July 3rd, 1863
After three ghastly days of fighting, the Union Army was still entrenched on the high ground near Cemetery Ridge. The Union line of battle looked like a large fishhook, starting at little Round Top Hill, running along the length of Cemetery Ridge, curving around at Cemetery Hill and pointing down past Culp's Hill. The Confederates were pushed back across the Peach Orchard and the Wheat Fields. The rebels were encamped past Willoughby Run, retreating, falling back to across the Potomac River into Virginia, licking their pride.
The death cry of thousands of wounded rebel soldiers penetrated the air. The night was muggy and dark as James Longstreet, who his friends called Pete, sat a broken man, staring into the fire. The dark sky was filled with anger clouds. Soon the heavens themselves would be weeping. General Robert E. Lee had sat with Longstreet for a while, worn and lost, feeling old. Longstreet had sent Captain Goree out, just before dark, placing his pickets in a defensive line, but Longstreet knew that the Blue coats weren't coming.
Longstreet's eyes fell on the half-lighted tent off by itself as if the person inside was no longer part of the whole, where he had just managed to get General Pickett to fall asleep. It was the first time the forty-two year old general had led his division into battle; he was an inexperienced general, lovable and young at heart. Picket was devastated. All it took was fifty minutes for over six thousand men to loose their lives, a footnote in time. Those short minutes changed the course of the war, for Picket no longer had a division. Out of his thirteen regimental Commanders, 6 were killed and 7 were wounded and over fifty percent of his men were dead, their bodies left behind. Armistead and Garnett, Pickett's two brigade commanders, lay dead. The third, Kemper was grievously wounded and wouldn't make it through the night.
We should have never of fought here. Longstreet kept telling himself as he placed his left hand over his face. His right hand held tightly onto his saber, so tight that if he didn't have his worn-out gloves on, blood would have been dripping between his fingers. If he survived the war and the South lost, Longstreet would never forgive himself for the wasted lives lost during the past three days. He should have been more forceful with General Lee, should have been able to convince Lee to go to the South, get between the Union army and Washington. Find good ground and force the Federal Army to attack them on grounds of their own choosing.
He was tried and drained, the lost of his three children three months ago, slowly ate away his desire to go on. His heart lay heavy with the regret of breaking his vow as an officer, the lost of honor. Longstreet loved the boys that he led into battle. However, some of those boys in blue were his boys too. Three years of bloody battle couldn't change the fact that he used to wear the Union colors.
A soft cry rose from the direction of Pickett's tent and Longstreet looked over with sad eyes, shaking his head. He would have to keep a watchful eye out on George for a while, make sure that his friend didn't get himself killed charging into battle like poor old Dick Garnett. Longstreet picked up a small branch, poking the fire mindlessly. Saying silent prayers to the Lord, he asked forgiveness and for the Lord to take into his hands all his boys who had bravely lost their lives on the battlefield- no matter if they wore the blue or gray. Poking around the fire with the stick, Longstreet, lost in his grief never heard the soft footsteps of Goree coming up behind him and addressing him.
"General, Sir," T. J. Goree repeated. The frail Texans stood at attention waiting for Longstreet to acknowledge his presence. "General Longstreet, Sir."
"T.J."
"Sir, the men have been re-deployed, the sentries have been stationed as for as Dax Ridge," Goree answered. He was tried, sore from being blown off his horse earlier in the day when he followed Longstreet across the field towards Pickett's brigade as the rebels retreated from the Union forces. He was also worried about how the general would take his next report. As Goree toured the encampment, he had heard the men talking, blaming his general for their defeat. He had heard other things as well, things that greatly disturbed him. Of rumors that Union prisoners were being searched, mistreated, their officers being taken away and never heard from again.
"Captain?" Longstreet asked looking up at the Texan. Goree had been his aide for two year and Longstreet could tell something was troubling the boy.
"Sir, the men… the men… I heard them talking. Sir, you must be careful. The men, they are blaming you, Sir," Goree said.
"It is to be expected. The boys can't blame Old Lee. They worship the ground he walks on," replied Longstreet sadly, eyeing the boy carefully. Feeling Goree was holding something back, he asked in a low voice, "What else T.J.?"
