Talons of Eagles (18 page)

During the grim year of 1863, the war had taken a heavy toll. Among the dead was Stonewall Jackson, killed at Chancellorville; a death that was mourned throughout the entire Confederacy.

For the first few months of the new year, the Confederate army was in disarray, with retreats on nearly all fronts. The Army of Virginia was holding, but cracks were appearing even there as the Union army grew stronger. Longstreet had been shifted up to Virginia to reinforce the Rebels there; Robert E. Lee was now recognized as the overall commander of the Confederate army. President Lincoln had called for volunteers to aid in the fight against the Rebels, and more than half a million men had lined up to enlist.

Jamie found himself without orders, and attached to no particular division. In the haste to reorganize, the Marauders had been left out of the planning.

The spring of 1864 brought with it several of the most unusual and least written about events of the bloody struggle. Colonel Aaron Layfield loudly and publicly stated—to anyone who would listen—that once the war in the East was over and the Union was victorious, he was going to take his men out west and stamp out any lingering pockets of Rebels and then turn his attentions to the Indians and wipe them out.

Jamie found the latter highly amusing, for Layfield would last about a day against the Ute or the Cheyenne or the Dakota or any of a dozen other tribes.

Then Layfield specifically mentioned Valley, Colorado, and the MacCallister clan, calling the area a “Hotbed of insurrection, filled with Southern whores, white trash and traitors fit only to be wiped from the face of the earth and the land they squat upon burned bare and the earth salted down so nothing will ever live there again.”

“What the hell is the matter with this lunatic?” Jamie questioned, after reading the article in a Eastern newspaper which thrived on such news.

Jamie and his men were camped in North Georgia, with no orders from the Confederate high command. They had seemingly fallen through the cracks of the military bureaucracy.

Jamie had lost his temper when he rode the train down to Atlanta to try to find out what they were supposed to do—he kept getting the runaround, and when he did get to see a senior officer, the man didn't have the foggiest idea of what to do. So Jamie decided to send the smooth-talking Pierre Dupree to see if he could find out something. Dupree found out a lot of things, including the reason for Layfield's wild hatred of Jamie Ian MacCallister.

“He's being bankrolled by a rich turncoat Louisiana man name of Jubal Olmstead, who's in cahoots with the Yankees, and they have promised him the governorship of Louisiana once the war is over. This Olmstead fellow is originally from Kentucky, I think, and for whatever reason, he has an almighty deep hatred for you, Colonel.”

“Dear God,” Jamie whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. “Is it ever going to end?”

Over coffee, Jamie told his men the long and twisted story of Kate's father and brother and all their kin, and about the Jacksons and the Saxons and Newbys and all the rest of the men who carried a blood feud against him.
⁷

“What about orders?” Jamie asked.

“I finally got in to see a General Carson, and he said he didn't have the authority to order us to do nothin', Colonel. We don't even show up on any official war documents that he has, and he's got a whole damn room filled with them.”

“So . . . officially, we can do whatever we damn well please?” Jamie said with a smile.

“I reckon so, Colonel.”

“Including,” Lieutenant Dawson said, with a glint in his eyes, “maybe goin' after this damn Layfield, if we was to decide to do such a thing, that is?”

A low murmur of approval came from the throats of the over five hundred men all gathered around, minus ten who were on picket duty and Sergeant Major Huske, who had asked for and received a few days' leave to go visit some kinfolks who lived in a small town about forty miles away from the encampment.

“But if we don't exist, Colonel,” Captain Sparks pointed out, “we can't draw supplies. I'm not worried about gettin' paid; Confederate money isn't worth a damn, anyway. But how would we get supplies?”

“Steal them,” Lieutenant Broussard said.

“From our own boys?” Sergeant McGuire asked.

“Here comes the Top Soldier,” a picket called out.

“He's comin' back early,” a Marauder remarked. Sergeant Major Huske's face was set in anger as he marched up to Jamie and said, “Colonel, I don't want you to think me a quitter, but I would like to be discharged from this outfit. I got me some manhuntin' to do.”

“Have some coffee and food, Louie,” Jamie said. “Let's talk about it.”

Louie calmed down enough to eat a plate of bacon and beans and swallow two cups of coffee. “That town I went to, Colonel? It ain't there no more. Burned to the ground. What men they didn't shoot, they hanged. Then they had their way with a lot of women who didn't run off into the woods. Then they branded them on the forehead with a
W
—for whore. They hanged my brother. Only reason he didn't join up with the Confederacy was because he was born with a clubfoot; he didn't get around too good.”

