The Raider

By S.M. Ballard

Teenagers Marty Rogers from northern New England and Shelby Kingdom from the deep south, discover war doesn't always divide people, but sometimes brings them together.

Based on a true incident, the Confederate raid on St. Albans, Vermont in October of 1864, The Raider is a story of courage, honor and friendship during that strife-filled time in American history - The Civil War.

• Language: English
• Publisher: S.M. Ballard
• Release date: Sep 29, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452484440

S.M. Ballard

I reside in Pearce, a historic ghost town, in Cochise County, Arizona, with my husband, Brian, two Nokota horses, a pair of miniature donkeys and various other farm animals and pets. I am member in good standing in the Old Pearce Preservation Association, the Cochise County Historical Society, the Society of Southwestern Authors, the Sulphur Springs Valley Historical Society and the Western Writers of America. My works, both fiction and non-fiction, have appeared in the following publications: Chronicle of the Old West, Ghost Town Trail News, Out West, Voice in the Desert, War Journal and Wild West. I contribute regularly to The Tombstone Times. "Kate," a romance, is my fourth novel of western historical fiction. "Borrowed Time," "Holliday in Tombstone" and "Death Takes a Holliday" make up my John Henry "Doc" Holliday trilogy. "The Raider" is my first teen/young adult novel and is historical fiction, heavy on the history aspect. It is based on a true incident - the northernmost Confederate raid of the Civil War on the Vermont town of St. Albans. Now available is "Murder in Pearce," a western/mystery and my first in that genre.

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The Raider

S.M. Ballard

Published by S.M. Ballard at Smashwords

Copyright 2010 S.M. Ballard

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Chapter One: Marty

Fourteen year old Martin Robert Rogers, distant cousin to famed Indian fighter, Major Robert Rogers, was nothing if not a dreamer of remarkable dreams. Battles, kings, sorcerers, Indian chieftains, queens of regal bearing and great beauty, quests for treasure and glory filled not only his sleeping hours, but his waking as well.

Unfortunately, Marty’s adventures went only as far as his imagination took him. His flesh and blood body remained trapped, according to young Mr. Rogers, in the least adventuresome place in the entire world – the family farm. Located among the rolling hills of northern Vermont, a stone’s throw from the Canadian border, the farm that had been in the family for at least four generations confined Marty within its split-railed and rock-walled boundaries as effectively as an iron-barred prison. Marty Rogers was a prisoner of duty, a duty to which only the eldest son of a father gone off to war while leaving behind a wife and six children could possibly understand.

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Mucking out the barn wasn’t Marty’s favorite job; in fact, he loathed it, but as the oldest son with a father away these past three years fighting in the war to end oppression, Marty was the man of the house. As such, he was responsible for assigning tasks and had, in fact, assigned himself this very job, the most odious of all, literally. Doing a job you hated was deemed by his father, a character builder. Marty figured by now his character must be of the highest caliber as he’d been mucking out the barn for, he stopped spreading fresh hay to ponder a moment, two years, nine months, three weeks and six days, without so much as a break at Christmas.

Cleaning the barn was not without its high points. A man could certainly see where he’d been and where he was going, no mistaking that, and the scent of fresh hay forked down from the loft left a lingering breath of summer in the air – a gentle reminder of warmer, softer days. And then there was the time alone to think and dream and imagine without all the noise and bother of five loud and increasingly boisterous brothers and sisters always pestering and clamoring for this or that, to be buttoned or unbuttoned, to be played with or sung to, always something or someone coming between Marty and the little bit of time for just himself – for just Marty. Even the outhouse wasn’t sacrosanct.

But the barn, now that was another story. Anyone venturing into the imposing frame structure with its faded red coat and innumerable stalls for horses and dairy cows while a cleaning was in progress faced the inevitable prospect of being handed a shovel. This consequence, known to one and all, kept the barn free of children under the age of fourteen for at least an hour – two, if the barn was especially in need of attention as it was today.

Father’s full-blooded Morgan mare, Roxie, with her deep auburn coat and cream mane and tail welcomed Marty with a nicker and toss of her well-formed head.

You’re a real beauty, Rox, prettiest mare in three states. As Marty stroked her velvet muzzle she nodded as if aware of the boy’s praise.

Even as difficult as things got around the farm, even as scarce as hard cash became, the thought of selling Roxie was never mentioned. Father loved his family above all things save God and country, but Roxie came next in line. To sell her would have been like selling off one of the children – absolutely unthinkable under any circumstances, though one by one the black and white Holsteins for which the farm was known were sold until there were but a dozen left.

Come on, Marty, supper’s ready! A small face, framed by waist-length yellow braids each tied by a strip of calico, appeared in the doorway. Come on, Marty! Supper’s on the table.

I’m comin’ Kate. Just gotta put up the hay rake. Marty patted Roxie a final time and walked over to hang the rake on the peg near the barn door.

Can I ride Roxie tomorrow, Marty? It’s my turn next. Katie reached up to take her brother’s hand, squeezing tightly. She wore no gloves or coat and her cheeks were rosy from the autumn chill. Already the sun hovered just above the horizon in a fiery display of color over Lake Champlain, itself a distant gray line, shades of the red and orange sunset torching the sky.

You can ride her if the weather permits. It’s clear enough now, but that doesn’t mean tomorrow will be the same. I’m bettin’ on rain or maybe even snow. Marty judged himself a fair hand at weather forecasting and was known to be accurate – about fifty percent of the time.

Aw, Marty, it ain’t gonna snow tomorrow! Katie dropped her brother’s hand and ran to the