CONCHO: A Soldier's Revenge

By Dennis Galloway

This is a story that takes place in the United States after the Civil War draws to a close. It follow a returning Confederate soldier through the country ravaged in war to return home only to find it destroyed and his young wife killed. He learns who is responsible and in a determined rage, sets out on a quest through the West to track down his wife's killer and exact his justice. Along the way he overcomes betrayal of a friend, getting hung, dying in the desert, and becomes a man totally different than when he left the war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis Galloway
• Release date: Jul 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781521843901

Dennis Galloway

Dennis Galloway has written stories since a very early age. Known for his creative imagination, great story lines and unforgetable characters, his publications cover western stories, childrens stories, science fiction and much more. 

Book preview

It's Over

On April 26, 1865, at the home of James Bennett in Durham North Carolina, the commanding general of the remaining Confederate forces of the Army of Tennessee, Departments of Georgia, Florida, Southern Virginia, South and North Carolina, walked up to a small table setup before a large dirty white tent, under a canvas cover. It was a dull cold morning with an overcast, grey sky. Small drops of rain were beginning to fall as the smell of campfire smoke drifted in the air. At the table sat several Union field commanders, and Union Major General William T. Sherman. On the table were the conditions of surrender in a document called Terms of a Military Convention, that the commanding Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston was to sign.

Johnston looked into the eyes of each man who sat at the table. Glancing down at the document that lay open on the table, he leaned over, picked up the pen and began to sign his name. The only sound was the rain pattering on the canvas cover overhead and the scratching of his pen as he signed. When done, he laid down the pen on the table, straightened up and stepped back. General Sherman, stood up, stepped out from behind the table and came over to General Johnston. Johnston turned toward Sherman and stared at him for several seconds, his mouth pressed into a thin frown surrounded by a long speckled grey beard. Johnston’s right hand slowly gripped the hilt of his gilded sword. For a brief second he thought of drawing it forth and slicing off Sherman’s head. Still staring at Sherman, he slowly drew his sword from its scabbard, laid it across his chest while gripping the blade with his left hand and offered it to the general. Sherman, just as slowly, reached up for the sword with both hands, took it and slightly turning, laid it on the table behind him.  Sherman turned back and stood once more looking at Johnston. Holding his anger back, Johnston raised a salute to the Union general. Sherman slowly raised his hand to return the salute. Without waiting for Sherman, to finish his salute, General Johnston turned on his heels, mounted his horse and rode away. With Johnston’s surrender, the Confederate Army of the South ceased to exist.

The rain let up a little, but it was just enough to muddy the field. On a flagpole in the middle of the field, a drooping, wet Confederate flag was lowered and in its place the Stars and Stripes were raised. A squad of Union soldiers saluted the flag, turned in unison and left the flag pole, as the flag fluttered in the damp air. This was witnessed by hundreds of Confederate soldiers, some lying down, some leaning on crutches, all in torn and worn out uniforms. Many were weeping. To the rear of the field stood the Confederate First Georgia Regiment Cavalry attached to the Army of Tennessee.

A tall Confederate Cavalry Colonel Samuel Davitte, sat ramrod straight on his mount. His hat brim was bent slightly down, tarnished from many battles. Rain water was dripping from the bent end. His uniform had been patched many times, but with care. Not all of his buttons were of the same type, but all were polished to a luster. His eyes were rimmed in red, his black beard, a snarl of many day’s growth, surrounded a downturned frown. As he saw the Confederate flag being lowered, he noticed General Johnston riding in his direction. As the general approached, the colonel brought his hand up, in a crisp snap, fingers just touching the brim of his hat, in a salute of respect towards the general. The general, seeing this, turned his head to the colonel, returned the salute slowly, with a slight nod.  As he passed the colonel, he turned his head back forward and rode on.

As the Confederate general passed in front of what was left of his cavalry troops, the solemn mood was broken.

Alright men, fall in ! came the order from Captain Calahan, who was next to the colonel. The order was passed down the grey line. The jingle of bits and spurs, the creak of saddles and the neigh of horses rose into the damp air as the thin grey line formed up in front of the captain and the colonel.

The colonel surveyed his men. All the uniforms showed missing buttons, worn sleeves, faded grey colors. The mounts were as equally worn, scarred, and thin. The faces of less than fifty troops were drawn into tight frowns, with hatred in their eyes. The horses snorted, blowing mist from their nostrils into the air.

The colonel urged his horse forward, turned left and then right, again facing the long grey line.

