Twelve Wooden Soldiers: A Lunch Time Novel

By Gordon Davis

During the 1860s, the United States was consumed by a Civil War that some thought would only last a few weeks. By 1864, the war had consumed untold resources in both men and material. Even though there seemed to be no end in sight for the war, President Lincoln would not relent, and he made it clear to the nation that he was not willing to have the nation deteriorate into two separate countries at any cost. President Davis was just as determined to have his Confederate states separate from the rest of the nation under their own sovereign constitution. To this end, President Davis sent delegations to several of the leading world’s nations in hopes of having them recognize the Confederate States of America as a nation in its own right and standing. To this end, President Davis devised a plan to further influence these nations by supplying them with a monetary incentive—gold. Now, follow along as a select few dedicated men and women, led by Confederate Captain John Karrie, take on the secretive and perilous task of getting gold to the emissaries that can turn the tide for the Confederate cause.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543454369

Gordon Davis

Gordon Davis was commissioned as a Second Lieutenant in 1978, and served in the US Army for 30-years. During his career, he served in various command and staff positions collimating his career as a Military Intelligence Officer for the US Armys Surface Deployment and Distribution Command. He retired in 2008 as a Colonel. Colonel Davis received a Bachelor of Science Degree in Industrial Management from the University of South Alabama, a Master of Arts in Land Warfare from the American Military College, and a Master of Arts in Strategic Studies from the Armys War College. He is also a graduate of the US Armys Command and General Staff College and of the Army War College. He is a War Time Veteran having served in Operation Enduring Freedom. Since 2008 he has been doing field research and prepublication writing. He is also the author of Twelve Wooden Soldiers.

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Copyright © 2017 by Gordon Davis.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017915062

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5434-5434-5

   Softcover   978-1-5434-5435-2

   eBook   978-1-5434-5436-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events,

or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/28/2017

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Contents

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Lunch Time Novels

Are short, concise, easy to comprehend novels written, so the reader can start and complete the novels in two-to-three sittings. Th length of the novels do not compromise the plot or lessen the characters’ contributions to the story-line. The novels are filled with enough intrigue, twist and turns to keep the reader riveted and wanting to read more.

I

dedicated this book to my family.

I

The leaves on a nearby poplar had turned a fiery yellow and orange, and a cool breeze whispered through the branches of several close-by elms. Coal-black crows were gathering in a nearby field, readying themselves for a long flight south. The remnants of squirrel-eaten pinecones lay at the base of a grove of huge lodgepole pines closely nestled near several mighty oaks. Squirrels were everywhere, scampering from the cover of one tree to the next. While scampering from tree to tree, each squirrel hesitated momentarily next to a fallen pinecone. They rolled the cones back and forth in their small furry paws and looked quizzically at them as if they might have missed a pine seed on their last visit to the cones. The way the cones were torn and ripped apart, it was apparent the squirrels had ravenously stolen every available pine seed and stored them for the coming winter. Watching the squirrels making their last-ditch effort to search for food made one wonder just how harsh this year’s winter was going to be and how seriously these little creatures were taking their preparation.

Outside of this pristine and tranquil setting of pines, elms, and oaks stood little else for miles. The trees lay twisted and intertwined, broken limbs lay in disarray, and stumps protruded from the ground with no evidence that any other part of the tree ever existed. Small puck-shaped holes and craters covered the terrain. The landscape was scorched in a spotty manner. Discarded haversacks, bedrolls, and military equipment of all sorts lay strewn among the downed trees. Hoofprints, dead-horse and wagon ruts, and wagon parts of all description added to this chaotic scene. The dying and dead on both sides lay atop all the rubble, and the mournful cries of the wounded could be heard over the entire area. In the distance, the muffled roar of cannon, musket, and rifle shot could be heard.

It appeared as if Confederates and the Union alike had had little time to collect the wounded and dead. The Confederates were keeping up the pursuit and pressing their opposition in hopes of a complete and decisive victory. Like so many other battles that had swept this valley, this one was no different. The Confederates kept up the chase until they were exhausted or until they overreached their supply lines, and the fighting gradually ended.

As late evening and darkness closed in, it was pretty much all over. The fields where it had all begun were now becoming very quiet. Most of the wounded had been recovered, and the dead had been buried in makeshift graves. The disordered chaos that followed the opening volleys of the battle was now history, and except for the battle’s remnants and the destroyed landscape, all was about as normal as one could expect. This type of destruction and mayhem had ravaged the entire nation for more than three years, and there was no end in sight. There had not been a decisive defining battle that had brought either side any closer to negotiating an end to this awful and bloody conflict.