“Who did all this, Louis?” Dupree asked.

“I can answer that,” Jamie said. “Colonel Aaron Layfield and his Revengers.”

“That's right, Colonel. I'm gonna kill that man. If it's the last thing I do on God's earth, I'm gonna kill him.”

“One of us will,” Jamie said softly. “Sparks, I want you to pick five other men who don't have a pronounced Southern accent to change into civilian clothing and get ready to take a trip.”

“Sure, Colonel. Where to?”

“New York City. Somebody get me pen and ink and paper.”

“What's up, Colonel?” Louie asked.

“We're going to have us a very private and personal little war, Top. That's what Layfield wants. A private and personal war with me. None of you have to go on this. It's strictly volunteer all the way.”

“Shit, Colonel!” Lieutenant Lenoir said. “You think any of us would miss this?”

“Sparks, you and the men you choose will be bringing back a hundred thousand dollars in gold and Federal paper money. From my personal account. One of many, I assure you.”

That shook his men right down to the rowels of their spurs.

Jamie started writing to his banker and attorney in New York City. If Layfield wanted a war, he was damn sure going to get one.

* * *

Jamie took a few men with him and rode over to where the town used to be. It was exactly as Top Soldier had said: burned to the ground. There were several dozen fresh graves in the cemetery, and the ropes used to hang the men were still dangling from the limbs of trees. Huske had marked his brother's grave and now set about carving him a wooden marker until he could get a stone mason to chisel a permanent stone.

Jamie walked the paths of what had once been a permanent settlement, filled with people of all ages, working, playing, worshipping, living, loving. Now there was nothing except the smell of ashes and death. Jamie looked up at the sounds of shuffling footsteps. An elderly Negro was making his way toward Jamie.

“What army is you?” the old man called, staying a safe distance from the big man.

Jamie smiled. What army, indeed? “The Army of the Confederacy,” he finally said.

“I didn't have nothin' to do with this,” the old man called, waving his hand at the burned-out remnants of buildings.

“I know it. I know who did it.”

The old man came closer. “Turrible thing, this. I knowed most of these people here. They was some bad amongst 'em, but mos' of 'em was good folks. Them Yankee soldiers didn't have no call to do this. I never seen so many white men so filled plumb up with hate agin they own kind.”

“A tall, loud-mouthed man with side whiskers leading the bunch?”

“Yessuh. He personal tooken the hot iron and branded the furst lady on the forehead. That was after his men had they way with the white ladies that didn't run off. Them men of his, they lined up to take they turns with the ladies; some of 'em they raped no more than chillen.”

“The men who did this were not really Union soldiers,” Jamie said.

“They wasn't?”

“No. Most soldiers of the Blue are like the soldiers of the Gray. They would have no part of rape and torture.” Jamie left out the burning of homes and businesses, for the Yankees had begun to do that; something that Jamie found disgraceful.

“The men who done this, they rampaged through all the stores and homes 'fore they put 'em to the torch. They give the money and the finery to any colored folks they could find. Mos' of the colored I know threw the clothes away; they feared of bein' punished if they was caught with it later. The money ain't no good. It's Confederate money.”

“Where do you live?”

The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Nowheres, now. Them bluecoats burned down the massa's house and stole the horses and mules. They gathered up all the livestock and took 'em when they lef'. Massa Nations, he dead and so is his wife. The bluecoats kilt 'em both. There wasn't no call to do that, 'cause they was both old and didn't treat us bad like a lot of white folks do. Tell me, sir, is it true that President Lincoln done freed all the slaves?”

“Yes. It's called the Emancipation Proclamation. You're free.”

“Lord have mercy. You mean I could just walk down that road as far as I want to go?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Well . . . what do I do when I gets to where it is I might be goin'? That is, if I had anywheres I wanted to go.”

Jamie then realized the enormity of what Lincoln had done. What he had done was a wonderful thing; only a hate-filled fool would deny that. But on the other side of the coin, with one stroke of the pen, Lincoln had turned loose millions of Negroes who had no training, no jobs, most of whom could not read or write, and had no place to go in a part of the country torn and ripped by war and hatred.

“Who is gonna feed me?” the old man asked. “I'm hungry, mister.”

“We have some food with us. We'll share with you.”

“But that's today,” the old man pressed. “What about tomorrow and the next day and the day after that?”

Jamie shook his head. “You're on your own. You're free. Making do is part of being free.”

