A Southern Moon Rising
By Melanie D. Calvert 

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author and/or the publisher. This is the work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art © Copyright 2005, by Melanie D. Calvert

© Copyright 2007 Melanie D. Calvert

CHAPTER 1

Sergeant Edmond D. Anderson, called Ed by his friends, had never been as frightened in his short twenty-two years of life. He was rushing toward the Confederate lines and bullets were flying around like angry bees. Anderson was a big man, a little over six feet and weighed just over two hundred pounds. He wore his brown hair long, but his beard was always neatly trimmed. His eyes were brown and as keen as an eagle's.

"Forward men! Damn all of you, I said forward!" Screamed a young captain running near Ed, a second later his head exploded in a gory mist of blood and brains. The sword held high in his right hand fell to the ground, but landed without notice, as the battlefield turned into a pure living hell. The noise of the battle, which had been loud before, now grew so thunderous thoughts became difficult.

Men screamed in pain and surprise as mini-balls or shrapnel from cannon balls exploding over-head struck them, their white cotton balls raining injury and death. He saw a man beside him grasp his face with his hands, a large piece of shrapnel protruding, and then fall to the ground thrashing wildly. Men were falling all around as the fierceness of the battle grew to the point he thought he might lose his mind.

Suddenly, the firing ceased, as if turned off by the wave of God's almighty hand, and the field of death grew unnaturally still, as if out of respect for the dead and dying. The silence only lasted a few seconds, when it was interrupted by a thousand loud Rebel yells. From the trees, men dressed in gray or butternut uniforms burst forth, the sun reflecting from the long bayonets on their rifles. Gun shots were heard and once again agonized screams of the injured filled the morning air.

Unexpectedly knocked back hard by the impact of a bullet striking him, Ed was surprised to find himself looking at the green grasses in front of his eyes. Strange, but dew is still on the grass, even with a battle going on. He attempted to stand, only to discover his body wouldn't obey his mind. If this is death, it ain't so bad, he thought a second before he entered the black world of unconsciousness.

 

Ed's head hurt, it throbbed unmercifully and even though his eyes were closed he knew he had survived, because a dead man would feel no pain. Cautiously he opened his left eye and looked around. Near him and scattered for yards were wounded soldiers. Most wore Union blue like him, but a few gray and chestnut uniforms were seen, as if to balance out the colors. His head ached, his vision was blurred and he had a hard time keeping his thoughts organized.

Touching his head, he felt the thick outline of a cotton bandage and knew he'd been struck in the head. Must have just grazed my noggin or I'd be dead. Opening his right eye, he took the whole scene in. The wounded were still there, only now he discovered the scent of wounds and death. It had the foul odor of human waste, which made him feel uneasy and nauseated.

"I see you survived. Not many survive a head wound." An unknown voice said from behind him.

Turning his head, he saw a rail thin tall corporal with red hair and glasses smiling at him. Giving a slight moan, Ed replied, "Yep, lucky as hell, I guess."

The corporal moved to his side, kneeled and said, "My name is Abraham, just like the Presidents, only most folks call me Too-Tall. Nope, your survival was not luck. It was the hand of God, like so many other things that happen in this war. Don't ya see?"

"Well, then I'll have to thank him when I see him."

"Do not joke of something like this, for God is listening."

Growing irritated by the thin Bible-thumper lecturing him, Ed replied heatedly, "Ain't you got someplace to go or something to do?"

"I do the work of the Lord and while I have other duties here on earth, they are small compared to God's work."

"Look, Abraham, go bother someone else. I got a headache and don't feel up to talking right now," Ed replied, head thumping remorselessly.

Standing, the tall man replied, "I shall return and perhaps we can pray together."

Laying back on his blanket, Ed replied, "That might be nice," but thought, just leave my butt alone, I hurt and don't need this right now.

When the man left Ed went back to sleep, awakening only much later in the day, as bright red, yellow and orange filled the western sky. Next to him, a middle-aged man who'd been sleeping earlier in the day, gave him a weak smile and asked, "Where are ya hit, 'sides yer head?"

"That's it, only my head."