"Sir, there are rumors about the Union prisoners, about them being questioned and searched." Goree could almost see Longstreet's hair stand on it ends. "I've talked to a couple of the bluebellies and they say, they say that a couple of rebel soldiers came and took their young lieutenant away. The two Union boys were worried; it seems the wound lieutenant had been taken two nights ago. Wanted to know how he was and if I could find out. Well Sir, I asked around, and no one knows where he is."
Longstreet looked long and hard at Goree, "Why all this interest in a Union lieutenant?"
"Sir, I went and checked the field hospital and the surgeon said he hadn't seen a Union lieutenant go through the hospital, as the one I'd described," Goree answered. "Sir, when I asked the Union boys the lieutenant's name they hesitated and looked at each other before answering, as if not sure and one of them finally said his name was Dent, a Lieutenant Dent. Sir, I think you should know, those Union boys were from one of General Buford's cavalry brigades, under Colonel Devin."
Dent…. Hum, the boy could be family, a cousin perhaps. Longstreet thought. His mother was a Dent. Under Buford, a cousin old enough to be…No! Longstreet jumped to his feet, his heart racing. Before he could say anything, a soft voice spoke out of the darkness. "Pete, do you smell it, that old rotten smell of dead meat?" Longstreet turned as Pickett moved closer to the fire. The light reflected off Pickett's pale face, his eyes red and blood shot.
"Major Francis, one of Hood's aides just delivered this message. He is waiting in my tent for a reply. It reads as follows, 'General Longstreet, Sir. Beware. The mad dog is sniffing around the wounded. Rumor is the Blue Ghost may be in our hands.' Sir, there's more, however you should read it yourself." Pickett neatly handed the message over to Longstreet. He watched as Longstreet's body stiffened. His old eyes turning dark with anger as he read the remaining message from his wounded Brigade Commander, John Bell Hood. Longstreet read the message again, his mind going over what Goree was trying to tell him. Suddenly as if a light flickered on to show him what was happening a few yards away, Longstreet looked up at Pickett and both men said at the same time, "Shellburne."
"Captain Goree, find the dog." Longstreet turned around as he issued the order harshly to his aide. Taking Pickett by the arm he led them back to the tent where Major Frances waited.
~Slap~
"I ask again lieutenant, your name?" a tall, lanky man, dressed in a Confederate Major's uniform angrily asked.
"Dent, Lieutenant Dent." The prisoner answered between bleeding lips. His whole body hurt, for the last day and a half he had taken a beating at the hands of the major and his men. He tried to raise his hands to the side of his head, to stop the pounding, but two strong arms held him in place. His leg burned like it was on fire, as renewed wetness trickled down his leg. He thought he had stopped the bleeding. Dry blood was caked down his face, along his cheekbone and down his neck, where a few days ago a cannon shell nearly took his head off. Not wanting the major to know how bad he was hurt, the lieutenant put his full weight on the leg, his face turned pallid, a unhealthy gray color. He was exhausted, confused, why was he here, why were these men hurting him?
~Slap….Slap~
"Don't lie to me boy, your name?" the major yelled.
The Union soldier said nothing, just stared at the Confederate officer, his eyes fixed on the small locket hanging from the major's broad red sash around his waist. His mother's locket, the locket they ripped from around his neck. Two days ago he was with the two men, who had been captured with him, gathered with all the other Union prisoners. Then the Confederates separated the officers from the enlisted men. That is when they came, the men, the men who wore the neat, clean gray uniforms. Again they were separated, this time by rank. Standing in a long line, each man was questioned, one by one, starting with the majors and working down. Every officer was bodily searched by gunpoint, then released to go back to the other prisoners. When they reached him, he stared and refused to answer any questions, just like the officers before him. His heart started to race; no matter how hard he tried to stay calm. He knew who they were looking for, the man who kept slipping through Confederate lines, the man the Confederates called the Blue Ghost. He searched his mind to see if he had anything on him that would give his father away. When the hands grab him to start their search he was satisfied that he had nothing, he only had his mother's locket….
~Slap….Slap….Slap~
A pool of green defiantly looked up at the major, for a second the man looked familiar. Then it was gone, lost in painful memories. With all the courage he had, he spit into the Confederate's man's face. The spit, mixed with blood, ran down the major's face.
