Death is a Vengeance: The McKay Family Saga, #2

By J.C. Graves

Although the war officially ended, the McKay Rangers could not stay in North Carolina, because the Union Army decided to keep the $10,000 bounty on all bushwhackers. They packed up five large wagons, married their sweethearts, and left on a bright Sunday morning. A few days later, they came up to the Green River—the southern border of North Carolina. The cavalry platoon tasked with border security was led by a familiar lieutenant—one missing his front teeth. Almost two weeks after the wagons slipped by, he finally realized that the man who had broken his mouth and humiliated him, had slipped through his grasp. Vengeance rose up in his heart like a tidal wave, with the blinding need to find and murder that vicious creature. The Union Army empowered him with a promotion and the authority to pursue the rangers to the gates of hell if necessary.               How does a wagon train of five slow wagons escape the efforts of the mighty Union Army to bring down a terrible and swift vengeance? Then again, would the Union Army survive, if they cornered the deadly mother grizzlies protecting their cubs?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Summit Bay Press, Olympia WA
• Release date: May 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393713548

J.C. Graves

I would describe myself as a lifelong learner. From my earliest memories, I have been filled with an insatiable curiosity about what things are, how and why they work, and the nuances of relationships. Because of that, my interests are wide and varied. I love to write and always have a book going. In this way, I am able to share—in story form—much of what I have discovered about the world.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Four hours after sunrise , the cavalry squad attacked from the north, galloping into the yard at the old McKay plantation. A shot sounded. Captain Rheinhart cried out and leaned forward, hand on right shoulder.

Return fire! First Sergeant O’Kurle shouted. Bell, take the captain over by that shed!

Private Bell grabbed the Captain’s reins and spurred his horse forward.

Up the hill! Private Rufus shouted. In that cemetery!

That was all First Sergeant O’Kurle needed. Charge! he shouted. A bullet tugged at his jacket collar, and his eyes grew large at his fortunate luck.

He wasn’t sure where all the attackers were, but his troopers were getting chewed up. From the drifting gun smoke, he figured at least two, possibly three, of the shooters were behind the family cemetery headstones.

O’Kurle emptied his carbine and reached for his Navy Colt as the troopers charged the shooters. Two men fell back from the Andrew McKay tombstone, riddled with holes.

A man stood behind William Clyde McCall’s tombstone, holding up his hands. I surrender! he shouted.

Private Federman spun his horse around, Like hell you do, and shot him in the chest three times.

Behind us! O’Kurle shouted, turning his horse.

Down the hill, the gunfire increased. Corporal Jones and four troopers were shooting at men behind a shed.

Get down there! the First Sergeant bellowed.

The four troopers raced down the hill and swept around the line of sheds to catch the shooters in a cross-fire. Three Confederate soldiers went down, but two started running across the field. The troopers chased them down, leaving none alive.

Did you get them all? Captain Rheinhart murmured. He lay on the ground with his head on a pile of burlap bags. Private Bell had stuffed a rag into the bullet hole to slow the bleeding.

Yes, sir, First Sergeant O’Kurle answered, kneeling beside him.

Good. Damn good. They’ve plagued this country for over a year. Glad to be rid of them wicked rangers.

Well, about that, sir, O’Kurle began. I suspect these were Confederate soldiers trying to get home after the war. I think we sort of took them by surprise.

The war is over, Captain Rheinhart said, trying to sit up. Why did they fire on us? Three other troopers lay on the ground next to the captain. All the wounds were minor, and Private Federman was binding them up to ride.

’Cause they was raidin’, an older black woman answered from behind the group.

O’Kurle spun around. And you are? He did not hear her approach and she scared him.

Miss. Sternwell stepped out of the tobacco shed. Them raiders come not an hour ago. After food, mostly.

First Sergeant O’Kurle pursed his lips, thinking. Well, tell everyone to stay inside until we sort this out.

Miss. Sternwell nodded, hiding a grin and missing teeth with her hand. She was sixty-one and not up for a wagon ride that morning. She didn’t tell the troopers that everyone else on the farm had left for town just at sun up to attend a wedding—three wagons full of people. And at the church were the real rangers they were hoping to find.

The captain stood, unsteady on his feet. I do not believe we shall find bushwhackers here this morning, or prove that these people have been helping them. He looked around, a confused look in his eyes. Get what identifications you can off the bodies. He blinked and shook his head. Bury them down there in that field.

We’ll get some folks to help, O’Kurle replied.

Of course. Now, help me to my horse. I want the wounded and two other men to ride with me back to town to see the doctor.

Shovels’re in that shed o’er yonder, Miss. Sternwell said, pointing. Men folk ran into the woods. Reckon I can rustle’m up ta help ya. She walked off, giggling lightly at her deception.

AS HE STARED INTO PEGGY’S green eyes, Captain James McKay could not help smiling. The past troubles darkening his soul fell away in the warm morning sunshine of a cloudless day, and the special moment. He basked in the showers of blessings, his best friends sharing a respite from war and a new beginning. Worries dotted the distant horizon, but he ignored them. Tomorrow would come soon enough.

