Nineteen for Lincoln

By Daniel Plaster

It is 1862 when Union army officer John Kelso halts his small command on a bluff. Moments later, they spy a ghostly shadow in the valley below. After they follow the shadow into a deep cavern, the men see a woman, clad in a white nightgown, kneeling at a bedside. As the frightened form slowly turns to face the squad, the seventeen cavalrymen have no idea they have been inadvertently thrust back in time to the reign of King Henry VIII in Tudor England.

This is the day that the former queen, Anne Boleyn, is scheduled to die. After the Yankee soldiers realize they have been somehow transported to a castle in ancient England, they help Anne, accompanied by her almoner, Reverend John Skip, escape her dark destiny. Guided by Anne and Skip, the brigade treks across northeastern England toward a city with a familiar name—Lincoln. While the men wonder if they will ever reach Lincoln alive and find their way home and Anne worries whether she will eventually be executed as planned, the course of history patiently awaits their next move.

Nineteen for Lincoln is the tale of a brigade of Union soldiers as they unwittingly embark on a trip through time back to 1500s England where they must rescue a former queen from a dark fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781532096617

Daniel Plaster

Daniel J. Plaster is a historian and writer who earned a Bachelor of Arts in history from the College of the Ozarks. He is a campus safety specialist in the Office of University Safety at Missouri State University. Daniel lives in Missouri with his wife, Sarah, and son, Lucas. Nineteen for Lincoln is his debut novel.

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Copyright © 2020 Daniel Plaster.

Illustrations by Ashley Poe

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-9660-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-9661-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020910244

iUniverse rev. date: 06/08/2020

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One The Cave and the Lady

Chapter Two Only a Woman

Chapter Three All the King’s Horses

Chapter Four Eagles and Falcons

Chapter Five Beaulieu

Chapter Six Bury St. Edmunds

Chapter Seven Ghosts and Gypsies

Chapter Eight Lord John Hussey

Chapter Nine Memories Made of Golden thread

Chapter Ten The Battles Within

Chapter Eleven The Eagles be Gathered

Chapter Twelve A Light in the Paddock

Chapter Thirteen A Matter of Faith

Chapter Fourteen The Battle of Canwick Hill

Chapter Fifteen Upon Shores Unseen

Chapter Sixteen The Pieces Left Behind

Epilogue

Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

Dedicated to the memory of

Greiciele Plaster, Matthew Brown,

Dr. Thomas Sweeney, and Robert E. George;

And in celebration of Missouri’s Statehood Bicentennial, 1821-2021

Introduction

John Russell Kelso was a controversial Union officer who endured the trials of the American Civil War in the Missouri borderlands by staying alive and killing the enemy. He was only nine years old when his family moved to Missouri from the farmlands of Ohio in 1840. He, like President Abraham Lincoln, educated himself in and around the family’s log home. He eventually married three times, divorcing the first two. He used his education and experience to become a preacher, a schoolteacher, a Union Army officer, and eventually a congressman. He entered the war right after it began in 1861. The men under his command both respected and feared him, while his enemies often regretted their status. He was a killer, and the times required such men.

The perilous period of civil war in the United States has been compared to the Protestant Reformation more than once. Both events involved great violent upheavals against established institutions. Free will lay at the core of both conflicts, but the struggle against that freedom was often more powerful than its defenders.

The tragic figure of Anne Boleyn cannot be overlooked in any discussion of the Reformation in England. She, secretly a Lutheran adherent, singlehandedly contributed to the downfall of Catholicism in England. Ironically, she became a victim of the same upheaval. In a sense, both historical events have a similarity which merits closer examination: the role of passion versus reason. In the absence of reason, passion rose and ruled the hearts of those who could sew havoc at a whim. Great and tragic events quickly followed. Anne Boleyn lost her head literally, but her contemporaries had already lost theirs figuratively. After her death, events accelerated. King Henry VIII and his minions seized abbeys and other church property until the people revolted. By early 1537, the Pilgrimage of Grace and other uprisings were finished. Many died in defense of their faith, but that was only the beginning. Religious troubles plagued England and Europe for another two-hundred years. But what if England’s queen consort had never received the deadly blow? What form would history take? Could there be more to the stories of both Anne Boleyn and John R. Kelso? I dreamt much of this tale, but perhaps there is more, in some far-off dimension unknown to our world. –DJP

