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For Love or Honor Bound
For Love or Honor Bound
For Love or Honor Bound
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For Love or Honor Bound

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One hundred and thirty-seven years ago, the Countess Isabelle Sophia Bario, diplomatic representative of Emperor Dom Pedro II of Brazil, sailed to war-ravaged America, to negotiate with President Lincoln to allow Brazil to trade with the Confederate States of America.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherDerek Hart
Release dateMay 17, 2012
ISBN9781476146157
For Love or Honor Bound
Author

Derek Hart

Derek Hart is the prolific author of 28 action and adventure novels, known for their historical accuracy, while still maintaining a high level of entertainment. Romance is also a vital part of Derek Hart's trademark style and his novels generally appeal to men and women alike. Mr. Hart authored Secret of the Dragon's Eye, his first novel aimed at all age groups, which met with instant success and outstanding reviews. The author has since followed with Secret of the Dragon's Breath, Secret of the Dragon's Claw, Secret of the Dragon's Scales and Secret of the Dragon's Teeth. The final volume of the 6-episode series, Secret of the Dragon's Wings, will be available in November of 2018. He has since started a new series, post-apocalyptic in nature, with Minerva's Shield and Nike's Chariot. The third installment, Apollo's Plague came out in November 2017. Abandoned was published in March 2018 and Game Over premiered in June 2018. List of published books: Secret of the Dragon’s Eye Secret of the Dragon’s Breath Secret of the Dragon’s Claw Secret of the Dragon’s Scales Secret of the Dragon’s Teeth Secret of the Dragon’s Wings Claws of the Raven Danger Cruise Favor for FDR Crooked Cross Factor Tracks of the Predator For Love or Honor Bound Tales of the Yellow Silk Element of Surprise Seas Aflame Ice Flotilla High Altitude Low Opening Tangles of Truth Shadows in Replay Flag of Her Choosing Tidal Trap Dangerous (Poetry) Executive Firepower The CARLA Conspiracy The Wreckchasers Minerva's Shield Nike's Chariot Apollo's Plague Abandoned Game Over Mercury's Wings Before the Dead Walked Books coming soon: The Samuel Clemens Affair Pearl and Topaz By the Moon Darkly Broadmoor Manor Neptune's Trident Operation Sovereign Primary Weapon Saturn's Fire Tails of Thaddeus Enchanted Mesa Eagle Blue Last Guidon Excess Baggage Container Carta Codex Shipwreckers Romeo Tango The 5x5 Gang Desert Salvage

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    For Love or Honor Bound - Derek Hart

    For Love or Honor Bound

    by Derek Hart

    **********

    Smashwords Edition

    Published by

    Derek Hart on Smashwords

    For Love or Honor Bound

    Copyright - 2004 Derek Hart

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

    Smashwords Edition License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

    This book is also available as print

    **********

    Dedication

    Preface

    Acknowledgements

    Introduction

    Chapter 1 - A Countess Unveiled

    Chapter 2 - South Carolina’s Finest

    Chapter 3 - Planned Interception

    Chapter 4 - Winter Moves

    Chapter 5 - Games of Cat and Mouse

    Chapter 6 - Busy Dance Card

    Chapter 7 - Christmas Deception

    Chapter 8 - Intrigue Thickens

    Chapter 9 - Lost Opportunities

    Chapter 10 - A Violent Solution

    Chapter 11 - Appearances Can Be Deceiving

    Chapter 12 - Friend or Foe?

    Chapter 13 - Spies on the Run

    Chapter 14 - Change of Orders

    Chapter 15 - Enchanted Encounter

    Chapter 16 - Tightening the Grip

    Chapter 17 - Picnic Rendezvous

    Chapter 18 - Crossed Blades

    Chapter 19 - The Great Cavalry Raid

    Chapter 20 - Last Train from Atlanta

    Chapter 21 - The Ballroom

    Chapter 22 - Disaster Awaits

    Chapter 23 - Catching the Prize

    Chapter 24 - Buying Time

    Chapter 25 - Lovers Farewell

    Chapter 26 - A Ship to Freedom

    Chapter 27 - The Battle of Honey Hill

    Chapter 28 - The Stakes Are Raised

    Chapter 29 - Home to Rebecca

    Chapter 30 - A Mother Saved

    Chapter 31 - A Ride for Fools?

    Chapter 32 - A Fortune’s Fate

    Chapter 33 - Escape to Texas

    Chapter 34 - Cornered by Guns

    Chapter 35 - For Love and Honor

    Chapter 36 - Juarez or Maximillian?

    Chapter 37 - The Search for Spies

    Chapter 38 - A New Beginning

    Historical Notes

    Critical Acclaim

    **********

    Dedicated to my son Ian.

    The greatest gift I will ever receive.

    Preface

    Many Confederate combatants left the country after Lee surrendered at Appomattox Courthouse. Three thousand Confederate officers traveled to Brazil. The government of Brazil encouraged the Confederates to settle there to help them develop their new cotton industry. Brazil estimated 20,000 Southerners eventually joined the officers. There they established several American colonies including one named New Texas. Remnants of two persist even to this day. One, known as Americano, exists as a town about 50 miles east of Belem in the state of Pará. Another, known as Americana, is located in the state of São Palo about 90 miles northwest of the city of São Palo. Descendants of the latter known as Os Confederados - the Confederates, gather four times a year to recognize their origins. They eat fried chicken, cornbread, sweet-potato pie and watermelon. When they speak English, instead of their native Portuguese, it comes out in a molasses thick southern drawl.

