Into the Cauldron

By Glenn Starkey

1864. After four cruel years, the Civil War still raged without peace in sight. The Union Army's manpower was stretched to its limits fighting on two fronts; one on the eastern battlefields against the Confederacy, the other to protect the Santa Fe Trail and western expansion of citizens from marauding Indian tribes and vicious Confederate guerrillas.

Jonah Gustafson's family was dead, leaving him to aimlessly wander. Rather than wait for the coming draft, he joined the 3rd Wisconsin Volunteer Cavalry, expecting to be sent east into the war between the states. Instead, his regiment went west to 'Bleeding' Kansas and war-torn Missouri. There, along the Santa Fe Trail, they fought every major Indian tribe and Quantrill's Raiders, a roaming, bloodthirsty guerrilla unit. Horrid weather and deplorable living conditions were the lonely troopers' constant companions. Death always lurked near whether from disease, a bullet, or an arrow. But the cavalry of the frontier fulfilled its duties against all odds.

"Into the Cauldron" is the life of Trooper Jonah Gustafson based upon true events written in the pages of a Civil War diary by a Wisconsin cavalryman that served on the frontier. It is a novel to enjoy and learn from; one that will carry you back in time to feel the joys, heartaches and anguish of those days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098345242

Glenn Starkey

Glenn Starkey is a former U.S. Marine Corps Sergeant and Vietnam veteran. He worked for U.S. State Department Security, law enforcement in Texas, and retired from a global oil corporation. For the last six years, he has volunteered to help elementary students improve their reading skills. He lives with his family south of Houston, Texas.

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Into the Cauldron

Copyright 2020 by Glenn Starkey

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electrical or mechanical, including photography, recording, or by any information or retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN (print) 978-1-09834-523- 5

ISBN (E-book) 978-1-09834-524-2

Contents

Books by Glenn Starkey

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

AFTERWORD

About the Author

Books by Glenn Starkey

BLACK SUN

Gold Medal 2016 Historical Fiction Award

—Military Writers Society of America

"…It was Glenn Starkey’s ability to capture humanity at its worst and at its very best that touched me so deeply…

Where some authors write a great story you can’t put down, Glenn Starkey weaves a richly coloured tapestry and breathes life into every thread of the story. Every sentence, every paragraph, every description, and every character matters..."

2016 Readers Favorite 5 Star Review

—Readers Favorite.com

MICAH

Bronze Medal 2020 Historical Fiction Award

—Military Writers Society of America

SOLOMON’S MEN

… genuinely suspenseful… a cascade of power struggles… Exciting and unpredictable, Solomon’s Men is highly recommended as an original action/adventure thriller.

—The Midwest Book Review

Silver Medal 2012 Mystery/Thriller Award

—Military Writers Society of America

... one thing I can say with certainty is that if Glenn Starkey’s name is on a book, I’m reading it! 2017 Readers Favorite 5 Star Review

—Readers Favorite.Com

THE HONJO

Sequel to SOLOMON’S MEN.

THE COUNCILMAN

Bronze Medal 2019 Mystery/Thriller Award Joint Conference of MWSA and Southwestern Writers

THE DAGGERMAN

"Glenn Starkey has a way of writing that immediately

engages, keeps you riveted to the end with drama, mystery and suspense..."

– Amazon.com - Five Star Review

There is more truth in this book than in many of the churches today. The author does an amazing job of painting the landscape of Israel and Jerusalem to set the scene with the Sanhedrin, Pharisees and a zealous sect known as the Sicarii, all under Roman occupation...

– Amazon.com - Five Star Review

AMAZON MOON

Notable Indie Book of 2013 Award

—Shelf Unbound Magazine

Bronze Medal 2014 Thriller/Mystery Award

—Military Writers Society of America

… This would be one incredible action movie for sure! ‘Amazon Moon’ is deeply layered in emotions and themes of both revenge and redemption. The human elements of his characters are sharply focused but layered as well…

—W. H. McDonald Jr., American Authors Association

Amazon Moon is the sort of novel that grabs you by the throat on the first page and doesn’t let go until the last. It is an exciting story and, at the same time, something more. It is a fable about one man’s redemption, his rediscovery of innocence.

—Nicholas Guild – New York Times Best Selling Author

The Spartan Dagger, The Ironsmith, Blood Ties, The Assyrian, Blood Star…and more.

