Legions Now Quiet, the Civil War Novel

By Manson Case

Legions Now Quiet: The Civil War Novel chronicles the astounding exploits of a Confederate Cavalry captain as he flees from Sherman's legions as they burn their way through Georgia and South Carolina. The Captain tries desperately to inform General Lee and Jefferson Davis about a secret that only he knows that can win the War for the South. General Sherman finds out about the secret, and sends a company of his bummers to hunt the Captain down before he can notify the Confederate authorities. The Captain has many insightful adventures and meets many colorful characters as he runs from Atlanta to Savannah into South Carolina and north to Columbia. The importance of the secret is revealed during the fierce struggles between the Captain and his tormentors. The story describes the life of the average soldier, both Johnny Reb and Billy Yank. What they ate, their medical care, their weapons, their transportation and their fighting spirit come to life. Take the journey with the Captain. Will the revelation of the secret alter history?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 16, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595622474

Manson Case

Manson Drew Case grew up in Charlotte. After studying engineering at Georgia Tech and service in the Army, he completed his MBA at William and Mary while working in industry. In 1974, he joined Sonoco in Hartsville, S.C. where he became a Professional Engineer and Land Surveyor. In 2003, he founded an engineering company.

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Copyright © 2008 by Manson Drew Case

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Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-52184-5 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-62247-4 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

DEDICATION

FOREWORD

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dedication 

This novel is dedicated to my two beautiful daughters, Caroline and Jennifer.

FOREWORD 

„.We believed that it was most desirable that the North should win; we believed in the principle that the Union is indissoluble; we, or many of us at least, also believed that the conflict was inevitable, and that slavery had lasted long enough. But we equally believed that those who stood against us held just as sacred convictions that were opposite to ours, and we respected them as every man with a heart must respect those who give all for their belief. …

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.

August 18, 1864 Thursday, 11:15 a.m.

The Union Army under General William Tecumseh Sherman has the Confederate forces of General John Bell Hood almost surrounded in Atlanta, Ga. The only escape route for the Confederates is to the south towards Jones-boro and Lovejoy’s Station.

Near Lovejoy’s Station, a small Confederate cavalry unit is in position to guard a bridge on the Macon and Western Railroad. The railroad snakes through the hot, dusty, green Georgia countryside from Atlanta, south to Macon. The Confederacy has stockpiled trainloads of much-needed supplies in the warehouses of Atlanta. The bridge, which spans a branch of Walnut Creek, would have to be intact if supply trains are to move into or out of the city.

CHAPTER 1 

THE SONG OF DAVID

August 18, 1864 Thursday, 11:15 a.m.

The Union Army under General William Tecumseh Sherman has the Confederate forces of General John Bell Hood almost surrounded in Atlanta, Ga. The only escape route for the Confederates is to the south towards Jonesboro and Lovejoy’s Station.

Near Lovejoy’s Station, a small Confederate cavalry unit is in position to guard a bridge on the Macon and Western Railroad. The railroad snakes through the hot, dusty, green Georgia countryside from Atlanta south to Macon. The Confederacy has stockpiled trainloads of much-needed supplies in the warehouses of Atlanta. The bridge, which spans a branch of Walnut Creek, would have to be intact if the trains are to move into or out of the city.

A voice cries out, CAPTAIN! … CAPTAIN! … THEY’RE A COMIN! … THE WOODS IS FULL OF YANKEES! … THEY WANT YOU, CAPTAIN! … THEY’RE NOT AFTER THE RAILROAD BRIDGE! … THEY WANT YOU! … THEY SAY IT’S SOMETHIN ABOUT A LETTER YOU WROTE!

The words nearly made my heart jump out of my chest! My horse, beneath me, started to quiver and pull at the reins. He knew that one of those times when he has to carry me jerking through the smoke and terrifying sounds is about to begin again. My mind started to spiral through the thoughts to devise some kind of a desperate strategy to protect the bridge. I knew I had to issue commands to my exhausted troops quickly, but the stunning mention of the LETTER destroyed my ability to concentrate.

I had heard my scout’s voice many times, but I had never heard it address me with such terror. I could hear his words even over the thunder like roar of the cannon fire coming from the north near Jonesboro. As he screamed at the top of his lungs, he spurred his horse onward up the railroad toward me from my left. Strangely, even though the railroad tracks were just a few feet in front of me, all I could hear was his voice. I couldn’t hear the clapping of the hooves of his horse against the crossties. I couldn’t hear the swishing sound of the bushes on the railroad bank as he mowed his way through them.