    Acknowledgements

    My warmest gratitude goes to Carla D. Malerba, whose help with Brazilian history and customs, as well as the Portuguese language, was instrumental in the writing of this book.

    To Etta Norton, who researched the family genealogy in detail as part of her documentation to establish the history required to be named A Daughter of the American Revolution. While conducting this extensive investigation, she also fulfilled the requirements of Daughter of the Grand Army of the Republic.

    To the Oetzel, Schofield, Sherman, and Norton names, and to all of my ancestors who fought on both sides of the Civil War, because they believed right was on their side. It would be only folly to cast judgment 140 years later. Instead, I hope this book does them justice in some small way.

    To The Union County, South Carolina Historical Foundation, for their assistance in researching Unionville, South Carolina and the Oetzel name.

    Introduction

    War is cruelty. There is no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over

    - General William T. Sherman

    **********

    Chapter 1

    A Countess Unveiled

    The Straits of Florida

    November 26, 1863

    There was no moon. The steamer plied its way through the freshening waves, racing across the open sea for its port-of-call. She was long and low, with two raking stacks fore and aft, turtleback forward, ‘midship house, poop deck, one mast, straight stem and painted elusive white. All in all, this presented quite a striking appearance. It was a large ship, about 1,500 tons, but designed to obtain superb speed. Her engines, each 500 horsepower, worked two screws, one on either side of the sternpost, completely independent of each other. The shape belied a destiny for shallow straits, the depth of water drawn quite inconsiderable. This craft was stealing within the darkness, avoiding contact and watchful eyes.

    The night, however, failed to disguise a storm quickly approaching from the southeast. Brilliant bony fingers of lightning stabbed across the heavens. Yet this captain was pleased with the additional protection the worsening weather might provide. His ship was loaded with a valuable cargo of Austrian rifles, salt, beef, paper and saltpeter, as well as two foreign dignitaries. All the material was destined for the Confederate States of America and that meant a prime target for Union warships. His passengers were bound for parts unknown, at least to him. So, under cover of encroaching clouds and threat of rain, the steamer closed on her destination.

    On deck, appreciating the rush of cool air and smell of the ocean, Countess Isabelle Sophia Bario held onto the railing to keep her balance. With her husband, Count Marco Gregorio Bario, the diplomatic representative of Brazilian trade, they were journeying to Washington, DC, to negotiate the right of Brazil to trade openly with the Confederacy. That was the official story. However, the mission was more complicated in truth. The steamer beneath Sophia’s feet, as she preferred to be addressed under less formal situations, was to be delivered to the Confederate Navy, thereafter commissioned as a blockade-runner. A new crew and captain waited in Nassau. The cannon would be loaded later, before the run into Wilmington, North Carolina.

    The Countess too had a secret agenda. She had been recruited to spy for the Confederacy. Her mission was to locate and document the routes of the Federal whaling fleet. To be successful, she would have to be accepted by both the Union military establishment, as well as the politicians. Her plan revolved around finding a Federal naval officer willing to risk pursuing her on a more amorous field.

    That would not be much of a challenge. The Countess was young, rich and strikingly beautiful. Her hair was raven black and long, when not done up upon her head in a fashionable bun. Even under the layers of petticoats, it was obvious that she was a shapely woman, with ample endowments. Sophia chose dresses cut daringly low in the bosom. Her eyes were dark with passion, which matched her flaming temper. Yet it was her full lips, almost always complimented by a radiant smile, which entranced most men who gazed upon her. She had the kind of mouth that demanded being kissed.

    The Countess took time to admire the sleek steamer. The rakish slant to the double stacks, added to the ship’s image of speed. The steamer had been built in Dumbarton, Scotland, financed by her husband. Their payment in gold waited in Nassau, deliverable once the steamer had arrived. Through a series of complicated re-coaling stops, it was hoped that Union spies had lost track of her. After taking on the rifles, ordnance and other stores off Ushant, France, the ship sailed for Bahia, Brazil, to pick up her diplomatic passengers. Then the steamer headed straight for the Bahamas.

    Another powerful gust of cold air swept over the gunwales and Sophia shuddered, more from anticipation than a chill. This was a grand adventure, one she surely could not have envisioned doing just months before. The twinkling glitter of distant lanterns sparkled before her eyes, just as the lookout called out from above.

    Nassau on the starboard beam, the voice bellowed from the crow’s nest. The steamer didn’t seem to slow, as the captain stepped closer to the wheelhouse. His eyeglass moved from bow to stern.

    The Countess was then aware that someone stood beside her. His presence was all too familiar, the Count emitting a unique aroma of distilled whiskies. He was fourteen years her senior, though still in fine physical shape. He was a fair man, if in the end, actually quite boring. Sophia had borne him two children, a daughter Christianna, now nine years old and a son Anthony, not quite five years old. She loved her children with tigress devotion, but held no passion for her husband. It wasn’t that he had ever harmed her, or in any way done her an injustice. There just wasn’t any spark and never had been. It was an arranged marriage, when Sophia was but a girl of fourteen. Now she assumed the role with resigned dedication. It was, however, after nine years, growing a bit tedious. She had just turned twenty-three and felt that life was slipping away.