MR. CHARON

One of the evident appeals of Mr. Charon is Starkey’s descriptive prose. It gives vivid pictures of the surroundings and moves the story flawlessly, which also contributes to the plot’s deft execution. The classic good versus evil theme mixed with love, hate, and redemption makes Mr. Charon a great read.

2016 Readers Favorite 5 Star Review

—Readers Favorite.Com

YEAR OF THE RAM

… it felt as if a hand had made its way out of the novel, gently grabbed me around the neck and pulled me into its story until such time as what was being told had come to an end. After accomplishing what it set out to do, the hand would then draw me out of the world I was in, pat my cheek, and disappear leaving me sitting there in wonder…

—Sandra Valente, Novel Review Café

THE COBRA AND SCARAB: A NOVEL OF ANCIENT EGYPT

"… Rich, vibrant, descriptive language. Characters with depth, imbued with loyalty, courage and strength or touched with madness for power and evincing raw brutality. Treachery, betrayal, intrigue at every turn…

– Amazon.com - Five Star Review

STEEL JUNGLE

…Terrific read. Talented writer. Recommending it to my friends. So easy to understand how this could happen. Scary… —Amazon.com – Five Star Review

Non-Fiction:

THROUGH THE STORMS: THE JOHN G. SLOVER DIARY

Edited by Glenn Starkey for the Alvin Museum Society

…An important and valuable work…genuinely impressed with the completeness of the manuscript, as well as its organization…a work that, in my view, combines both the best of first-person observations and conventional historical narrative to understand Slover’s experiences as part of the larger sweep of American history during that period.

—Andrew W. Hall, author, historian, DeadConfederates.com - Civil War Blog, and regional Marine Archaeological Steward for the Texas Historical Commission

To Jake:

We travel uncharted lands throughout life yet find our way. Follow your heart. I did.

Jefe

I’m not sure what I’m going to do, and I don’t know where I’m going, but I’ll know when I get there.

Trooper Jonah Gustafson from Into the Cauldron.

A house divided against itself cannot stand.

Abraham Lincoln

War is hell.

William Tecumseh Sherman

Chapter One

August 1863

Mukwa, Wisconsin

The storm struck at midnight with the ferocity of a battling lion. The wind roared; their cabin creaked, and the crackle and booming claps of thunderbolts came with such strength that they masked Cristyn’s agonizing screams. Teeth clenched, Jonah sat feeling helpless. He could only let his wife squeeze his hand, wipe trails of sweat and tears from her face with a cool, wet cloth and pray she would survive the birthing. This would be their third child to lose. The first, only an infant, died in her sleep during their move to Missouri. The second, a boy of two, from dysentery as they fled the war-ravaged state to return to Wisconsin. And now this one when they believed all would be safe in their home. Yet he didn’t care. He only wanted Cristyn to live and pleaded with God to save her. But by dawn the storm passed, and with it his wife and the child within her.

***

Noon came with dismal gray, low-hanging clouds and a constant drizzle that grew heavier by the minute. Jonah stood rain-soaked with water gathered about his boots. He leaned on his shovel and stared into the black hole. Rivulets of muddy water dripped from every side of the grave and gradually spread across its bottom. His gaze drifted to the blanket-shrouded corpse. Drawing a deep breath, he eased himself into the grave and reached out for her. Cristyn’s body felt so light in his arms. He held her tightly against him, never wanting to let go, yet forced himself to lay her in the mire.

By the time he finished backfilling the grave, the drizzle had stopped, but the day remained bleak. Mud was thick on his boots; splotched his trousers and shirt and smeared his face where he had unknowingly rubbed his hands. The cross at the head of Cristyn’s grave was nothing more than two large sticks bound with rope, but for now it must do. He had nothing else to use yet refused to leave her grave unmarked.

Dropping to his knees in the mud, Jonah moaned and wept as the world caved in on him. An hour later he stumbled to their log cabin and fell onto their bed. His hand reached out and grazed her side, felt its emptiness, then exhaustion overcame him.

***

He awoke the next morning caked in dried mud and looked about the room, squinting from the glare of sunlight through the open cabin door. Walking outside, he glanced at the storm-ravaged fields and battered remains of his livestock lean-to. His cow was gone and there was little left of the crops, but his mule stood unharmed, peacefully grazing by the shed’s fallen rail-post fence.

