Under the Southern Sun

Chapter 1 Sons of the Kentucky
  The late spring sun hung low in the crisp evening air, conspiring to steal a few more drops of sweat from the pair of Kentucky farmers toiling the field. A lean boy of seventeen stood, stretching his aching back he removed his dusty hat and wiped the sweat from his tanned forehead. “Tarry much longer and we’ll be out here for a spell after nightfall Travis,” Angel called sourly from behind him tilling the dark soil. The spring crop wasn’t coming in well and so in late May of 1861 Travis Alexander Barrett had been hired by the Franklin family on twenty cents a day to help toil the fields and hurriedly plant a late spring grain rotation hoping for a little extra yield.
    Travis spat a thick streak of black tobacco and took a deep breath with a last look around the 15 acre farm, its filthy fields nestled in the foothills of the Appalachians, a trade mark of his native Wayne County. The tranquility of the land spoke to him, the way you could listen hard any given day and hear the birds singing, the streams flowing over the rocks, the wind twisting through the trees. It made him think of his families’ old farm just a few miles from where he stood now. The Barrett’s had lived on that land since the 1790’s but bad growing seasons, high taxes and a summer fire had forced the family to move on. Travis’s father William moved his oldest son Justice and young William junior with his wife Frida north to Monticello along Lake Cumberland but Travis had opted to stay in Conception. This was where he was born, the place where his two sisters who had died in infancy were buried, the place he’d learnt how to shoot.
  “It’s gittin’ dark boys,” Angels aging mother Matilda Franklin shouted appearing on the pine deck outside the humble single story wooden farmhouse. “Best call it a day. Travis I’ve got a chicken on if you’d like to stay for dinner.”
  Travis removed his hat and stood up straight, “why thank you misses Franklin I’d be most obliged to take you up on that offer.”
  “Then the matter is at rest,” she smiled, “Marcel you wash up out back and I’ll have it ready when you come in.”
    Angel kicked the dirt in frustration, “Come on momma you know that’s a right womanly name. You know I want to be known to folks by my middle name so you can’t be calling me Marcel.” She chuckled and walked back inside. “dangit all.” He added softly waving for Travis to follow him to the well around back.



  Travis couldn’t count the number of times in his seventeen years on earth that he had taken dinner at the Franklins table. Angels father having passed while heading west to the gold fields of California there was always use for an extra hand and usually a meal as a thankful return.
  “looks mighty fine mam,” Travis said taking a seat at the table.
  “Thank you Travis,” Matilda replied,  her fork shaking in her wrinkled hand. “Have you heard from your folks lately?”
  “Last week past mam, doing real well by the sounds of it. Father and Justice are breeding horses and things of the sort with my uncle. Momma’s just tending the house and looking after Will, he was attending school for a while back but it didn’t take.”
  “Too much time has passed since I’ve seen them all, how old is little William now? Have you thought about moving up with them?” She asked carrying on the conversation as proper manners dictated.
  Travis paused thinking, “He’ll be fourteen in the fall. I was thinking I might head down to Tennessee come fall, try and find a steady piece of work for the winter and make my way back here for planting season, maybe build on the old farm. Put in a garden and some grain.”
  “Nashville?” Angel jumped into the conversation swallowing a mouth full of greasy chicken. “We got kin down there. I could come along for the winter, burden some of the cost.”
  Matilda shook her head admonishing her only child, “now Angel you know I need you around here. This place is conspiring to fall down around me it seems.”
  Moments of tense silence passed before Travis interjected, “Well, I thank you for the meal but I’ll have to take my leave. Want to get back to town before it gets too dark out there.” It was just past nightfall when Travis began the three mile walk back to Conception, four days wages in his hand. He was looking forward to spending the night on his straw stuffed mattress in the room he rented room above H & T Mercantile for a dollar a week. Not that he didn’t appreciate the Franklins allowing him to pass the last few nights on the pine floor of the parlor but he was set to help put up the frame for the new hotel being built in the morning and would appreciate all the rest he could get.



  Conception was a village by definition, its population of just over 100 including the surrounding farms had known each others for generations and a secret was scarcely kept within its population. Neighboring the Tennessee border the town was divided by a well traveled road that led southeast towards Nashville only a few days ride away. For this reason the town saw a number of transients, tramps, northerners, mail cars and wagons pass through and so in the spring of ‘61 a northern Tennessee investor had decided to open a hotel in the small town.