I yelled back, CORPORAL WEATHERFORD, WHERE ARE THEY? … WHERE ARE THEY? … WHAT ABOUT THE LETTER? … WHAT ABOUT THE LETTER?

When he got within a few yards of me, he jerked his horse to a halt, and stuttered, Captain … WE GOT TO DO SOMETHIN! … THEY’S NO MORE THAN TWENTY MINUTES BEHIND ME. IF THEY SENT SOMEBODY OUT FRONT, THEY’LL BE ON US IN JIST A FEW MINUTES!

The urgency of the moment took over. The military wheels inside my head started to turn.

I looked at my pocket watch as I asked him, Which side of the creek are they on? How many of them are there?

He said, They’re ridin on both sides of the creek, some of them on the Atlanta side and some on the south side, the Macon side … But, most of them is in a line of fours ridin right down the middle of the creek! … They’re splashin the water somethin fierce! … And, they’re all mounted on some of the finest horses I ever seen! … They must a stole them down south here, Captain    Ain’t no Yankee ever raised a horse as fine as these!

Mywatch read, 11:18 a.m. I hurriedly repeated, How many of them? … How do you know it’s not just a little detachment bent on tearing up some rails and running back? . You mean the woods on the creek banks are thin enough to ride through?

"No, Captain, thay’s about a company of them. Some major with a young lieutenant by his side is a leadin them     I’d say thay’s about a hundred of them    

Yes, the woods is thin back there . Not thick and viney like here close to the bridge     But, Captain, now, I heard them talkin    They’re comin to git you!

… Why do they want you? … somethin about a letter!"

I had to keep my mind from panicking.

I made my voice speak to him in a calm tone. I tried to mask the depth of the impact of his news about the letter had on me as I told him, Don’t worry about a letter. We’re under orders to hold this bridge!

Unable to control himself, he blurted, BUT, CAPTAIN, THEY’S SOME-THIN-ELSE I SEEN THAT I GOT TO TELL YOU ABOUT TOO! . IT’S ABOUT UNCLE BILLY SHERMAN, HIS-SELF!

I knew he was full to the brim with anticipation. His reddish hair and Scots Irish face beamed with fright.

To my right, First Sergeant Folsom, having heard everything that Corporal Weatherford had told me, yelled, CAPTAIN, ARE WE GOIN TO FLEE, FIGHT OR FORTIFY.. IT DON’T MAKE NO DIFFERENCE TO ME; MY FAMILY’S TORE UP ANYWAY.. I AIN’T GOT NOTHIN TO GO HOME TO NO WAY! … DAMN, CAPTAIN, WHY DO THESE YANKEES WANT YOU? . I THOUGHT THEY’D BE OUT LOOKIN FOR OLE JEFF DAVIS, NOT YOU!

I replied to both of them by holding up my hand as if to say, Hold on, I need to reason this thing out.

I looked at the railroad bridge slightly up hill to my right about one hundred feet away. It spans from the north bank to the south bank of the creek which flows due east at this point. I studied it as if I had never seen it before. I dug deeply into the science memory that I had acquired a decade ago in my engineering education at the College of New Jersey in Princeton. I asked myself, Can it do the job? Is it really worth fighting and dying for?

I judged to myself, It is no work of art. But, its heavy log construction made me confident that it could accommodate at least three loaded train cars at a time. I looked at the pine logs driven vertically into the creek bed to form pillars to support the horizontal crossbeams and corduroy bed for the crossties and rails. Lastly, I studied the slight upward arch built into the center of the bridge, which allows it to give under the load of the train. I thought, I could not have engineered it better myself.

It would do fine for General Hood’s trains unless the Yankees blow it or burn it first. The fat lighter cores of the pine logs would burn well if lighted. I had to save it if I could.

I told Corporal Weatherford, Stay right here beside me! … I have something to give to you! … Just wait while I get this thing in place     Now, just hold your horse! . We’ve got to beat these people to protect the bridge!

He protested, BUT, CAPTAIN I GOT TO TELL YOU SOMETHIN!

I told him, Now, wait! … Hold it until I get the unit ready for this fight! I’ve known Corporal Tad Weatherford through three years of hard fighting. I knew I had to listen to what he had to tell me. He is the best scout I have ever met. He has the unusual ability to get close to the enemy without them seeing him. Some have said that he can go into a Yankee camp, have supper at the officer’s mess, leave with their marching plans, and bum a light for his cigar from the colonel on his way out. But, I put my mind into fight to the death mode. I had to. I had to do something here and now. My mind kept on screaming to me, If they have intercepted the letter, you have got to get to your tent before this fight starts!

