This is a Historical story about part of the Civil War fought in North Central Florida. While the most of the characters are imaginary, many are actual people from that era. These people may have or have not acted or thought in the way I have described their thoughts or actions. The character, Captain J.J.Dickison, CSA. was real and was actually more of a hero than I have described him.
It was already near noon and he was still five or six miles from his home. He paused along the trail, hearing only silence. Pat hoped to get home before the afternoon chill of February caught up with him. It was cloudy to the Nor'west and looked like rain. His horse had pulled up lame that morning and Pat had been forced to leave his mount at a friend's plantation near the settlement of Eureka on the Ocklawaha River.
He figured he could make better time on foot anyway. He was less wary of running with the rash of robberies and killings along this stretch of road. He scanned both sides of the road as he moved silently along. He had left his old Hawken 50 Caliber cap lock rifle with his horse and carried the saddle holsters around his neck. The two Colt 1860 Army Model revolvers in their saddle holsters hung around his neck and rode comfortably on his lower chest. In his hands was a coach gun, a short double-barreled shotgun, loaded with twin loads of 'buck and ball'( A .58 Caliber lead ball over nine OO buckshot.).
He reached back and pulled the small 'possibles bag' around where could wiggle his hand inside and find the little leather pouch containing smoked and dried chopped venison, pecan nuts, cane syrup, and dried blueberries. Patrick worked some of the contents into a small ball. He pulled out the ball, about the size of a fifty eight caliber musket ball, and glanced at it. Good, no ants or maggots and it smelled good. Pat popped it in his mouth and chewed as he ran along.
The road was merely two ruts through the grass. He ran in the grass between the ruts, checking for sign in the sand of each rut. A few deer tracks, coon, and possum tracks were all he saw. He stopped and stood still as he listened. He didn't hear a sound, no bird calls, no squirrels chattering. There were no woodpeckers hammering away, nothing. He didn't like it. He stepped off the trail and moved through the low brush along side the road. The canopy of trees closed over the road in this area and dead leaves obscured the two ruts in the road. He knew that a game trail paralleled the road for a while and then curved off to the west. He would follow it for a while.
He chewed on the dried venison and berries and the flavors flooded his mouth. The cane syrup and spices mixed with the meat-fruit-nut combination removed most of the tartness of the berries and added to the flavor. The few dried red pepper pieces brought a smile to his face.
He stopped and froze in place, listening. Nothing! He started to move forward when he heard the voice. "Come on Bill, less get da fuck outta here before we gets wet. Ain't nobody commin' or dey been heah awreaddy."
"Yeah, dis ol' flint lock fowling piece ain't worth shit if it gets wet. If'n we hurries we kin beat de rain to da shack. Maybe we ketch someun tomorra." Pat's hands slowly raised the shotgun. He eased forward a little.
Someone yelled. "Come on ya guys, we goin' home."
"Yeah, good idea, lets gidoutta here." Pat heard the rustlings of the brush and made out two men pushing their way out into the road. More noise came from a few yards directly in front of him. He heard the low talking from the four men he saw walking down the road.
Pat thought, damn, this was going to slow him down unless he followed the game trail when it curved west. It crossed the road from Orange Springs to Silver Springs in about a mile and a half. It was a better road on higher ground with rough bridges across the three creeks that flowed to the Ocklawaha River to the east. It would add about half an hour to his trip but at least he would not have to ford the three creeks and get his feet wet. He might get soaked through if the rains caught him.
Pat moved quietly along the game trail. It was harder going than the road because the trail was narrow and the height of the cleared branches was low. This was a trail often used by wild cattle and it was a bit better than most game trails primarily used by deer sized animals. He could no longer hear the voices of the men on the road. Suddenly he was at the edge of a large area that had been recently been burned by wildfires.
He looked to his right to see if the men on the road were visible. He saw no signs of them. To the left was an area of cultivated fields that offered little or no cover. Ahead was only a little cover. A few larger trees stood unharmed but all the underbrush was gone. Most of the fires were caused by lightning strikes. The fires would often burn for days before the next storm extinguished them. The trail was still visible and he hurried along it scanning all around as he went. He came to a major drainage ditch along the side of the field of old cotton. He moved quickly down into the ditch. There was no water in the bottom except in small puddles.
He picked up his pace to a ground-eating run. His grandfather was a famous runner. He grinned as he thought of Grandpa Sean, his favorite older man. The old man, almost sixty, and with one artificial leg, could still out run a horse over a good distance. General Sean Patrick Murphy, CSA, Ambassador to the court of England was fighting to win support for the Confederate cause in that country.