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Chapter One

The Cave and the Lady

East of Lawrence’s Mill, Missouri—

11:30 am, Sunday, November 9, 1862:

An hour passed quickly. Lieutenant John Russell Kelso finally halted his tiny command atop a small bluff. A narrow hollow lay fifty feet below them and deep shade bathed the narrow, gravel-filled creek bed. Suddenly, from a thicket of briars, they spied a shadow which hurried noiselessly across the loose stones. Out came the carbines and muskets, but the lieutenant ordered them to hold their fire. The ghostly form quickly disappeared into a steep fold on the opposite hill, barely two-hundred yards away.

Swiftly and deliberately, the federal soldiers descended the toe slope at the end of the short bluff and raced to the other hillside. Kelso halted the men as they neared the spot. A large cave, well-hidden from view, lay in the same fold of the hill. Willoughby Hall looked back at the lieutenant.

That’s a deep cavern, the civilian scout whispered. I’ll wager the rebels are hiding a lot of stuff in there.

Kelso and his men dismounted and quickly removed their spurs. He leveled his shotgun, an odd choice, and stepped into the cave. Hall matched his pace, followed closely by fifteen more troopers. The subterranean atmosphere felt warm compared to the crisp November air outside. Water dripped from unseen cracks and stalactites. Corporal Elijah Crutcher cursed under his breath when a giant freezing droplet landed on the back of his left hand.

Hush! Sergeant Patrick McCann whispered from the middle of the procession. There’ll be no talking in the ranks!

The solitary flame of a candle startled the grizzled Yankee soldiers. Kelso moved his shotgun’s barrel aside and threw out his left arm, commanding everyone to halt. They could scarcely believe the sight before them. It was a woman, clad in a white frilled nightgown and kneeling at a bedside. Corporal Crutcher stumbled backward until his rump pressed against the cold, hard surface of a stone wall. His hand felt the great solid blocks of the stony impediment. Everyone glanced around in the darkness, but it was too dark. The little candle only illuminated the strange lady at the bedside.

Saints preserve us! Sergeant McCann exclaimed. We’ve arrived in Purgatory!

Hush! Crutcher barked, mocking McCann’s earlier scolding. There’ll be no talking in the ranks.

No one laughed. Kelso cleared his throat. The frightened feminine form slowly turned to face the little squad of cavalrymen. Breathless and with widened eyes, she trembled in obvious terror. Her lips moved but nary a sound came forth.

Don’t be afraid, ma’am, the lieutenant said softly, we’re friends.

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The Tower of London—4:40 am, Friday, May 19, 1536:

Anne Boleyn glanced at the shadowy figure, then returned her eyes to both clasped hands. What bold intruders had been clever enough to conceal themselves until her most private moment? Her fingers quivered and she tried to speak. For the first time in her short life, words failed her. The uncomfortable pause finally ended when her voice returned.

Are you devils, or assassins? If either, I beseech you—do your worst! I am to meet the headsman in a few hours and welcome an early summons to Paradise. She quickly counted the group—seventeen in all. Of all that live and breathe under the heavens, she said, covering her mouth, how did you gain entry into my bedchamber without raising alarm?

Ma’am, the first figure said, I think it’s fair to ask, how did you get into this cavern? What is this place?

Anne said nothing to the man. He must be the leader of this odd band, she decided. The former queen still trembled from the fright and surprise. Her knees weakened and she sat on the edge of her bed. Who are you?

We’re Union soldiers, another said, and we’ll never hurt women or children.

The door was only a short distance to her left. Should she try to open it and summon the guards? She gasped.

What’s behind the door? the leader asked. He seemed nervous and confused.

Anne gripped the collar of her chemise and steadied herself. Keep still your voice, she commanded. A squadron of yeomen warders rest beyond that door. If my ladies hear you, they will give the alarm.