~Slap….Slap….Slap….Slap~
"Say it…just say the damn name," the major roared as he reached up and surrounded the lieutenant neck with his bare hands. The major thoughts went to the golden locket tied to his sash and the young beautiful woman picture inside. The boy had her coloring, her yellow hair and pretty green eyes; this could be his son. No, the boy held his gaze with the defiant look of his father. Should have been his son. It was no longer the boy who stood in front of him but the man he had pledged to destroy. The man, who had stolen his life, stolen his woman. Losing control, the major started to squeeze and squeeze. The young lieutenant soon found his hands free as the two soldiers holding him backed away from the outraged major. Instantaneously, the lieutenant's hands flew to his throat, clawing at the hands squeezing the life out of him.
As darkness closed in and surrounded the lieutenant's mind, he finally choked out, "Larabee, My name is Larabee." He heard a sickly laugh as the pressure was released from around his neck and he fell to his knees, taking deep breaths into his starved lungs. Handprints of blue and green started to appear around his neck. Without lifting his head, Larabee heard the mad man moving away from him, and then returning. Shaking his head, he subconsciously tried to edge back away from the pain he knew was coming. He soon found his head tilted up with a barrel of a revolver. He looked up at the major's face, and saw that he was about to die. Shutting his eyes, he tried to turn his head to the side. Father, remember me. The young lieutenant whispered.
~Click….Click~
He waited for the pain, waited, then he felt a presence surrounding him, a warn embrace, one he hadn't felt in a long time, comforting him, holding him from harm. Slowly the darkness claimed the young man as he fell forward into the angelic arms of his dead Mother.
"Back away, Shellburne, or I swear I'll put a bullet between your eyes," Longstreet calmly ordered, walking all the way into the tent.
"NO… you have no right here!" Major Shellburne yelled, his revolver still pointed at the unconscious lieutenant's head. With the madness crawling back into the corner it was released from, Shellburne's quick witted mind snap into place. "I have General Lee's permission to question the prisoners." His snarl turned into a sneered as Longstreet's arm holding the revolver wavered. Longstreet would never go against the old Man. Shellburne's head snapped up at the next hard voice he heard, his eyes going wide.
"By God Sir, move away from the boy or I'll…. put a bullet into your blackened heart." George Pickett's voice was cold and hard as he moved to stand to the right of Longstreet. Right behind him, to the left, stood Goree, his revolver covering the other two soldiers. After what happen yesterday with Pickett's brigade, Shellburne knew that Pickett would carry out his threat. Slowly, Shellburne threw his revolver across the tent, and gestured to his men to get out.
"T.J. go get the horses," Longstreet quietly commanded his captain, leaving just the three old friends. George moved to stand in front of Shellburne, his gun pointing at the major's chest, forcing the man to back away.
"General Lee will hear of this," Shellburne shouted as he moved to leave the tent.
"Charles," Longstreet called to his one time friend. At the soft calling of his name Shellburne stopped, but didn't turn around. "For god sakes man, look what you have done, what you have become. Have you lost your entire sense of honor? Elena would never have wanted you to be this bitter, she loved you like a brother. I loved you like a brother."
"This is war," Shellburne snarled back. "That so called boy, is the key to break the Blue Ghost's back and I will have him -- mark my word. Go ahead take him with you, but don't fool yourself, Pete. Lee will order you to hand him back over to me. And I'll have my bait, the traitor will come running to save his son, just like he did when…." Shellburne stopped, he almost said too much.
"Like when you killed his wife," Longstreet said, through clenched teeth. The gun in his hand pointed at Shellburne back, his fingers ready to release the trigger.
"You have no witnesses, just the accursed word of that traitor," Shellburne whispered. "I never touched her." He closed his eyes and saw the young mother holding her son in her arms singing, in that sweet lovely voice of hers. "I loved her and my…. Damn you Longstreet. I'll have my revenge." Shellburne snarled as he pushed his way out of the tent.
They did not have much time; Shellburne would be back. Longstreet moved over to where George was now bending down turning the young lieutenant over to see if the boy was still alive. Longstreet held his breath, until George nodded his head, yes. The boy was a mess; his once blue uniform was covered in mud and blood. Bending down next to George, he watched as George slowly took out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the boy's head.
"Is it him?" George Pickett asked, for he never had an opportunity to meet Elena's only child. Together, the two officers examined the boy.