"If it ain't serious they'll make ya work some, ya know? Haul water, chop wood, or some other such nonsense."

"I figured as much. Work hurts no man and maybe it'll keep me from being bored," Ed said, as he thought, great, that's all I need.

Giving the man a closer look, Ed saw he was of average size and build, but his eyes were weak. He squinted as if he'd once worn glasses but lost them in the battle. He wore his black hair long, though it was streaked with white, and his beard was of the same color. What made him different from other men near was the fact his blanket was flat below both knees. Giving the man a shy grin, he said, "Where were you hit, besides your legs?"

Lowering his brown eyes, the man said flatly, "Just in both legs. I took two mini-balls a week ago and when I come around, well, I was a mite shorter than when I started this war. My name is Moses Wright and I was once a farmer."

Giving a weak grin, Ed replied, "I'm Edmond Anderson, but my friends call me Ed. I'm . . .um . . .sorry about your legs."

Wright gave a mighty laugh and said, "Hell, I'm lucky to be here son. Most of the men in my unit were killed, but I survived. Don't ya see?"

"Which unit were you with?"

"I was on Fredrick Steele's personal staff. I got hit delivering dispatches."
"What will you do now?"

"If I heal, I'll go back home. Me and the misses will sale the farm and with my savings we should do all right. If I die, I won't worry about it. "

"Be hard times, you know."

The man grinned and said as he smoothed out the blanket where his legs should have been, "I've never known anything but hard times, so it'll be nothing new to me." He paused for a second as if in deep thought and then continued, "What's your unit?"

"The 2nd Iowa Cavalry, under Ben Grierson, but we were not mounted the day I was hit. Seems our scouts caught some Rebels sneaking up on our bivouac and Grierson decided to catch 'em unaware."

Wright didn't speak for a few minutes, but finally he said, "Most of your unit was wiped out, or so I heard. Now, rumor's fly so don't believe a damned thing 'til you get out of here and can really find out."

Ed closed his eyes and wondered if all of his friends were now dead or maimed. There was little he could do about it, but in war men grow close. Often they are closer than lovers, each knowing more about each other than a man and wife could ever know. Moss and Jeff, I hope you both yet live.

The night passed quickly and the next morning dawn brought a serious threat of rain from the west. Dark black clouds gathered as if preparing for an assault and near noon the rain started. Flagging down Too-Tall, Ed asked, "Do you have any shelter for the wounded?"

Too-Tall laughed, pulled his dirty cap off, scratched his head, and then said, "Nope, not a blame thing. If we did, why would you be out in the open like this to start with?"

"Well, I ain't going to sit here and have my ass washed away by a damned rainstorm. I'm leaving and reporting back to my unit."

Wright grinned and said, "Take care and watch your ass in the future or you might wake up one day shorter than you were the day before!"

"I will and you get rid of that farm and move to town like you plan to do."

"I plan to do so."

Turning to Too-Tall, he said, "Let the doctor know I went back to my unit."

The thin man shrugged his shoulders, gave a crooked grin, and then said, "Do as you wish, it don't bother me none. But, if I was you, I'd watch your language. God hears all."

At first, he was tempted to say something, but he didn't. He liked Too-Tall, but disliked his continuous reference to God. Oh, God's in my life, but I can carry on a conversation without bringing up his name every two minutes, he thought as he picked up his blanket, turned and walked toward the last known position of his outfit. He never saw Too-Tall and Moses Wright waving goodbye to him.

 

Rain was falling very hard as he neared the 2nd Iowa Calvary and he shivered despite his attempts not to do so. Mud was starting to stick to his boots and it made walking much slower. As he neared the last known bivouac of his unit, lightning flashed brightly overhead and thunder gave sharp cracks that filled the morning air. I feel like a drowning dog, he thought as he caught movement out of his right eye.

"Halt! Advance and be recognized!" A clear military order was heard from beside the road.

Ed thought he recognized the deep bass voice, "That you, Skeeter?"

"Ed! We'd heard you was killed the other day."

Ed laughed and replied, "Well, as you can see, I wasn't. Took a grazing across my head, but I'll live." He liked the short fat man.