The old man thought about that for a moment. “What are we 'pposed to do from here on out, mister?”

“Plant a garden. Hire yourself out for wages.”

“I be somewheres around eighty years old, big man. Hands all stiff and no good to work no more. All I know is workin' in the fields. Liftin' and totin'. Something ain't quite right about this here freedom. Seems like Mister Lincoln done a good thing with one hand and put a turrible burden on us with the other hand.”

Jamie didn't quite know how to answer that. “Come on. I'll get you some food.”

“Nosuh. I bes' not. I got to be lookin' after myself from now on, so I bes' get to doin' it. I know where they's some greens and I'll get that and some poke. I'll get by.”

Jamie stood and watched the old man shuffle off into the woods. “The slaves should have been freed from bondage immediately, but total freedom should have been a gradual thing,” Jamie muttered. “Over a period of years. With education and training. This is going to be a great big mess.”

“Did you say something, Colonel?” Louie asked, walking up behind Jamie.

“Just talking to myself, Top.” He turned around to face the sergeant major. “What are all these ex-slaves going to do now that they are free, Louie?”

“I don't know, sir. Damn sure won't be much work for a long time to come . . . not any work they can be paid to do, 'cause there isn't any money. It's goin' to be bad, isn't it, Colonel?”

“I'm afraid so, Louie. For many, many years to come.”

“Now what, Colonel?”

“We go after Layfield.”

Jamie took his Marauders into the mountainous section of East Georgia and there holed up until Sparks and the others could return from New York City. Jamie began sending out men dressed in civilian clothing and riding the poorest of stock to act as spies, to learn the whereabouts of Layfield and his Revengers. For when the time came, Jamie was going to hit Layfield so hard the man would think a mountain fell on him.

Layfield, meanwhile, was busy looking for Jamie, but he was over in Central Tennessee and North Alabama, several hundred miles away from Jamie's position.

For a time, the war seemed far away to Jamie and his men. They hunted and fished and picked berries and mended clothing and did all the other things that soldiers do when not fighting—including waiting.

It was late spring before Sparks and the men returned, laden with gold and Federal paper money.

“That New York City is some place, Colonel,” Sparks said. “I sure hadn't ever seen anything like it. And I'm not sure I ever want to see it again. Too damn many people to suit this country boy.”

The men were also very relieved to be rid of all that money.

Jamie had heard no real news of the war, and Sparks brought him up to date. “Forrest really got the Yankees all riled up against us after that raid on Fort Pillow.”

“What raid?”

“Happened a few weeks ago just north of Memphis. Forrest and his boys stormed the place and took it, but the Yankees is sayin' it was a slaughter. The newspapers back east is sayin' that Forrest's boys bayonetted and clubbed to death most of the colored soldiers 'cause they was fightin' for the Blue. The Yankees lost more than three hundred men, most of them blacks . . . accordin' to the newspapers, that is.”

“It might have happened that way, too,” Jamie said. “Nathan's got some ol' boys fighting with him that hate colored people. Some of them were with us originally, if you'll recall.”

“That's not to say they weren't good men in their own way, Colonel.”

“Oh, no. I've fought shoulder to shoulder with men who felt the only good Indian was a dead one. I disagree, but I still called them friend and comrade.”

At this time, Jamie was well aware that his friend, General Joe Johnston, was over in Dalton, Georgia, with his army, preparing to face off with Grant. Jamie didn't care. Suddenly, that war was far away. He was ready to face his own war, as, he felt sure, was Layfield. Up close and personal. Very personal.

“Sherman is sending troops out to forage, Colonel,” Sparks added. “And sometimes they're right cruel with the civilians in doing it.”

“Are they paying for what they take?”

“Sometimes, but not often. In something called script.” He looked around. “Where is the Top Soldier?”

“Out headhunting,” Jamie replied.

With Joe Johnston was John Bell Hood, in his early thirties, one of the youngest generals in the Confederate army. John had lost a leg at Chickamauga and had an arm shattered at Gettysburg, but he was still able to sit a horse (he had to be strapped in the saddle) and was a respected leader of men. The men liked Hood, but they idolized Joe Johnston.

Sherman was asked what he intended to do with Colonel Aaron Layfield's brigade.

“Keep him just as far away from me as is humanly possible,” Sherman replied.

Layfield had made the mistake of attempting to preach to Sherman one day. Very poor judgment on Layfield's part.