"Yes, this is Christopher, Elena's child. George, what are we going to do with him?" Longstreet's eyes pleaded with his long time friend as he looked down upon his beloved sister's only child for the first time in years.
Longstreet reached in his gray long coat and pulled out a cream handkerchief that had 'JL' embroidered delicately in gold thread, a gift from his sister. Gently he wiped along the left side of Christopher's bloodstained cheek, turning the handkerchief to an ugly brownish color. As he attended the unconscious boy, Longstreet was amazed at how much Christopher resembled his mother, Elena Larabee. Longstreet's eyes turned red and watery as he remembered the few cherished memories he had of his sister.
It was autumn of 1847, the Mexican War was winding down, and the commanding generals planned to have the men home by the end of February. Elena had traveled home to their paternal grandfather's plantation near Edgefield, South Carolina, for a visit. At the same time, Longstreet had been granted leave from his post in Mexico. It was the first time he had the opportunity to spend time with his nephew, the four-year-old toddler, Christopher. Tyrone and Elena had been married after a yearlong courtship. The couple kept the engagement a secret until Tyrone had graduated from West Point, third in his class. James had considered the couple too young to be married. Tyrone had barely turned twenty-one and James's strong-willed little sister, seventeen. But the two were inseparable, like one soul, in harmony when together, torn in half, lost and in pain when apart. At first, James had feared that Elena would marry Stuart Shellburne's oldest son and heir, Charles. The dashing Charles had filled young Elena's head with stories of romance and adventure about the British courts and grand parties in Richmond. The young girl hung on every word Charles spoke, listening as young girls usually do.
James had been relieved when at a gathering of friends and family, his quiet, gentle friend Ulysses S. Grant had come to his rescue and asked permission to introduce a young cadet named Tyrone Larabee to Elena. The girl was promptly drawn to the coy, dark haired cadet and Tyrone had instantly fallen in love with the blonde girl as she tripped over her tiny feet in her excitement to properly curtsy to her bother's friends, her green eyes flooded with embarrassment. With a timid smile, Tyrone had immediately asked the young blonde for the next waltz. Later that night, Longstreet remembered his friend Grant had pulled him aside, chuckling and saying how handsome the young couple looked as they danced their second waltz. James turned to observe Tyrone in his dark blue military uniform, with his sister Elena, dressed in pale chiffon blue, and had to agree with his friend. They all failed to notice Charles, off to the side, glaring hard at the couple, his eyes full of hatred for the young cadet and his face red from what he saw as Elena's betrayal.
A few months later, with James's support, Tyrone had asked Augustus Longstreet for Elena's hand in wedlock. The two shy people were perfect for each other, madly in love. Unfortunately, Tyrone was not the only man to ask for Elena's hand in marriage. James had gone to school with the other man that sought to obtain Elena's hand, Charles Shellburne and had regarded him suspiciously, knowing the man was only in love with the Longstreet's name and wealth. He had also heard the rumors through the years of Charles's high gambling debts in New Orleans. James had surmised that the Shellburnes needed Elena's rather large dowry to keep their tobacco plantation running. James had told his father his reservations about Shellburne and after careful judgment, and tears from Elena, Augustus consented, giving cadet Larabee permission to court and marry his young daughter.
However, the Shellburne family didn't take the announcement of Elena's impending wedding gracefully. Thinking to humiliate Tyrone and force Elena's hand in marriage, Shellburne's heir, Charles had confronted Tyrone. James remembered it well; it was hard to forget the sight of Tyrone holding Charles by the throat against the marble fireplace. James had heard Tyrone's teeth grinding as he and Grant entered the parlor at Raven Hurst. Tyrone's fellow cadet, John Buford, stood guarding his back, revolver in hand, daring Shellburne's supporters to interfere. The two older officers moved to intervene when Tyrone snarled into Charles's face, his teeth shinning through his wolfish grin. James had made his way to Tyrone's side, when the cadet suddenly torn off the glove on his right hand and like a raptor striking it prey, reached back to slap Charles across the face. A shiver went through James's body as Charles waited for the young man to call him out. Whatever Charles had said, this had been the outcome, a duel, with the Charles having the choice of his favorite weapons, sabers. James reached out and grabbed Tyrone in a bear hug, and pulled him away from Charles. Just before the glove struck the man's cheek, the glove floated to the floor. James could feel the young man's body shake with rage, as he demanded to be release between snarled threats, and calling Charles a liar, a coward. With his hands full, James failed to stop Tyrone's fellow cadet, John Buford, from maneuvering around him to take his friend's place. Buford rested his right hand on his saber attached to his waist. Unlike his friend Tyrone, John Buford was an expert with the saber. Buford never touched Charles, but whatever he said reflected in the coward's face as Charles nodded his head up and down. The men could see Charles' adam's apple moving as he cleared his throat, and in a quaking voice, retracted what he had said earlier and apologized to his fellow officers for his rudeness. Tyrone's predator eyes burned into Charles's back as the coward and his friends retreated from the parlor, leaving Raven Hurst to return home. James never learned what Charles had said that night.
