I may have mentioned a time or two on this blog that the first time I was in college (at LSU) I minored in American History, specifically focusing on the Civil War era. At that time, and for several years afterward, that was the setting I used in my writing. The excerpt I’m sharing today is from the beginning of a Civil War–set novel featuring several characters who are the progenitors of the main families in Bonneterre, Louisiana, the fictional city where Stand-In Groom, Menu for Romance, and A Case for Love are set. I know that the Civil War setting supposedly doesn’t sell, but some day, I may go back and finish this one, written circa 1994.

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Prologue

Wednesday, September 17, 1862
Outside of Sharpsburg, Maryland

The aftermath of the battle was like something out of Charleton’s worst nightmare—except that his nightmares had never been this bad . . . yet. Most of the “Louisiana Tigers” had been taken down in Bloody Lane, leaving Charleton, two other officers and only a handful of soldiers.

In the post-battle truce to collect the dead and wounded, Charleton went from body to body, recording all of the names of his fallen comrades in a small book. The chaplain followed along behind, gathering personal effects to send home to the men’s families.

As the list grew longer, a feeling of grief, remorse and disgust began building in the pit of Charleton’s stomach. He had to get out. This wasn’t what he’d been put on this earth for—the killing, the carnage, the blatant disregard for human life.

Numbly, Charleton continued his task, until he heard a moan to his right. Like a man possessed, Charleton searched for the one still alive among so many dead.

“Home. Have to get home . . . Father . . . too ill to run the plantation . . . Robby . . . can’t leave Robby and Nate alone . . .”

Charleton found him, Lt. John Honeywell, moaning about home and whom Charleton assumed were the Lieutenant’s brothers Robby and Nate. Charleton liked Honeywell—a quiet young man with a passion for the cause and for justice. He’d never actually spent time talking to the younger officer, but he’d heard the Lieutenant speak of his home in Avoyelles Parish, and knew that the Honeywells ran the most productive sugar plantation in the south. Honeywell Sugar—grown and refined all on the same land—was the highest quality sugar to be had on this side of the Atlantic.

“The poor lad,” Reverend Galloway said, coming to lean over Charleton’s shoulder. “Wi’ a wound like that, he’ll no’ make it through the night.”

Charleton looked at the gaping, ragged wound in the Lieutenant’s leg, and then and there vowed that John Honeywell would live and would get home to his family.

“Major Guidry!”

Charleton turned and saluted his now senior-most officer. “Yes sir!”

“At ease. We’re pulling out now. The Yankees are coming back for their dead and if we don’t leave now, this whole thing could start again. You can put the personals to send home to the families in that caisson. The wounded are already on their way to a field hospital in Winchester, Virginia.”

“Well, they missed one. We’ll need to take him with us, General.” Charleton turned to gather up Lt. Honeywell.

“Leave him, Major. He’s too far gone for anyone to be able to help him. He’ll only slow us down.”

“Respectfully, sir, he’s wounded, but not dead. I’d like to make sure that he gets home safely.”

“No, Major Guidry. He’s as good as dead with a wound like that. If he doesn’t bleed to death, he’ll die of an infection. Leave him.”

“I saw a man injured worse than this get better when I was in Africa, sir, if I could just—”

“Leave him, Major, that’s an order. Reverend, if you will come, please, we must be leaving now.”

Charleton watched them leave. Then, removing his coat, he ripped enough of the wool apart to make a bandage to try to staunch the bleeding.

He heard the order for “move-out,” and didn’t think twice. He lifted Lt. Honeywell onto his own horse, and grabbed the reins of a dead officer’s horse and took off in a different direction.

* * *

Mississippi River Delta, Louisiana

Armando watched in silent horror as his magnificent clipper burned and drifted away from the moorings. All of the crates of flour, cornmeal, tea, coffee, and morphine were still aboard. The small inlet in the northern-most part of the delta had proven undetectable until now. Union soldiers had discovered his lair.

Hoping that he hadn’t been spotted, Armando pulled his long black hair back and tucked it into the collar of his shirt. His black hat—won in a poker game in Galveston, Texas—was then pulled down low on his forehead. He knew that if any of the Federals saw him, he was done-for. Several horses had been tethered to a tree behind the warehouse where Armando brought in all of his goods, when he could get them through the blockade.

He got to the horses without being seen, but his presence woke one of the horses, which neighed in surprise, calling the attention of the two low-ranked soldiers standing guard at the side entrance of the warehouse.

Armando quickly untied a large chestnut, which was already running by the time Armando pulled himself into the saddle. The Federals were yelling and shooting—running or jumping onto any horses they could to try to catch the infamous blockade runner.

Armando—a native of Morgan City, not too far away—had been using Pointe Batiste for his home-base since the war started, so he knew all of the paths and trails through the swamps.

When he thought the hoofbeats behind him had fallen farther back, he slowed down enough to get his bearings and make sure he was confident about his surroundings.

The impact into his left shoulder, followed by immense pain and burning took him completely by surprise, and by instinct alone, dug his heels into the horse’s sides and took it deep into the treacherous swamp lands.

* * *

Duncan McCord called his men to a halt. He was so turned around now that he was sure that they were following their own trail. “It’s getting dark. We’ll never find him in these swamps. Fall back and return to camp.”

It took almost an hour for the detachment of Union soldiers to find their way out of the swamps, but eventually, Duncan found himself outside of the warehouse, requesting to speak with Major General Flynn. He was motioned in by the guard at the door, and entered the dim room to find Gen. Flynn taking an inventory of the boxes of food staples and supplies.

Duncan had expected to see guns and ammunition.

“Major General Flynn, sir.”

The tall, dark haired senior officer didn’t even look up from the box he had just opened. “Yes, what is it?”

Duncan stood in his best West Point attention stance. “Lieutenant Duncan McCord reporting, sir. Major General Flynn, sir, we were unable to apprehend the fugitive. He has disappeared into the swamps and we were unable to follow him. Sir.”

Flynn whirled around and looked at the younger officer. “McCord. That man must be captured. He is a traitor to the government of the United States of America.”

“Sir?”

“McCord, the man attended the Point and was commissioned into the Army, even though he is nothing more than a swamp running half-breed. He deserted and began blockade running in February. General McClellan believes that he is also running arms. The man is a traitor and he must be stopped.”

Duncan saluted—an action which was not acknowledged by his superior. “Yes, sir, we will continue the search in the morning.”

“In the morning, we will all set out looking for this man. The only place he can go from here is either north or west. My guess is that he will head north, for either Missouri or Kansas. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”