The Confederate Read online

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  In the grand tradition of THE SEARCHER …

  When Griff Stark traded in his Union blues for Confederate grey he knew he was on the losing side—he just didn’t know how much he was going to lose! His Georgia plantation has been destroyed, his wife murdered, his young son, Jeremy missing … disappearing into the untamed and unknown lands to the west.

  The Confederate will find his son—and destroy anyone or anything standing in his way!

  THE CONFEDERATE

  By Forrest A. Randolph

  First published by Zebra Books

  Copyright © 1983, 2021 by Forrest A. Randolph

  First Electronic Edition: February 2021

  Piccadilly Publishing

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Tribute to the Author by Patrick E. Andrews

  To the memory of

  Confederate General Nathan Bedford Forrest

  and to my ancestors among

  the Stillwells, Mays, Randolphs, and Monroes

  who faithfully served the Cause.

  “Hoist high the Bonny Blue Flag!”

  Prologue

  WARM MAY SUNLIGHT filtered down through pale green leaves of the stately elms that lined the wide graveled road. It made dappled patterns on the gleaming, well-groomed bays trotting side by side through the Maryland back country. Two young men, looking smart and handsome in their bright, new uniforms, chatted comfortably over the clopping of their mounts’ hoofs. The one, suavely dark and completely at ease in his newly won rank of second lieutenant in the United States Army, addressed his remarks to his companion with only a slight note of condescension.

  “It is always a pleasure to have you visit, Griff. What with your own plantation being so far away in Georgia, you must miss family life?”

  Griffin Stark brushed back an errant lock of his pale blond hair and worked up a brief smile. Although their relationship was nearly as close as that of brothers, his friend, Damien Carmichael, often exhibited a snobbish superiority about his Maryland origins. Griff had quickly noted that the Virginians, Marylanders, Massachusetts men, and the New Yorkers had all looked down on his Georgian roots. It had made his first year at the Academy most difficult, more so than for most. All the same, Damien and he had become fast friends, and his four years at West Point had been highlighted by frequent between-term and holiday journeys to the Carmichael plantation, Oaklawn. To Griffin, these had meant a great deal. He mustered his straying thoughts and responded.

  “Damien, your mother is a fine woman, a warm and understanding person, and your father is every bit of the word ‘gentleman.’ They always make me welcome.”

  “Even if they don’t agree with your viewpoint on slavery?” his friend taunted mildly.

  “I know your mother has abolitionist sympathies. This is the modern world, Damien. Eighteen and fifty-seven. With the cotton gin, the water-powered milling equipment, steam engines, and metal-clad ships, the use for slaves is rapidly diminishing in the South. But until we master all the innovations of men like McCormack and Fulton, we will keep our slaves. Not that I wouldn’t manumit every darkie on our place, were I the master; it is simply that for a while yet, the economy of the South is dependent on slave owning. We’re on our way to new careers, to your home for a celebration, and eventually to my wedding. Let’s not spoil our fun by discussing such dreary topics. For my own part, I will defend the right of property for anyone, North or South. Eventually, slavery will die out for lack of application. You wouldn’t, like some of these radical agitators in the North are demanding, abolish slavery overnight and not even make fair compensation to the owners for the loss of their investment? I know you better than that. At least I think I do.”

  Griff put one firm, squarely blocked hand to his chin, rubbing the smooth skin there, contemplating when he would be compelled to shave for more than form. At twenty years of age, he still needed to hack at his flaxen stubble no more often than twice or three times a week. His pause gave his friend time to muster his thoughts.

  “Is it true what you said about manumission?”

  “Certainly. As you know, I didn’t bring a personal servant along with me to the Academy, although many of our classmates did.”

  “And Commandant Lee put a stop to it. And he’s a slave owner himself.”

  “Which proves my point,” Griff shot back. “Robert E. Lee is a military genius and a great man. He believes that young officers have to learn self-reliance. To fend for themselves.”

  “It sounds as though you, as well as he, believe there is going to be some sort of conflict.”

  “Not really. At least not in the near future. But there have always been wars and there will be in the future. It behooves a good officer to be prepared. That’s what Lee meant by dismissing the servants of the young gentlemen.”

  Damien smiled mischievously. “It’s only a mile to Oaklawn. I’ll race you there.”

  “A dollar to the winner?”

  “What? We’re officers and gentlemen now, make it five!” Instantly, Damien put spurs to his well-muscled bay gelding.

  “The hunt breakfast will be served in twenty minutes, Mr. Griffin,” the snowy-haired servant informed Griff Stark early the next morning. His smile revealed an alabaster flash of teeth against his mahogany face.

  “Already?” Griff responded, rising from his bed. “It’s still dark out there.”

  “Best time to catch ol’ Mr. Fox. Early, while the dew is still wet on the grass. My, my, and it sure pleasured me to learn you took five dollar’ off Mr. Damien yesterday. You’re a fine horseman, Mr. Griffin. One of the best riders I’ve done ever seen. Yoah assignment gonna be in the cavalry?”

