The Survivor – The Story of the Texas Captain – Book I

Available in Multiple Formats

Holly Springs, MS

December 20th, 1862

6:30am

The glow from the moon cast dark shadows of the buildings around the town square on the roads leading into Holly Springs. The sun had yet to appear for another hour in the Southern town, which was largely unmarred by the current war. It had flourished for twenty-five years, and though its sleeping residents were unaware, its destruction loomed. In the square were a few financial institutions, storefronts, a hotel, and a courthouse in the center complete with an ornate clock tower, which rang once with the passing of the half-hours. Other than the occasional bark of a solitary dog, quiet reigned. Nary a breath of wind blew on this morning, but it was still frigid.

On the eastern end of town near the railroad depot was a modest, yet stately, well-maintained house. The house had a wrap-around porch where the master of the house sat in a rocking chair drinking his coffee. He normally had no trouble sleeping until late in the morning, but the early morning of this day found him wide-awake, and he couldn’t understand why. The aged man sat facing the road into town from the east.

The man sipped his rich, delicious Yankee coffee, and puffed on a cigar as he slowly rocked in the worn chair he’d inherited from his father years ago. He took a long drag on the cigar. With the realities of war, luxuries like cigars and coffee had become scarce. Yet since the Yankees had arrived in town a few weeks ago with their growing mountains of supplies, he’d been able to appropriate some of the hand-wrapped indulgences from a Union officer or two who had come into his humble bookstore.

I guess Billy Yank is good for somethin’.

The Yankees had come to his town in great numbers. They’d left him alone and even bought some of his books on occasion. After all, what kind of threat could a used-up, elderly man such as he pose?

The old threatening bookseller.

He laughed to himself. He had observed these invaders with the intelligence-gathering attention of a former soldier and hoped for deliverance from this unwanted presence of enemy troops. Yes, they’d left him alone, but he was ready for them to leave—these Northerners. These outsiders.

Lately, he’d caught a glimpse of a man in a blue uniform, clearly in charge, riding his dark horse around the streets in town, supervising the work of the occupying Yankees. The man didn’t appear with pomp and circumstance the way one would expect a leader of so many to present himself. No, the man rode his fine horse slouched in the saddle, wearing the uniform frock of a private with the gold stars of a Major General sewn on the shoulders. He wore his hat pulled low over his eyes and always had a cigar in his mouth. Overall, the man was uninspiring and rather plain. However, what caused the elder gentleman to pause when he passed the Major General on the street was the unflinching resolve on the man’s face. The General’s eyes held cold hard determination, unlike any the man had ever remembered in the past.

Surprisingly, when the General sensed the man staring at him on the street, the Northern General had tipped his hat to him. The Mississippi native always tipped his in return, but never with a smile. He feared behind the General’s unassuming exterior was a brilliant military mind, constantly calculating and evaluating. It had dawned on him then that this war would be long and hard; the Confederacy faced a daunting foe.

The Yankee General stayed in one of the beautiful homes in town with his young wife, his son, and a servant. The location of the General’s quarters was certainly no secret around town.

Over the last few weeks, the man had witnessed the endless line of cars arriving in town on the tracks virtually around the clock, delivering the tools and supplies of war from up north. There were mountains and mountains of quartermaster stores, commissary stores, and many other varieties of supplies stacked in neat rows and crammed in all the available spaces around town. A long row of stacked wooden crates marked U.S. rations sat in the road in front of his own house in full view of him now. The Yankees were building up for an attack of immense proportions, and he feared they would attack somewhere vital like Vicksburg or even Atlanta. The unassuming General had been absent for a few days.

As the morning air brought a chill, the man wore plenty of clothing to ward off the elements. He’d learned the hard lessons of wearing the correct accouterment during the war with the British in 1812, just as his father had learned during the Revolution. The Battle of New Orleans was fifty years ago, however, and much water had passed under the proverbial bridge since the days of Andy Jackson and the glorious victories over the powerful lobster backs. So on this December morning, the man puffed contentedly on his Yankee cigar and sat waiting.

Waiting for what? Deliverance, perhaps?

