The Bloodied, the Brave, and the Bold

By Chaz Mann

After surviving the Civil War and a stint in one of the worst Union Prisoner-of-War Camps, Frank Travers and his best friend, Tucker Gates, return home to City Point, Virginia. Frank quickly learns that the couple he considers his real parents have suffered tragedy. One is murdered, the other erroneously convicted of the killing. Behind this miscarriage of justice are two nefarious ex-Union soldiers. Their driving force: the lust for gold. Frank and his best friend, Tucker, set out to seek justice and make certain those responsible pay a heavy toll. The novel is fiction, based on fact, true to the times. If you like action-packed adventures, then this is for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chaz Mann
• Release date: Sep 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311486646

Chaz Mann

Chaz Mann has worked in the real estate, manufacturing, oil refining, retail, and insurance industries. He is an avid reader of multiple genres. He has earned an A.S. in Business and Industrial Management as well as a B.S. in Speech Communication. He currently resides in Fort Worth, Texas, with his lovely wife of many years, Marie.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

July 24, 1864

Confederate White House

Richmond, Virginia

Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederate States, stood in front of the second floor window. He gazed down onto East Clay Street, still damp from the morning rain, his mind a whirlwind of competing thoughts and ideas. Due to his illnesses and growing family he maintained an at-home office on the second floor of the plain gray stuccoed neoclassical mansion.

John Brockenbrough—President of the Bank of Virginia at that time, built the building used as the White House of the Confederacy in 1818. He had used the home as his private residence. The Brockenbrough family sold the home in 1844. The house, after passing through a succession of wealthy families, was eventually sold to the City of Richmond, which in turn rented the building to the Confederate government as its Executive Mansion.

The mansion overlooked the city of Richmond in the affluent Shockoe Hill neighborhood. Jefferson Davis, his wife, Varina, and their children moved into the house in August 1861. There they experienced both joy; new additions to the family—and tragedy; the death of their beloved five year old son Joseph. He had fallen fifteen feet from the railing of the east portico to his untimely death this past spring.

Gentleman, the Confederacy needs your help, said Jefferson Davis, still gazing through the window. The images of his dead son Joseph invaded his thoughts, as it often did. He could still hear the frightful screams as the child fell. He shook his head, chasing away those demons to the deep recesses of his mind.

He turned toward the small group gathered around his desk. To the far right sat his trusted and abled personal secretary, Colonel Burton Harrison, a Yale graduate, who became Davis' personal secretary in 1875 and also resided at the White House.

Also in attendance was the Secretary of State and head of the Confederate Secret Service, Judah P. Benjamin, former U.S. Senator, Confederate Attorney General, and Secretary of War. Born a British subject in the British West Indies, Benjamin and his family immigrated to the United States in 1813.

To Benjamin's right sat the regal figure of Captain John Maxwell, Secret Service agent extraordinaire, considered one of the top Confederate spies. His successful track record spoke for itself.

To Maxwell's right sat two men who didn't seem to fit the mold of the others in the room. Both of these men sat erect in their tattered but clean uniforms. Corporal Frank Travers, at five foot nine inches and one hundred sixty pounds, was strikingly handsome at twenty-five years of age. His dark skin and coal black hair complemented his muscular frame, honed from years of hard farm work. Next to Corporal Travers sat his lifelong friend, Tucker Gates.

At twenty-three, Private Tucker Gates could not have been more opposite than his best friend. Tall and lanky at six foot three inches and one hundred fifty pounds, he sported a long, thin face, large nose, and protruding Adam's apple, making him the butt of many jokes. Both men were on loan from Brigadier-General Nathaniel H. Harris' Mississippi regiment.

President Jefferson Davis continued. We are out-gunned, out-manned, and out-supplied. He walked over to his desk chair and gently lowered himself into its comfort. He ran his hands through his thick dark hair.

His insomnia had worsened over these dark years as well as his wounds from the Mexican War. As you probably already know, Mr. Lincoln has appointed General Ulysses S. Grant as commander of the Union forces this past March. He drew in a long, deep breath, and continued, General Grant recently tried to take Petersburg, but failed. Petersburg is now under siege and has been since June. Davis glanced at Colonial Burton Harrison.

Harrison cleared his throat. It seems clear to us that our enemy is now waging a campaign of attrition. Since they could not take Petersburg by force they've decided to put a noose around our neck and slowly choke us to death by cutting off our supplies and rail lines—

President Davis interrupted, anger rising in his voice. As the war progresses, the Union forces have become stronger and better equipped, while the South is becoming weaker and slowly bleeding to death.

Davis stood. The population of the North is three times larger than the Southern states and they also have the industrial base. A look of rigid determination crossed his face. If Petersburg falls, Richmond is doomed . . . and the Confederacy will die. Something must be done to slow their progress. He gently lowered himself back into his chair.