Lowering his ready rifle, Skeeter said sadly, "We lost a lot of men the other day Ed. Many more than we could afford to lose and we didn't gain an inch."

"We wasn't attacking, we was defending our camp is all. How many men did we lose, or do you know?"

"Ain't sure, because a few still stumble in like you every now and again. I'd say a good fourth of the men are dead or injured."

"Damn! That many? How are old Moss and Jeff?"

Skeeter walked to his friend's side and said, "Moss made it, but Jeff was killed. I saw his body with my own eyes and trust me no one could survive the injuries he had. He took a ball in the head and four or five in the chest."

Ed felt his chest tighten, he'd grown up with Jeff and they'd joined the army together, hoping to get in on the action before it all ended and that was two long years ago. How can I ever face his pa and ma?

Clearing his throat, he said, "I am sorry Jeff died. He was a good man and my friend, but people die in war Skeeter."

Skeeter, a short fat man with bad teeth, was known as a clown, except this day he didn't feel funny. He lowered his baldhead and slowly said, "I've noticed. I just hope some of us survive this war."

"You'd better get back to your post before Captain Slaughter catches you talking instead of guarding," Ed said, as he placed his right hand on his friends shoulder.

As Skeeter moved in among the trees for some protection from the rain, Ed walked toward the camp. He knew he had to report to Captain Slaughter or the man would send a letter to his folks saying he'd been killed. I wonder if he' has sent it already? Not likely, because he'll be too busy getting replacements and supplies following a battle like we had. A letter like that would kill ma.

Men waved while a few called out as he walked toward the captain's tent. Nearing, he called out, "Captain Slaughter, are you in your tent, sir?"

"Yes, is that you, Sergeant Anderson? If so, come in out of the rain."

The tent was sparsely furnished, with only a folding bed and portable desk for furniture. Other than that, there was little except uniforms and weapons of war under the canvas shelter. The captain was sitting at his desk, pen in hand, writing. He glanced up when Ed entered and said, "Good to have you back. I surely have the need for a good sergeant. Wilcox was killed the same day you were wounded and Thomas the next day. It's been rough."

Ed gave a sharp salute, which Slaughter waved away, and reported, "Sergeant Anderson reporting for duty sir." They quickly shook hands.

Slaughter met his eyes and replied, "You'll do nothing but light duty with a head wound. Head injuries can be tricky Ed and I've seen men fine one minute and dead as hell the next. You've seen it too, I'd imagine."

"Yes, sir, I've seen it, but I can't sit on my backside while others do my job."

The captain laughed and said, "I can keep you busy, only no riding with the unit or fighting, I draw the line there. I'll tell you what, you can carry dispatches for us and deliver them for the colonel. That will keep you busy and surely not bore you. Except, go easy Ed and watch your injury."

"I can do that for you. I guess it'd keep me busy and I can see where the other units are located."

Slaughter stood, gave Ed a handshake and said, "Now, you go to the supply sergeant and get the gear you need. If he gives you any trouble, tell him I ordered you to be supplied. He's been raising Holy hell the last few days, claiming our supplies are running out."

"Will do sir." Ed replied as he saluted, turned and left the tent. The rain was still falling hard. He saw a bright flash of lightning, followed by a deep rumble of thunder off in the distance.

An hour after leaving the supply sergeant's tent, he was seated on a blanket inside a small pup tent with Moss. While not much room was to be had, at least it was dry and on a night like this, he was pleased to be sheltered.

"Your head still hurt some?" Moss asked.

"Yep, it hurts like hell, only there ain't much I can do about it."

Reaching into his pack, Moss pulled out a quart of whiskey and handed the bottle to him. As Ed took the bottle, he said, "John Barley Corn will fix what hurts you. Go as easy as you can, I've only one more bottle left."

Smiling at the man, he realized what a special friend he had in Moss. The man was big, over six feet tall, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds, and wore glasses. His hair and beard were blond. While he looked mean and tough, Ed knew different. He'd once watched the big man give his last piece of meat to a hungry dog as they made camp someplace up in Tennessee. He took a long guzzle of the strong amber colored drink and then handed the bottle back to Moss.