All up and down the valley, white and pink fruit tree blossoms filled the air with sweetness and the promise of rich jams and pies come fall. The church bell proudly announced to the town and valley the joyful sound of celebration. Danny and Marcus swung on the rope until Pastor Painter of the small Episcopal Church—Saint Timothy’s—feared the bell would crack like the Liberty Bell, but he did not have the heart to stop them. Let the boys have their moment, he thought, grinning broadly.

He had never done an ordination, four weddings, and a baby baptism in one weekend, and he still had the main service to do in an hour. He would have fun filling out the church register.

Unfortunately, the church would not be growing by that many folks, since they were all leaving right after the wedding ceremony. He knew the rangers were worried about staying around town too long and wanted to get some miles in the first day.

After lots of hugs and tears, the little five-wagon convoy pulled onto the turnpike, pointing south, Captain James McKay leading. The clanging bell slowed. Pastor Painter turned just in time to see Marcus shoot through the crowd. He jumped onto Gideon’s wagon as it began moving, laughing crazily and waving. Pastor Painter wondered if Marcus was fooling around or actually going with them? Did his mother know? He raised his hand in a tentative wave.

On the third wagon, Mary Elizabeth leaned on Henry’s arm. I am happy and I am sad.

What do you mean? he asked.

I am happy to be married and startin’ this adventure with you, but I’m sad to be leavin’ my home and family. I mean, we don’t know if we will ever see them again.

I hadn’t thought of that, he said, pondering what she was feeling. It must be hard. He and James had experienced similar feelings the year before, when the Union cavalry patrol murdered their family.

It is hard. She squeezed his arm, closing her eyes. But I have you and that’s enough.

In Gideon’s wagon, Marcus crawled over boxes, bags and equipment until he found the front, wedging himself between Gideon and Ruby, so he could look out the front while still lying down. There was room enough on the seat for three people, but he liked lying there. Why are we heading south?

Gideon put his hand on his head, shaking it playfully. Because the Union Army is more abundant in the north. By heading south, we are putting some distance between us and them. He and Ruby exchanged a careful glance.

Gideon learned blacksmithing at his father’s side and had the large, jet-black arms to prove it. He felt a great love for Ruby. They had known each other all their lives. Without saying it, somehow, they had had an unspoken agreement to marry when the time came. In the last year, as the war engulfed everyone on the McKay plantation, they grew very close.

For years Ruby had followed the town doctor around the plantation, learning how to treat wounds and use medicines, both natural and pharmaceutical. Where Gideon was big and rough, Ruby was almost petite and soft. Although a black person, her complexion was fair, eyes green, and her hair black but only lightly curled. Twenty years before, her mother—pregnant with her—ran away from a farm in Macon, Georgia and somehow found safety and security at the McKay plantation.

Marcus’ brow crinkled. But I thought we had to go west to Texas.

Gideon snapped the reins. That we are—south to Atlanta, then west.

Atlanta? Didn’t General Sherman burn it down?

Probably, Marcus. But I’m sure the roads are fine.

Marcus looked thoughtful, thinking, hands folded under chin. Bridges are made of wood.

Gideon’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but he frowned. Josiah’s little brother was smart. He would have to bring this up with the others when they stopped at noon. Bridges could burn. They would have to ask people coming from the other way about road conditions ahead and consider options for going around or fording.

Josiah sat next to Sarah, who nursed baby Nathaniel. When he thought of himself as a preacher, he just had to smile. In his own heart, he had always been a preacher, devouring the bible from his youth. But with the ordination the day before—on Saturday—he felt different. Maybe when the bishop and pastor laid their hands on him to receive the power of the Holy Ghost for ministry, something had actually happened. He knew there were tough times ahead; but right now, he was wonderfully content and excited about the future.

The change from sharpshooter to family man made Josiah pause, contemplating the mysteries of his brief life. He would turn eighteen in eight months. The year before, he and Gideon had been free black men on the McKay plantation. Then the Union patrol came looking for bushwhackers and killed James’ and Henry’s whole family. Not long after, Confederate soldiers capture and ferried him south to work on a Georgia plantation, until the others rescued him. The rangers never took a tally of how many men they shot. So many that the Union Army put a bounty on their heads of $10,000 each. Then to complicate matters, the Confederate Army did the same at $5,000 each, even though the McKay Rangers identified with the Confederates. The problem was that whoever harmed the citizens of western North Carolina, whatever uniform they wore, or didn’t, called down their wrath.

The war had officially ended two weeks before, on April 9th, at Appomattox Court House. Even so, the Union Army made it quite clear that they would still pursue, prosecute and hang all bushwhackers for their audacious streak of kills.

Josiah sighed, and Sarah looked at him. When the rangers roamed the Appalachian Mountains, they only had to worry about themselves. If it suited them, they could vanish without a trace. He grinned and looked at Sarah and the baby, rocking gently with the wagon. She smiled back.