He squinted in response to his great cloud of blue smoke and pondered the Federals’ next move. Christmas was five days away. Decorations adorned some of the homes of his neighbors and the buildings of downtown, which was hopeful and optimistic to him. Surprisingly, and thankfully, the ongoing war had failed to curtail the holiday merriment and decorations. Such hopeful motives for naught. Pity. He shook his head and then puffed on the delicious cigar.

A lone horse whinnied far off to the east. He pulled the cigar slightly out of his mouth and stopped rocking, cocking his better ear toward where he guessed the movement of livestock had originated. Within minutes, there were several other whinnies and a growing disturbance. He remained still, holding his breath to the point of discomfort, straining to discover what the dawn might bring in his direction.

The low, approaching noise, still off in the distance, grew in power and pitch.

Can’t be thunder.

The rumbling intensified, coming closer and closer as the minutes passed, and was now unmistakable. The chaotic din of battle that took him back dozens of years to the desperate fight with the British down New Orleans way.

By God, those are the hoofbeats of horses!  Hundreds and hundreds of ‘em.

This town had experienced some fighting over the last few months but nothing like this. Cavalry! But whose cavalry? Why would the Yankees be coming into town at such a fast gallop? His frosted eyebrows rose, and the hint of a smile tugged at his weathered face. “Those ain’t the damned Yankees.” The man’s lips spread into a smile, and he happily replanted the delicious cigar in his teeth. He leaned forward and squinted toward the onrushing cacophony of thundering and quaking. Above the tree line to the east, up the road out of town, visible in the moonlight, was the telltale dust-cloud of the mass of swiftly approaching cavalry.

His heart beat faster now, and he stood from his comfortable, rocking chair. His eyes narrowed as he took a calming puff of the cigar.

Something isn’t right. Where are the Yankee pickets? Are there no soldiers on the periphery of town guarding this vast goldmine of supplies? Are the Yankees completely mad? The approaching thunder is coming here for those supplies, by George!

His grin turned into a deep cackle. Across the street and all around him, oil lamps were lit in the surrounding homes as his neighbors woke up to the approaching cavalry. People emerged from their homes in their bedclothes and nightcaps, pointing toward the rumbling cloud of dust. One of his neighbors, the widow lady across the road, waved at him. He nodded back to her and then returned his attention down the road toward the oncoming activity.

Scattered pops of musket fire erupted above the thunderous disturbance. His laughter had faded, yet his grin remained. Concern for his safety that tugged at his insides was from the handful of Federal pickets supposedly guarding the town’s periphery. His military training of 50 years ago told him what was happening. The intermittent musket fire ceased as quickly as it had begun. The incoming tidal wave of Confederate horsemen had overwhelmed the pickets. Clearly, the Yankees had been woefully unprepared in their defense of this town.

Damn them all to hell.

He had witnessed the music and commotion from the numerous Christmas parties the blue-coated devils had enjoyed in town the night before, and it was no surprise at the lack of preparedness to defend the precious supply depot. Lately, the only Yankee troops active in town even close to being worth a damn were those cavalry boys from Illinois camped at the fairgrounds north of town. Their Colonel had come into his store with a strong bearing of competence. Uniform neat and a commanding posture. The old man appreciated military professionalism even from a Union blue-belly bastard. The Yankee Colonel had indeed earned the man’s respect.

“You’re sure in for it now, Kernel. You gonna have your hands full, fo sho,” he said to himself.

Several men yelling down the road startled him out of his thoughts. In moments, came the screaming of multiple bugles, dictating the universal cavalry order to charge. The shrill calls of the bugles sent chills down the man’s spine deep into his core, and his gut reaction was to run inside and lock doors. Yet he remained on the porch and squinted into the hazy dawn toward the nearing commotion. Now several dark forms appeared, moving up the road toward him. They were men in blue running at a dead sprint with no weapons and fear in their eyes. These Yankees were wild with panic.

The man suddenly sensed vulnerability out here on his porch and yelled to the widow lady, “Miss Sue, best get inside for a while.”

She nodded, instantly understanding what he meant. As her door closed, he stepped inside his door and locked it. There was yelling beyond his porch in his yard. He crept over to the window, his back and knees protesting at such an uncharacteristic move for a man of approximately eighty years. He unhurriedly pulled back the curtain just enough to get a glimpse of his front yard.

Yes, there they are!