Longstreet turned his memories away from that terrible night to more pleasant memories and remembered that Tyrone had been the first of his brothers to marry and the first to have a child. Looking down at his unconscious nephew, James' memories flashed back again to their last visit and remembered how happy he was when Elena had pulled her little bundle of joy from behind her and introduce the child. James never forgot that week as Elena's little imp followed him everywhere, especially when he went out to the stables where young Christopher was forbidden to go. The child had no fear, and before the sun went down on the first night of his mother's visit, the toddler had been caught crawling under the fences to pet the plantation's stud horses. Longstreet had heard the commotion coming from the horses' stalls and quickly grabbed his musket over the fireplace and ran out the door. Guessing that a pack of hungry wolves were on the hunt, James first thought had been to head over to the corral full of mares with their young colts. He was still on the porch directing the other men when he heard his sister's cry. "My baby, where's my Baby?"
A cold hand grabbed his heart as he raced to the horses' pens. He threw the musket down before he jumped the first rail. Landing on his feet, James moved slowly so as not to startle the two-year-old black colt nuzzling the four-year old boy. The child had turned at the sounded of his footsteps and with a playful giggle reached out for his uncle to pick him up. Longstreet grabbed the boy away from the colt as Elena flew out of the main house, screaming Christopher's name. He carried the boy over to the fence and handed him to his terrified Mother. Her beautiful face streaked with tears, Elena held her son to her bosom. Christopher sucked on his right thumb as his left fingers played with his Mother's golden hair, happily content.
James chuckled as he remembered the little boy, so full of life running in the yard the next day as if nothing had happen. Elena lovingly kept a watchful eye on him as he chased butterflies or happily jumped up and down, clapping his hands together, yelling 'horsy…. horsy' as the plantation stud horses trotted by. A single tear ran down his check as he remember the last night of Elena's visit, they had a family picnic and Elena had dressed up the toddler as a cowboy and had made him a stuff pony stick. The pony was black and white with a long black mane. Julia Dent, his cousin, had made the trip over from White Haven, the Dent family plantation, near St. Louis. The two women had spent their day laughing and giggling as they made plans for Julia's up coming wedding to his friend Sam Grant in late August.
Tragedy struck a few months later. The Mexican-American War had just ended. The two newly promoted 1st lieutenants, Tyrone and Buford, were heading home to Raven Hurst to celebrate Tyrone's son's fifth birthday. Tagging along were Tyrone's mentor and friend Sam Grant along with Tyrone's brother in-law James Longstreet. James remembered how much Tyrone was looking forward to celebrating his young son's birthday. They had spent the night in Galveston so that Tyrone could pick up the surprise present he had specially made for his small boy, leather cowboy boots. They were black to go with the black and white pony stick that Elena had wrote and told him about. The men laughed and joked as they made their way past the main house and rode to the two-story cottage were Elena had set up residence. Tyrone was the first off his horse. He quickly tied the reins to the post and ran two steps at a time to stand on the porch as he impatiently waited for his friends, waving them to hurry up so they could surprise his family together. Tyrone open the door slowly and walking ahead, he had wanted his face to be the first that his dear Elena saw.