* * *

Jamie very carefully laid out his plans to the men driving the supply wagons, and they rumbled out. Each Marauder carried five days' meager rations in his saddle box, to be used only in an emergency. Jamie had given each man money enough to buy food along the way if they had to. Mainly they would depend on hunting and fishing to sustain themselves.

During the first week in May, 1864, Sherman launched his Georgia campaign, and Grant crossed the Rapidan, signaling the beginning of the campaign against Lee in Virginia. Jamie and the Marauders rode off to tangle with Layfield and his Revengers.

When Sherman learned that Layfield was going to wage a personal war against Jamie MacCallister, he smiled. “Maybe that pompous bag of wind can keep MacCallister occupied enough so he'll not have time to harass us.” Then he chuckled and called for an aide. “Take this down as a direct order, Captain. It's to Colonel Aaron Layfield and his Revengers.”

He then made it official: Layfield was to keep Jamie MacCallister and his Marauders away from Sherman's army. Try to contain the Marauders up in Northeast Georgia if at all possible.

“And make sure that blowhard has sufficient supplies,” Sherman added, then leaned back in his chair and lit up a cigar, smiling around the thick swirl of smoke.

War certainly made for strange allies, he thought.

* * *

Jamie certainly had ample supplies. He had his men cache supplies and ammunition all over Northeast Georgia: from Blue Ridge up near the Tennessee line, down to Gainesville, then over to the South Carolina line and up to the North Carolina line, following the river. The white citizens of Georgia knew what he was doing and helped Jamie whenever possible. To a person they despised Layfield and his men . . . and their opinion of Sherman and his army wasn't much better, for the man had started his campaign of burning everything that stood in his way.

“In some small way, the Yankees will pay for this,” Jamie promised a group of citizens one summer's afternoon. “I promise you that.”

They certainly would. There was one small town in Pennsylvania where the citizens would never forget or forgive Jamie and his Marauders.

The mountains of East Georgia were pimples compared to the Rockies, but they were mountains, and Jamie was at home in the mountains.

“We won't be doing many mounted charges,” he told his men. “But we're going to teach Layfield and his men some very hard lessons.”

On the same day that Sherman and his Union troops attacked the Confederate stronghold of Rocky Face, Jamie and his men were getting into position in a tiny town in East Georgia. Layfield had been trailed by some of Jamie's scouts, and they had learned that the Southern-hater was planning to loot and burn the village.

Jamie ordered the civilians—mostly older men and women and children—out of town and into ravines about a mile from the settlement. He had some of his own men—the smaller men—dress up in dresses and bonnets and sashshay up and down the streets so Layfield's vanguard would see them and not suspect anything.

“You shore look precious, there, Luke,” Sergeant Major Huske told a Marauder, all dolled up in dress and bonnet and parasol.

Luke told the Top Soldier where he could stick his comments... sideways.

Layfield had halted his men about a mile from town, where Aaron was busy praying to the Lord to give his men the strength to wipe this wretched town from the face of the earth, and to teach these Southern whores a lesson in humility. Layfield did not think of rape as wrong—as long as the rape was being committed against Southern women. Layfield considered them to all be whores and trollops anyway. Why shouldn't his men relieve their tensions? Weren't they doing God's work here on earth?

Not this day. On this day, Layfield was about to step up and shake hands with the man he considered to be the spawn of the devil: Jamie Ian MacCallister.

Layfield rode up to within a few hundred yards of the sleepy little town. One of the “ladies” parading up and down the boardwalks flipped “her” dress up and made a hunching motion toward Layfield.

“Whoor!” Layfield yelled. “Filthy Southern whoor!”

Yet another “lady” made a very obscene hand gesture toward Layfield.

Layfield waved his saber and shouted, “Charge, men! Remember, we are doing God's work!”

God must have surely winked at that, for He certainly wasn't looking with favor on Layfield that day. Layfield's men came galloping into town, screaming and yelling. Jamie's Marauders cleared a hundred saddles during the first volley. The roaring of gunfire was enormous. Horses reared and screamed in fright and dumped their riders to the dirt. The dust and gunsmoke limited vision to only a few yards, and that helped to save Layfield's life. When the man finally realized he had been suckered into an ambush, he shouted for his bugler to sound recall and then wheeled his horse and got the hell gone from the dusty, bloody streets of the small town. Layfield retained vivid memories of the last time he'd tangled with the Marauders and tried to keep his butt planted firmly in the saddle.

There was just something very unseemly about getting shot in the ass.