  Two days having since returned Travis was straddling a wood beam of the hotels would-be roof in the afternoon sun, a slight breeze whisking his short brown hair. He raised the hammer in his hand and bit down on the nail between his teeth as he prepared to drive another home when a gunshot sounded across Main Street. Startled, Travis shifted awkwardly driving the hammer into his right hand and off balance and nearly fell to the floor. “Son of a bitch,” he murmered rubbing the swell. He turned his head to the sound, a crowd was gathered near the door of the Mercantile where he lived and the young men were cheering. A half dozen shots followed the first into the sky. A man ran from the commotion towards the confused building crew with a smile on his face, losing his hat in the street he continued excitedly before skidding to a stop at the base of the frame. Travis recognized him as Calvin Dawes, a well known young man two years Travis’s senior who worked apprenticing the blacksmith.
  “What’s the commotion about?” one of the workers called as Dawes approached.
  “War!” he cried out excitedly, slowing now as he reached the base of the structure. “A few days passed the governor declared our neutrality! Word just arrived with the mail. We got our war now boys.” He cheered loudly
  “Dawes you peckerwood,” one of the workers said, “That don’t mean we’re going to war, it means we ain’t siding with nobody at all.” Travis looked on to the horizon blankly, his mind running wild with thoughts about the news. The Barrett family had harbored a southern point of view for as long as Travis could recall. Infact to most of Wayne County the northern people and their practices represented a radical change and an end to their simple way of life.
  “Oh we’re going to war sure as heaven, North Carolina has succeeded. That’s the tenth state. We’re smack dab in the middle of two countries having a spat now we’ll have to pick our sides.” Dawes finished as he turned, sprinting down to the next building to spread the news.
  The men took break immediately, Travis ascended the wooden skeleton of the building and headed across the street to the Mercantile and post to return to his room and write a letter to his family. Travis thought more on the news, never thinking the war would reach home. He recalled April when the governor had refused a request from the president, Kentucky’s own Abraham Lincoln to send troops to suppress the growing rebellion, it seemed that shots of anger were sure to come but things had eased as of late. Travis felt no need to go to war to fight for South Carolina or Alabama but now Kentucky was sure to be caught in the crossfire. When he opened the door he found a dirty envelope that had been slid under the door, his name scratched on the front. He cut it open and read eagerly, as fast as his limited education allowed.

Brother,
It seems as if all the talk of years past has gone and the time for action on our words is upon us as free men of the State. A northern aggressor threatens our border and on our knees we cannot live free men. I joined the militia on the 29th of this month of May and upon learning of my actions father followed. We call ourselves the Wayne County Lincoln Killers and anxiously await joining the provisional armies of the South. We are set to march to Tennessee in the days following seeking glory and independence in the name of Kentucky. I will write as frequently as time allows. It is mother’s strongest desire that you do not find yourself under arms as she believes you too young. I fully expect the adventure to be over with the fall and will bring you a fallen enemy banner from the field of battle.
Can you believe it Travis!
Your brother,
Justice T. Barrett



  Spring passed into summer with thousands of Kentucky men choosing their sides and marching off to fight. Travis Barrett picked the plow rather than the rifle and toiled July working the fields for shrinking wages. A number of Conceptions young men had joined the Confederate army in Nashville leaving much work to be done back home. A now dangerous predicament as reports filled the town of bands of pro-Union Kentucky men raiding the families of southern soldiers all accross the State and as far south as Russell Springs, a mere fifty miles from where Travis’s mother and youngest brother William junior now lived. It had been a far off thought to the citizens of Conception, a place where things were beautiful and good. But as the days got long and news of the fighting in Virginia and Missouri reached the town it seemed the clouds of war were fixing to cause rain over the whole nation. 
  The shell of a hotel being built along Main Street had been abandoned. The Tennessee investor now turning his finances to war and as rumor had it buying himself a commission in the army. The road leading south hadn’t seen much use in the past months as Kentucky waited for either side to violate its neutrality. With the absence of so many of the towns working age males Angel and Travis had established themselves as busy labourers, working on dozens of farms around the lower end of the county.
