Chasing Shadows on the Trail (Preview)

Chapter One

Appomattox, Virginia

1865

“Stay down, Tim, blast it,” Sawyer growled. “How many times do I have to tell you? We’re almost done with this war. I’ll be beat and hanged if I let a Reb drill me on the last day.”

His friend Timothy crouched down behind the makeshift barricade they’d cobbled together from tree limbs and broken boards and wagon wheels. There was a big field between them and the distant tree line, where pockets of Rebel infantry were still watching them. Sawyer scanned it suspiciously.

It was the end for the Rebs. His corps had marched all night to get there in time to cut Lee off, and now the Rebs were surrounded. They had no food, no supplies, and no way out.

But there was nothing more dangerous than desperation. And if there was one thing he’d learned during his time fighting Rebel soldiers, it was that they loved defiant gestures. They could be as wild as anything living in the woods. It would be just like ‘em to go out with a bang.

It was still early morning, and the mist in the fields and creeks made it hard to tell what might be a puff of rifle or cannon fire. Sawyer adjusted one shoulder uncomfortably. After a night on his feet, he should’ve been barely awake, but instead he was wired up, jumpy.

He was looking for something bad to happen.

The field in front of them was the only clearing for miles in a sea of trees. They were looking out from the cover of the woods, just like the Rebs were. Sawyer laid low in the grass with his rifle propped on a wagon wheel as he searched the opposite tree line for the glint of metal. He didn’t see anything, but slowly the faint sound of men’s voices wafted to his ears across the field.

The Rebs were over there singing “Dixie.” He shook his head. It figured.

Tim turned to him and grinned. “Listen, Sawyer.” He laughed. “They’re still not giving up. Even now.”

Sawyer gave his buddy a tolerant glance. Tim was still mostly a kid. Tim could still laugh at things, but not him. He’d done the whole four years of hell, and all the humor had been dragged out of him.

Tim’s freckled face took on a wistful expression. “Reckon we’d do the same thing, if the tables were turned.” He sighed.

Sawyer grunted at that mental image. “Well, thank God they’re not,” he retorted grimly. “I wouldn’t want to finish up in Andersonville.”

He glanced down the line at the other Union soldiers in their company. The strains of “Dixie” were causing his fellow Billy Yanks to yell in derision, and jeers and catcalls rose up from the barricades.

One of the men to his right started bellowing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and before long, all of the men were belting it out as loud as they could.

Sawyer pinched his mouth into an irritated line. It was the same old foolishness he’d seen for four solid years. The war was killing enough men without adding a lot of useless bravado to stir the pot. He’d lost patience with it a long time ago.

He just wanted the whole thing to be over. He’d had a bellyful of killing and death.

One of the men down the line reared up and yelled, “Hey, Johnny Reb! Clock’s ticking!”

Sawyer’s face twisted in anger. He turned to call, “Shut up over there! You wanna start something that could get us all—”

A boom from across the field made them all go face down into the grass. A cannonball went whistling overhead, taking out tree limbs and showering Sawyer and his friend with a rain of pine needles, twigs, and leaves. A tree not far behind them was cut in two with a crack, followed instantly by an earth-shattering thud as it hit the ground. Sawyer turned around and his mind was wiped blank by shock when he saw that the tree had fallen on a soldier and crushed him.

A triumphant yell went up in the distance, followed by the crackle of gunfire. The tree limbs over and around them trembled, and another shower of leaves and twigs rained down on them.

Their captain, a young man with a bristling moustache, came riding up behind them and yelled, “No more yelling from any man on this line! Hold your positions and wait. Don’t return fire!”

There was another boom from across the field, and as the captain turned his horse to ride back down the line, the cannonball struck him, taking off his head and knocking him from the saddle.

Sawyer watched in dread. He’d seen plenty of gruesome deaths like it in the last four years, but Tim was barely sixteen. He’d just joined, and he hadn’t seen anything like it in his short life.

He gasped and cried out, “Captain Kelly! They killed the captain!”