  “No, Jonas, it’s … ah, more what you could call an administrative posting,” Griff evaded. He had been informed, privately, by the commandant that his first posting would be to a small, newly formed corps charged with the responsibility of tactical and combat intelligence. The Mexican War of a decade ago had taught the necessity for obtaining accurate information about an enemy. Spies had always been held in disrepute by the professional military, yet this new unit, consisting of barely a company in strength, would have the onus of espionage removed by functioning in uniform and practicing their trade openly as a legitimate adjunct of staff duties.

  “I’m bettin’ my week’s wages, a whole five dollar’ on you bein’ the one to tree that ol’ fox and shoot him, Mr. Griffin.”

  “Wages, Jonas?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. We’s all been manumented since y’all was here last and we get paid for our work. Same’s we always did before, only we�
�s free and can quit if we have a mind.”

  “And do you want to, Jonas?”

  “Nawsir. Where would I go? I’ve served the Carmichaels since I was a li’l shaver o’ ten years old. I’d not know how to work for any others.”

  Griff splashed his face with water, toweled dry, and dressed. His hunting outfit, loaned from Damien, fit well. They were of a size and often exchanged needed or missing uniform parts at the Academy. His hard leather heels rang on the parquet floors of the upper hallway and thumped dully on the carpeted stair. Griff crossed the foyer and left the mansion through the wide, double front door. He thought with satisfaction of the race on the previous afternoon.

  Although initially disadvantaged on the start, Griff had quickly closed with his opponent, paced Damien for a while, then forged ahead along the last quarter-mile of shaded drive that led to the portico and white columns that fronted Oaklawn. Damien made a pretense of begrudging the five-dollar bet, though his eyes glowed with admiration for the excellent horsemanship of his friend. Damien loved to compete and it didn’t seem to matter if he won or not. Griff arranged a smile on his face as he rounded the corner of the Carmichael plantation house and angled off toward the stable yard.

  There he found the hunt party, talking and sipping from steaming mugs of buttered rum. Damn hot drink for a spring morning, Griff thought to himself. He shrugged philosophically, though, and accepted a pewter cup of the grog.

  “See who’s here,” Albert Treadwell announced in a lazy Marylander’s drawl. “With Griffin Stark on this hunt, I might as well not even chase that bushy-tailed creature. The way I hear it, they had him teaching marksmanship at the Point.”

  “Not teaching – coaching,” Griff provided in his defense.

  “Isn’t it really all one and the same?” Albert asked rhetorically in a bored tone. Griff didn’t particularly like Treadwell. He considered him to be a dilettante.

  The pampered youngest son of a large, wealthy Baltimore family, Albert had never wanted or worked for anything in his life. By contrast, Griff had spent many a day alongside the family slaves, laboring in their Georgia fields. Albert’s hands were soft, white, the fingers long and tapered. Griff’s were blunt, muscular, and browned from exposure to the sun. The foppish young man spent more time at balls and soirees than he did at acquiring a profession. Now his honeyed tones grated on Griff’s ear like the rasp of a coarse file.

  “But you will be riding out with us, won’t you, Albert?” Griff inquired in a tone familiar to Damien, one that presaged verbal lightning and oral thunder. He waited anxiously for Albert to enter the trap.

  “Oh, yes, of course I will, dear boy. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Will you be riding English … or sidesaddle?”

  Several young ladies tittered behind their lace hankies. Two elderly gentlemen guffawed, slapping their tan riding trousers with leather crops. Albert Treadwell flushed a furious red and snapped his lips closed in a hard, thin line. At that moment, the hunt master sounded his horn to announce breakfast. Servants brought forward heaped platters of Virginia ham, roast beef, eggs, griddle cakes, and biscuits. General chatter broke out among the guests as they lined up to fill their plates.

  Near the end of the short column, Albert Treadwell glowered in Griff’s direction. I’ll get you for that, my fine Lieutenant Griffin Stark. Oh, yes, I shall, he thought in raging fury.

  “Tallyho! Tallyho!” The thrilling cry of fox in sight rebounded off rocks and trees sounding ever so sweet to the ears. Griff and Damien led the coursers, ahead of the pack by a good five lengths. They went neck and neck over a stone fence and crashed into the salt-grayed bracken beyond the open field, the hounds, hot on the trail, baying in the distance. The two handsome, athletic young men broke to the left in response to the belling cry of a favored old redbone bitch and became lost from view of the others as they slashed into a stand of beech.

  Slender branches whipped in their faces as they rode on, unmindful of the stinging pain. The bugling of the hounds grew closer now. From behind they heard the confused cries of the main party. Griff’s favorite sounded for them again and he reined to the left. In the distance he saw a flash of deep red coat. The fox, or the redbone bitch? He drove spurs into his lathered mount’s sides and forced a new surge of speed.

  “Over this way!” he shouted to Damien. Quickly, his body twisting and bending sinuously, Griff outdistanced his friend.

  Frantic yelps and short barks came from the questing animals. Griff pressed on. From the corner of one eye he had a glimpse of another hunter, riding hard, closing on him.