Jefferson Davis' eyes locked on the man who managed the Secret Service. Do you have any ideas Mr. Benjamin? You are, after all, in command of our clandestine operations.

Judah Benjamin stirred uncomfortably in his seat. He looked around at the others gathered in the room. Well, sir, I have taken a few steps toward that goal. . .

Well, spit it out man. We don't have all day, Davis said, his voice taking on a rough edge. Jefferson Davis was considered by many as overbearing, controlling, and meddlesome.

Yes, sir, if I may continue? Benjamin asked, a tone of defensiveness clinging to his words.

Davis nodded, his ire rising.

Benjamin pointed toward the three men seated next to him. That, sir, is precisely why I have invited these gentlemen to this meeting. He paused to gather his thoughts. Mr. Maxwell here is one of our most successful agents with the experience to succeed in such a mission. He tilted his head toward Captain Maxwell.

John Maxwell merely nodded toward his commander. The agent stood close to six foot tall and one hundred eighty pounds, a bull of a man with a quick wit, penetrating blue eyes, and longish blonde hair.

These other two men, Judah P. Benjamin continued, pointing toward the end of the row of seats, are Corporal Frank Travers and Private Tucker Gates. They're familiar with the territories involved. They both grew up not far from our current location, in the community of City Point.

Do you have a plan of attack? Davis inquired.

Yes, sir, we do, Benjamin answered.

The room grew quiet. The hot humid air clung to the walls like a coating of fresh paint. The white linen drapes danced merrily on gusts of warm, humid air. All eyes locked on Judah Benjamin.

As you already know, Mr. President, last month General Grant ordered Chief Quartermaster General Rufus Ingalls to create a supply depot at City Point as well as a field hospital capable of supporting the Union forces involved in the siege of Petersburg, said Benjamin. That depot is now one week from completion.

The head of the Secret Service let that thought linger. Our plan is to send Captain Maxwell, Corporal Travers, and Private Gates south toward Norfolk in a roundabout route then back toward City Point. Their mission is one of reconnaissance and information procurement.

Personal secretary Burton Harrison asked, What will you do with this information, Judah?

Jefferson Davis interrupted with obvious irritation in his voice, Yes, Mr. Benjamin what will you do with this information? We need action and results, not delays.

Judah Benjamin, his voice growing more confident replied, Once these three agents, he pointed toward Maxwell, Travers and, Gates, have reconnoitered the area, Captain Maxwell will determine the appropriate course of action.

President Davis slowly lifted himself from his chair and began pacing back and forth. He seemed lost in his own thoughts. He stopped suddenly, turned, and locked his tired eyes on Captain John Maxwell. What are your thoughts on the matter, Mr. Maxwell? From what Mr. Benjamin says, you're an experienced agent and very good at what you do. I'd like to know your personal opinion of our odds of success.

Maxwell rose from his chair, seemingly uncomfortable addressing his President from a sitting position. Well, sir, I think our odds are very good for a successful mission. As Mr. Benjamin stated earlier, we'll head southeast toward Norfolk. He paused, gathered his thoughts, and continued, I have contacts in Isle of Wright County, sir. If there's new information as to the Union's vulnerability, they'll inform me. But at this time I believe the new supply depot at City Point could very well be our best target for disruption.

Maxwell pointed toward his new recruits from Harris' Mississippi regiment. Corporal Travers and Private Gates both grew up in City Point, as Mr. Benjamin has previously stated, and know the area well. Their insight and knowledge of the surrounding cities and towns could be invaluable toward the successful completion of the mission.

The tired form of President Davis rounded his desk; he had lost a lot of weight, not to mention sleep, since the beginning of the War Between the States. He strolled toward the two soldiers and stopped directly in front of Corporal Travers and Private Gates.

I'm sorry to have taken both of you from General Harris' regiment, Davis said. But your country needs you now more than ever. He placed his hands on the shoulders of each man, a very unusual gesture for him. The Confederacy is depending on your success. Are you up to the challenge?

Tucker Gates, at a loss for words, turned toward his friend for help. Frank Travers felt his friend's discomfort. He stood and stared Jefferson straight in the eyes and with the utmost confidence said, We love the South, sir. We will do whatever it takes to rid ourselves of this Union blight.

A slight smile creased Davis' lips. I'm glad to hear that. I'll have you both back in your regiment as soon as possible. Then added, as if an afterthought, There's still a lot of work to do. I'm sure General Harris will be pleased upon your return.

Jefferson Davis returned to the window overlooking East Clay Street.

Dismissed, he said to no one in particular. Good luck and God speed.