    The Captain is worried about Union warships, my dear, the Count said suddenly, breaking the windswept silence and her thoughts.

    Yes, Marco, Sophia replied obediently.

    On a night like tonight, he should be more concerned with running aground, the Count continued. The currents are very strong.

    Sophia smiled to herself. How her husband loved the sea. When the Bario families had left Italy for their new fortunes in Brazil, Marco had captained the ship. His skills were well honed and he could feel the ocean’s intent, or so he claimed.

    The piers of Nassau’s harbor jutted out of the darkness, when the captain ordered the engines to half speed, then to all stop. The ship turned and yawed, bucking suddenly in the swells, then slowly and with seemingly no effort involved, slipped up against a pier. Ropes were quickly lashed ashore as the crash of descending chain and anchor echoed across the deck. They had arrived well ahead of the storm, without incident. Now it was time to turn over the steamer to her new crew and captain. The Count and Countess would be guests to the official commissioning for the newest member of the Confederate blockade-runner fleet. But that was tomorrow. Tonight it was a chance to regain their land legs.

    Nassau, New Providence, Bahamas was alive with activity, be it the drunken revelry of countless sailors. The wharf was a teeming, overflowing collection of cockfights, games of chance and pranksters. Hundreds of bales of cotton stood stacked in rows, awaiting transport to England and the rest of Europe. Business was good. The price for cotton was waning, now that other sources had been found, but it was the only commodity the South had. The mere survival of the Confederacy swung in the balance. Guns, powder, ammunition, food, just about everything needed were traded for cotton.

    The Count led his family down the gangplank to the wharfside, where a large entourage immediately greeted them. The British Consul was present, as well as most of his staff, who took responsibility for the Bario baggage and personal items. The entire mood was festive and Sophia enjoyed all the attention paid her. Little Anthony slept in the governess’ arms, while Christianna was wide-eyed at all the bustling activity around her.

    Slightly removed from the gathering stood three men. They were finely dressed, high white collars and black ties. One would have supposed they were on their way to a formal dinner engagement, had it not been for the sidearm each wore. They stood still, expressionless, until they caught Sophia’s eye. Then, one-by-one, each man tipped his hat, smiled and moved off. She had recognized only the tallest of the three.

    She had made contact. Sometime before the commissioning of the steamer she had just left, or after boarding their new passage to Boston, she would receive visitors. Suddenly there was a lump in her throat. What had she gotten herself into? She felt a hand on her wrist and the Count helped steer her and his children towards a waiting carriage. They would be guests of the British Empire for the evening, then once again on the journey to America, but no longer united.

    The English Consul, Sir James Fraser, was a polished man, with impeccable manners and poise. He offered the services of his home and servants most graciously. The feast prepared in their presence and for their consumption, was most impressive, more than ample to offset the bland fare on ship. The children were already fast asleep, Sandra, their governess, taking watch. Sophia wanted to sleep, but kept a bright smile throughout the meal. Besides, the talk was of the American war, the price of cotton, and the fortunes being made and spent on these very islands. While the Count focused on the monetary benefits that could be acquired through open trade with the Confederacy, Sophia listened for any inkling about the Union blockaders, or warships. She hoped there might be some clue as to the activity of the whalers. Alas, there was none.

    Blockade running is a very profitable business, my dear Count, Sir Fraser said. It can be dangerous, but most successful captains have perfected this trade into an art form.

    Ah, Sir Fraser, Count Bario said. But has it made a difference?

    Indeed, Sir Fraser replied. From this port alone, meat, lead, saltpeter, shoes, blankets, coffee, rifles, medicine and even some cannons have all reached Southern ports safely. And all of those war materials have been paid for with cotton.

    You mentioned profitable, Sir Fraser, Sophia interjected. Do you have an example?

    Yes, of course, Countess, the Consular answered. Salt can be purchased for $6.50 a ton and sold in Richmond, the Confederate capital for $1,700.00 a ton, or coffee can be had for $249.00 a ton and sold for $5,500.00 a ton.

    The Count merely let a whistle escape from between his teeth. Sophia, however, made some mental calculations. She had close friends in Brazil with coffee plantations and salt was plentiful as well. There were connections that owned other ships, who would be willing to loan them for such a moneymaking opportunity. She would send a telegram or two upon reaching Boston.

    Finally allowed to excuse herself from the increased cigar smoke and brandy, Sophia was escorted to her room. She had barely begun unbuttoning her dress, when there was a knock outside. Irritated at the disturbance, she threw open the door. There, once again, stood the three men she had seen earlier.

    It is good to see you again, Countess Bario, the taller gentleman said.

    Yes, Mr. Hankel Sophia answered, her voice seemingly mousy to her. I have looked forward to this meeting since our first encounter in Bahia.

    Please, call me Stuart, the man said. I officially represent The Confederate States of America now, along with my associates, Hankel nodded toward the other two men, while playing with the end of his graying mustache.

    A pleasure to meet you, fine sirs, Sophia said. Please, won’t you step in?

    No, Countess, we cannot stay long, Hankel replied, looking over his shoulder down the hallway. We are delivering your payment.

    One heavy-set man maneuvered past her, setting a small chest on the floor. He slipped by her again, without speaking.

    Inside that chest is $20,000 in gold coin, Countess, Hankel said warmly. You have served the Confederacy most effectively. You have already proven your value since I recruited your services. The remaining amount is downstairs, with the Count, as you instructed in your wire.