The five rainwater buckets along the front cabin wall were full to their brims. Jonah stripped from his clothes and poured two of them over himself to wash away the crust of mud. The sun warmed his body and felt good to stand nude in its light as water dripped from him.

Only a few inches short of six feet, he was taller than most men in the area. Though he had labored in his younger years on the New London steamboat docks as a cargo loader, the majority of his chiseled build came as an inheritance from his Norwegian father’s bloodline. Yet it was his mother’s attractive French attributes that defined his handsome face, rich brown hair and penetrating dark blue eyes. Many a woman’s head had turned in the days he walked the New London streets; some which shouldn’t have, including Lilly, a pastor’s young wife that raised him and he now wanted to forget. But leaving Sister Lilly, as the townsfolk called her, and leaving New London to wander across Wisconsin for several years had proven good. He’d met Cristyn, the beautiful red-headed farm girl from Wales who had breathed fresh life into his soul with merely her smile.

Jonah walked back into the cabin, dressed and stood looking about the sparsely furnished room. At every glance was a memory of Cristyn; her rocking chair, a hairbrush, her half-finished knitting, and the prized cup from the ‘old country’ she received from her mother on their wedding day. His fingertips rubbed the worn leather cover of her Bible, and he thought about their first two children’s locks of hair she kept pressed within its pages. He closed his eyes and lightly shook his head. I forgot to get a clipping of her hair to put with theirs, he thought in remorse.

Of his many regrets, the worst was the day he had taken Cristyn and their six-month-old daughter, Laurie, to Missouri against the pleadings of her family. Kansas and Missouri were bitter enemies, at each other’s throats for years over slavery. With the ongoing war, the Union ‘Red Legs,’ Jayhawkers, and the Confederate ‘Bushwhacker’ guerrilla units, had made the states a living hell for everyone, so much that Kansas was known as ‘Bleeding Kansas.’

The promise of cheap land with fertile soil and abundant crops had drawn Jonah, and though Cristyn had not wanted to go, she bravely remained by his side. They lost the baby on the way to Missouri, then their first year became one struggle after the next to survive. With their last dollars he bought the Jack mule, plowed the land from dawn to dusk, and worked by oil lamps late into each night to build a cabin. Yet all hopes of prosperity collapsed the day neighbors arrived to warn of William Quantrill’s guerrilla unit cutting a bloody swathe of torture and death toward them. Quantrill never took prisoners nor had qualms about what he did to his enemies, young or old. The fear in Cristyn’s eyes had torn at Jonah’s heart and he knew she suffered enough. By day’s end the mule was hitched, and the family wagon was loaded with their clothes and supplies. The rest of their meager belongings had to remain. Then the interminable journey home to Wisconsin began.

And we did start over... again, Jonah thought, angry at his failures in life, especially as a husband and father. He turned and gathered a few clothes, his old jacket, Cristyn’s Bible, what food he could find, and his hunting bag with powder, shot, and knife. Shoving clothes and food into two small canvas bags, he wrapped Cristyn’s Bible and eased it into a saddlebag pouch. He laid his musket beside the hunting bag and left all on the mud-stained bed.

Where are you, mule? he asked, walking out of the cabin with a badly weathered saddle, blanket and bridle in his right hand. The twelve-year-old Missouri mule raised its head from a rainwater bucket by the door, water dripping from its muzzle. Long ears perked, the Jack watched Jonah approach but didn’t shy away. The animal had always been good-tempered, was strong and stood almost sixteen hands high at the shoulders. Cristyn loved to pet him and scratch his neck, although the mule preferred she scratch his hindquarters before following her around the farm like a faithful dog.

We’re taking a trip, boy. Don’t know where to, but we’ll know when we get there, Jonah said, throwing the blanket onto the mule’s back. He swung the saddle onto the blanket and let it sit while he eased the bit into the mule’s mouth. Once bridled, he checked the saddle’s cinch strap and shook his head. From the worn condition of his equipment, he’d be lucky if the cinch didn’t break and the saddle fell apart before he had ridden a mile. Holding his breath, he tightened the cinch, and when it didn’t break, he happily exhaled.

After a last trip through the house, he slipped a tattered brown jacket on, set a crumpled felt hat on his head, grabbed his musket and the rest of his belongings. He refused to look back as he walked out the cabin door.