Pat wished he was with the old man but his orders from the patriarch of the family were to stay home and fight the Yankees here. Pat's father and mother were in Orange Springs. Now that the Yankees occupied St. Augustine they were helping Granny Molly run the family businesses there and throughout the South and the Caribbean. Molly Murphy was a force to be reckoned with in commerce through out that area. God only knew how many millions she was worth.
He quit daydreaming and froze as a covey of Quail flushed away from him. That was a big mistake. He should have seen them in time to ease up on them so that they would run off rather than flush into the air.
Pat stopped at another clump of weeds along the bank of the ditch. He carefully eased his head up through the weeds. He looked where he expected to see the four robbers on the road. There they were. The men were stopped, looking out across the fields. He guessed one of them had seen the covey frighten into the air. The men spoke together. Then they started walking along the road again.
Pat watched as they passed a clump of brush. They bunched together when they came out from behind the brush. He looked more carefully at the clump of brush. He thought he detected a small movement. Perhaps it was a head turning; that was the impression he got. Moving only his eyes, he looked at the group walking away. Hey, there only three figures in the group now!
He heard the faint thunder of a covey of quail flushing again fifty yards to his left. He heard the yip of a fox from two places and knew a pair of foxes were hunting the field. He watched as the observer behind the bushes stood and hurried after the other men.
Pat stayed in the ditch until he reached the other side of the field. Reaching the end of the drainage ditch he was only a few yards from a farm road beside a windrow of trees. The road he was looking for was on the other side of the windrow. When he reached the road he looked carefully each way before stepping out at a slow run. When his legs limbered and loosened up again he increased the pace to a still easy lope. He stopped and took the straps attached to the bottom of the saddle holsters and passed them under and around his belt to keep them from flopping as he ran. He got another ball of meat and berries from his bag, and put it in his mouth as he scanned the area. Everything seemed fine so he resumed his run.
Now he was thankful for the hours of running his grandfather had insisted he do at his side. He had been taught how to breathe correctly and how to put his mind outside his body and observe things from afar. The running was totally automatic and he could continue for hours if he slowed to a fast walk periodically. His body told him when to walk. His grandfather would only use the walk if the run was longer than ten miles.
Pat was still running easily and was not contemplating a walk when he caught up to a farm wagon loaded with produce. Pat, the farmer, and the farmer's son greeted each other. He walked along side the wagon for a while and got some of the local gossip. The farmer offered him a ride. He declined and said he would just run on in to Orange Springs. The man said, "I know Miss Heidi will be glad to see ya. Things are a little scary for her with your Daddy off with the Ocklawaha Rangers and you off on business."
"Yeah! Not many people will mess with Momma though, she will shoot a thief or someone messing with her as soon as look at him. She always hits what she is shooting at too."
"Yes Sir, Pat, your momma is a beautiful woman with a backbone of solid steel. She is one of a kind, It ain't hard to believe she is a German Countess; she looks the part with that blonde hair. Is it true that your daddy found her starving in the woods where she had lived for months eating raw critters she caught?"
"It sure is, they were only in their teens but momma says she knew the moment she saw Daddy that she would marry him. Hell, they were both still in their teens when they got married. Listen David, it was nice talkin' with you but I need to get going. See you later."
The farmer looked at his son, "That family has the runnin'est men I ever heerd of, Grandpa, daddy, and son all run like deer. They watched as the man ahead of them disappeared around a slight bend in the road about a mile ahead.
Pat reached up with his free hand and tried to ease the chaffing of the saddle holsters; he would have to get a belt holster and spare cylinder pouch and eliminate one revolver. Especially if he was doing any running. He still liked the extra firepower of the two pistols in a saddle holster on horse back.
The twelve-gauge coach gun had been a family favorite for several generations now. The load of a 58 caliber ball and eight or nine 'double aught' buck shot was very effective at close range. At ten yards or more it was luck if you hit someone. At twenty feet that load would cut a man in half. He had never fired it at a man but he had shot a charging wild bull at close range. It stopped the 'yellerhammer' in his tracks. Pat grinned as he recalled his mother's expression when the angry bull slid to a stop at their feet. She had calmly looked at him and asked, "That is an Andalusian steer is it not?"
"Yes Ma'am, it is a descendant of the cattle the Spaniards set free when they arrived in Florida almost three hundred years ago."
