Book Launch Preview of Blood for Blood at Nashville

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Aug 1, 2018
Location
Nashville, TN

A Preview of Blood for Blood at Nashville​

Blood for Blood at Nashville comes out July 1, 2021. Pre-orders are now available for Kindle and other e-book readers on Amazon. Paperbacks and hardcovers will be available soon. It’s the third and final installment of my 2nd Michigan Cavalry Chronicles. I just added a preview of it to my previous novel, The Perils of Perryville. Here’s the beginning of Chapter One.

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http://viewbook.at/BloodforBloodatNash


Chapter One: Here They Come
April 12, 1864: Fort Pillow, Tennessee

They came through the woods in the pre-dawn darkness like ghosts passing through the ravines and slipping between the trees. Unaware of this impending danger, men of the US 13th Tennessee Cavalry fought their own heavy eyelids as they sat in the rifle pits of the forward picket positions of Fort Pillow.
“Judgement Day, you traitorous son of a *****!” a Rebel soldier hissed as he leaped into a pit and drove his knife into a nearly slumbering Federal soldier. He covered the dying man’s mouth with his other hand and glared into his eyes until the man slumped to the muddy floor.
“You picked the wrong side,” he spat at the corpse.
The Rebel cavalryman popped his head up from the rifle pit. All around he could hear the rustle of similar scenes: a whimper from a dying Federal solider, the sound of a knife plunging into flesh. Satisfaction spread across his dirty, blood-spattered face. These home-grown Yankees and their **** negro runaways dressed as soldiers had no idea what was about to happen to them. He waved his hat over his head, signaling the rest to come forward.
More men from the Confederate 2nd Missouri Cavalry, the “Missouri Mongols,” emerged from the shadows. They crept forward, clutching their carbines, pistols, and knives. Alarmed by the sudden surge of the butternut-clad cavalrymen, two of the surviving Federal pickets sprinted from their hiding place towards the fort.
“Shoot ‘em!” Captain Smith called out. A blast of gunpowder and the flash of muzzle fire split the darkness. One of the runners cried out as he tumbled to the ground. His companion stopped briefly to look back at the man rolling on the ground in agony before turning back to his all-out dash for safety.
“The Rebels are coming!” he screamed in terror only to be met by another volley of hot lead from behind.