I looked back at First Sergeant Amerson Folsom. The lines in his tired, red face told the story of his last three years. He has fought for his country even as he received one tragic letter after another from home. His life along the banks of the Pee Dee River in South Carolina where he grew up was gone forever. But, he is still the first to stand for a fight when it comes.

I waved him toward me as I commanded, Bring them in, First Sergeant, except the ends! . Put one east and one west on the creek!

He immediately knew what I meant. He turned and barked up and down the railroad for the entire unit to assemble around me, except the two point men, one furthest north up the railroad and the one furthest south. They would act as our early alert if the Yankees come up or down the railroad at us.

He yelled, WE’S GOT A FIGHT COMING . NO MORE THAN TWENTY MINUTES!

As they were coming in, I looked behind me at our little campsite that had been our home for the last few weeks. I could see my tent just on the other side of our mess area. I knew I could not let these Yankees capture its contents.

The men who had not been on guard on the railroad were tearing down their dog tents, saddling their horses, and, in general, getting ready to fight.

Hogjaws, our cook, was still stirring two big mess kettles over a fire in the shade of our shebang. One kettle was full of boiling, un-shucked ears of corn; the other was full of boiling clothes, shirts, socks, flannel underwear, and the like.

Hogjaws, stirring the corn kettle even harder as if to make it cook faster, yelled at me, Captain, what do you want me to do with this here corn? .It ain’t no where near done!

I had called him Hogjaws for so long that his last name wouldn’t come to me. When we met, about two years ago, he had very large jaws that seemed to extend all the way from his ears to his chest. He had a big belly to match, too. Confederate rations have done away with his belly, and his jaws look almost normal now. But, he still has a voice that reminds me of a big hog grunting as he talks. I replied, Uhhh … Corporal Hogjaws, distribute the rations!

He yelled back, Captain, you mean you want me to give out the corn and this bushel of sweet-taters?

I replied, "Yes, all of it.

He said, Damn these Yankees, I had jist enough flour left to make some sweet-tater pies for supper.

First Sergeant Folsom, in his most stern battle face, was pumping out orders,

Teacher, take the point west on the creek    Preacher, take the point east on the creek     Hogjaws, thow some wadder on that far! … Knock down that shebang    Shake out that battle flag    Run that mule off into the woods    All of you men! … Mount up! … Gather around the Captain! … Now! … Thay’s a full company of Yankees on the way in he-uh!

Hogjaws bellowed as he kicked over both kettles to kill the fire, First Sergeant, now, don’t go makin no slapdash decision, you know ole Bell is a special mule. She’s got feelings jist like a human. I can’t run her off.

First Sergeant Folsom replied, Give up, now, Hogjaws    You know there ain’t never been a mule that won’t git the jitters, and start making a fuss when the shootin starts. Run her off; you can find her later!

Some of the men had been cooling and washing themselves waist deep in the creek. They ran for their clothes, retrieved them from the overturned kettle, and put them on wet without wringing them out. My heart went out to them as I saw them pick up their hot clothes with their finger tips, wave them around to cool them and slide them on. It made me sad, so sad, to see their toes and heels poking out from their ragged socks. They knew they didn’t have enough time to get totally ready, but they grabbed for their rifles and jerked on their boots and bro-gans as quickly as possible.

Their brother soldiers who had ridden in from railroad duty were already ready to fight. They dismounted and helped the others saddle their horses.

One young trooper from South Georgia drawled in my direction as he threw his saddle blanket over his horse, Captain, it’s jist like them Yankees to come at us right he-uh at dinner time.

As I heard First Sergeant Folsom giving orders, it struck me as peculiar that he would assign the privates, we call Teacher and Preacher, to opposite points on the creek from each other. They’ve been constant companions since I have known them. Both from Greenville, South Carolina, they have shared the same dog tent and store of rations for years. The one we call Preacher reads his Bible every morning and evening. Teacher always seems to have a new book to read which a relative had sent him from home or one that he had taken off of a dead Yankee. They, Teacher and Preacher, are two of a kind, both talkers, but steady in a fight. As they started to ride off in opposite directions along the creek, First Sergeant Folsom instructed them to git a ear of corn and a sweet-tater, and find a good early warning position about four hundred yards from the bridge.

