sternly, placing both hands, palms down loudly on the desk. “We must stop Clayton Shellburne’s reign of terror at all cost.”  The old general stopped speaking for a moment to give the younger officer time to get his emotions under control. “More important; we need to know how, and from whom, Clayton is getting his information on our troop movements.” Studying the three officers before him,  Grant slowly added, “My God gentlemen we have a leak in the upper echelon in Washington that could turn the tide of war towards the South’s favor.”

 

“At all cost.” Tyrone Larabee repeated his voice low and troubled.  “Clayton Shellburne has only one weakness and that is his good for nothing, dog of a brother, Charles.” The man the Rebels called the Blue Ghost closed his weary eyes; his clenched hands fell down to his sides. He opened and closed his fists as he fought to keep his temper under control. The Ghost’s forlorn, dark eyes finally looked into his commander’s face, “You want to use my son as bait to capture Charles, in hopes of drawing his older brother out of hiding.” Tyrone bowed his head in defeat. Once again, he was being asked to place his family in danger for duty and country. 

 

“General Grant, in all fairness, the Shellburne brothers are not stupid. I fear that it will take more than dangling young Christopher under the lead dog’s nose to draw Clayton out of his hole. The Rebels will know it is a trap.”  Sherman said, his voice deep with concern, placing his hand on the major’s tense shoulder.

 

“That is why, gentlemen, we up the ante. There is one man in the Union Army that Clayton wants to capture above all of us standing in this room.” Grant told them. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the fourth and last dispatch and read it over, keeping his growing anger off his face. Grant took his time reading Gabriel’s detailed report of what happened to Christopher while he was in the Rebels hands. Sadly, he shook his head at the plan the young spy, who was no older then his major’s wounded son, had come up with to catch the traitor in Washington. With a deep sigh, he finished and neatly folded the letter and replaced it in his pocket. Grant choked down the bile that rose from his stomach for what he was about to order,  “We give him Gabriel.”

 

“Ange de la Mort.” Sheridan whispered, taking a step back as if the cold hand of the Angel of Death brushed against his soul. The cavalry officer glanced between Sherman and Major Larabee waiting for their reaction.  Only a handful of men knew the real Gabriel and not the cold, calculating spy the Rebels call ‘Ange de lat Mort’.  And only two men, President Lincoln and Grant knew of the sacrifices the young man made for the Union. 

 

“I don’t want that devil anywhere near my son.” Tyrone heatedly yelled as Sherman tightened his grip on his shoulder, keeping him from leaving the room.  He, himself, was wanted by the Rebels, however if he was caught, they would make his life miserable but Tyrone knew that he would be very much alive in a prisoner of war camp. Gabriel, on the other hand, would be tortured, then shot upon capture. Tyrone’s body shuddered at the thought of what the young spy would endure at the hands of the Rebels. He felt Sherman’s dark eyes studying his face and Tyrone nodded his head to assure the young general that he was all right. Sherman released his grip on the major’s shoulder and turned to face General Grant.   

 

Grant waited for the level headed Sherman to respond and he didn’t have to wait long. The major general spoke in a even tone, “Sir, you do realize what will happen if Gabriel falls into Clayton Shellburne hands.” Sherman waited for Grant to nod his head yes before he continued “The boy won’t die easily, sir.” 

 

“It’s a risk we will have to take for the good of the Union. Gabriel understands the risks involved, Phil,” Grant answered forcibly, trying to still his own conscious of sending the young man to his death. After he gathered his thoughts, he added, “I would never order the boy to walk right into Clayton’s hands without a fight. He is as dear to me as my own son, for heaven sakes.”

 

Grant eyes fixed on Tyrone’s face. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you, Major. Gabriel is one of the finest officers in the Union Army and deserves your respect and gratitude,” pointing his finger at the Major’s chest.  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the dispatch again and held it up in his clenched fist, “Clayton has no interest in using Christopher as bait to get The Blue Ghost out into the open. He knows Charles is insane, and wants no part of his younger brother’s insatiable thirst for revenge against you. He let Pete Longstreet return Christopher to us.” Exhausted Grant sat back down, his eyes looked toward Sherman for help.

 

Sherman nodded, releasing his grip from the Major’s shoulder, he walked towards the desk, turned and leaned against it with his back to his commander. Folding his arms in front of his chest, his voice was low and deadly; “For the last few months, someone has been dropping a lot of money in Washington, fishing for information on Gabriel. Three weeks ago, I sent an agent to Washington to investigate and see if he could trace the money back to its source. The last report I received from my agent said that he was sure that the money was coming from the South and a large part of the money was going to someone on General Meade’s staff. Five days ago the agent’s body turned up floating face down in the Hudson River. Clayton and his brother have since been reported searching the countryside around Gettysburg. Tyrone, I suspect it wasn’t the Blue Ghost or his son they were looking for- it was Gabriel. Christopher was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

 

“What’s the young devil doing up in Gettysburg? From the last letter I received from Monique, I gathered that Doc Langey had the boy tied to a hospital bed at the Point. What happened?” Tyrone asked.

