Caleb Thorn 5: Death River

By L J Coburn

THE MAN WHO TRIED TO CROSS CALEB . . .
Through the smoke, as if in a dream, Caleb saw Cheatham feverishly cocking the heavy pistol again, gripping it by the barrel as he levered back the hammer.
With an effortless and fluid action that he had practiced a thousand times since obtaining the unusual pistol, Caleb-thumbed back the hammer of the Le Mat and fired.
Even the worst shot in the world could scarcely have missed at that range with that charge in the gun.
Large enough to stick a finger into, the sixty-three caliber barrel exploded, the buckshot starring outwards in a vicious pattern of death.
Caleb felt the familiar jerk at his wrist from the heavy recoil, and waved away the smoke to see what remained of Lieutenant Cheatham of the Army of the Confederate States of America in the act of toppling over the rail to plunge bloodily into the river twenty feet below . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Jun 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311807939

L J Coburn

LJ Coburn is the pseudonymn for the writing team of Laurence James and John Harvey, brought together to create the Civil War series CALEB THORN.

Book preview

Issuing new and classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

THE MAN WHO TRIED TO CROSS CALEB . . .

Through the smoke, as if in a dream, Caleb saw Cheatham feverishly cocking the heavy pistol again, gripping it by the barrel as he levered back the hammer.

With an effortless and fluid action that he had practiced a thousand times since obtaining the unusual pistol, Caleb-thumbed back the hammer of the Le Mat and fired.

Even the worst shot in the world could scarcely have missed at that range with that charge in the gun.

Large enough to stick a finger into, the sixty-three caliber barrel exploded, the buckshot starring outwards in a vicious pattern of death.

Caleb felt the familiar jerk at his wrist from the heavy recoil, and waved away the smoke to see what remained of Lieutenant Cheatham of the Army of the Confederate States of America in the act of toppling over the rail to plunge bloodily into the river twenty feet below . . .

DEATH RIVER

CALEB THORN 5:

By L. J. Coburn

First Published in 1978 by Sphere Books Limited

Copyright © 1978, 2014 by L. J. Coburn

Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: July 2014

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. 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 reader.

Series Editor: Mike Stotter

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with the Author.

Cui dono lepidum novum libellum Arido modo pumice expo I i turn? CATULLUS

And the answer is to Rob Edwards, who has been directly responsible for making my life as a writer vastly more enjoyable. I’m very grateful and this is one way of thanking him.

The Philips Park Press, Manchester

Chapter One

The dead had been buried.

Most of them.

In the fields and woods around Pittsburg Landing, near the church of Shiloh, in the state of Tennessee, corpses still lay rotting and swelling in the summer heat, bellies bursting through their uniforms. Melting together in the comradeship of death.

The North had accounted seventeen hundred and thirty-five lost. The South had reckoned only seven less. The totals of the wounded on both sides differed by little more than one hundred. But the count of prisoners was not the same. The Union held a thousand captured against four thousand taken by the Confederacy.

Yet both sides claimed a victory of sorts. For the greatest and most costly battle fought on the American continent, it was oddly inconclusive.

And after it, the War went on.

Your orders are dated today, Lieutenant Thorn, said Lieutenant-Colonel Patrick Janson, not looking up at the face of the young man standing rigidly to attention in front of his collapsible campaign desk. April twenty-seventh, eighteen hundred and sixty-two.

All according to the book, Sir, commented Caleb Thorn, bitterly.

And he had good enough reason for bitterness.

It seemed only a few weeks ago that he had been the rich and pampered son of a wealthy Washington family, with everything that he could ever wish. The War, when it came, seemed very far away, and something to be wondered at. So it was not surprising that the wealthy families had gone out in their carriages on that warm July day a year earlier to see the conflict between the armies of North and South. Among them had been Caleb Thorn, his beloved mother, and his fiancée.

It had been a bitter day. A day when the realities of War were brought home with the shattering effect of a dash of blood in the face. Not only were soldiers killed that day at the junction of Manassas, near the little stream of Bull Run. Many of those Washingtonians out picnicking in their carriages were caught up in the Northern rout and slain.

Among them were the members of the Thorn family.

It took a long time for Caleb to recover from that shock, and when he did he thought that there was nothing left for him to do but enlist in the Army and fight against the Southern butchers who had taken the center from his world and left it empty.

Appalling though the aftermath of the First Battle of Bull Run had been for Caleb, worse was to follow. Among his pleasures as a young rakehell in high society was to pick on some unfortunate and force a duel with him. Partly out of sheer boredom, and partly to feed the vicious hunger that lurked so close to the surface of his character.