Something stirred in Sawyer, maybe an echo of the horror he glimpsed in Tim’s eyes. It had been a long time since he’d been as shocked as his young buddy looked.

To his alarm, the kid jumped up, his boyish face twisted in outrage. “Dirty Rebs!”

Sawyer saw the kid jump over the barricade and go charging across the open field, rifle in hand. He yelled out, “Are you crazy? Get back, for the love of—”

More gunfire crackled from across the field and Sawyer swore under his breath as he grabbed his own rifle and sprang out into the open after him. Bullets hissed past his head as he ran after the kid, and to his horror, another boom blared out as theRebs used up the last of their cannon shells.

He ran after the kid, bent almost double, as covering fire from their fellow soldiers gave them a few seconds of grace. He saw Tim throw himself down into the grass, and he hurried over to fling himself down beside him.

“Cover your head!”

A shattering blast sprayed dirt and grass as the cannonball plowed into the ground not ten yards in front of them. Sawyer shook his head, because the blast made everything go quiet, like he’d been plunged underwater. There was a high, tinny whistle in his ears, and his hearing slowly came back. He could hear the pop of gunfire again.

He came to himself, grabbed Tim’s arm, and hauled him up on his feet. “Come on,” he panted. “Back to the barricades!”

He turned around and started half-running, half-limping back to the line, when there was another shattering boom followed by the crack of more rifle fire. Sawyer threw himself and Tim face down onto the ground, and a split-second later a section of the barricade and two soldiers were hit and blasted to the tree tops in a shattering explosion.

Sawyer swore and covered his head, then turned to Tim. “Come on,” he panted, “just a little farther.”

Tim didn’t answer, and Sawyer frowned and shook him. 

“Tim, come on!”

He turned his friend over, and to his alarm, Tim’s eyes were dazed, staring up at the sky. A red stain was rapidly spreading across his coat, and Tim lifted a trembling hand to his collar.

He broke a leather cord hanging around his neck and handed him a copper locket hanging from it.

Bullets whined past them, and Sawyer ducked as his dying friend gasped, “Take this back to my mother. Promise me.”

Sawyer stared at the boy in dismay. “Where does your mother live?”

Tim closed his eyes, swallowed, and murmured, “Port Orford. It’s in Oregon.” He shook the locket. “Promise me!”

Sawyer reached for the locket. “I promise, buddy. But don’t worry, everything’s gonna be fine. We’ll get you to the medics and they’ll patch you up good as new.”

But the boy opened his clear blue eyes and stared up at the sky like he saw something there. His mouth fell open slightly, and he lifted a hand weakly to point. “Look,” he whispered.

Sawyer’s face twisted. “Don’t fade on me, buddy. I need you to fight, you hear me?”

But the boy didn’t seem to hear him. He raised his finger a fraction higher, and slow smile dawned over his face. “Look,” he whispered, and as Sawyer watched, the light faded out of his eyes.

“Aw, no,” Sawyer groaned, and swore again as the boy’s hand slid to the ground. He crouched over the kid’s body for another moment as bullets struck the ground around him and his other buddies back on the line screamed at him to run.

Sawyer clutched the locket, grabbed his gun, and ran. And for the first time for years, tears were running down his face.

* * * * *

Sawyer gasped in his sleep and woke up with a start. He glanced around the bedroom wildly. He didn’t recognize where he was.

It took him a few moments to understand that the war was over, had been for months. That he was in a hotel room in New York.

He pulled his hands over his face and exhaled. It was hard to tell what time it was because the sound of talking and laughing and horses and carriages clattering past carried on at all hours.

But he had a train ticket to Kansas City, Missouri lying on the bedside table, and he had to be at the station by nine o’clock the next morning. So he rolled over, buried his face in his pillow, and tried to grab a few more hours’ sleep.

Chapter Two

Dear Son,

I’m glad you got the socks and the scarf I sent. I’m afraid I’m not very good at knitting, but even though they might not be the prettiest, they should keep you warm.