    Thank you, Sophia replied.

    There is also a message, Hankel added.

    Which is? Sophia couldn’t help the feeling of unbridled excitement well up in her chest. She felt as if she must be panting with anticipation.

    You are to be approached by a William Schofield, upon your arrival in Boston, Hankel instructed. He is connected with Bostonian society, as well as several influential people in Washington. Please wait until Mr. Schofield has made introductions to several persons whom can provide the information you seek. Is that clear?

    Yes, Sophia replied, though she didn’t appreciate the tone of the question. I will wait until I have met with Mr. Schofield, before beginning my inquiries.

    Excellent, Countess, Hankel said. He bowed slightly, pushing the other two men before him down the hall. They were gone in an instant.

    Sophia was too excited to turn down the sheets, so she sat in her sitting-room chair, staring off into space. The journey caught up with her, however, and after only a few minutes, she was fast asleep.

    Dawn rose with a fresh, clean scent to the air. It had rained violently during the night, but the sun shown brightly and the sky was so blue. After a light breakfast of tea and cakes, Consul Fraser led his staff and Bario family down to the docks. The harbor front was teeming with the bustle of trade. Everywhere stevedores unloaded cotton bales from three newly arrived blockade-runners. Prostitutes plied their wares, confidence men and cardsharps rubbed shoulders and gambled freshly minted gold coins. There was joyous abandon with eating, drinking and cavorting being the constant goal of merchant, tradespeople and sailor alike.

    The entourage reached the extended pier, where the steamer the Count and Countess had arrived on, was tied up. A crowd of onlookers had gathered around the new crew and captain.

    Captain Atkinson stood among his crew and select guests. He wore his cap at a particularly jaunty angle and chewed unmercifully on the stub of an old cigar. Amber eyes twinkled with delight and one corner of his mouth twitched. He wasn’t exactly an old salt, but Captain Atkinson had sailed a bit.

    This ship is now commissioned the Flamingo, he commanded. That was it. There wasn’t time for ceremony, only to set mind, heart, and course for Charleston, or Wilmington, depending on the fortunes of war and the Federal blockading fleet.

    The Count and Countess joined in on the polite applause, before continuing down the wharf, to board the steamer Knightsbridge. She too was handsome, steel-plated, and three-funneled, with a pair of oscillating sidewheel paddles. To avoid being confused with a blockade-runner, the Knightsbridge would sail to the Azores, and then head to the American coast and Boston. The Bario’s baggage was already loaded and their children and governess stood waiting on the poop deck. The Count and Countess walked up the gangplank, once they had sufficiently thanked their host.

    Sophia’s heart skipped a beat, as she spied Stuart Hankel and his associates standing near the wheelhouse, conversing with the captain. The whistle of the departing Flamingo shrieked across the harbor, capturing everyone’s attention. All except Sophia. She never took her eyes off the Confederate agents, who timed their actions with the diversion. With the speed of magicians, the men exchanged two packages with the captain, before mingling with the rest of the passengers. The Countess made note of the entire event, wondering if it would have future significance.

    Captain Playfair, master of the Knightsbridge, had been at this business for many a year. He stood on the forecastle, faced his boatswain and asked, Do we have sufficient pressure, Mr. Clay?

    Yes, Captain, replied the mate.

    Well, then, let us weigh anchor and depart.

    The order went out and chain rattled noisily. The paddles began to rotate and Knightsbridge trembled, passing between the other ships in harbor, then beyond the outer markers. Sophia felt the motion and power of the ocean, as the steamer met the open sea.

    The Knightsbridge had a solid crew of thirty sailors. They were good working men, determined to wield the ship like a razor-sharp knife. Indeed, Knightsbridge was a fast ship, designed by a German ship-builder and constructed in Glasgow. While she was owned and operated by the English merchant line, Winston, Hammer & Seaton, her operators definitely had sympathies for the South. However, to keep the appearances of neutrality, their ships always traveled from English ports to the Bahamas, or Bermuda. They would unload the cargo destined for the Confederacy, then return loaded to the gunwales with cotton. However, this trip was different. They were on a diplomatic shuttle service, for the Count and Countess Bario were to be delivered to Boston. Therefore, nothing incriminating was carried in her hold and they would steam directly to Boston from the Azores Islands.

    Knightsbridge, with her twin paddles cutting the waves, painted an impressive picture of grace and speed. Sophia imagined a fine jumping horse, clearing each hazard without a break in stride. Graceful, unbridled motion, coupled with the pure adventure of her mission, excited her, as no paramour had ever done. She stood at the leeward railing, savoring the spray. She would never endanger her children, but the vitality of what Sophia had undertaken was intoxicating. What would America be like? Would they accept her?

    With a lift to her chin, the Countess said to herself, I will make them cherish me. I am a member of Italian aristocracy. I speak Italian, Portuguese, French and English fluently, and I know all the latest dances from Europe. Then she giggled. It was all an act. Sophia was really a simple, but bored, girl. Yet from deep within, she knew that America held the key to her future. Somewhere, enveloped in combat on some distant battlefield, was the man who would unlock her mind and her soul. Just before returning below deck, the Countess Isabelle Sophia Bario cast one more look at an imaginary shore.

    You are out there, of this I am quite certain, she whispered. I shall find you.