At the time that the great Civil War was just beginning, Caleb had provoked a fight with a young officer named Janson. And had killed him with a sword.

When he enlisted with the Army, finding an immediate posting as a Lieutenant with a Cavalry Regiment, Caleb Thorn was horrified to find that his superior officer, with the power of life or death over him, was the father of that boy. Lieutenant-Colonel Janson.

And he took a terrible revenge. Forcing Caleb, on pain of summary execution for cowardice in the face of the enemy, to lead a small unit of misfits, thieves and killers on secret missions behind the lines of the Confederate forces. Caleb had obeyed him, finding that he actually enjoyed the dangerous work, and that the group he led, called Thorn’s Raiders by the South, functioned well and efficiently.

So both men achieved a sort of satisfaction.

Caleb helped to defeat the hated Rebs who had been responsible for the death of his mother, killing as many as possible as he did so.

But under duress from Janson. A man who hated the South nearly as much as he hated Caleb Thorn. Who found that the tool he had used, and had expected to snap at the first trial, was working better than he could have imagined. There was no better striking unit in the whole of the Union Army than Thorn and his Raiders. Much as Janson wanted to see Caleb dead, he saw the power of the man. The threat he posed to the South. And he wanted him to live. To kill more Rebs. On missions that grew ever more dangerous.

The tent was dark, with just a smoking oil-lamp casting a yellow glow over the papers on the table. It was the same table where Caleb had read of the suicide of Caroline Janson, his enemy’s wife. Only three weeks earlier. Caleb remembered Caroline. He had good reason to. She had spat in his face to show her hatred for him. Then taken him to her bed in a frenzy of sweating lust.

And then she had killed herself, sodden with drink and remorse.

Since her death Lieutenant-Colonel Janson had changed. Grown more bitter. Cold. Distant.

He waited patiently, for the officer to tell him where he was to go and what he was to do there. It was warm in the tent, but Caleb rubbed the fingers of his left hand together, easing the stiffness. He had been wounded by a pistol ball only three weeks ago, and it had healed well. But there was still that discomfort when he had to stand still for any time.

You’re at attention, Mr. Thorn, snapped Janson, with a touch of his usual irritation.

Sir, said Caleb, respectfully. Wishing that he could leap at the older man and grip him by the throat with his fingers. Crush the windpipe until Janson’s eyes popped from their sockets like the stops on a mission-hall organ. To make his tongue protrude from the swollen mouth. To stop the choking breath forever.

Caleb hated Janson for what he made him do. For making him, a true gentleman, fight the dirty war of a hired killer. No better than a demented shootist stalking the dusty street of a frontier town to kill and kill until the bullet came along with his name on it. There was no dignity in Caleb Thorn’s war.

And yet it was this self-same mutual hatred that kept the two men linked together. Without it, it was hard to imagine what either of them might have been. Janson an embittered staff officer with no outlet for his fertile plans. And Caleb a rich puppy, riding with his Regiment from skirmish to skirmish.

Neither of them having any profound effect on the

progress of the War.

The river, Mr. Thorn, said Janson, looking up from his desk to make sure that the young officer was paying attention to him. Seeing as he did so the changes that the last year had brought about in Caleb’s face.

The hard lines about eyes and mouth. Oh, Caleb was still tall and handsome. Light hair the color of summer corn. The sort of officer that would turn the head of the girls – and the women – at any Army post. Blue eyes that flared with a light close to madness when under pressure. A scar like a crescent beneath the right eye that rumor said had been left there by his father. After he had caught the boy and his mother in a situation that revolted any normal person. And the father had died shortly after that. Mysteriously.

When Caleb was angry that scar seemed to catch fire and the side of his cheek jerked like a man with ague.

Janson had seen him first as a spoilt brat with a callous streak that had made him such a dangerous opponent in the duel. Now Caleb was hard. The sort of man to avoid crossing. Janson didn’t know how many Southerners Caleb had killed. Or how many women and children had died as a result of the activities of Thorn’s Raiders. He didn’t know.

And he didn’t care. It was enough that the name of Caleb Thorn was hated throughout the Southern states. Hated and feared.

Aware that he was being studied, Caleb looked back at the older man with a calmness that he hoped would infuriate Janson.

Seeing the changes in the face of the senior officer. And in his appearance. When they had first met, Patrick Janson had been the epitome of the professional soldier. Coming from West Point like the majority of the top officers on both sides in the War, Janson had been ramrod straight and smart as new paint. Not a speck of dirt on any of the gold. Not a crease out of place in the dark blue uniform. Not a spot of mud on the polished riding boots. Hair combed and beard neatly trimmed.

Not any longer.

The cheekbones stood out like the ribs of a