Straightening up in his saddle, setting his shoulders back and raising  his chin up, he said, General Johnston has just surrendered to the Union. The war is over, he paused, letting this sink in.  We are ordered to stand down, to turn in our weapons immediately and disband our Confederate army during the next two weeks, he said as he lead his horse slowly past his mounted troops, looking at each man in turn. No one said a word, but most stared at the ground. 

Sergeant Brad Williams sat on his horse, eyes cast down, hands holding the reins, resting on his saddle. Brad, a handsome young man, tall, dark hair, broad shouldered with deep blue-grey eyes, had come into the war more to protect his home than anything else. He was the son of an Irish farmer and a Seminole Indian woman. He did not look like a half-breed, even though he was.  He had all the features of a white man, just slightly darker skin and black hair. He did not have slaves, but did not hold any particular opinion against those that did. He just figured his farm was too small to be able to afford a slave anyhow. He had grown up in Georgia on a family farm, but lost his parents and siblings to smallpox during a particularly bad year.  He survived, and moved to a small town where he met and married a beautiful young woman named Jane. Soon they had a small farm, but the war was getting too close. Brad felt compelled to go fight against the invading Union army to protect his wife and farm.

I’ll be back soon. I love you, Brad had said to Jane, as he mounted his horse and spurred it into a gallop. That was almost four years ago.

He was a good horseman and joined the First Regiment, Georgia Cavalry in Rome Georgia. He proved it many times over in the battles he fought. Like many others, however, he was tired, sick of the ravages of war, of the death and slaughter he saw. He thought the war would only last a year, or two, but never four. He wanted to defeat the Union and get this damn war over with. He never thought this was the way it would end.

Colonel Davitte continued loudly to the others, I was proud to fight with you, but now the war is over. Forget vengeance, forget your feelings of continuing the fight. It is no good. Your families need you now. Go home, and rebuild your lives. God bless you all, said the colonel in a Southern drawl as he saluted his men and passed in front of them once more. All of the mounted troops saluted the colonel back. At the end of the line, he turned his mount toward Captain Calahan. Captain Calahan was a veteran of several campaigns, even before the Civil War. His scarred face bore witness to his history.

Captain, dismiss the men according to the instructions we were given, said the colonel to the captain. He reached out across the saddle with his gloved hand toward the captain.

Thank you sir, for the outstanding service you rendered the Confederacy, he said looking straight into the face of the captain.

The captain, blinked back the swell of emotion in his eyes.

Thank you sir, it was a pleasure to serve under you, he said as he shook the colonel’s hand. With that, the colonel rode away toward the edge of the field and his tent. The captain watched him go, then turned his horse toward his men.

Captain Calahan, sat up straight and proud in his saddle. He looked up and down the line of grey horse soldiers and began to speak.

Men, you have no need for shame or to regret the service you rendered. You protected the South with your lives and bravery. You should be proud and hold your head high, said the captain in a heavy Irish accent. I for one, where ever we may meet again, would be honored to have a drink with you anytime.

Sergeant Brad felt his heart swell with pride. He lifted his head and sat a bit straighter in his saddle.

The captain then saluted his men, his eyes wet with emotion. They in turn, saluted him back. No one said a word, but sat silently looking at the captain. A horse snorted . A spur jingled. The rain began to come down again.

After a few minutes, the captain regained his composure and his voice.

You are confined to this camp until you are relieved. Go to the quartermaster’s tent and turn in your weapons, said the captain. Turning toward his young lieutenant, he said, Lieutenant Reynolds, dismiss the men.

Reynolds, having only recently come into the war, looked at the captain. He still wanted to fight.

He said through clenched teeth.

Yes, sir.

The lieutenant, gently spurred his horse and rode a bit forward toward the line of cavalrymen, then stopped.

Company,..... Disss...missed, said the lieutenant in a loud voice. The order was echoed down the rank and file by the sergeants.

Angry, stunned, and disheartened, the men, slowly turning their horses away from the line, rode toward their quarters through the rain that was now coming down harder.

The lieutenant turned his horse back toward the captain.

The captain and the lieutenant both turned their mounts and slowly rode toward the rag tag Confederate officers’ tents that were scattered across the field from the Confederate soldiers’ bivouac.

God damned Yankees, swore the captain under his breath as he left the field. He looked over toward the lieutenant who was riding with downcast eyes. Let’s get drunk ! he said with a roar and slapping him on the shoulder, splattering some rain off the lieutenant’s uniform. The lieutenant just nodded his downcast head. The horses plodded on through the mud.