Jamie had forewarned his men that there would be no pursuit after the ambush, for Layfield's force was much larger than Jamie's four companies of Marauders, and out in the open the Marauders stood a good chance of getting badly mauled.

On this warm early summer's day in East Georgia, Jamie's men had killed just over fifty Union Revengers and wounded another fifty or so. Jamie ordered all the guns, ammunition, supplies, and horses to be taken. Any money found on the men was to be given to the townspeople. The badly wounded and the dead were loaded into wagons and taken several miles out of town, while the lesser wounded were told to get the hell gone and tell Layfield to come get his wounded and see to them.

Jamie added this: “You tell that hypocritical psalm-singing son of a bitch who ramrods your outfit that his war is with me, not against civilian men and women and kids. If he retaliates against this town for what happened today, you have my personal word that I will hunt down every man jack of you and stake you out over an anthill and pour honey over your eyes and let the ants have you. And don't you doubt for one second that I won't do it. You be damn sure he gets the message.”

The slightly wounded and badly frightened Revenger believed every word Jamie said as the man towered over him, his pale blue eyes burning with the heat of emotion.

Jamie threw the man onto a horse and slapped the crow-bait on the rump, sending him galloping out of town.

Moments later, Jamie and his Marauders were gone, vanishing into the mountains like ghosts.

Layfield and men returned to pick up their dead and wounded and then retired some miles away, to lick their wounds and let their hate fester.

Jamie had not lost a single man, to death or wound.

* * *

All through the months of May and June, 1864, the Marauders and the Revengers fought each other in small battles all over the northeastern corner of Georgia. To the west and south, the Union army was slowly clawing their bloody way toward Atlanta. On June the first, the Yankees were on the north side of the Chattahoochee River, only a few miles north of the city. But it would take the Union forces almost seven more brutal and bloody weeks to reach the city. They would measure their daily advance in yards and sometimes feet. Atlanta was being evacuated.

Jamie and his Marauders and Layfield and his Revengers had been all but forgotten by Richmond and Washington. For them, the war was each other. But it was about to turn decidedly in Jamie's favor.

The Henry rifle had just been introduced, and a train load of them, along with other supplies, was on its way to Sherman's troops, now almost within spitting distance of Atlanta.

The train never made it. Jamie and his men blocked the rails and seized tons of supplies and all the Henry rifles and .44 ammunition for them. The Henry lever action rifle was a marvel, holding fifteen rounds in a tube under the barrel. Each Marauder carried two in saddle boots and a third in hand, across the horn. It gave them awesome fighting power, for counting the rounds in the pistols they carried, each man could now fire over eighty rounds before having to reload—unheard of in those days. And Aaron Layfield and his Revengers would soon experience the killing effectiveness of those new Henry Rifles.

Jamie and the Marauders set fire to the freight cars, and then blew up the locomotive, blocking the Western and Atlantic tracks for several days. Then they rode off with their wagons of booty, Gibson tooting on his bugle.

The loss of a small train and locomotive did not disturb Sherman nearly as much as the loss of those rifles; he had been counting heavily on them. For a brief time he considered sending a brigade of men after Jamie and his Marauders. A dozen commanders immediately volunteered.

But Sherman had been studying maps of East Georgia, and the terrain was not to his liking. Moreover, he knew that MacCallister was right at home in the mountains and was a master at setting up ambushes.

“No,” Sherman finally decided. “We'd lose too many men in rooting him out, and besides, we might not succeed.”

“But if he should come in behind our lines . . . ?”

Sherman waved that off. “MacCallister has four companies of cavalry, with no artillery to back him up. He could pester us, but not to any large extent. His war is with this Layfield person and I want it to remain so. Send someone to tell Layfield to force the issue with MacCallister or I will replace him with someone who can do the job.”

The message stung Layfield, and he immediately went to his tent after telling his officers he must be left alone in order to seek Heavenly guidance on how best to deal with Jamie MacCallister and his band of Southern trash.

Actually, what he was doing was drafting a letter to Jubal Olmstead in Washington, outlining the problem and asking if he could do something to aid the Vermont Revengers.

While he was composing the letter, a plan came to mind, and Layfield thought hard for a moment. He smiled, a cruel curving of the lips, and wadded up the paper, discarding it. Layfield knew that Southern men held their women in high regard, placing them on almost a spiritual plane. Layfield found that amusing, if not downright sacrilegious, for to his way of thinking, Southern women were nothing but trash and whores.