Grant chuckled before answering, “Poor Jonathan let the boy out of his sight for a couple of hours to get some much needed sleep and our young devil escaped from his room and disappeared.” The old general face turned serious, “The bait is already set in motion, by now General Meade and his staff knows that Gabriel is in route to join General Buford with orders to escort Christopher to White Haven and place him in the care of Colonel Jonathan Langey.”

 

“What happens if and when they reach Whitehaven?” inquired Tyrone.  Knowing full well that the chance of his son reaching White Haven was slim, very slim, and as for Gabriel, the major didn’t even want to think about what would befall the young man, if he fell into the Rebel’s hands.

 

“After Lieutenant Gabriel turns your son over to Langey’s care, he is to report back to you and place himself under your division. No more spying for that young man. As for Lieutenant Larabee, after his recovery from the leg wound, I see no problem having him transferred to one of our staffs with the rank of first lieutenant.” Grant replied back. 

 

“Christopher will be resentful of being coddled, and sirs, you will have problems controlling him,” Tyrone told them then turned his head and muttered under his breath, “Too much like his old man.” Grant smiled at this stubborn friend.  “Lieutenant Gabriel is a good man isn’t he, sir?” The M          ajor searched his commander’s face for reassurance, “I would welcome a man of Gabriel’s caliber to my staff.” A smile broke out on Tyrone’s face, “That is if the young man can escape from Jonathan’s wrath. Doc Langey sure hates it when one of his patients up and leaves his care before being released back to duty.”

“You should know, Major,” Sheridan spoke up, then turned to face Grant, “Sir, with your permission, I would like to request the transfer of Lieutenant Larabee to my staff. I’m in need of a new aide.” The other three men rolled their eyes at the suggestion and then broke out in laughter.

 

“Are you insane?” Tyrone barked, tears welled up in his eyes and he wiped them away with the back of his hand and laughed as he said, “Sir.”

 

“What, you don’t think I could control him?” Sheridan asked the others and they broke out laughing again. “Well, I say!” Raising his hands in defeat he went and sat down in one of the tall elegant chairs trying to ignore the crude laughter. 

 

“We can decide which brigade later, after the boy has recovered from his leg injuries. Tyrone, you have my word, after this war is settled, we will look up our old friend Charles Shellburne and finish it. On my honor, Sir.” Grant promised.  

 

“Sir, on my honor, I will be by your side.” Sherman also promised.

 

Sheridan stood up from his chair, turned and pledged, “On my honor, Tyrone. I will be your right hand.” Sheridan’s eyes twinkled, “You know I’ll keep your boy at my side. Just think of the adventures we can have together, the glory and honor we will have bestowed on us.”

 

Turning his full attention back to Grant, Major Tyrone asked, “Sir, are you sure this is the best action to take, using Gabriel and my son as bait to catch Clayton?” Tyrone waited for Grant to answer. Grant in turn placed both his hands on the desk, waiting for Tyrone to make his promise not to run out on him and desert. A battle of wills took place between the two friends. Tyrone’s heart broke in two and his eyes turned away from Grant, falling on the two officers’ that stood by his side.

 

Tyrone studied each man’s face, took their pledge of honor, and placed his son’s life in their hands. “Sir’s, I’m honored.” His eyes shone with regret, for again he had chosen honor and duty over his family. He uttered a low prolonged sound, deep in his throat, his despair evident to the three men, as he said. “You have my word General Grant, I won’t take off.”

 

“Good, good. Gentleman, if you please. Let us turn our attention to our next engagement- Chattanooga.” Grant gestured the men back over to his desk. As they hunched over the map, he edged back and sat back down in his chair, taking a side-glance at the dispatch from Washington. From Tyrone’s warning earlier in the day, Grant expected that the dispatch might be from Lincoln and his staff, requesting the general to join the president in Washington. Grant shifted in his seat, changing positions so that he could examine is friend Tyrone. He explored his youngest officer’s face for any signs that the man was being deceitful, giving him a false sense of security. After a long moment, studying the Major’s exhausted, somber face, Grant was satisfied that the major wouldn’t disappear and head after Charles Shellburne at the first opportunity.

 

As the men settled down; making plans on how and when to move the Union troops, Grant’s thoughts wandered to the days before the war, when he had first met Tyrone and Buford. Five years older then Buford, Longstreet and Pickett graduated the year John and Tyrone had entered the Point. They all had fought together in the Mexican War, becoming good friends. Now, two wore gray and the others wore the dark blue of the Union. General Ulysses Grant prayed that the war would be over soon and God willing, he would see his friends again, along with their sons and daughters, sitting around his house, listening to his wife Julia, singing, just likes in the old days, before the war.

 

But that was not to be….

 

The War Between the States went on for two more bloody years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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