  The middle of August found the pair plucking corn, blackened by the sun on the Thorsby farm, owned by an aging couple who’s two sons had gone off to fight in the middle of the harvest. Unable to keep up with the workload the Thorsby’s had let much of the crop go to waste. As the childhood best friends filled the rough canvas sacks with corn Travis thought of his family. He hadn’t heard from them in weeks but couldn’t afford a trip up to Monticello. Now people were saying the war would stretch on past the summer and Travis couldn’t imagine himself heading down south to work for the winter anymore. He’d have to scrape together all he could just to make it through to spring.
  “Hey Travis,” Angel interrupted his thoughts pausing from the work with a hard bite into a cob of raw corn. “you hear about what happened over in Burnside?”
  Travis sat down slowly and rolled up the red plaid sleeves of his filthy shirt grabbing a stalk of corn for himself. He looked up at his short blonde haired friend, one of the few times he could ever remember having to look up at his friend, and squinted past the sun. “Burnside the town or is that the name of some place a thousand miles away where another few hundred poor fellas got themselves killed warring?”
  “bita’ both I’m afraid.” Franklin replied spitting bits of corn from his mouth.
  A confused second passed and Travis shook his head. “Well go on and tell me, I ain’t no gypsy can read your mind.”
  Angel stopped eating and threw the corn to the ground, suddenly looking seriously into his friends eyes. “Some unionists – rode through Burnside two days ago. Man rode to the farm to warn us about it. Man from up in Richmond I believe, him and his gang strung up a family who’s boys gone off to fight for the cause. Burnt out another one or two properties.”
  The sound of his friend’s voice scared Travis. In his life he’d never once heard his friend speak so honestly with such terror in his voice. The war was indeed coming home. Preplexed by the news he sat with his mouth open unable to find a proper reply.
  “Well anyway dingus,” Angel said, his voice carefree now and almost teasing, “still a ways off. I wouldn't take too much stock in it,” he picked up his bag and went back to work casually.



  That evening Travis sat in the busy tavern outside of town, a dollar poorer for his want of cold ale. He sat quietly at his table estranged from the conversations around him as if the world was now invisible. The Unionist raiders were getting closer and he worried for his mother. He’d have to move up to Monticello to be with them he thought. This wasn’t bloody Kansas. These sorts of things shouldn’t happen here. Not at home.
    A hand befell his shoulder snapping his mind back to reality. He looked up to see Calvin Dawes standing beside him and taking a seat a drink in his hand. “Hello there Trav,” He greeted.
  “Dawes, I haven’t seen you in a while. Blacksmith keeping you busy?” Travis said warmly sitting up in his chair.
  “I’m afraid not,” Calvin answered waving to a man across the bar. “Most of the boys shoed up afore they left to fight and we haven’t seen much work since. Save the occasional plow horse throwing a shoe and what not.” He took a hard swig and cringed at the taste, “How have you been getting along? Shame that hotel didn’t finish going up, but you’re missing that pay. No offense of course.”
  “I certainly could of used it Calvin,” Travis answered honestly. “Think I might have to take a journey up to Monticello to help ma.”
  “Well you’re common looks betray your honest heart,” joked Calvin. “Kentucky is lost on the Unionist bastards. Farm burnt ways north of town today I hear.”
  “The raiders?” Travis asked with interest.
  “Word around says it’s a man named George Tyler out of Richmond leading the bastards.” Calvin smiled slightly, “of course whenever a man traveling the road passes through the shop I’m privy to all sorts of news.”
  A dark feeling crept over Travis and his mouth opened slightly. “Who’s property?” Angel now asked detached from his previous conversation of the fighting in Virginia.
  “Don’t rightly know,” Calvin said taking another drink. “Clemens told me about it today when he come back into town. Saw the smoke and what not but didn’t investigate out of fear of losing his life.” He paused having noticeably startled the two young men. “I wouldn’t think too much on it. Clemens and a few others already rode back out to put out the fire a few hours ago. Them Unionists wouldn't dare trek through town but I wont let it go as no secret that I’m sleeping with my daddies six gun under my pillow.”
  Travis turned to Angel, “Well Clemens and whoever he managed to round up wont be chasing off a band of raiders. Not in the black of night neither. I figure we best stay at your place tonight Angel, until the world calms down a little.”
  Angel took a hard swallow and finished his drink. “We best git going then, going to be hard enough to keep my footing in the dark as it is," he joked trying to hide how worried he was about the northern horsemen.