Dr. Charles Fitch’s eyes popped open at the sound of gunshots. He lay there for a moment in the darkness of his tiny cabin, wondering if he were dreaming. A second volley caused him to bolt upright. It seemed frighteningly close. Dogs began to bark.
“Good God, they’re here…” he gasped, clutching his blanket to his chest. A woman screamed somewhere outside. “Dear God…” he said, scrambling into his clothes. Manic yelping from the woods caused goosebumps to ripple across his skin. “Ow!” he hissed, as he banged his head on the low ceiling of his hut. The morning air was cool but fear warmed him as he ran down the bluff towards the river to where the provost marshal’s cabin lay. Without bothering to knock, he burst in and started shaking the man sleeping inside. “Captain Young! Captain Young! You must get up! The Rebels are attacking.”
“Jesus!” Young let out as he reached for his pistol next to his bed. He blinked at Fitch for a moment, gathering his thoughts, then focused his eyes. “Start alerting the contraband camp. We need to get the women and children to the landing. Hopefully, we can get the New Era to evacuate them. I need to alert Major Booth if he isn’t already. This could get ugly fast,” he said, turning to put his feet on the floor while he shimmied up his trousers.
Panic was beginning to stir as people popped their heads out from their tents and cabins in the little contraband town that had sprung up outside of the fort’s earthen walls.
“What’s happening, Doctor?” a woman asked as Fitch passed her hovel.
“It’s alright, Rosa.” He tried to sound calm. “It’s just some skirmishers. Major Booth has everything under control. Get your children to the launch so we can get you to safety.”
A woman screamed. Droves of people brushed against him as they dashed down the slope towards the river. “Stay calm, everyone!” Dr. Fitch called out. “Get yourself and your families to the launch. We have a coal barge there to whisk you away. There’s plenty of room.” The sound of crackling wood began to blend in with the tramping of feet. He could smell wood burning. Smoke wisped through the crowd. Dr. Fitch looked up to see the glow coming from the far end of the camp as black smoke rose into the air like a flag climbing a pole.
“Good heavens, they’re firing the camp…” he gasped, then to a couple of boys who weren’t quite teens yet, “You two! Help me get the sick out of the hospital tent!”
“Are we gonna die?” one of them asked. The whites of his eyes contrasted with the early morning twilight.
“No, not if we stay calm and use our heads, Seddy,” Fitch smiled at the boy, patting his soft curly black hair.
A crackle of musketry brought a screech from the women trying to find places for themselves and their children on the largest of the three coal barges docked at the river. Dr. Fitch waved his arms frantically at the New Era. The timberclad gunboat sat impassively in the mist on the river. Fitch sighed in frustration. She showed no signs of movement.
“Stay here and stay calm, everyone. I have to go to the fort to signal the boat to come get you. We’ll have you away soon!” With that, he ran back up the slope to the little earthen fort that commanded the heights over the Mississippi River. Behind him, the New Era finally woke with an eruption of fire and smoke, eliciting more screams from the civilians huddled on the barge. The shells whistled overhead and crashed in the woods on the other side of the fort with a deafening percussive roar.
Dr. Fitch was winded and sweating when he got to the fort. He was relieved to see Major Booth already dressed and giving orders with the confidence of experience.
“Major Bradford!” he called to his second in command. “Get your men to their forward gun pits and hold your position! If we let them get too close they’ll get under our cannons and we won’t be able to tilt down enough to shoot them!”
“Of course,” Bradford replied, Booth’s command snapping him out of his wide-eyed paralysis.
“Don’t worry, Bill,” Booth put his hand on Bradford’s shoulder. “With your boys holding those positions, these raiders will be nothing more than target practice for my artillery boys. I trained them myself.” Then turning to the newly arrived surgeon, “Dr. Fitch, are the civilians loaded aboard the barge?” Booth called to him.
“Umm…yes, sir. I tried to signal the New Era to come get them,” Fitch stammered.
“No worries, we’ll do it now.” Booth said, and then turned to one of his officers, “Lieutenant McClure, signal Captain Marshall to retrieve the civilians! Once they’re away he can continue to fire on Ravine No. 1, just as we planned. There’s no place those Rebels can hide that we can’t hit. Let’s give them a warm welcome!”
“Yes, sir!” the young man replied and ran off to the signal station. Soon coded flags shot up the poles causing the New Era to stop firing and start steaming towards the landing.
For the first time since he woke, Fitch was beginning to feel relieved. Major Booth was a man who had started his career as a private and rose to the rank of Sergeant Major before accepting a commission to lead the newly formed 6th US Colored Heavy Artillery Regiment as well as two companies of the 2nd Colored Light Artillery. Now at the rank of Major, he had assumed command of the fort from the well-meaning, but inexperienced Major Bradford. Just weeks before, Bradford had commanded the fort alone with his 13th Tennessee Cavalry. They were a white regiment full of Tennesseans loyal to the Union, although many of them were Confederate deserters who still resented serving alongside the black men they had once known as slaves.
Those white troops were now trotting out to their positions, leaving Booth with his staff and artillerymen in the fort. A crowd of wide-eyed black troops formed around him. “It’s alright, boys. Just a little live-fire exercise for us this morning. Get to your guns. Listen to your sergeants. Remember the drill.” Then to his officers, “Lieutenant Hill, McClure! Get your men to their guns! I want every man not directly involved in a crew to man the wall with a rifle. Make sure they’re ready to replace any crew member shot down!”
Booth then turned to the lithe and well-groomed freeman who had come from Detroit with his oversized friend and enlisted a little over a year ago. These were two he had learned to depend on. “Francis, Elijah, take the rest of these men and go bring those two Parrot rifles back into the fort. Our gunners will be too exposed out there among the rifle pits.”
“Yes, sir!” Francis snapped. “Come on, fellas,” he turned to the group of men around him. Together they dashed out from the earthen walls to where the newly arrived 10-pound rifled cannons had been placed. They had planned on building earthen works around them to protect the crews, but it was too late now that the enemy was upon them.
“We finally get to try out the new ones!” Elijah huffed with excitement as they ran.
“That’s if you don’t get shot fetchin’em first, you big dummy,” Jerry quipped. “They won’t risk a horse to get they guns, but they’ll sure spend the life of a nigga on them.”
“Come on, Jerry,” Francis gasped as they slowed their run just in time to avoid slamming themselves into the cannons. “By the time we fetched horses and rigged them, we’d all be shot to pieces and you know it.” A bullet pinged off the barrel of one of the guns causing the men to cringe.