    Then in Portuguese, Sophia recited a passionate prayer, Ora e vigia. Trabalha na rota de teu dever. A vida e a nossa batalha. She closed her eyes then, before continuing. Ora e vigia. Nao cesses teu combate a tentacao. No templo de nossas preces guardamos o coracao!

    Her prayer was this, Pray and Watch. Work to follow your duty. Life is our battle. Pray and Watch. Don’t stop your fight against temptation. In the temple of our prayers we keep our hearts!

    Chapter 2

    South Carolina’s Finest

    November 27, 1863

    Ringgold Gap, Georgia

    The hills were deceptively green, for there had been steady rains. Even at this late date, fields had been planted with barley and wheat. Corn too now, not for cattle, but for men. The South was starving, for great armies consumed just about everything the farmers could grow and then some. Still, north Georgia was alive with fall colors of brilliant red, gold and yellow splashed throughout the forests.

    It was the twilight of the third year of war. Lately the news was usually bad, ever since Gettysburg. The tide had turned and unless some miracle occurred, the South was now fighting for survival.

    Here, however, the war still seemed far away. For how long, nobody was quite certain. It would be only months before the Yankees started pushing south. It was just a matter of time.

    The early morning quiet was shattered with the sound of thundering hoof beats. The din of rattling sabers, snorting horses and jingling equipment all added a discordant orchestral quality to the approach of cavalry. Suddenly they appeared over the nearest rise, flags whipping in the morning breeze. They wore a patchwork of grays and browns, with the occasional red, black, or yellow tunic mixed in. The Stars and Bars flapped madly as did the guidon of the 3rd South Carolina Cavalry. The Confederate horsemen raced along the crest. Then, almost as if stopped by an invisible wall, the mounted force came to an abrupt halt.

    The officer in the lead, a captain, stood erect in his stirrups and pulled forth a pair of binoculars. He was very young for a captain, but then all the seasoned officers were dead, crippled, prisoners of war, or with the Army of Virginia and Robert E. Lee. In the West, the Army of Tennessee was expected to make do. These were times that demanded the relaxing of protocol and tradition. Commissions were received swiftly, as was death. Officers came and went, so there wasn't much thought given to what rank you might be given, only if you could survive.

    Through his glasses, Captain Robert George Norton could see across the valley. He already knew what to look for, as his videttes had sought him out to report. The Union army was still trying to capitalize on the victory at Chattanooga. General Rosecrans was chasing the remnants of the Confederate Army from Missionary Ridge. Captain Norton was young, but not inexperienced. He had first seen action at Manassas, then Antietam, then Shiloh. His steel-blue eyes had witnessed much since leaving South Carolina. Now he commanded a detachment of the South Carolina 3rd Cavalry under Colonel Charles Jones Colcock. The company was providing rearguard protection for the escaping Army of Tennessee, giving Brigadier General Patrick Cleburne time to take position at the railroad town of Ringgold.

    It looks like they're a comin' right at us, Cap’n, sir, commented the lieutenant mounted next to Norton.

    Yes, indeed it does, replied Norton, as calmly as he could. His stomach was doing barrel rolls. Please send your rider to inform General Cleburne that the Yankee army is pursuing, Lieutenant.

    Yes, sir, obeyed the lieutenant, with a salute. He repeated the message to a corporal nearby, who took off at the gallop.

    Your orders, Cap’n? the lieutenant inquired.

    We will advance and engage, Captain Norton replied. We will harass and delay them as much as possible.

    Yes, sir, said the lieutenant, but without much conviction.

    Sergeant Lowe, Captain Norton called out, turning in his saddle.

    Yes, Captain, answered the sergeant as he spurred his horse forward. He was older than his commanding officer, well seasoned by several campaigns with Jeb Stuart. Lowe’s muscular build was the byproduct of years of hard work on a Missouri farm.

    Take half the troop and try to outflank that main force. I want you to drive them towards that hill, there. Norton pointed to his right, handing the glasses to the sergeant. See?

    Sergeant Lowe rubbed his tired brown eyes for a moment, and then grinned. Yes, sir, I do, he answered, once he had taken a good look. Lowe admired Norton a great deal, having seen the captain outmaneuver superior forces more than once.

    Good. Norton seemed satisfied. We'll be waiting for them. I'm planning on dismounting at the base of that hill and setting an ambush.

    Yes, sir, the sergeant smiled. I think they'll regret comin’ this way, after all. With a precision salute, the sergeant turned his mount and rode down the column, pulling up midway. He shouted orders and two sections fell in behind him. They rode past the main force, using the trees and several coulees as natural cover. They would close on the Union forces virtually undetected.

    Well, Lieutenant Hill, Norton pulled off his hat and swept back his long sweat-drenched golden-blonde hair. It's time, once again.

    Yes, Cap’n, let's have at 'em. Hill replied, more enthusiastically now.

    Returning his hat in place, Captain Norton raised his hand and motioned for the remaining troops to follow his lead. Old Dan, his sorrel-colored horse, sprung forward and they were off, moving at a steady pace towards the hill.

    With a mix of headlong charge and calculated maneuvering, Norton’s troops made it into position well ahead of the Union column. The Federals were moving with characteristic caution. The Confederate cavalry dismounted without any verbal command and the horses were quickly withdrawn to the rear. Not too far away, for once the Union troops deployed, quick escape would be the only option for the ambushers.