  The pair rushed to the Mercantile and ascended the wooden stairs to Travis’s rented room. Grabbing a fresh plug of tobacco, his father’s old hunting rifle and a blanket his mother had sewn for him years before they headed west out of town down the mucky back road that led to the Franklin farm leaving the oil lamps of town fading in their dust.
  The duo walked without speaking, their minds concerned with the location of the raiders. By the time they had ambled the first two miles towards the farm a hint of the sun was dancing on the western horizon to their front. They climbed the slight slope of a wooded ridge the crest of which fell into a valley and a final stretch before the farm.
  They stopped to rest at the top of the ridge, Angel leaned against a bare tree trunk, his mouth opening, panting for a want of water. Travis looked on down below. “Sure is a thick fog hanging in the valley.”
  Exhausted Angel walked forward to look. And stopped his stomach in his throat. “That ain’t no fog. That’s smoke.” He said quietly in shock. Throwing down his heavy pack and running down the slope.
  Travis took off running after Angel who had already disappearing into the smoke across the valley. Travis could see horse tracks now, thick ones perhaps twenty animals. He cocked his rifle. When he made it through the wood into the clearing at the bottom he could see the fire. Its slick flames cracking in the pre-dawn gray. Angel was coming around the far side of the building screaming for his mother, his face already black with smoke. Travis slung his rifle and ran for the well, frantically lowering and raising the small bucket. It would take one hundred such buckets to calm the blaze.
  He dropped the bucket back into the well and ran to his friend who stood watching, a striking fear in his blue eyes. “She’s in there Travis, I need to get her.”
  Travis grabbed his friends arm, “don’t go doing-” He was cut off and sent stumbling as Angel pushed him backwards and off of him as he bolted forward. “Angel!” he screamed as he reached the front door and opened it, a cloud of smoke and a flash of fire shooting out and singing his blonde hair. Travis blinked hard and his friend was gone, into the blur of the entrance. Travis took a deep breath and that half second was all he needed, he burst up the stairs and into the house, leaping the flames collecting at the entrance. He spotted Angel trying to move a fallen piece of burning timber, a large beam from the roof covering the door to his mother’s room.
  He struggled to see in the smoke but fought forward towards Angel and pulled his friend back. A loud crack shot to their right as another beam fell dropping most of the roof on the side of the house. A small piece of wood fell striking Travis in the back, the burning pain disorienting him he shrugged and brushed his neck. Another crack sounded and Travis heard a thud but he didn’t see what had fallen. His hands burned and he opened his eyes, without realizing it he was helping Angel attempt to dislodge the beam. Another crack now and embers began to shower Travis’s back. He looked up and grabbing Angel’s collar fell backwards with him. He turned and hauled his friend out the door as the roof collapsed in swallowing the house.
  Travis lay on his back in the cool grass rubbing his eyes frantically, momentarily unable to see. He sat up and saw Angel grab his rifle off of the ground and fired the single shot blindly into the hills. “You want a fight you Unionist bastards you come to me. Marcel Angel Franklin! This house didn’t have quarrel with no one! No one.” He cried out loudly, tears rolling from his puffy smoke strained eyes. He threw down the gun and walked to the well weeping.
  Travis stood and grabbed the rifle and reloaded quickly incase any men lingered in the hills. While the Franklins were southern sympathetic they had sent no men to war, they had given nothing to either side. It upset Travis how this had been allowed to happen, over the land, teers filled his own eyes. He looked down at the rifle; Angel’s burnt flesh had cooked his finger prints onto the barrel. The sun was up now and the birds were singing. The war had come home.




Chapter 2 The Land Bleeds
  Three days of tracking led Barrett and Franklin north west towards the Cumberland River. The trail was thin and shallow, they suspected to meet at least twenty men when they caught up with the band of Unionists who had burnt the Franklin farm along with a dozen others as they rode through southern Kentucky. By all indications their raid was over, the trail looked as if the men were escaping back north, they would have to be caught soon if they were to be brought to justice in the sympathetic southern counties.