“I guess you right, Frenchie,” Jerry looked up from his crouch behind the gun. “Let’s get out, quick!”
The two 6-pound James rifles and the two 12-pound mountain howitzers in the fort began firing, scattering the Rebels who were just beginning to take positions in the wooded ravines out beyond the earthen walls, wood cabins, rifle pits, and abatis of felled trees. The white troops of the 13th US Tennessee Cavalry began to fill those rifle pits and answer the potshots that came from Rebels.
Major Booth beamed with pride as his artillerymen wheeled the two iron guns back into the fort with stoic determination just as the intensity of fire from the Rebels began to increase. The 10-pound Parrot rifles had tapered barrels that were a little over 6-feet long. They were made from cast iron with a ring of wrought iron wrapped around the breach to keep them from bursting upon firing. Using less powder than their smoothbore counterparts, the Parrot rifles fired a conical shell nearly two thousand yards with far more precision. That came from the spiral grooves, or “rifling,” cut into the inner wall of the barrel that caused the shell to spin.
“Good job, boys! Wheel them into the embrasures here on the south end and commence firing!” Booth commanded.
The men went to work ramming powder charges and shells into the muzzles with well-rehearsed precision. Soon the guns were alive and kicking, bucking backward with jets of fire and smoke. Francis ran to one of the smoking barrels with his worm pole, which was an iron corkscrew-shaped tool attached to a pole. With it, he pulled out the leftover debris from the barrel. Jerry followed by plunging a wet sponge inside. It sizzled and steamed as it cleaned the barrel. Francis then did so with a dry sponge before they reloaded and wheeled the gun back into firing position. Sergeant Weaver squatted to sight it and set the elevation once more.
“By the numbers, boys, just like we drilled!” Major Booth yelled over the thundering cannons. Then to his nearby subordinate, “Lieutenant Hill, take a volunteer and set fire to those cabins outside our walls! They’re giving the enemy too much cover!”
“Yes, sir!” Hill answered.
Dr. Fitch watched as the young officer and a civilian volunteer ran down to the cabins with torches in their hands. He flinched as bullets kicked up dirt around them. Soon the first row of cabins was burning. Fitch let out a breath of relief but then suddenly sucked in his next breath with a hiss, cringing as he watched Lieutenant Hill and his companion tumble to the ground and then lay lifeless.
“Do you think you can hold them, Major?” Dr. Fitch asked nervously.
“Certainly, as long as everyone keeps their heads together,” Booth assured him. Fitch suddenly dropped to the ground clutching his thigh.
“Good God, Doctor, are you alright?” Booth squatted next to him.
Fitch patted his bleeding leg before looking up, “I think it’s just a scrape. I have no idea where the bullet came from.”
“Well, we need to get you out of the line of fire,” Booth said helping him up. “Isaac, Billy!” he shouted towards the troops manning the wall. “Help Dr. Fitch to the rear. Doc, set up a hospital and prepare to receive the wounded.”
A young man about to drive his wet sponge into a barrel suddenly collapsed. His lifeless eyes stared at the sky as blood began to surge from the hole in his head. The gun crew halted for a moment, regarding the corpse.
“Drag that man away! Johnny, take his place!” Booth called to others on the wall. “Keep firing, men don’t stop!” The crew restarted their work swabbing, loading, and firing. More of them were dropping. More and more, men were dragging the bodies away and taking their places with stoic determination.
“Well, you wanted to see some action, Frenchie. Here it is,” Jerry quipped as they labored.
“Shut up and keep moving,” Francis shot back. Both of them cringed as a bullet pinged off the barrel. “They must have sharpshooters up high somewhere firing down on us!”
“Never mind that, men. We’ll spot ‘em and drop some shells on ‘em, keep firing!” Booth exhorted, stepping over the tail of their gun. “We can’t let them get any closer. We can’t let them take the colors…!” he shouted, then collapsed. Blood began to pool around his body. For a moment, the sounds of battle seemed far away as the men looked down at their leader bleeding out his lifeblood at their feet.
“…Oh, ****,” Jerry mumbled, resting on his rammer.
“Don’t just stand there gawking like a bunch of hens, God **** it!” Sergeant Weaver snapped them out of their trance, “Keep firing!” Then to Francis, “Frenchie!”
“Yes, Sergeant!” Francis shouted back.
“Put them dancing legs to work and run down to Major Bradford. Tell him he’s in command!” Weaver shouted. “Bobby! Off the wall and take his place!”
Francis crouched low against the inside of the fort’s wall, calculating his timing. The crack of a sharpshooter’s rifle from one of the high knolls was his cue. With a burst of motion, he was over the wall, out of the ditch, and sprinting towards the log cabins. He slammed himself against a cabin wall just in time to hear the rattle of musket balls pepper the other side. He drew long breaths trying to calm himself. He scanned the rifle pits, looking for Major Bradford. There he was! Once again, Francis waited for a volley before dashing off to Bradford’s position. Just as the Rebels had sighted and tracked him he dropped to his hip and slid into the trench feet first, bullets kicking up the dirt around him.
“Jesus Christ, Private! You **** near scared the ghost out of me!” Bradford gasped.
“Sir, Major Booth is dead. You’re in command. What are your orders?” Francis blurted over the swelling noise of combat.
Bradford stared at him, blinking, the blood rushing from his face. “We’ve got to get out of here…” he mumbled.
“Sir…?” Francis prodded.
“Captain!” Bradford called to his subordinate, “Order the men back to the fort! Pass the message along the line. Everyman, back to the fort! We need to consolidate our forces!”
“Sir, shouldn’t we leave a line of rifles forward of the fort? The Rebels will get under the tilt of our guns if we don’t hold them here.”
“Are you questioning my judgment, Private!” Bradford grabbed him by the arm.
“Of course not, sir!”
“Then get back to the fort and tell whoever is in command to cover our retreat!” Bradford shoved him back.
The guns of Fort Pillow opened up in a coordinated volley, cueing the men in the forward pits to make the dash back to the fort. The Rebels made sport of the fleeing men, dropping several of them in their tracks. Soon the men of the US 13th Tennessee Cavalry were finding places along the walls with their counterparts from the 6th US Colored Heavy Artillery and the 2nd US Colored Light Artillery.
“Never thought I’d be fightin’ alongside a ******,” one of them protested.
“This nigga may be the one to save your life,” the man next to him answered.
The white cavalryman regarded his black comrade for a moment before returning eyes to the sights of his gun, “May God save us all, then…” he mumbled.


Coming July 1, 2021. Pre-order your copy here: Blood for Blood at Nashville
 
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