You’re imprisoned? he asked, glancing around the chamber. And guards are posted just outside?

Anne slowly dipped her dainty chin. They were rescuers, she decided, God be praised. But who sent them? She looked again. Her eyes were well-adjusted to the low light and she easily saw the seventeen masculine forms as they emerged from the dark corner. Their dress was odd. They wore plain dark wool with golden-colored buttons in a single row down the front. Their hats, much like that of poor peasants, were wide-brimmed with a high crown except for a few who sported smaller caps. All of them wore these strange clothes except one man near the front. His clothes were a lighter color but his skin appeared much darker. She’d seen Moors with such hue of skin while at court in France. Mayhap these men were French?

Anne fell to her knees and clasped her hands again. I beseech you, she whimpered, "make haste my salvation or dispatch me to Heaven that I might deprive the headsman of his pleasure. S’il-te-plait je t’en prie!"

What? the leader asked, pointing at the door. You’re telling me that they’re going to kill you?

Anne flashed her dark eyes. Have you not come to deliver me from the appointed hour? Surely you know I am to die this day. My life is forfeit at the pleasure of the king. The whole country knows it! How could you possibly gain entry into this place and yet have no knowledge of my fate?

The leader turned to the dark-skinned man and shook his head. The rebels have gone too far. They must be using this place as an asylum.

Let’s find the secesh, another man piped, and parole their posteriors to the Golden Streets! I’ll bet they’re not expecting a bunch of northern men in here!

Anne glowed. Northern men? Were they from Scotland? Yorkshire? They certainly didn’t sound Scottish, or even English. Perhaps they were from the continent after all? If so, they must be Papists. But why rescue her? Anne was no Papist—her clandestine adherence to Luther’s teachings wasn’t so secret. She knew that already. Mercenaries. Someone must have paid them to save her, but who? Anne’s mind raced between guarded joy, fear, and complete mystification. She looked at the men and gently placed a finger across her thin, delicate lips.

You must keep silent! she commanded. Escape will be impossible if the yeomen are alerted. Anne turned to the door. Suddenly, it rattled from the quick turn of a key on the other side. We are lost! Save yourselves, good men!

Mary Scrope Kingston, wife of the constable, stood across the threshold of the now-open doorway. Bright flickering flames lit the chamber and corridor behind her. Her eyes were as large as dinner plates and she trembled. She swiveled around and screeched. The forms of several bellowing yeomen suddenly pushed the constable’s wife aside and moved into the doorway.

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Kelso withdrew to the small mass of men behind him while Willoughby Hall raised his trusty Enfield. Everyone else froze. The tension rose quickly.

Halt! the first guard shouted. Stand fast and yield, or I shall cut your head from its perch!

The armed men, clad in tunics which bore a familiar-looking rose embroidered on their breasts, levelled their halberds and charged into the bedchamber. Boom! The solid report of a musket deafened everyone and filled the entire place with a cloud of smoke. The draft quickly sucked the cloud into the outer corridor, and the lady at the bedside gasped. A young guard, struck by the fired ball, lay prostrate on the threshold. Blood pooled on the floor as the victim’s face grew pale and void.

The militiamen raised their carbines and muskets while Hall quickly reloaded. The yeomen dragged their deceased comrade back through the door and into the darkness of the corridor. Shrieks arose from the antechamber beyond. Kelso raced to the doorway, his shotgun ready, and peered beyond the confines of the bedchamber. A castle? He rubbed his eyes and quickly ran to the dark corner behind his men. A wall blocked their way. A wall? Impossible! Where was the cave? How in the devil did they get there? Kelso shook his head and rubbed his eyes again. Something unnatural was afoot. He returned to the doorway. Shouts and curses echoed through the darkened halls. More were coming. The lady on the bed stood and faced him. Her face was solid and solemn.

We must make haste! she exclaimed. The yeomen have fled, but they shall return with more. If we are to escape, we must go now before the constable alerts the entire Tower garrison!

Kelso turned to her. Garrison? The Tower? he asked, completely mystified. "Did you say the Tower—as in, the Tower of London?"