  The day after the fire Angel swept the farm back and forth searching for his mother. He imagined her wounded crawling through the fields, bound to a tree, a body in a ravine. Anything. Travis had freed the animals from the smoky barn which had quickly burnt itself out in the morning and shoveled dirt on the few cooking embers of the incinerated house. A horrible smell confirmed he and Angels worst fear. They dug a small trench in the hard soil beside the aged grave of Angels father and carried out the shrunken, charred body of Matilda Franklin from the remains of the house. After a moment of silence from the teary friends she was buried without further ceremony. Retrieving tack and a single shotgun from the barn they loaded the horses and hit the trail immediately seeking revenge.
  Experienced horsemen and trackers the young men quickly caught scent of the raiders and were quickly gaining ground on the larger column. Days later they rode through a thick wood in silence, noise traveled in the country and they didn’t want to tip off the northerners of their intentions. A branch cracked on their left and another farther up. “Woah” Travis whispered to his horse pulling back on the reins and putting up his right hand signaling for Angel to stop. He slowly unslung his rifle and scanned the trees. A blur moved to the left, rustling through the timber. Travis and Angel both turned to meet the threat and before Travis’s thumb reached the hammer the unistakable cock of a rifle to his rear froze him dead.
  “If you favor keeping your head on your shoulders you’ll both throw down those weapons and dismount real slow.” A hard crackly voice sounded behind them. Travis looked at Angel and nodded, dropping his rifle and dismounting they turned to face a man in his 30’s with a scraggly beard and filthy straw hat. His grinning teeth stained yellow by tobacco and his skin tanned by the sun. The stranger whistled and six other men slowly emerged from the trees their weapons leveled at the two friends. Travis opened his mouth to speak but a blow to the head sent him to the dirt. He turned and saw Angel lying beside him unconscious, everything faded to black.



  Travis awoke with a throbbing headache, his hands bound behind him. He scanned his surroundings. Angel was beside him, awake but barely. The clearing was littered with equipment, a small band of men lounged around a nearby fire, a picket line ran between two trees full of horses, the fire sent smoke up through the trees and the rich smell of stew boiling filled Travis's nose. “They come too, Hurt.” A voice called out.
  One of the men near the fire stood and turned, a short man dressed in an expensive black suit. His trimmed beard betrayed a hint of grey and Travis figured him to be older, perhaps his 40’s. Close now he stopped in front of Travis and knelt down slowly. “You Union boys try to get the jump on us eh? Well we got you and you're far from home now ain't ya?" the man asked in an angry voice.
  “We’re.” Travis struggled, spitting into the dirt. “We ain’t,” he fought with the words. The pain in his head almost crippling.
  “Speak up boy.” The man said impatiently, growing angrier.
  “We’re not northern men.” Travis spat out. “We come up here following the trail, looking for the men who burnt." The man raised his fist and cracked it into Travis's nose. His vision blurred and he passed into darkness once again.



  When he awoke he saw Angel sitting across the small fire from him sipping at a cup of chow. He moved to rub his head and found his hands to be freed from the rope bonds of earlier. Confused he sat up and found the older man from earlier standing above him.
  “Sorry about the confusion lad.” He said his now voice softer. “Your friend here explained your situation and I do appologize. I’m captain Edward Hurt. These five boys and I rode out of Burnside five days ago, tracking some men who strung up a family outside of town. Tried to tar and feather me on a count of me publishing a pro-rights newspaper but me and my family slipped out without being caught.” He paused to light a pipe and took a long drag. “Unionists are camped a ways up ahead. Figure they will ford the Cumberland come nightfall. Counted nineteen of them in total, thought you boys might have been a rear guard. I’ll tell you we could sure use a few extra rifles out there tonight.”
  “Don’t take this as no offense but I don’t fix on volunteering for no army, captain. I’m out here to defend my, our home.” Travis replied sternly, coming to his feet infront of the older man.
  “We ain’t no regular army outfit friend,” a young man Travis’s age sitting to his left replied, a cigar hanging from his lip. “Just men fighting for home, just like you.”
  The captain cleared his throat, “its exactly as Thomas said. We’ve taken no oath or obligation. We’re just looking to make even what happened. Your pal, Angel was it? Has already said he’ll come with us and I doubt you’re going to let him fight alone.”
  Thomas extended a cup of stew to Travis which he accepted eagerly. “Well I don’t seem to have much of a say in the matter then,” he said angrily.
  Captain hurt extended his filthy hand, “welcome to the Burnside Irregulars.”