    The troopers spread out like a peacock fan, finding the best cover behind boulders and fallen trees. They moved as one and silently, experience their greatest ally. Captain Norton unhooked his saber and left it on the saddle with Old Dan. He calmly unholstered both of his 1851 Navy Colt revolvers and took position at the bottom of a short draw, behind a natural barricade of crisscrossed logs. The lieutenant and several troopers joined their commanding officer. Norton crouched down and waited. They followed suit.

    The noisy approach of infantry precluded the arrival of Union soldiers, marching in orderly procession. Then like organized waves, the blue tunics appeared as a motion of darkness down the road. There was a picket line, but they had bunched up and were much too close to the main force. They would pay dearly for such carelessness, Norton thought. He quietly inched back the hammer of one pistol, gently setting the other on the log to his left. The Captain quickly checked his men to either side and several smiled encouragement in return. The sweat had turned to drips of ice and Robert shuddered. He crouched deeper, the conversation of Yankee dialect readily understandable. The ranks of marching blue were closing.

    Captain Norton could see swirls of dust and hear the shuffling steps like it was thunder. He closed his eyes, mouthed a few words of prayer, and then screamed, Fire!

    The intensity of his sudden outburst froze the entire front five rows of Federal troops, while causing the soldiers in the rear to collide into them. A rebel yell rose up over the draw and in that split second, Robert could clearly see the faces before him. Then with the crack of fifty raised weapons, the air was filled with smoke and hurtling death. As fast as the Confederate troops could reload and aim, they poured the fire into the collapsing formation.

    Captain Norton was only slightly aware that the Union troops were about to recover from their initial panic, when the other Confederate detachment opened fire into the Federal right flank. The effect was catastrophic. Stumbling away, fleeing in blindness and fear, the entire front section broke and ran.

    Robert had emptied the first revolver and as he slipped it back into the holster, retrieved the other Colt and fired it into the back of a retreating Yankee. The .36 caliber bullet flattened its target and Norton flinched. He squeezed off two more rounds, they too finding easy targets, and then he headed back up the coulee with haste. The 3rd South Carolina Cavalry withdrew in rapid order, securing their mounts and saddling up once again. A motion of his hand and Captain Norton signaled the troop to ride. With a yanking of reins and the sound of hooves and snorts, the men rode away, not south as one might expect, but northeast.

    The 89th Kentucky reeled under the unexpected attack. The main body had held its ground, even though the first three sections had been decimated. Recovering quickly, they deployed and fired a tremendous volley in the direction of the ambushers. Minie balls cut away branches with a terrible fury, but no Confederate was there to witness the effect.

    Now Captain Norton would circle around the main Federal force and attempt to attack the baggage train. He wanted to avoid Union Cavalry, if at all possible, because his force was divided and most likely vastly outnumbered. His videttes rode far ahead, reconnoitering possible approaches to the Yankee supply routes. This was not Carolina, but Georgia, and Norton was grateful for his local militia guides. He had the upper hand and he was going to press it for all it was worth. His orders had been clear enough.

    Delay the enemy, Captain, Colonel Colcock had said. Make them pay for every creek they ford and every mile they march.

    One of the videttes was returning, riding hard. In a cloud of dust and rearing horse, the soldier reported. Damn Yankee horsemen approachin’, Captain.

    How many? Norton inquired, wiping the sweat from his eyes.

    A hundred, or so, sir, was the reply.

    Lieutenant Hill spoke up. Sergeant Lowe will be trying the same thing we are, sir, just from their other flank.

    Your point, Lieutenant? questioned Norton.

    But the Yankees don’t know that. The lieutenant said it matter-of-factly.

    Robert Norton liked the idea that popped into his head, without taking one moment to rationally argue against it. He spurred Old Dan forward at the gallop and his men followed. With a fluid motion that came from three years of war, the captain pulled his saber from the scabbard. The troopers that still had their swords did the same, but many just gripped pistol and rifle tightly.

    Union cavalry broke from the trees, in fine column order, as if out for a Sunday trot. As soon as they were spotted, Captain Norton gave the order. Bugler, sound the charge!

    With the tones of a blaring trumpet in their ears, the 3rd South Carolina Cavalry was on top of the Federal cavalry in seconds. Once again, the effect was jolting. Outnumbered, the Confederates still crashed headlong into the Union formation, spilling horses and riders. The braying of startled mounts mixed with the report of firearms and clank of blade against blade. Robert forced Old Dan to collide into the side of a turning Yankee trooper’s horse, sending them tumbling to the red dirt beneath. Regaining control of his mount, Norton clicked his tongue and dug booted heels into Old Dan’s flanks. The steed jumped forward.

    In that second, Robert felt the tug of fabric on his right sleeve. The shot rang out, but missed him. He leveled the Colt on the nearest Union trooper and fired. His target vaulted from the saddle, landing with a sickening thud and blood spurted in every direction, spraying both Norton and horse. Robert couldn’t afford the time to react. He must keep moving. With saber extended before him, Captain Norton spurred Old Dan again, the horse lunging. The blade sliced home, penetrating a Yankee officer’s lower back. With a horrible gurgling cry, the man tumbled backwards, snapping the sword in two and pulling the hilt from Robert’s hand. Old Dan twisted around, rising on its hindquarters, whinnying in fear.

    Robert pointed and fired his Colt at the nearest blue uniform. The shot found its mark again, rider lifted from his mount, flailing to the earth. He might live, but would lose an arm for sure.