Aye, she replied, seemingly surprised by the question. Do you not know this place? This is the royal apartment; surely your men spied the walls, yards, and scaffold outside? The fortress structures?

Ma’am, Kelso replied, the very idea of this is harder to swallow than a June bug caught by a spring peeper. There’s no arguing with facts, though—we’ve been attacked, blood has been spilled, and more hostiles could appear at any moment. Listen, if you know of a quick egress, I beg you to impart its whereabouts now!

The lady hurried to Kelso’s side at the doorway. The chamber beyond seemed empty, but echoing footfalls reverberated along the corridors in every direction. A great fireplace stood at the far wall, and in the middle of the anteroom was a large, thick table. Kelso immediately spied the quivering and cowering form of a robed man hidden in the shadows beneath it. He stomped to the table and pushed a tall chair aside. He thrust his hand underneath and yanked the whimpering form into the open. The fellow wore a dark robe and a squarish, funny-looking hat. Kelso shoved the end of his shotgun’s barrel under the man’s chin and gripped the top of the robe with his left hand.

I should send you to hell, Kelso growled, for attacking us like that!

I beseech you! the lady shrieked, throwing herself onto the floor beside the robed man. He is of God! This man is John Skip, my almoner! I beg of you—do him no harm!

Kelso froze momentarily, then he shoved the clergyman back toward the table. I haven’t got time for this. Where’s the daylight hole out of here?

Skip’s eyes widened in shock. Stranger, do you mean to save my lady?

I mean to save anyone who’s with us. Kelso ordered his men into the anteroom. Whoever she is, or thinks she is, we’ll be taking her along. She knows this place better than we do. Mister Skip, or whatever your name is, you’re welcome to join us. Kelso looked at the man’s odd dress again and rolled his eyes. Unless you’d rather stay here and face those charming fellows we just engaged.

Skip shook his head. I’ll gladly accompany you.

I thought that’d be your answer. Now, we need to hurry up before hostiles emerge from God-knows-where.

Your fears are well-founded, John Skip said, the yeomen here are at least twelve in number and a garrison of the king’s men lie very near. Mayhap there is a hundred or more. The Lady Kingston has fled in great fright to alert her husband. No doubt he now gathers soldiers and warders. We must make haste to the wharf! The old cog which delivered me to this place is yet moored near the wharf steps.

Kelso was still confused. Did he say wharf? What southern Missouri cave held a wharf within its labyrinth? This was no cave—he had to accept that notion. Should they follow these people or stay put? His soldiers were veteran cavalrymen, so staying put was not an option. He addressed his mystified troopers.

Men, he said, we can’t go back—I’ve checked behind us and it’s a solid stone wall. For some unknown reason, perhaps designed by Providence, we are no longer in the natural corridor of a Missouri cave. I don’t know where we’re at, but many hostile men will arrive shortly from God-knows-where, so we have to skedaddle!

"If skedaddle means staying alive, Corporal Crutcher blurted, then skedaddle it is!"

Indeed, Kelso replied. I hope this isn’t Providence bringing my chickens home to roost for some past transgressions. I fear those are legion at this point.

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Anne Boleyn and John Skip looked at each other. Who were these men? Only moments before, she had faced the darkest hours of her short, yet glorious, life. She had exhausted every plea to God and resigned herself to a bloody end. She was prepared for death, and who was she to dispute the king’s will, despite her innocence? The king’s decision should prevail, even though he was wrong. Now, confused and somewhat suspicious, she decided to follow the odd men. She knew they would likely fail in their quest anyway. No one had ever escaped the Tower, or King Henry.

Sharp commands and the clanking of armor grew in crescendo throughout the courtyards near her apartment. Anne closed her eyes tightly and rubbed her forehead. Would her escape violate the laws of God regarding the rights of a sovereign? Was it sacrilegious to disobey him who was her husband, but still her king? There was no time to contemplate the predicament. Her mind surged with a wave of frustration and panic. Damn you, Henry!

She quickly donned her damask robe and stuffed her famed B necklace into a secret pocket. It was a reminder of the seemingly ancient days of bliss and happiness. A dainty, delicate pair of pantoffles graced her feet as she glided over the cold, hard floor. John Skip quickly offered his forearm and the pair approached another closed door on the south side of the royal apartments. The strange men followed, seemingly ready for sudden violence.