  As the sun faded the captain gathered the men, the number now sitting at seven. Untrained in killing anything but wild mountain game and as poorly armed as could be their eagerness and fierce desire for revenge drove them. Hurt outlined the nights attack on a simple diagram scratched into the dirt, the raiders were encamped in a clearing along the south bank of the river at a scarcely known ford. As the Unionists prepared to break camp the captain and five of the men would fire off a volley of rifle fire from the tree line and then charge into the encampment driving the northerners towards the river where two men would be waiting among the brush on the bank to deliver fire straight into the faces of the Unionists.
  The two along the bank would have to sneak to their positions and if anything went wrong would be stranded without thier horses. The captain selected Thomas Taylor, a cousin of the family who had been hung and the young man who had welcomed Travis to the band with his cup of stew along with the older man who had stopped Travis and Angel along the trail earlier for this job. “If any of you should fall tonight remember you perished as men who would not stand by as other men were wronged by cowards,” the captain said concluding. “Now let’s go teach George Tyler’s band of cowards a lesson!”
The men responded with a loud cheer and dispersed to load their horses and ready their weapons for the raid.



  At 10 o’clock Angel and Travis sat atop their mounts, their weapons across their laps looking through the trees into the light of the clearing where a cluster of fires marked the Union camp along the river. A few of the illuminated men were readying their horses to cross, others boiled last cups of coffee over their fires.
  “Hard to believe they are down there just waiting for us.” Travis said breaking the nervous silence.
  Angel did not respond but continued to look onto the camp. “Travis, if a bullet should find me tonight I want to be laid beside my mother. You understand?”
  Travis shut his eyes hard and exhaled loudly. “Don’t go talking like that. I don’t know much on the subject but I figure that’s bad luck. They won’t know what’s going on when we hit them, it'll be over quick and we’ll be headed home by morning.” Travis tried to lighten the mood.
  Angel reached into his russet saddle bag and removed a small flask. “I was saving his for when we came upon the bastards.” He raised it slightly, “here’s to home mister Barrett.” He took a hard swig and spat passing the flask to Travis.
  “Home Marcel.” Travis raised the flask and drank.
  The captain reigned up beside them, “you boys ready?”
  “Nervous as hell. But ready.” Angel said quietly. Travis nodded.
  “You’ll do fine,” the captain replied. “Make yourselves ready now! and remember your loved ones.” He pulled his gloved hand to the right and moved his horse into the darkness. All was quiet now, Travis cocked his weapon and brought it to his shoulder, the crickets were singing. He thought of his father and brother, wondering where they were at this second. “Ready.” The captain whispered from the right, barely audible. “Fire!” he then screamed emptying a round toward the light of the camp.
  Six shots sounded raggedly and the men now screaming surged forward from the trees. Everything moved so fast Travis was in shock. He tasted powder in his mouth and realized he was reloading his rifle as he rode without even thinking. The enemy ahead were shouting but he couldn’t hear their words, the thunder of hooves and scattered shots nearly drown out his own thoughts. He was nearing the light of their fires now, ten yards maybe.
  A muzzle flash exploded just ahead of him and its light showed Angel emptying his shotgun into the face of a man who was hurriedly loading a rifle. He kicked his horse hard, more shooting now they were fighting back. He cocked his rifle and tried to place a percussion cap on the nipple, it fell from his shaking hands to the ground and he swore reaching for another. He was in the camp now and skidded his horse to a stop. He put the rifle to his shoulder but it was difficult to see in the moonless night. A shadow moved ahead of him he aimed for the silhouette and pulled the trigger, the flash of powder from the muzzle illuminated the night and Travis saw the mans shoulder explode in a mess of bone and blood. He screamed in pain and fell to the ground clutching the wound.
  Angel screaming like a madman rode ahead now, leaping from his horse a knife in hand he landed on another man and drew the knife up and down repeatedly. The confusion lifted and Travis began to grasp what was going on, he himself as screaming, he began to reload again. The Unionists were scattering, many of their horses had been driven off and those who had mounted now rode to the river frantically hoping in desperation to cross to safety. A dismounted man stopped just in front of Travis he shouldered his rifle and fired. The bullet whizzed past Travis’s head, the powder burning his face. Reloaded Travis shot the man down and looked ahead where more gunfire now sounded.