Nature and man and the civilian populace had taken a beating, and for what? For the men fighting this war, it seemed as if their only relief was death. Death was a serenity that men feared but welcomed. The glory that young men on both sides had thought they would find in a short war had turned into a never-ending nightmare of battle after battle, marches that lasted for miles, shortages of food to the point of starvation, and the never-ending thought of home. Both sides stood steadfast in their personal ideals of what the war was all about, and they weren’t about to change their minds at this point in time. Their sheer determination was enough to keep the fighting alive for another two years.

One week after the latest battle, along a narrow path bordered by scrub oaks leading to the same tranquil little grove where the squirrels played, oblivious to the surrounding destruction, an old paint horse ridden by Captain John Karrie plodded. Snorting and pulling to one side, the horse gave a sigh of relief as Karrie pulled on the reins and swung himself to the ground.

Karrie was a tall man with dusty-black hair and a beard. He hit the ground with a thud as he slid off his horse. On foot, the man led his horse into the small grove of trees and tied it to an elm branch. He took a moment and surveyed the area to make sure he was alone. The roaring battle that had so devastated the area and had so wrecked the landscape only seven days earlier was still evident. Adding to the unsightly landscape was the disgusting odor of the battle that still saturated the entire valley. The area was so minced that only a few pockets of trees scattered over the valley were all that was left of this once-pristine farmland. Like so many little oases, the small groves of trees stood out like black coal against white snow.

The squirrels scurried into hiding as Karrie began to unsaddle his horse. Soon the horse was settled and readied for a well-deserved rest. Captain Karrie had ridden hard for more than a week. The trip had been hard and tiring, and the horse and rider had become inseparable. Now that they reached their destination, it was time for both Karrie and his horse to take a few hours of rest.

As Karrie moved away from the painted mare and began to dust off his coat and pants, a cloud of dust began to corkscrew into the air. The dust was so thick that it was impossible at first glance to tell what color Karrie’s clothing was. As Karrie began to brush himself off, the dust trickled down from his shirt to his pants, and a butternut-gray shirt and pants began to reveal themselves. The dust had blended well with the gray of his uniform and had served to camouflage the uniform, but it was apparent the dust had not affected his staunch military bearing in the slightest. With a couple of final back-and-forth slaps with his hat, the dust disappeared into a fine grayish smoky cloud, which floated toward the open and deserted battlefield. Karrie looked himself over and, seemingly satisfied with his cleaner appearance, continued to settle in by separating his saddlebags from the saddle.

He tossed the saddlebags over next to a slender lodgepole pine. The bags crumpled in a heap, and Karrie was not far behind. But before he folded and went as limp as the saddlebags, he knelt on one knee and said a short prayer. Although not overly devout, he was grateful to have made his trip without incident. With the short prayer over, he leaned against the pine and slid down until he sat only a few inches from his bags. He was tired, and it was good that he had reached the small grove. As he sat there, he turned and looked over at the bags as if it was going to take some extraordinary amount of strength just to pull them closer to him. After a pause, he slowly lifted his arm, leaned forward, grasped the bags, and pulled them up into his lap.

It had been seven days since he had left Richmond, and there had not been any contact with anyone from the Confederate capital for any of those seven days. When he left the capital, he had been given sealed orders with instructions not to open them until he had reached Poplar Wood Creek Valley. Prior to the war, the valley had been noted for its tall, thickly populated poplar trees that covered all but the cleared areas for farming. The valley was a key passageway between the Blue Ridge mountain range and the Appalachian Gap. Constant skirmishes over control of the valley had left all but a few stands of the original majestic poplars. As surely as the war would persist, the destruction of the poplars would continue. At this stage of the war, the annihilation of the remaining pine, oak, and poplar groves was pretty much assured.

Now that John had reached his destination, he was exhausted and was justifiably more interested in sleep than in reading his orders. John had pushed hard for the past week, and during the entire trip, he had done without sleep unless it was necessary to rest his horse. He had pushed so hard he was actually a day ahead of schedule. It had been his own self-determination to prove himself worthy that drove him day after day, and even with sleep deprivation pulling at his eyelids, he was not going to give in to sleep until he cured his curiosity about his orders.

Once again, John surveyed the area to make sure he was alone and that