It’s almost spring now, and I have purple and yellow pansies in the window boxes. It makes the house look very pretty. Your stepfather finally painted the rowboat. He also painted a pair of eyes on it and named it “The Saucy Wench.” Ha!

Your stepfather and I are getting along very well. Please don’t trouble yourself about that, son. You concentrate on staying safe and coming home.

You are in my prayers every night. Be sure to wear the socks, and please be as careful as you can.

Your loving mother,

Elizabeth

Sawyer frowned and folded the letter up again. He stuck it into his jacket and glanced out the window of the train car.

The rolling farmland of western New York was sliding past outside. It would take a day or two to get to Kansas City, and a day or two more to kit out for the long trip to Oregon.

He pulled Tim’s locket out of his pocket and turned it over in his hand. It wasn’t gold, just copper, but it was as shiny as a new penny and scrolled all over with intricate engraving.

It was a pretty thing.

He flipped the locket open to stare at the tiny daguerreotype inside it. A pretty young woman with long ringlets of dark hair posed for the camera with her baby in her arms.

It was a picture of Tim Franklin with his mother, Elizabeth. Tim had told him many times that it was the only picture his mother had of him.

He sighed, closed the locket, and stuck it back in his pocket. He’d argued with himself for months over it. Would taking the locket back to a grieving mother really make a difference to her? He’d already written to Elizabeth to let her know that her son had died.

It had been the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.

Had Tim even been in his right mind when he asked him to take the locket back to her? He’d been bleeding out into the grass.

It was just as easy to honor his word to a dying buddy by mailing the locket to Elizabeth. She lived clear across the continent. It would be insane to take it there in person. A trip to Oregon from New York might as well be a trip to the moon. The railroad tracks only went halfway there.

But on the other hand, he felt as if he already knew her.

He’d never known his own mother. He’d been taken to an orphanage in New York when he was only a few days old. When he turned eighteen and had to leave, he’d gone straight from there to the recruiting office, and from there to the war.

Tim had read out every letter he’d gotten from his mother, and it had been nice to listen. To imagine having a family of his own.

He’d come to see Port Orford in his mind. It was a tiny village on the rugged coast of Oregon, known mostly as a shipping port for the lumber trade. A thick, ancient forest of firs marched right down to the ocean. Massive rocks extended far out into the sea as if they’d fallen off the mountain tops, rolling down the slopes and into the water.

Tim had described it as cool and misty, a rainy place filled with the smell of evergreens and salt air. It was tiny, a few dozen houses ringed around a little port. Most of the men worked for the shipping lines that took Oregon lumber from there all over the world.

Elizabeth had married one of those men when Tim was twelve. She’d corresponded with the man and had become his mail-order bride.

The sense Sawyer had gotten from Tim was that his mother had made a mistake. Tim hadn’t gotten along with his new stepfather. He’d told him that the man was the biggest reason he joined the army. He’d wanted to get away from home.

Sawyer’s eyes moved to the window again, but he wasn’t seeing the rolling green countryside. He was imagining Elizabeth Franklin sitting in her stuffed chair beside the fire, bent over the letter he’d mailed to her a few weeks before.

Dear Mrs. Franklin:

My name is Sawyer Brown. I’m a friend of Tim’s. Tim joined our platoon a year ago, and the two of us became great friends as well as brothers in arms.

I am sorry to inform you that Tim has passed away. He passed in a skirmish between our forces and the desperate Rebel troops just outside of Appomattox. I am proud to tell you that your son displayed great courage under fire, and that he always conducted himself with the honor and integrity befitting a soldier of this country.

Tim exemplified the best his generation has to offer: idealism, courage, faith, and loyalty. I am proud to have known him and to have called him my friend.

I was with Tim at the last. His dying thoughts were of you. He gave me a locket with your picture and asked me to return it to you. I have undertaken to do so. I am setting out from New York, and while I cannot tell you with certainty when I will arrive in Port Orford to deliver the locket, please know that I am on my way and will arrive as soon as I can.