President Jefferson Finis Davis, President of the Confederate States, continued staring out the window. His mind inexplicitly gave way to images of the Shenandoah Valley and Blue Ridge Mountains where beauty and grace joined hands. Suddenly without warning, images of his dead son Joseph came roaring back to the forefront of his mind. With his head bowed and shoulders slumped he murmured to himself while shaking his head. Will this ever end?

.

CHAPTER TWO

Captain John Maxwell, Corporal Frank Travers, and Private Tucker Gates departed Richmond on the morning of July 26. They'd enjoyed a breakfast of beans, bacon, and beaten biscuits with a steaming hot pot of Arbuckle's coffee, each man lost in his own thoughts. After eating, the group had discussed their plans for the coming day. They would shadow the James River then cross the Chickahominy River where it flowed into the James and continue toward Five Forks. From there they would head southeast toward Norfolk for likely targets.

They had discarded their uniforms the previous night in favor of homespun shirts, denim trousers, ankle high boots, and flat-brimmed Stetsons. Maxwell rode a line back dun while Travers and Gates both rode broad-chested bay geldings. All three men were armed. Maxwell wore his Remington Navy .36 low on the hip. Travers preferred the Double-Action Starr .44 with the ingenious 'selector' to switch from single to double action; he loved choices. Tucker Gates chose the single action Colt Army .44 with the eight inch barrel; he loved dependability.

The coolness of dawn quickly evaporated as heat and humidity claimed the skies. The sun beamed overhead, depleting the energy and strength of each man. By the end of that first day they had reached and crossed the Chickahominy River at the mouth of the James River. It was a relatively easy crossing due to the dry season when the water flow was docile and narrow.

They decided to stop in a grove of yellow pines for the night and give the mounts a good night's rest. They unsaddled and picketed their horses so they could have some graze. Frank started a fire with some old, dry driftwood.

Frank Travers spied a glance at John Maxwell, who was unrolling his bedroll. So what's the plan for tomorrow, John? Frank asked. Maxwell had been very close-lipped as of late. Frank wasn't sure how to interpret that. Did Maxwell have something to hide from him? Or was it just his over active imagination?

Tucker Gates leaned up against an old pine tree watching the fire and his old friend. He knew Frank harbored some suspicions when it came to agent Maxwell.

John Maxwell walked over to the fire and sat next to Frank. I need to head into Five Forks first thing tomorrow . . . alone. He picked up a twig and began stirring the fire.

Frank and Tucker glanced at each other, doubt clouding their faces.

Maxwell couldn't help but notice the pairs' questioning look.

Tucker stood and joined the others around the fire.

Maxwell said, Look fellas, it's not that I don't trust either one of you. He stirred a few more hot coals with the twig. The people I need to talk to don't like strangers, he said almost apologetically while still staring into the fire. Hopefully, I'll gather some useful information.

Sure, no problem, said Frank. Do you want us to stay put or meet you somewhere down the road?

Maxwell had already considered this. Let's join up in Williamsburg, he went on. Be careful. I ran into some trouble with bandits and deserters a few months back.

What king of trouble? Tucker inquired. A worried look crossed his face. I've lived in this area all my life. It's always been fairly safe to travel.

During the time you've both been fighting with Harris' Mississippi regiment a lot has changed. This war has ravaged the land. People change and cities change and sometimes not for the better. Once this war is over and you both return home you'll see what I mean. He rose, stretched, and said, I'm turning in for the night. I'll see you both in Williamsburg.

Frank and Tucker both nodded their goodnights.

After Maxwell had fallen asleep, Tucker turned toward Frank, neither able to sleep.

I'll sure be glad when this war is over and we've won, said Tucker.

At this point, Tuck, I just want the war to be over, no matter who wins.

Tucker Gates sat up. Do you think we can win?

I don't know, man. The Yanks always seem to have enough food and ammo. They have shoes without holes and better weapons. Frank sat up and leaned against a pine tree.

The fire glowed in the night. A slight, warm breeze coated the evening air. Night sounds surrounded them; the croaking of frogs, the sounds of animals scurrying into the night, and the steady flow of the Chickahominy River.

We best get ourselves some sleep, said Frank, adjusting his bedroll.

Yeah, I guess you're right. I'm plumb worn out, said Tucker.

Four hours later Frank awoke with a start. He thought he heard something, probably the horses, he thought. But what disturbed them? They were watered and fed and should be content. He lay still, listening, facing away from the fire pit toward the picketed horses.

His brown colored bay snorted. Then turned its head in the direction of the burned out fire pit. Not a good sign. The horse sensed danger.

A twig snapped.

Shit!

Frank gripped his double action .44, which lay nestled in the waist band. His leather holster and ammunition lay close by.

He heard the unmistakable metallic click of a hammer eared back.