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Chapter Two

Only a Woman

Approaching the Traitor’s Gate—4:55 am, May 19, 1536:

The cautious procession followed close behind the strange lady and her companion. The dimly lit halls, passages, and open yards mystified the Yankee soldiers, but no one said a word. They stayed behind their fearless lieutenant. He knew what they were thinking because he thought likewise—where were the rough limestone rocks? Where were the stalactites that dripped spring water from their fragile tips? Were they dreaming? Were they dead?

Stay close! Kelso commanded in a sharp whisper. We will survive by keeping together.

Finally, the lady and her almoner halted on a wide stony floor which led to an arched doorway and gate. The gate was open but blocked by two surprised armed guards. They each wore a steel cuirass, helmet, and a sheathed rapier. Their right hands clutched halberds which nearly reached the top of the doorway within the arch. They lowered their weapons and braced themselves for an assault.

Kelso raised his right hand and bellowed the command, "ready!" His soldiers aimed their carbines and muskets. It was a lopsided standoff.

You’ll die for treason! one shouted. Stand and deliver the prisoner!

Kelso stepped forward, keeping his shotgun ready. I don’t think you boys have sized up the situation, he declared. You’re outnumbered.

I think not, the emboldened guard replied. The garrison shall arrive in moments and dispatch you all! I will take personal delight in your demise, wretch!

Kelso stepped aside. Hall and the others cocked their hammers without command. The heavy sound of footsteps and armor grew ever louder behind them and shouts of alarm rang out through the darkness. Kelso lowered his shotgun and fired.

Boom! The deafening roar rolled through the gateway and the yard to the north. The lady shrieked and covered both ears. A great cloud of smoke arose from the barrel and the Missourians charged the gate. One guard was on the ground. Both hands clutched his wounded left knee and he groaned in the agony of torn flesh and tendons. His comrade dropped the halberd and retreated beyond the open gate. Kelso ushered the group outside where another surprise awaited.

The sound of waves lapping against the stones of the wharf betrayed the presence of a great rolling river in the darkness. Dim, scattered firelights danced between the dark shadows of buildings and trees across the water. A stiff, cool breeze moved eastward across their faces. The frightened guard ran west beyond the mass of wharf cannons and disappeared. No one pursued him. There was no time to lollygag.

To the left and a bit farther, Skip said, there is an old cog moored. Mayhap it is large enough to carry us.

Lead the way! Kelso shouted.

They rushed eastward a short distance along the wharf, coming to a strange boat moored with a thick rope and accessible by a 12-inch-wide oak plank. Young Ethan Parker steadied himself as he loped across the flimsy piece of wood. Elijah Crutcher negotiated the narrow slat and found a place in the midship. Kelso, watching each man climb aboard, marveled at the boat. The cog, about forty feet long, boasted a single mast in the middle and a hull made entirely of overlapping wooden boards. The bow appeared closer to the water line than the stern, and both were slightly lower than the manmade embankment on the wharf itself.

The presence of nineteen souls thrusting their mass onto the deck caused the whole craft to sway. Kelso and Skip assisted the lady as she lifted the bottom of her robe and cautiously stepped across the slat and onto the boat. Her almoner waited until the last man climbed in, then he dropped the plank over the side and cast off the mooring. Once aboard, the whole group turned their eyes to the Tower.

Torches lit the battlements and walls along the inner ward. Guards, wearing armor like the last two, emerged in a single file through the gate and formed into ranks. Confused shouts and curses arose from the wharf and filled the predawn air. Skip quickly shoved the bow into the river’s current with a long pole. The boat drifted rapidly away from the giant fortress. With a few tugs, the small sail on the lone mast unfurled and caught the stiff breeze. With the sail set, they moved even faster. One-hundred, two-hundred, and then three-hundred yards of water soon separated the pursued from their pursuers. Everyone on the boat heard the shouts and commands from the wharf.

Arquebusiers, forward!

Boom, crack!