  Thomas and the older man up ahead on the banks and revealed themselves and now poured a murderous fire into the escaping enemy. Travis rode ahead to the bank, the fire was dieing, captain Hurt and another man holding a torch sat atop their horses, the captain was watching two men try and swim to safety being carried away by the current smiling. The shooting stopped completely. It was time to regroup.



  The count was twelve enemy killed. One of the Burnside men had been killed in the charge and the older man at the river bank and been shot through the chest and wasn’t expected to see the sun rise. Thomas Taylor’s ribs had been grazed by a bullet but had stopped bleeding. Six Union men had escaped and another lay by the ashes of the fire, his arm dangling from his torso; he had been crippled by a shoulder wound and was barely conscious. The man was George Tyler, the man from Richmond Kentucky who had organized and led the band of raiders, planning to ride south threatening the people to remain loyal to the union with the torches flame and rifles bullet. Travis had shot him and was congratulated by the men. He stood atop him with Angel and the captain watching him slowly bleed to death in the dark, shock had set in and he mumbled incoherently. Travis felt strangely proud of what he had done; he sat by the fire and heated his knife in the embers. He pressed the hot blade twice into his forearm creating two tallies for his two kills. He wanted to keep track, he wanted others to know what he had done and he never wanted to forget.
  In the morning light the band split up, there was still law in Kentucky and once this act of war and murder was discovered the law was going to come down on the southern men. Travis and Angel had talked through the night and decided to ride through the back country to Monticello and stay with Travis’s mother and youngest brother at uncle Eli Barrett’s horse farm for the rest of summer until things calmed down. They bid farewell to Edward Hurt, Thomas Taylor and their followers and brandishing an arsenal of revolvers and ammunition taken from the fallen Unionists rode east into the woods towards Monticello and safety.



  When the two exhausted riders arrived at Eli Barrett’s Monticello property Travis’s mother Frida paused from sweeping the filthy porch of the large white washed house to examine the filthy pair coming up the path. “Travis!” she called excitedly recognizing her son as he removed his tattered hat. “Thank the lord, I was hoping I’d see you son. What a beautiful surprise. And who is that with you?”
  “Marcel Franklin mam,” Angel said politely removing his own hat.
  They were ushered into the house where dinner was cooking and immediately sent upstairs to bathe and change their clothes. Wearing a fine pair of Eli’s clean suits the two found both William junior and uncle Eli home from the fields when they returned downstairs. They sat down to dinner and sadly explained the fire and death of Angels mother but lied about its aftermath, claiming with no home in Conception they had decided to come north to work the horse farm in the absence of William Barrett senior and twenty year old Justice. Frida explained that William and Justice were now in Nashville with Albert Sidney Johnson’s gathering army and were doing well but hadn’t heard much else from them. They discussed Kentucky’s neutrality, a proclamation had been issued by the government asking both sides to stay off Kentucky soil but already the Union army moved south into northern Kentucky from Ohio and Confederate engineers were constructing forts in the west south of Paducah.
  The two worked through July and the beginning of August on the farm quietly, word of the battle along the banks of the Cumberland reached the town. All across the south the men were seen as hero’s for attacking the butchers who burnt houses and killed families. In the north and the state capital of Frankfort the men were called murderers and a call for justice and revenge sounded. This action and many more skirmishes like it through Kentucky only added to the tensions. The militia split into two factions; the pro Confederate Kentucky State Guard and the Union Kentucky Home Guard.
  Midway through the month the friends were in Eli’s east barn preparing the feed for the foals when a column of blue clad men appeared down the road, riding towards the farm. Travis propped his pitchfork against the wall and walked towards the barn door while Angel nervously continued to work. Alertly realizing their intent Travis ran to the house where his uncle was waiting beneath the shade of a tree. Travis warned his uncle of the approach of the soldiers and his uncle laughed at his worryisome nephew. The Home Guard had arranged to purchase re-mounts and Eli had been expecting them all morning, as they drew near Eli shooed his nephew away to fetch some water for the horsemen.
  Travis returned with two buckets of water and examined the men as they crowded around to fill their canteens. The men said hello and tipped their caps politely allowing Travis to relax, confirming that they hadn’t come looking for Angel and himself.
  “Thank you kindly for the water.” One of the soldiers said thankfully approaching Travis, “This July heat is taking a toll.”
  “Glad to help friend,” Travis said awkwardly, eyeing the militiaman. “What brings you fellas down from Frankfort? There ain’t no warring. Yet.”