He draped the canvas bags over the mule’s neck and tied the saddlebags behind the cantle. Jonah eased the strap of the hunting bag over his head and let it hang off his left side. Testing the strength of the left stirrup, when the strap held, he swung up onto the mule with the musket in his left hand. He sat for a moment, laid the musket across his lap, took up the reins and turned the animal northward to the road. Still, he would not look back at the cabin.

I should have burned it to the ground, he thought, settling into the rhythm of the mule’s stride.

Chapter Two

January 3, 1864

New London, Wisconsin

The community of New London sat along the Wolf and Embarrass Rivers and was far larger than the settlement of Mukwa. Indigenous tribes had lived in the area for thousands of years until the Menominee tribe sold over four million acres of woodlands to the United States in the 1836 Treaty of the Cedars. When the government opened the land for purchase, settlers of European descent flowed in and established the community as a major lumber center and steamboat terminal.

At every turn was an unfamiliar sight and sound for Jonah who had long been away from civilization, living out in wildernesses where few people traveled. The buildings were wider, taller, and butted next to one another, separated only by poorly painted storefront signs. Horses neighed, oxen bellowed, and freight wagons loudly creaked as they rolled through town on the crowded, rutted dirt street. Even the people were an oddity to Jonah as he watched hard-faced townsmen in mismatched, raggedy clothes come and go from stores. Rugged, bearded men from upriver in oiled buckskins smelling of sweat and wood-smoke, their heads covered with strange animal-skin hats, cradled long-barreled muskets in their arms and strode the streets. Men sat in chairs smoking pipes along the sidewalks while clumps of cigar smoking men stood about, bartering the day’s business. Weaving through everyone were solemn women draped in patched shawls and bonnets, carrying and leading their motley children.

Jonah reined the mule in at a hitching post by a general store. He remembered visiting it with the pastor’s wife while he was young and living with them. At the time it made little sense why she always went into the backroom with the keeper and ordered Jonah to wait outside. But all became clear as the years wore on. Now, except for a different name on its sign, the building looked the same. He glanced along the sidewalk, hoping not to see Sister Lilly, then eased from the saddle.

A stern eyed, withered man with a thick moustache and wild salt and pepper beard streaked from tobacco juice sat with the sun shining on him, watching Jonah from a chair next to the store. He wore a faded Union soldier’s coat, frayed in spots, and atop his head sat a short, conical-topped, military forage hat. From the knee down, his left leg was gone, and a white haze covered his right eye. A jagged scar from forehead to cheek gave the eye a distorted appearance. Leaning against the store’s front wall were a pair of crutches; their tops wrapped with thick cloth to cushion his underarms.

That’s a Missouri mule, ain’t it?

A grin formed on Jonah’s lips. He gave a sharp nod in reply and tied the Jack to the post.

The old veteran slowly nodded. Yes, sir, thought so. Best damn mules around come out of Missouri. Matter-of-fact, they’re the only good thing to come out of that state. He spat a long stream of brownish-black tobacco juice out into the street, but a sliver fell into his beard. Digging around in his mouth with his right forefinger, he hooked a wad of tobacco and flung it out to land in the street. He swiped the wet finger across the thigh of his amputated leg and sat back in his chair. "You a secesh?"

"No, I’m not a secessionist." Jonah smiled, enjoying the crusty old man. He knew secesh was the cruder form of the name given to people with pro-slavery sympathies or were from the Confederate states. You the New London Welcoming Committee? He reached out to shake the man’s hand, then stopped, remembering where it had been.

The old veteran’s white eye closed as he chuckled. Oh, hell no. I sit here to watch the pretty womenfolk walk by. My days of doing anything else are gone. The thick gray beard rose and fell as he laughed. First time to New London? he asked, catching his breath.

Used to live here when I was a kid. After my father died, my mother gave most of my brothers and sisters to different families because she couldn’t feed us. A Lutheran preacher here in town raised me until I was eighteen... then I left. Jonah paused as if he’d said the wrong thing. This is my first time back in twelve years. Lot of things have changed around here. Jonah had let his gaze drift down the street when a steamboat horn blared its dull roar that carried through the town. He grinned and motioned toward the docks. Been a while since I heard a steam horn.

Head canted as he studied Jonah’s face, the soldier lightly nodded. "That would have been Pastor Irving—Theodore Irving, the preacher. He had a pretty little wife that looked young enough to be his daughter. Folks called her Sister Lilly. They left New London a few years before I went off to the war."