Giving a puzzled look, the man asked, "That all you need for the pain? Hell, I drink more than that just to wash the dust from my throat."

"Whiskey is evil and has caused many of the problems in the world today."

Moss laughed loudly, slapped Ed on the back and said, "Aye, that it has lad, but only because we allow it to do so. See, spirits are in themselves nothing but drink, but a man who turns to them too often will change. I've seen it with my own eyes in New York City."

Ed remembered his father. Normally a kind and gentle man, after a few drinks he became mean and loud. He knew some men could drink and it had little affect, while others would drink and it changed them for the worst. No, just a little to kill the pain is all I needed. Too much is good for no man.

"You listening to me?" Moss asked as he pulled out his pipe and began to stuff the bowl.

"I heard you. I was just thinking of my pa. Strong drink was no good for him at all."

"It is like that with some men, but not others. That's what I meant about it changing some men."

A matched suddenly flared, lighting the big man's face, as Ed said, "Any word on when we move?"

"Rumor has it in about three days. We ain't going far, Vicksburg is too important to the Union because of it's location on the Mississippi River. If we can take this place we'll cut the Rebs in two and they'll die off sooner or later."

"A lot of good men will die."

Drawing hard on his pipe, Moss replied as smoke filled the tent, "Can't be helped. I hate the killing and dying as much as the next man, only we have to end this war. Way I see it is, if we kill more of them than they do of us they'll quit."

Ed thought for a minute and then said, "No, I see little quit in Johnny Reb. He may be many things, but a quitter he is not. The only way the South will surrender is if they run completely out of guns, men, or supplies. They'll continue to fight until they have nothing left to fight with, it's the kind of people they are."

"They're as stubborn as a damned Missouri mule."

"I wouldn't call it stubborn. I think determined is a better word."

"Call it what you want, but I respect them as fighters. If they had our supplies, God help us!"

Ed laughed and then asked, "You ever had a Southern friend?"

"Once, over summer. This jasper and his pa came to visit us. According to my ma the boy was my cousin, but I'd never seen him before. He claimed he lived in one of them big plantations we been seeing down here, except I have my doubts. His pa was lazy and I don't think he had two dimes in his pocket to rub together.

"Hard to say if it was true or not. Could be he had money and could afford to be lazy."

Taking a draw on his pipe, Moss said, "Maybe and then again maybe not. They was dressed good, but something wasn't right about 'em."

"Didn't they have a Southern drawl?"

"Yep, that they surely had. I think it was the fact they didn't act like the Southerners around here. The boy for sure was not well behaved. His cussed like a sailor and smoked all the time."

"How old was the kid?"

"About my age, so I'd say twelve at the time."

The conversation was interrupted by a loud call, "Order of the guard, post number five! I have movement!"

Scurrying from the tent, Ed and Moss both checked their rifles and hoped the new brass cartridges were sealed well enough to protect them from the rain. Running toward the guard, Ed's vision blurred once more and he almost fell to the mud. As he neared, he noticed most of the men were already there and the captain was giving orders.

Please, Lord, no battles this night! I grow tired and need my rest, he silently prayed as he heard the captain say, "Dumb-ass! Okay, everyone back to your tents. Private Peterson here thought he had movement and he did, it was one of our scouting parties returning."

Ed laughed and gave silent thanks to the Lord.

Seeing the sergeant, Captain Slaughter said, "Sergeant Anderson, I need you to start delivering dispatches at dawn. Do you think you'll be up to the job?"

"I'll be there, sir."

"Good, I'll have the orderly wake you just a little before the sun comes up."

A few minutes later, in his tent, Ed wondered what the future might bring. While not an overly religious man, he prayed he might survive the war to return home. Home wasn't much, not really, but his Susan waited there for him. She'd wanted to get married before he went off to war, but he'd disagreed, stating he might be killed or seriously injured. Finally, after many long and hot arguments, she'd agreed to wait. His last thought, as he drifted off to sleep, was of her long red hair.

"A Southern Moon Rising" has finally been released by Saga Books and can be orderedy by clicking on the buy now button.

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