After catching his sweet potato and putting it into his haversack, Preacher yelled as he rode off, I KNOWED IT … I KNOWED WE WAS GOIN TO HAVE A FIGHT TODAY WHEN I SAW THE WHITE SMOKE RISIN STRAIGHT UP FROM THE CAMP FAR LIKE A PILLAR OF SALT. I’LL LET YE KNOW IF THEY COME MY WAY. NOW, TAKE CARE OF TEACHER.

My scout, Corporal Weatherford, was still fretting and sweating on his lathered horse beside me. He knew what I was doing. He knew I had to concentrate to win the chess game part of this fight. He knew that we had to out think, out bluff, out talk as well as out fight these Yankees. He was studying my every move.

As the men gathered around me, some ready, some still adjusting clothes and equipment, I asked First Sergeant Folsom, How many do we have? My heart was pounding inside my chest, but I made my face look confident and tranquil. Butterflies were drilling holes in my stomach. Live or die, I had to get to my tent before this fight starts.

He replied with the calmness of an accountant reporting the books, Sir, we’s got thirty-one in all; countin the four lookouts." … Twenty-six can far their rifles and ride     Five can stand and far, but they is so stove-up that they has to have somebody to help them git on their horses    And, … Uhhh …, of course, thay’s

Mr. Barfield he-uh with his grand boy, Randle."

I looked at the gaunt, threadbare troops gathered round me. It amazed me that none of these knights of the Confederacy questioned the cause or the need to fight for it. They were undauntedly waiting for me to tell them how we are going to whip these Yankees. I was intrigued, truly captivated, by their sounds, their motions and the innocent looks of devotion in their eyes. Their clothes had lost any signs of uniformity. Some wore tattered slouch cavalry hats; some had long since converted to plain yellow straw hats. Buttons were missing from every one of their heavy, wool shell jackets.

The sounds of saber scabbards clanking against metal canteens, horses snorting and shaking their heads, spur straps snapping onto boots, tin mess cups sliding into haversacks and the like filled the air around me. I could hear their open-mouthed breathing through their sweaty beards. Yes, in spite of their physical condition, they were truly uniform. The uniformity of their determination showed through. I knew I couldn’t quench their spirit if I wanted to. I had to do my best for them.

The sun, directly overhead, was merciless in its torment of our blistered bodies. Sweat pushed through the wool fabric of our britches and made the deposits of Georgia red-clay on our knees become darker red.

My pocket watch read, 11:27 a.m. First Sergeant Folsom looked at me through his blue eyes over his strong nose bridge from his position in front of me on his gray horse. He bit off a mouth full of tobacco from his twist as he waited for instructions.

I told him, Put nineteen on the creek bank over there across the railroad, on the south side, the Macon side. Put about a rod between each man, no, just twelve feet between each one. Be sure that Corporal Cameron is on the bank closest to me here, next to the bridge. Set up a picket rope for their horses about fifty feet behind them. Put a man with the horses to keep them calm. Gather the sick five right here beside me. I knew we had to hit this Yankee bunch first, by surprise. I knew if we did enough damage, they would have to run. That Yankee cavalry will run if you hit them right.

Sergeant Folsom slapped at a horsefly and snorted, You heard the Captain; you-ins git in position in the bushes on the bank. Hide; don’t let them Yankees see you when they storm in here     Hogjaws, you git with the horses, and keep them ready. All right, men, we ain’t out numbered but five to one. We’s used to them odds. Now, fill your canteens. The creek is going to be full of that red stuff. Drankin that Yankee blood will keel yee! Why do you want Corporal Cameron close to you, Captain?

I put up my hand to silence him as I yelled to the men, "If you still have a pistol in your saddle bags, get it, and load it. This is going to be a close in fight, one of those rare times when a pistol will help you. Now, if this thing gets out of hand and they hit you, try to get to your horse. Then, head north to the McDonough

Road    Take it east    I’ve heard that there’s a field hospital set up in the cotton fields north of McDonough, about three miles south of Flippen.. Don’t go to

Flippen     Don’t go to Locust Grove; it’s to the south     Go to just north of

McDonough. Now, another thing, if any linen sparks fall into the leaves from your rifle muzzles, stomp or throw water on the fire. We don’t want to fight for this bridge and have it go up in flames even if we win."

The tall soft-spoken corporal that I knew as Manford Cameron, spoke up to me from the bushes just across the railroad, Thank yee, Captain, Thank yee    You always give us a way out     It’s good to know that our horses are ready right behind us    Why did you want me here, near you?