  “Well we need to keep folks from starting warring. Armed presence keep folks from making their own law.”
  “I suppose so.” Travis said flatly.
  “You hear they caught a few of them boys involved in the Cumberland River fight from a spell back?” The Guardsman said casually.
  Travis’s heart skipped. “Really? Any particulars?” he asked trying not to sound overly interested.
  “I hear one of them got to talking,” the soldier sipped from his canteen, “now they are tracking down the rest. Probably going to give them the California collar. String them up.”
  “I best get back to work.” Travis said worriedly. “You take care,” he stammered beginning to walk away. Suddenly a strange warmth overcame him, he remembered the rush he felt after killing the northern raiders. He looked at the two scarring tallies on his arm. “Actually partner, what’s your name? I’d like to say I know one of you American hero’s.”
  The man, scarcely older than Travis smiled humbly, “Of course,” he extended his hand, “Lysander Powell. Whats your name friend?”
  “Travis Patrick.” Travis lied, looking deeply into the mans eyes he took his hand and shook. “You take care now mister Powell.”
  In the coming days news of the capture of two of the Cumberland River bandits reached town and made the front page of the paper. If what Powell had said was true and one of the prisoners had talked it was likely the names Barrett and Franklin had reached the hungry ears of the authority, luckily the newspaper stories betrayed no names. Travis and Angel discussed the situation, if men came to capture them it could mean harm to Eli, Frida and William. William senior and Justice being south in uniform only worsened the situation. The pair decided to head south through Conception and down to Nashville to spend the winter with Angel’s cousins in friendlier country where they would be strangers. They told Eli and Frida that they intended to return home and begin to rebuild Angel’s farm, hoping to get the frame built before the ground froze. The next morning the two left at first light and began the long days ride home.
  They arrived to Conception the talk of the town. State lawmen had been through town inquiring about the two but the loyal townsfolk hadn’t betrayed any information about the pair who were looked at locally as hero’s. Infact until the sheriff’s had come to town the townspeople knew nothing of where the boys had gone or what they had done since leaving in spring. No one spoke publicly to the pair about what had happened or asked questions but the facts were the fuel of dinner table gossip and barroom whispers. Meals were free, provisions were left inside Travis’s rented room and thankful tips of the hat followed them around town. For anonymities sake the two slept on the floor of Calvin Dawes house, hoping to keep a low profile while they rested before continuing south. Two days after arriving they began to pack hoping to leave the following morning, unexpectedly Dawes returned home, his face white with fear. He told them to grab their guns and follow him to his shop.
  When they arrived a familiar face greeted them, Thomas Taylor stood his arms folded across his chest smiling. He greeted the pair and grimaced slightly as he shook their hands, his wound from that night along the river not quite healed. “Had to do a little persuading,” he said tapping a finger to the butt of one of the two revolvers holstered on his hip, “but I managed to track ya’ll down. Just a misunderstanding blacksmith,” he said looking at Dawes, “hope there’s no hard feelings, I just needed to put the scare in ya'.” Frightened Calvin shook his head quickly. “Bastards killed Hurt." Taylor continued, "Hung him from the roof of his shop back in Burnisde ‘cos they didn’t want to wait to build gallows. Strung him up right infront of everyone.”
  “The poor captain, he was just acting on a wrong done to him.” Angel said looking down to the floor in sadness.
  “Ah, the hell with him anyway,” Taylor tittered, “he wasn’t no captain anyway, made that all up, just a small town paperman with some guns and balls. Anyhow, I took to the hills right away, stayed with some friendly folk for a bit but had to leave before the law caught my scent. Figured I’d round you two up and we’ll head out west towards Oak Grove, fella by the name of Bart Richardson is organizing a partisan band and is looking for men like us.”
  “Well that’s an enterprising thought, men like us,” Travis said, “but we were planning on heading to Tennessee to stay with Angel’s cousins.”
  “And leave Kentucky to those people?” Thomas asked angrily. “Be lucky if they don’t press you into Confederate service down there. I won’t try and sway you on it if your minds firm on going south but the way I see it none of us got a home now and there’s still Yankees that need killing. And to be honest I’d like the company.”
  Travis shook his head and swore as he began walking out into the street. “Angel don’t forget your fiddle. I’ll be wanting some music on the trail.”


-just a first draft, a lot more to come...