Longstreet closed his heart to what he remembered next, Tyrone had gestured for them to go to the parlor to wait and he would go find his wife and son. Tyrone never looked into the parlor as he went down the hall towards the kitchen. The other three men stood in shock looking at the over turned chairs, shattered glass dishes laying on the floor, party decorations torn in half. The most disturbing sight, the small crumbled birthday cake resting where it had been destroyed, a bloody knife shoved in the middle. Taking charge, Grant motioned Longstreet to follow his brother in-law and then he pointed over to that he was going to check the second floor and for Buford to follow Longstreet. Dreading what they would find, the men pulled out their revolvers and made their way out of the parlor. Grant was half way up the long staircase when he heard Tyrone's cries of grief, and Buford's shouts of find the boy… find the baby.
Longstreet's memories turned dark, dark as the room where he sat in the dark corner of the kitchen where he had fallen against the wall, his hands covering his pale, tear stained face as his brother in-law Tyrone, rocked back and fourth, lost in his grief as he held Elena tightly against his chest running his fingers through her blonde strands. Tyrone's painful voice filled the room as he choked and weakly whispered for Elena not to leave him…to come back, as the blood that had kept her alive, pooled around the couple, brown and dried. Pete had looked across the room when he heard John Buford's cry out and a moment later John pulled a small bundle out of the lower cupboard under the wash bin. Sam Grant ran down the stairs at the sound of John's cry, and found a sleeping tear faced toddler wrapped within his arms. With the other two men watching, John Buford carefully bent down beside Tyrone holding out his son for him to see that the boy was alive. In shock, Tyrone reach out to gently brush the golden curls framing his baby's face with his finger. Little Christopher slowly opened his eyes when he felt the touch on his cheek and released a terrified scream of terror. Tyrone heard his son's terror and instantly reached out for him. John handed the boy to his father, and helped lower Elena's lifeless body to the ground and used his long coat to cover her. The screams turned to muffle whimpering as Christopher stuck his right thumb into his mouth. Exhausted, Christopher cried himself to sleep. The four men watched the sleeping child, knowing full well that the screams of terror meant that the little boy had witness the murder of his Mother.
The weight of George's solid hand on his shoulder withdrew Longstreet from his dark memories. "Pete…." George started to answer his friend, but stopped at the sounded of whimpering coming from the lieutenant.
Christopher moaned again as the two officers continued to poke and prod his body. As they examined his side, he felt a sharp pain. He couldn't stop the painful moaning that escaped his lips, he forced his eyes open halfway. He barely made out the two older faces hovering over him. The concern in their eyes made him feel safe, until he glimpsed the gray uniforms and he mouthed, No, please no more. He tried to crawl away, but gentle hands stopped him from moving. He struggled with the hands holding him down. He had to run and hide. His Mama was crying, telling him to hide from the bad man. He didn't hear the two officers tying to calm him down. All he heard was his Mama yelling for him to run and hide in the cupboard, wait for Papa. Papa was coming to save them. Christopher glanced around the tent, past the gray uniforms with the eyes of a child looking for his Pa, but like before, his Father was gone. He failed to save them, save her. Longstreet and Pickett watched as the boy's eyes rolled up in his head and he fell back unconscious.
Longstreet gathered Christopher into his large arms; slowly he got up on his feet. The boy's head lay against his shoulder. Even unconscious, Christopher's body trembled. Longstreet tighten his grip, as he looked down on Christopher's blood caked face. The boy deserved a change to live, and if Shellburne got his hands on him again, his nephew wouldn't last a fortnight. The mad dog would sweep in and destroy the boy, piece by piece and not because he wore blue and fought for the Union. Shellburne was too consumed with his hatred of the boy's father for stealing what he thought was his, Elena. Shellburne would use the boy to snare the father, not for the war, or honor, but for his thirst for revenge. Longstreet made a hard decision; he would not give the boy over to Shellburne. Lee could order it, but then, Longstreet decided that he would resign and Lee wouldn't let that happen, would he?
"Well Sir, LaSalle would love to have him." George stood by Longstreet's side watching the conflict pass over his face, honor or duty. Hand Elena's son over to Shellburne, or give him a chance to survive this infernal war between, friends, brothers, sons and fathers. George smiled showing his ivory teeth as unrelenting determination showed in Pete's eyes. His general had made his decision.
Longstreet shook his head no, he knew that George's young wife LaSalle would take care of Christopher, but without the two men there to protect them, the two would always be in danger. George had lost too much in the past few days for him to put his young wife in harms way. There was only one place for Christopher to be safe, a plan formulated in Longstreet's mind, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Turning he told Pickett, "We take him home."