The rain began to let up a little. Each cavalryman, upon  reaching his quarters, dismounted and stripped his horse of saddle, weapons and other gear. Then after turning their mounts into a roped ramada, they took their weapons over to the Union quartermaster’s tent. There was already a long line in front of the tent, winding over the muddy, wet field. Each man got in line to turn in his weapons, under the watchful eye of armed Union soldiers guarding the tent. The men had to sign over what weapons he was surrendering and sign his name. 

Brad was in line to turn in his weapons and could hear some of the men in low voices, complaining. The sun was coming out, the rain had stopped and it was getting hot. Steam was starting to rise off everything.

God dammit ! mumbled Jacob as he shuffled along in the mud.

It’s not over yet, not by a long shot whispered Billy Bob, standing behind Brad.

Damn Yankees

A smile slowly spread across Brad’s face that was badly in need of a shave

Yeah well, I say thank God it's over, Harlin further up the line said.

All Brad could think of now, was to get back home. He was bumped and shuffled, as he carried his heavy weapons to the quartermaster’s tent.

As Brad got closer to the tent, he could see piles of bandoliers, bayonets, pistols, swords, and stacks of rifles, littering the area in front of the tent.

Name ?   demanded the Union sergeant to Brad as he stepped up to a large makeshift table. He was bearded, grisly looking , with a stern face. His worn Union blue cap was tilted slightly over his right eye. He was sitting behind the table that Brad had just stepped up to. A ledger was open in front of the sergeant and a pen was in his hand. He was looking at a space where he had to write in the response and not at Brad.

Brad saw the sergeant waiting, gripping his weapons so tight his knuckles turned white. He had an impulse to shoot him where he sat. His eyes were ablaze with hate. He just stood and said nothing.

Name? repeated the sergeant, this time louder and with impatience.

Sergeant Brad Williams said Brad, between clenched teeth, while he stared at the sergeant.

Unit ? barked the sergeant without looking up.

The proud First Regiment, Georgia Cavalry, said Brad raising his chin, just as loud. His gaze dared the sergeant to do something, anything, so he could shoot him dead.

Slowly, the sergeant raised his head and stared back at Brad. He considered saying something, then looked back down at his ledger, and scrawled in Brad’s name and unit in the ledger. The sergeant slammed the pen back down on the table, turned the ledger around and shoved it toward Brad. 

List your weapons here, the sergeant pointed to the location in the ledger.

Sign it here, and turn them in over there, he said as he pointed over his shoulder.  The sergeant crossed his arms and leaned back as he watched Brad. His eyes held malice, barely concealed .

Brad lowered his intense eyes to the ledger, picked up the pen and started writing. When he was done, he threw down the pen and walked over to the piles of weapons. There he placed with care his shotgun, bandolier, Navy Colt revolvers and remaining cartridges, then walked away back toward the bivouac, passing the long grey line of angry men, cursing as he went.

The Confederates were scattered across the muddy field. Some were huddled around low, smoking fires, others were in small groups, talking about their past battles, about what  they were going to do now. Some sat alone, tears wet on their dirty faces. Regiments were generally grouped together, more or less because they knew each other than from any sense of organization. Most of the men had various rags left for their uniforms, but all were grey in general. If any remaining semblance of a uniform , there was red trim for artillery, blue for infantry or yellow, like Brad’s for cavalry, among other self-designed uniforms representing a Southern state or region.

Brad walked over to a makeshift cover, and ducked under. He sat down on a blanket that was spread out. Surrounding the blanket were several of his fellow cavalrymen. No one was talking. Some were lying back with their eyes closed, others hunkered down on their heels or sat on the blanket. The only sound was the pattering of the rain that had begun falling again, hitting the cover above the men.

Further down the muddy path that lay between the tents, loud voices were heard yelling, demanding something. Brad turned his head and saw several Union soldiers standing in a small group about some of the Confederates. One was pointing a finger and cursing, yelling at one of the Confederates. The other Union soldiers were trying to restrain him and get him to move along. Brad got up , and walked out from under the cover, toward the men. He wanted to know what was going on.

As Brad got closer, he could make out the voices,

You goddamn Reb !  You’re goin’ta pay , you’re goin’ta spit blood, said the angry Union corporal as he shook his finger at the cringing young Confederate drummer boy.

You made me drop my tin of food into the mud ! he said as he lunged at the boy,