Don't get any fancy ideas, pardner. The outlaw laid his colt against Frank's temple. I'll take whatever you have hiding underneath that blanket. He reached down, pulled the blanket back, and removed Frank's pistol. He then walked over to Gates and Maxwell and removed their weapons.

The outlaw backed away and said, Everyone on their feet!

Frank, Tucker, and Maxwell stood. All three eyed the intruders.

The three outlaws were obviously Confederate deserters; their butternut uniforms torn, ragged, and blood stained. They wore their kepi's snug against the skull with the brim tugged down low over their foreheads, faces obscured. All wore Colt revolvers, currently drawn and pointed directly at Frank and his companions.

The leader of the deserters stepped forward, a heavy set man with a shaggy black beard and mean eyes. A deep scowl lined his face. The second deserter, tall and thin, wore an evil smile across his parched lips. The third, apparently the youngest, seemed nervous and out of place. His Colt trembled in his grip.

I don't think you boys will need these here horses anymore, scoffed the leader. As a matter of fact, you won't be needin' anything anymore. His intentions became crystal clear. The second deserter laughed while reaching behind his back. When his hand returned it gripped a large bowie knife. I like close up work. He started walking toward Tucker, his evil grin wide.

Frank's eyes flashed from the knife to his friend then back toward the bowie knife. Tucker Gates started to back up. Fear gripped his face.

Frank knew he had to do something. He wasn't about to stand by and watch his best friend be gutted like a pig. No matter what the personal cost to him.

Frank Travers and Tucker Gates grew up together, went to school together, did everything together. They've had their share of fights as young men and never backed down from anyone or anything. Frank, the older and stronger of the two, always took the brunt of any altercation. But he didn't mind. In fact, he relished the role of Tucker's protector. Although Tucker could certainly hold his own in any fight.

Frank started after Tucker's would be assassin.

An explosion ripped through the night.

Frank and Tucker froze, looking in the direction of the sound.

John Maxwell stood with his right arm extended. Smoke curling out of the barrel of a .41 caliber derringer. The leader of the deserters laid dead, a large hole in his forehead. Blood ran down the side of his face. The youngest deserter surprisingly dropped his weapon, knelt down, and raised his arms in surrender. But the third outlaw would have none of that. He raised his bowie knife and charged toward Tucker with loathing in his eyes.

Frank sprang into action. He plowed into the deserter's right shoulder with all his strength, knocking him off stride. Both men slammed onto the hard earth, rolled, then leapt to their feet.

The attacker went after Frank with a vengeance. He swung the blade in a wide arc, slicing the air, barely missing Frank's midsection by inches. But the viciousness and force of the swing had thrown the man off balance. Frank leapt at the opportunity, clutched the man's hand and wrist, and twisted the knifepoint toward the belly of the deserter.

Fire and rage burned through Frank. With all of his strength he plunged the blade deep into the deserter's gut then thrust the blade again and again. Frank stared into his opponents' eyes as they glazed over and said, You don't hurt my friends! He then gave the knife a final twist as the deserter dropped to his knees and keeled over dead. Frank stood over the body, the knife still in the outlaw's gut. Blood dripped from Frank's hand, his breaths coming in short gasps.

He stared down at the man he had just killed as if seeing him for the first time. His hands shook. His eyes took on a misty glaze.

Tucker stepped over toward Frank. He laid his hand on his friend's right shoulder. Are you alright? Frank merely nodded. The rage and anger had ebbed. His shoulders slumped.

Tucker realized something long ago: Frank Travers carried a mean streak. He didn't often show it, but when someone he cared for approached danger, Frank would respond like a mother bear protecting her cubs. A deep-seated anger would engulf him; his eyes would convey a profound sense of rage and injustice. He would then attack and neutralize the threat. Afterwards he often became quiet and distant. Tucker knew the cause of Frank's rage: his relationship with his family. Frank never spoke about it much, but Tucker could read between the lines. He'd witnessed the hurt in his friend's eyes many times.

John Maxwell stepped next to Frank and Tucker. Is everyone alright?

Yeah, we're fine, how about you? Frank asked.

Right as rain, said Maxwell, a smile on his face. He wore his Navy .36 hanging low on his waist. He handed Frank and Tucker their weapons.

Frank strapped on his Starr .44 then asked, What the hell happened? I thought they disarmed you.

Agent John Maxwell pulled the derringer from his right hand pocket. A mischievous smile crossed his face. They took my weapon, but never bothered to search me. He paused, and then added, Damned idiots!

Speaking of damned idiots, said Maxwell.

They turned their heads toward the surviving deserter. He looked pathetic, still on his knees. He appeared ready to start bawling. They walked over to him.

"Please don't kill me! I'm sorry! This