    Norton tried to find his voice, to call out for his men. Yet in those fleeting moments, the Federal cavalry was scattering in every direction. The ground around him was littered with the dead and dying, horse and rider alike. Robert hoarsely shouted the command to disengage, his mouth parched like cotton.

    The Captain spun desperately in his saddle at the sound of renewed gunfire. To his surprise and satisfaction, the retreating Union cavalry had ridden right into Sergeant Lowe’s encircling section of the 3rd. The trap was complete and only a handful of stragglers escaped the ambush.

    Sound recall, Bugler, Norton ordered.

    Robert slumped in his saddle and closed his eyes for a moment. A welcome cool breeze swept across him and it reminded Norton of summers in Maine. He recalled how horrified he was to learn that his father was planning to move to South Carolina. Certainly, Robert was just a boy, but the change was so radical, so shattering to his youthful memories. Yet, in the end, Norton took the hills of Carolina with ease. His new mother was gentle and fair.

    Yer orders, sir? came Sergeant Lowe’s voice, interrupting his recollections.

    Captain Norton opened his eyes and sat upright again. Well done, Sergeant.

    Thank ya, sir, the veteran replied, trying to settle his dun-colored mount Tom. We hit ‘em very hard today, I reckon.

    Norton nodded. Without a doubt, Sergeant. Did you locate the supply trains, or artillery?

    We did spot wagons movin’ beneath that spur, the Sergeant reported, as he pointed over his shoulder.

    Robert sighed. We must attack them in force, try to capture as many wagons as possible, especially arms, ammunition and food. We’ll burn the rest.

    Norton couldn’t go on. He reached for his canteen and gulped a deep swallow. It worked. It gave him the necessary reprieve to regain his poise.

    Lieutenant, Norton called out.

    He’s dead, sir, came the quiet voice of the bugler beside him.

    Damn. It was all Norton could say.

    Sergeant Lowe moved closer. We be exposed here, Captain. Hate to get spotted and deal with a counter-attack.

    Right, Sergeant, Norton replied forcefully. You’re acting lieutenant for today. Send any wounded and the dead back towards Dalton. We will attack the Federal supply train now.

    Sergeant Lowe issued orders, as Captain Norton rode forward. Old Dan seemed ready to get away from the carnage. The 3rd South Carolina followed their leader obediently. Sergeant Lowe joined Norton at the head of the column.

    This be jist a temporary promotion, right, sir? Lowe asked finally.

    Norton laughed. Yes, Sergeant, I mean Lieutenant. I won’t burden you with rank after today.

    The Confederates rode directly to the small hill that divided them from the Federal package train. At the crest, they pulled up to scout their approach. It was true, the series of poor roads, barely passable trails, and straight overland routes were jammed with wagons, artillery caissons and quartermaster troops.

    That be a lot of shoes and bacon, sir, Brevet Lieutenant Lowe commented.

    True enough, Lieutenant, Norton remembered to use the temporary rank this time.

    Looks like the Yankee stragglers ain’t warned them yet, sir, observed Lowe.

    The entire force will charge down on them, decided Captain Norton. I want the first twenty wagons cut out and headed back towards Dalton. Corporal Lytton, I want you to be in charge of that.

    Yes, sir! the corporal responded.

    The rest of us will try to burn what we can, Norton went on. Every man must cause as much destruction as possible, but I don’t want to spend very much time down there.

    They collected themselves, reloading weapons, tying off bandages and making peace with God. Captain Norton checked his troopers with care. He knew them all. There was Peter Stanton, the preacher’s son, Earnest Holgrave, a widower who was quite a bit older than officially recorded. Near Norton sat the young bugler, Johnny Mavis, who ran away to join the Confederate cause and still hadn’t seen his sixteenth birthday. There was Corporal Stephen Lytton from Texas and Norton’s favorite, now Lieutenant Lowe, who had been a storekeeper in Potosi, Missouri.

    It was time. Robert Norton couldn’t afford the luxury of contemplating how things might have been. They looked ready enough. With a heavy sigh and the nagging feeling that he had done this all so many times before, Captain Norton snatched up the reins and spurred Old Dan out of the stand of trees. With a reverberating rebel yell behind him, the 3rd South Carolina Cavalry headed down the hill. Norton’s mount picked the way carefully, as the captain set his sights on a wagon starting to turn away from the assault. The captain raised his pistol and fired, killing the driver instantly. The battle was joined.

    Captain Norton hunkered down in his saddle and galloped to the unmanned wagon. Riding up alongside the nervous team of mules, Robert snatched up the dangling reins and pulled them hard to the left. The wagon turned and Norton headed back the way he had come, only this time using the road. He handed off the reins to one of the troopers assigned to take off with any captured baggage, then abruptly turned Old Dan about. With Navy Colt raised to fire again, the captain charged back towards the escaping Union supplies. He would make one more attempt at capturing a wagon, burning what was left.

    Robert heard the sound of approaching horses, before he spotted the dust. Pulling up on the reins, he spun about in his saddle, looking for his bugler. Desperation tore at his soul, for the 3rd was spread out, vulnerable, too busy setting torches to wagons. The young trumpeter was nowhere to be seen. Norton cleared his mind, spit away the first urge of panic and urged Old Dan forward. He galloped towards the first trooper he came to and pointed towards the far hills.