Please accept my deepest condolences on your loss.

Sincerely,

Sawyer Brown

Chapter Three

“Kansas City! Kansas City Station!”

Sawyer glanced out the window of his car. He’d grown up on the seamy side of New York and had thought that place was grimy. But the raw-boned riverfront city outside his window was giving his rough childhood a run for its money. It was sunnier, but it was every bit as crowded and dirty.

Brick and clapboard buildings crowded one another on both sides of the train station, as far as the eye could see. Chimneys and smokestacks belched black smog into the air, horses and claptrap wagons rattled by on the street, and all manner of people jostled one another on the station platform and beyond it.

Sawyer unfolded his tall frame and reached for his leather bag. He shouldered through the line to climb down the metal car steps and out onto the platform. Immediately a cacophony of noises assaulted his ears: the passengers chattering, the porters calling to one another, the clatter of wagons rolling by, the blast of the train whistle, the hiss of steam, and the cries of a small army of street vendors hawking their wares.

“Dr. Johnson’s Miracle Cure, only twenty-five cents a bottle! Cures aches and pains of all kinds!”

“Maps, maps to the gold fields of California! Maps to the gold fields! Maps to Oregon, only a quarter!”

“Meat pies and soda pop! Meat pies hot off the griddle! Ten cents!”

Sawyer paused in front of a young woman holding a tray of meat pies. He dug a dime out of his pocket, and traded it for a hand pie and bottle of pop.

“Thanks, mister. Meat pies! Meat pies for a dime!”

Sawyer stuck the bottle of pop into his jacket pocket and munched the pie as he moved through the crowd. He kept his eye on every person he passed, and when a kid bumped into him, he dropped the pie and grabbed the boy’s shoulder.

“Hey!”

Sawyer glared down at him. “Give it back.”

The kid pulled his mouth to one side and handed his watch back. Sawyer pushed the kid away with a flick of his hand and stuffed the watch into his vest this time. It wasn’t much, but it was the only timepiece he had.

Sawyer pulled the bottle out of his other pocket, opened it, and took a long pull as he scanned the block. The boarding houses on the waterfront were sure to be outrageously expensive, since they were convenient to the steamboats that took wagon train travelers up to Independence.

He wanted one on the other side of town, and the harder he was on his feet that day, the easier he would be on his pocketbook. He’d saved enough to make the journey, but only if he was careful. It was a long way to Oregon, and a cross-country trip was expensive.

He set out walking, took in the local color. It was the first time he’d traveled outside of New York as a civilian, and he had to admit that he liked traveling for pleasure. He had no family. He wasn’t tied down to any one place. He might as well see the world.

A boy was holding up a newspaper and yelling, “Jefferson Davis captured in Georgia! Get your St. Louis Dispatch here!”

Sawyer stopped to buy a paper from the kid, stuck it under his arm, and kept on walking. After spending such a long time folded up in a train seat, it felt good to stretch his legs.

And that was lucky, because he’d likely have to walk for miles. The most reasonable boarding houses would be on the edge of town. He strolled past the train station and followed the tracks straight out.

As he got past the bedlam of the train station, he started hearing other noises. A faint, hollow whistle came from the direction of the river. If he turned his head to the left he could just glimpse the mighty Missouri glimmering in the distance. It was full of steamboats and paddlewheelers, trailing proud plumes of white smoke behind them.

He’d find a place to stay the night, have his dinner, and rise early in the morning to take one of those steamers up to Independence.

Independence was the place to hook up with a wagon train. He’d been told the town was full of them, and even though the place was bound to be working alive with grifters and snake oil salesman and gouging storekeepers, by all accounts it was the place to kit out for the Oregon Trail.

That was his road, for the rest of the year.

He took another pull at the soda bottle. He’d heard the Oregon Trail described as Hell, more or less, but that didn’t faze him. He’d spent the last four years marching in the daytime and sleeping out in the woods at night, in every kind of weather. He’d seen as much Hell as there was to see on earth during the war. Everything else was going to be uphill from there.