Jonah tried to keep a straight face. The pastor was a fairly strict fellow, but everyone liked Sister Lilly.

Again, the old soldier broke out in deep laughter. Yes, sir, everyone liked her—too much, if you know what I mean. He hooked his right thumb and swung it back to the store behind him. "That’s why there’s a new owner. The storekeeper’s wife finally caught her husband and Lilly doing the do. Wasn’t long after that they sold the store and moved away, then the preacher and his wife did too. I heard there were a lot of cheerful wives when Sister Lilly left."

Shifting his musket from his right hand to his left, Jonah smiled and threw his saddlebag over his left shoulder before glancing along both ends of the sidewalk. The news about the preacher’s move didn’t surprise him, only that it had taken so long for her to be caught. Lilly was barely ten years older than Jonah, attractive and with each year her body filled out and became more desirable. Her temptress smile, green eyes and long auburn hair had broken the resistance of many a man, including Jonah, and it was why he left.

My name’s Jonah Gustafson, he said, stepping forward to read a poster tacked onto the store’s wall. It advertised the forming of a regimental company by Captain Hugo Montfort for the 3rd Regiment, Wisconsin Volunteer Cavalry.

Mine’s Burt Hyman, former Private in the Army of Tennessee under Major General Ulysses Grant at the Battle of Shiloh. The old soldier puffed his chest out as he watched Jonah intently read the recruiting advertisement. If you’re planning on joining the 15th Wisconsin, you must head down to Camp Randall in Madison.

Brows lowering, Jonah paused from his reading and looked at Hyman. Why would I join the 15th? This paper is asking for men to enlist in the 3rd Regiment.

"Gustafson? You’re Norwegian, aren’t you? Hell, they call the 15th the Norwegian Regiment because everyone is named Olof or Gustaf or Gustafson or something like that. The only other men in it are a few Danes and Dutch, maybe a Swede. It’s infantry, though. That means you’re walking wherever you go. Hyman paused, bit off a chaw from a plug of hard tobacco and chewed it into a pulp. You speak Norwegian? You better if you join that outfit. I don’t think they speak English." He spat a stream of tobacco juice out toward the street and ran a hand across his mouth to wipe away the excess.

Jonah shook his head and grinned. Never learned. My father died in a logging accident while I was still young, and my mother was French. She didn’t know a word of it, so we spoke English. He cradled his musket in his left arm and adjusted his crumpled felt hat. I was only reading the paper. Didn’t come here to enlist.

You better be prepared to enlist. There’s talk going around about Lincoln ordering a draft cause the Federal Army needs more men. This war is in its fourth year, and the way some of Lincoln’s stupid generals are killing their troops, there’s a shortage. The old soldier motioned to the recruitment billing. Only a few of the officers are trained military men. Most are rich boys who can afford to buy their rank by organizing and outfitting a unit. They read military manuals at night so they’ll know what to do the next day.

I don’t know much about the war. I’ve been living in the wilderness too long and news is slow to travel there. When I moved my family to Missouri, I learned a lot about the Bushwhackers and what they did to people. Jonah scowled at the memory of what he had seen left of men that Quantrill thought were Union sympathizers.

Family? Hyman looked around as if he had missed seeing them during his conversation with Jonah. He spit on the sidewalk and quickly faced Jonah again. You took your family to Missouri? What kind of damn fool would do that? Where are they now?

A slow nod came. This damn fool, Jonah said in a low voice. And they are dead. He turned to the store’s door. A bell lightly tinkled as he entered.

***

The old soldier sat quietly in his chair, basking in the warm sun which rarely came in the miserable Wisconsin winters. He heard the tinkle of the bell and looked to his right to find Jonah standing beside him. A package of hard tobacco dropped into his lap. He carefully lifted it and grinned at the young man. Well, thank you, sir, he said, nodding his head.

Jonah smiled and walked out to put his few supplies in the canvas bags draped over the mule. When finished, he ran a hand along the left side of the mule’s neck, patted it and leaned against the hitching post to face the former soldier. His gaze rose to the recruitment poster on the wall, but he remained silent.

Thinking about joining? Hyman asked in a gentle tone.

I hadn’t thought about it until I saw the poster. Probably better than roaming around the state wondering what I should do next.

"You looking for