  For only an instant, Griff clearly saw Albert Treadwell charging down on him, astride a big gray, one arm uplifted, soft, slender fingers closed around a melon-size rock. White flecks of foam showed at the corners of Albert’s mouth and his eyes rolled wildly, showing lots of white. As he closed, Griff acted instinctively in defense of his life.

  His right hand dropped to the polished walnut grips of the big Perry breech-loading percussion pistol, one of a pair in his saddle holsters. He drew the .52-caliber single-shot weapon and thumbed back the hammer. The six-and-three-quarter-inch barrel steadied on its target and Griff lined the brass, front blade sight in the V-notch of the rear groove cut into the barrel. He touched the light, delicate trigger, and the flat roar of a black powder charge bounced off the trees.

  The heavy .52 caliber lead ball cut a noisy path through the air and smacked into the jagged stone in Albert’s hand an instant before it punched a hole through the palm. Albert let out a screech of pain and rage, and wavered in the saddle. Propelled by the force of the slug, he fell into the decaying vegetation of the beech grove.

  “You … you’ve ruined me,” he wailed, while he tightly clutched his wrist in an attempt to staunch the flow of rich blood that pumped from his wounded hand. “My hand! Oh … my God, my hand. I’ll never use it again!” Albert paled and his eyes began to roll up in their sockets.

  “You attacked me, remember?” Griff retorted. “You’re a coward, Albert. Any gentleman would have challenged me at the hunt breakfast. Here, let me help you.”

  Griff’s stinging words had called Albert back from his near faint, now he cringed away from the offer of assistance and stammered at the Georgian. “K…keep away f…from me. Y…you’ll try to finish the job. I know it. I—”

  “Suit yourself, Albert. But don’t come asking for satisfaction later on. For my own part, I’ve already settled that matter.”

  Coolly, Griff lowered the trigger guard, which tilted the breechblock upward, and inserted a paper cartridge. With the piece on half-cock, he observed that the Perry had an automatic capping device installed in the butt; that allowed the percussion cap to be seated on the cone of the nipple. A good feature, he thought. He appreciated the quality of the loaned pistols even more. A sudden crashing in the salt bracken demanded his attention.

  ‘‘What’s this? Don’t tell me you’ve bagged that fox already?” Damien demanded as he rode onto the trail on his bay gelding.

  “No,” Griff replied, “only a civet cat.”

  “Your little set-to with poor Albert could prove quite embarrassing to a lot of people, Griffin,” Damien began a few minutes later, on their way back to Oaklawn.

  “Poor Albert was trying to kill me with that rock,” Griff reminded his friend. “I don’t think he will make much of it.”

  “You don’t know him well. No doubt he will invent some sort of horrendous story about your assault on him. We can weather that, though.”

  “We?”

  “Of course, ‘we.’ I’ll stand behind you, the whole family will.”

  “That is comforting. I wouldn’t like to be late for my first duty station because of a series of duels or from being in jail.”

  Damien uttered a short bark of laughter. “Nothing like that, I can assure you. We’ll be in Georgia, in ample time for your marriage. Which reminds me, there is another little difficulty that has arisen.”

  �
�What’s that?”

  “You’re quite the handsome brute, you know?” Damien began evasively. “You have no doubt broken many a fair damsel’s heart.”

  “Not that I know of. What’s this all about, Damien?”

  “It seems that we have a tragedy in the making, fraught with tears and heartrending protestations of undying love. It could, I’ve been assured, result in a tragedy.”

  “Who? Why? I guarantee that I have not left any young ladies in the lurch, desperately in need of a quick marriage, nor have I received any tear-stained missives threatening suicide because I am being wed to another. Get to the point, man, eh?”

  “I refer to Jennifer.”

  Griff uttered a peal of amused laughter. “Jenny? Your little sister? Why, she is only ten years old.”

  “All the same this is serious with her. She has had a crush on you since the first time she saw you. Oh, I know,” Damien hurried on, lifting one hand to restrain another outburst from Griff, “that was nearly four years ago and she was only six. Even so, women get these vapors, it seems, and there’s no telling at what age. Jennifer is heartbroken that you are marrying Bobbie Jean McElroy. Can you … would you talk to her about it? Try to explain?”

  At first, Griff had felt amused by this. Now he began to appreciate the seriousness in his friend’s demeanor and tone of voice. “I … Of course I will. I’m quite fond of Jenny. I wouldn’t want to hurt her. I’ll take care of it the moment we get back to Oaklawn.”

  Excitement and official questions regarding the shooting incident delayed Griff’s good intentions for over an hour. At last he found Jennifer Carmichael in the formal gardens behind the plantation house, sitting in a small, white gazebo among the topiary animals. She wore a belled crinoline dress, white shoes and a narrow snowy ribbon in her glossy black hair. One elbow rested on a hidden knee; her chin was cupped in a small dainty hand while she stared off into another world. Redness rimmed her eyes, though the tears had dried up. She seemed unaware of Griff’s approach and started when he spoke her name.