I didn’t answer him as I looked at the five brave soldiers left standing beside me. Sick is not an adequate word to describe their conditions. One of them staggered as he raised his eyes to look at me when he said, Captain, I can fight; I’m always ready fur it. He used his swollen, puss-filled right hand to shade his blood-shot eyes. I knew there was no way he could curl that hand around the neck of a rifle to fire it. Moreover, I don’t think he could see more than a few feet in front of him.

All five of their bodies were skin and bones. Dysentery, mosquitoes and no food had taken their toll on them. I could see that one had the measles as well. I knew they couldn’t fight.

I looked at them. They saw the tears well up in my eyes as I whispered, Men, this war will be over soon. Just hold on awhile longer. No one will ever tell your people back home that you didn’t do your duty. Count on it. You’ve bravely earned a rest; you’ve done your best for your country. You’re free of this war.

I looked at old Mister Barfield standing beside his ten-year-old grand boy. The old gentleman runs a farm down near Griffin. He came up a few weeks ago to fight them Yankees because they had killed his son at Chickamauga. The men liked him, especially since he brought two salted hams, a bushel of dried peaches and a tow sack of onions with him when he came. Of course, such delicacies didn’t last long in our camp. The men had dressed his grand son, Randle, in a Confederate private’s uniform, which swallowed his little body. They even equipped him with a saber that he dragged behind him. It is clear that Randle idolizes his grand paw and his fallen daddy. I have heard him and Mr. Barfield crying and talking at night about how they miss the boy’s father. This war has brought such mourning.

Mr. Barfield is too old and untrained for fighting. He’s even new enough that he still has his large belly. I studied the old flintlock musket that he had resting on his shoulder just beside his snowy white beard and long locks of hair. I had never seen a larger bore in a shoulder arm.

As he saw me looking at his weapon, he spouted, Don’t worry, Captain; I got this thang so full of powder that it will take the head off of any Yankee.

Corporal Weatherford, still fidgeting in his saddle, nagged, Now, Captain, one of them Yankees may be taking a bead on us right now. We’s got to git ready! And, I got to tell you about Uncle Billy Sherman!

I told Mr. Barfield, Take these five sick men up the railroad across the bridge to the Atlanta side, and keep going until you reach that high red-clay bank on the right. You know the one I mean. They cut it out for the railroad bed. It’s about four hundred yards from here. You can get from the railroad up to the top of the bank through that gully just north of it! … The look out" man can show you    

And, take your grandson with you. Help these men lead their horses with them. Now, when you get to the top of the bank, help them get mounted, and lead them to the McDonough Road and over to the field hospital     Now, you stay out of this. Just get them to the hospital    That is a brave deed for you and Randle to accomplish. Go, now! … Get these sick men out of here!"

I looked around, up and down the railroad, east and west on the creek. I could not see any signs or hear any sounds of our uninvited visitors from the North.

After a nod down to my pocket watch, which read, 11:36, I growled to Corporal Weatherford and First Sergeant Folsom, Stay right here    Do not move!

I jumped down from my horse and led him quickly to my tent a few yards away. Inside the canvas flap door, I opened my field desk that I had made from an old hardtack box. It was a shame to waste it since I had so painstakingly fitted the wooden partition pieces into it to create covey holes for my maps, candlesticks, letter paper and ink powder, dressing case, drawing instruments, housewife, and all. I stuffed the contents of almost every covey hole into my saddlebags, saddle roll, or saddle valise.

I picked up the two letters that I had written a week or so ago, and I stuffed each one into its own waterproof pouch that I had made from pieces of an old rubber covered poncho. I unbuttoned my wool frock coat and slid the letters into it next to my chest.

As I turned to leave, I saw Corporal Weatherford and First Sergeant Folsom looking at me, and then, cutting their eyes off into the distance to search for the Yankees. I turned back and kicked the desk over. I stomped the wicker type seat out of my chair that the men had made for me from young Wisteria vines growing next to the creek. To complete the job, I kicked the tent poles down and the canvas fell flat to the ground. I said to myself, Yes, no officer and gentleman from the North will enjoy the comfort of my tent.

As I remounted and rejoined them, First Sergeant Folsom said, Damn, Captain, you kicked over everthang like you don’t plan to be here after this fight     Like you think we is goin to have to skedaddle.

I knew what I had to do. They saw the urgency in my face.

I looked Corporal Weatherford in the eye as I handed him one of the letters. I told him, Open the pouch! . It’s a letter!

He replied, Captain, you want me to read a letter now? I got somethin to tell you! I heard them Yankees talkin about a letter you wrote.

I said, NOW, do as I say! . Look at the name on the sealed envelope! . NOW!

He took it out of the pouch and started to read very slowly,