    Trooper Patterson, Norton called out.

    Yes, Captain, sir, the soldier answered, startled.

    Yankee cavalry, coming fast, Robert said. Find your boys and get the hell out of here.

    The trooper needed no further direction. He didn’t bother to salute, but rode off, hell bent.

    Robert finally caught sight of Trooper Mavis, trumpet in hand. The captain shouted Hiyah! Old Dan skittered, planted hooves and they were off.

    Just before reaching the bugler, Robert was shouting orders. Sound recall, Trooper Mavis, double quick!

    The boy nearly fell from his saddle, but snatched up the bugle and blew a quick series of notes.

    Now retreat, boy, retreat. Sound the retreat!

    The next call kept going out and suddenly gray-clad troopers started riding past, first singly, then in small groups. Union blue burst through the far woods, deployed and closing fast. The Confederates rode hard, heading toward the ridges, their pursuers reacting finally and setting off after them.

    Sergeant Lowe pulled up near a stand of young spruce pine and grabbed his Sharps rifle. He took aim on the lead Federal rider and squeezed off a round. The shot was straight and true and deadly. Catapulting backwards from the horse, the Yankee trooper landed spread-eagled on the ground.

    Stragglers gathered nearby and started giving cover fire for their escaping comrades. At first sporadic and ineffective at slowing the Union cavalry in pursuit, eventually there were enough guns to have an effect. The Federals slowed and finally called off their chase.

    Foam spraying from Old Dan’s mouth, Captain Norton pulled desperately on his reins upon reaching Sergeant Lowe’s position. He dismounted, swore and kicked at a fallen branch.

    Damn it, all saints and glory to God! Norton spouted.

    Take it easy, sir, Sergeant Lowe said emotionally, a bit surprised at his commanding officer’s outburst. No harm done.

    The captain pulled off his hat and threw it to the ground. How could I have been so stupid? I almost lost the entire troop out there, Sergeant! His face was flushed with anger and dismay. Perhaps a bit embarrassed as well.

    Sergeant Lowe made sure the Yankees had given up the idea of closing on their position, before walking over to Captain Norton. Ya took a risk, sir and that’s what they’s payin’ ya for. We made off with over twenty of them Yankee’s supply wagons and we have bloodied their advance units. I would say ya did just fine.

    Sergeant Lowe didn’t wait for a response. Troopers, mount up. We done enough damage for this day. He picked up the captain’s hat and returned it.

    The men obeyed without hesitation. A few had lost horses, so they doubled up. Captain Norton steadied Old Dan, then set boot to stirrup. He nudged the horse around, halting near the sergeant.

    Thank you, Sergeant, Norton said.

    Don’t mention it, sir, Lowe replied. Then, as an afterthought, I prefer ya callin’ me sergeant, sir. It has a nice ring to it.

    Norton smiled and nodded. He turned professional once again. Column, on the command forward, forward ho. He pumped his hand like pulling the whistle on a locomotive and they fell in behind. The troop needed to make Ringgold by nightfall. The last thing Captain Norton wanted to deal with was a nervous picket.

    Several troopers back, one leaned over to the man next to him and said, That was a close one, Raymond.

    Private Raymond Clancey, from Adams Run, South Carolina, who would follow Captain Norton to hell, if so asked, replied, Yes, Jesse, it were a wee bit dicey. Still, I weren’t too worried, considerin’ The Gentleman ain’t never failed us before.

    Jesse Dutton, who nobody was quite sure of his origins, agreed. Shor’ enough. Cap’n’s a gentleman, for sure. Fights like a bull ‘twit balls, but makes sure his calves is ‘counted for.

    Sergeant Lowe smiled and made note. The men had nicknamed their commanding officer The Gentleman, mostly because of his fine grammar and impeccable manners. To many a trooper, however, Captain Norton was the perfect officer, firm but fair.

    Robert Norton overheard too. He never quite knew how to handle his men’s admiration. What he was certain of, was his dedication to his men’s well being.

    The troop settled into a steady gait and headed south, toward their own lines. Several miles away to the west, they heard the rumble of cannon.

    And so it goes on, Captain Norton said to himself. and on.

    The troop broke into song then, as they felt the stress of battle slip away. The words were softly sung, at first, but momentum carried it to a louder bravado.

    "We are a band of brothers, and native to the soil, fighting for our liberty with treasure, blood and toil.

    "And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far,

    "Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag, that bears a single star.

    "Hurrah, hurrah, for Southern rights, hurrah,

    Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

    Then as if by a jolt of adrenaline, the men really lifted their voices high.

    "First, gallant South Carolina nobly made the stand, then came Alabama who took her by the hand,

    "Next, quickly Mississippi, Georgia, and Florida,

    All raised on high the Bonnie Blue Flag, that bears a single star.

    Captain Norton had found his voice as well, for he carried a pretty impressive tune. The troopers nearby smiled as the Gentleman joined in.

    Robert sang loudly, "Hurrah, hurrah, for Southern rights, hurrah,

    Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a single star.

    Only Sergeant Lowe could see Norton’s face and the tracks of tears down the captain’s dust-covered face.

    Chapter 3

    Planned Interception

    Boston Harbor

    December 1, 1863

    Warships of every size and description lay at anchor within the enormous Boston harbor area. While the direction of operations for the Atlantic Blockading Squadron was based at Hampton Roads, Virginia, all the ships

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