Rebel (The Starbuck Chronicles #1)
When Richmond landowner Washington Faulconer snatches young Nate Starbuck from the grip of a Yankee-hating mob, Nate is both grateful and awed by his idealistic rescuer. To repay his generosity, he enlists in the Faulconer legion to fight against his home, the North, and against his abolitionist father. When the regiment joins up, ready to march into the ferocious battle at Buff Run, the men are prepared to start a war . . . but they aren't ready for how they—and the nation—will be forever changed by the oaths they have sworn for their beloved South.
Thataway, but don’t ask me where the hell that is.” “He was here,” a sergeant offered, “but he ain’t here now. You know what’s happening, mister? Are we whipping the sumbitches?” “I don’t know.” Ridley carried on, coming at last to an artillery battery that was comfortably ensconced on the southern bank of the Bull Run behind a breastwork of wicker baskets filled with dirt. “This here’s Balls Ford,” an artillery lieutenant said, taking a pipe from his mouth, “and the general sure was here an.
Sunlight. “Do you note,” Bird said, “how the bullets are going high?” “High?” “They’re aiming at him, but are shooting high. I’ve been noting it.” “So they are.” Starbuck would probably not have noticed if the Yankees had been firing at the moon, but now that Thaddeus Bird pointed it out he saw that most of the northern rifle fire was indeed clipping at the leaves above Adam’s head. “He’s a fool!” Starbuck said angrily. “He just wants to die!” “He’s making up for his father,” Bird explained.
Yard was a tidewater Virginian who now recited the Lord’s Prayer over and over again. The awful screaming went on until a northern officer walked over to the wounded animals and fired into their skulls. It took five shots, but the animals died, leaving only the shrieking, gasping, writhing gunner who was impaled by the mangled spokes of the limber’s wheel. The officer took a breath. “Soldier!” The man must have recognized the tone of authority for he went still for just a second, and that second.
Assent. “I’m his son.” The man let go of Starbuck’s tie and yelped like a stage red Indian. “It’s Starbuck’s son!” He screamed his victory to the mob. “We got ourselves Starbuck’s son!” “Oh, Christ in his holy heaven,” the dentist muttered, “but you are in trouble.” And Starbuck was in trouble, for there were few names more calculated to incense a southern mob. Abraham Lincoln’s name would have done it well enough, and John Brown’s and Harriet Beecher Stowe’s would have sufficed to inflame a.
Minister? Is that what you’re saying?” “No, he is not.” Sally smiled, not at Bird, but at some inner amusement, then she ducked into the hall and so out into the wet street. Bird watched the girl climb into the saddle and felt as though he had been scorched by a sudden fierce flame. “Who was that?” Priscilla called from the kitchen as she heard the front door close. “Trouble.” Thaddeus Bird bolted the door. “Double toil and trouble, but not for us, not for us, not for us.” He carried the.