Now they were out in the open, plodding along like they had not a care in the world; when in fact, their troubles had just increased a thousandfold. He was very happy, grinning one moment, then very worried the next, the concern etched in his eyes, driving along nonchalantly, but with every muscle and fiber on high alert. He leaned out to the side, looking back. Michael waved.

In the last wagon, Michael Tall Corn sat alone, his Henry rifle in the scabbard next to his right leg, a box of ammunition handy between his feet. He acquired the rifle after a Union raiding party munitions wagon blew up in a small valley north of Asheville. Although the others sported sharpshooter rifles, lethal at long ranges, he could fire sixteen shots, all deadly, in less than a minute.

The year before, his father—Yellow Coat, chief of the Shawnee in western North Carolina, had taken the last of his tribe—136 men, women and children—into the west. His father thought they might go into Texas, or even Mexico. Michael had not heard a word, but since no one reported fighting with Shawnee out west during the war, he imagined that they had quietly maneuvered through the opposing armies.

Michael figured he had turned twenty-one in January, four months before, making him the oldest of the group. As kids, he and James had run all over the mountains of western North Carolina, chasing deer, baiting bear, and like young men everywhere, challenging each other in every way possible. Michael had been like a son on the McKay plantation, and Yellow Coat referred to James as Deer Runner, his adopted son.

He filled his Conestoga wagon with supplies people might need on the road or at their destination: Barrels of flour, oils for cooking and lamps, knives for butchering and cooking, an assortment of pots, pans, and iron kettles, carving tools and axes, several types of saws, buckets for water, assorted bolts of leather and cloth, a box of assorted buttons and notions, dried fruit and jerky, vinegar, spices, molasses, salt, pepper, sugar, coffee, black tea, lard, a small bale of tobacco and two hundred cigars (he planned to smoke some), gun powder, wadding, lead for bullets, bullet molds in different calibers, flints, caps, and the equipment for making whiskey. Although Miss. Peggy had packed everything she could imagine into her own wagon, his wagon weighed more.

Michael had concerns but did not worry about much. He could anticipate trouble and decide whether to fight or quietly step back, melting into his surroundings like a ghost. He had an unusual patience and moved with an easy grace and confidence, but played the dumb Indian when the situation required. Still, he was deadly with a knife and his new Henry rifle.

After attending the big wedding, he thought it would be nice to have a family of his own. He wondered what he wanted in a woman. Mainly, he wanted someone to walk beside him, like Peg did with James. He admired James and Peg for their love, honesty, and mutual support. Would he find a Shawnee woman like that? Did his woman have to be Shawnee? He wondered.

Peggy took the reins from James. I want to share in the drivin’. She wrapped them around each hand one time. And there’s no better time than now. She had fears and mostly conquered them by staying busy. Peggy had pulled her long light copper hair back into a severe bun and wore a floppy, woven straw hat tied under her chin. Fresh blue and white wildflowers decorated the hatband. Her green eyes sparkled with excitement.

She was a realist and knew they had a tough road ahead. But why worry? James stood just over six feet in a country where people considered him tall. His body radiated health and strength, from his wide shoulders and narrow waist to his strong hands. Living outdoors over the last year lent him a perpetual tan which made his hazel-blue eyes all the more striking. When threatened, his head lowered slightly, and those eyes blazed with menace and danger. More than one person decided they had business elsewhere, than find out what those eyes held for their immediate future.

She loved those eyes for their beauty—and their menace. Her lover and protector. With James she felt safe, and that was all that mattered on a journey like this.

As she snapped the reins, James had to grin. Margaret Wilcox was not the kind of woman to follow meekly behind. She told him, if I am goin’ to share in the adventure and share in the danger, then I will share in the work, too. And she wanted to learn to shoot the revolvers and rifles.

How long do you think it will take us? she asked, adjusting the reins in her hands.

To get to Texas? I don’t know: three, four months. It was Sunday, April 23rd, 1865. And when we get to Texas, we’ve got to figure out where to go, because that country is bigger than North Carolina and South Carolina combined.

Why is it so big?

I suppose for the big people living there. He knew his reply sounded feeble, but every Texan he had met seemed to consider their state almost as a separate country—the Grand Republic; as if joining the Union had been an amusing favor granted to a second cousin.

CHAPTER TWO

The five wagons made exceptionally good time, because the roads were excellent and the animals fresh. Three days later, late afternoon on Tuesday, they came to the Green River dividing North Carolina from South Carolina. As the wagons approached the wide bridge, they could smell burned timbers, gray tendrils of smoke still curling into the air.

The Union patrol sat their horses, proud of their work. The goal was to disrupt casual travel and burning bridges would accomplish that.

Lieutenant Wilhelm Feldberg looked over his shoulder at the creaking sound of approaching wagons. Perfect, he thought, our first catch of the day. His orders were to apprehend deserters, outlaws, wanted men, and anyone else he deemed disruptive to good order and