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A Royal Engineer in the Low Countries

A Cavalry Surgeon at Waterloo

With the Third Guards during the Peninsular War

The First and Last Campaigns of the Great War

Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Vincent O'Sullivan

Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Algernon Blackwood

Narratives of the Anglo-Zulu War

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The Civil War Novels: 5

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The Civil War Novels: 5
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Author(s): Joseph A. Altsheler
Date Published: 2009/03
Page Count: 304
Softcover ISBN-13: 978-1-84677-615-1
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-84677-616-8

A story of war, love and espionage during the Civil War

Although this book is not strictly one of Altsheler's American Civil War series, Leonaur have chosen to include it within its collection of the authors novels on this popular topic. The subject matter of the story is still, of course, the great war between the states. The action takes place in and around Richmond, the beleaguered Confederate capital, in the closing stages of the war as the Union forces press ever closer. A young Confederate officer is given leave to visit his family and—after so long on campaign—his eyes are inevitably drawn to the beautiful women of the South. There are old flames to renew his interest, but also an unknown, strange and enigmatic beauty. Is she merely aloof or is there more to this mystery woman? It is clear Union spies are at work in the city. Important documents are missing. Could it be that she is an enemy agent? As attraction turns to love, loyalties are blurred and the action turns to the battlefield, this novel becomes a highly entertaining read and a fitting companion to Altsheler's eight novel Civil War series.

The battle shifted again and the faces of the three who watched at the window reflected the change in a complete and absolute manner. The North was thrust back, the South gained—a few feet perhaps, but a gain nevertheless, and joy shone on the faces where pallor and fear had been before. To the two women this change would be permanent. They could see no other result. The North would be thrown back farther and farther, overwhelmed in rout and ruin. They looked forward to it eagerly and in fancy saw it already. The splendid legions of the South could not be beaten.<br>
But no such thoughts came to Harley. He felt all the joy of a momentary triumph, but he knew that the fortune of the battle still hung in doubt. Strain eye and ear as he would, he could see no decrease in the tumult nor any decline in the energy of the figures that fought there, an intricate tracery against the background of red and black. The afternoon was waning, and his ears had grown so used to the sounds without that he could hear everything within the house. The low, monotonous crying of the coloured woman was as distinct as if there were no battle a half-mile away. The dense fine ashes crept into their throats and all three coughed repeatedly, but did not notice it, having no thought for anything save for what was passing before them. They were powdered with it, face, hair and shoulders, until it lay over them like a veil, but they did not know nor care.<br>
The battle suddenly changed again and the South was pressed back anew. Once more their faces fell, and the hearts of the women, raised to such heights, sank to the depths. It was coming nearer, too. There was a fierce hiss, a shrill scream and something went by.<br>
“A shell passed near us then,” said Harley, “and there’s another. The battle is swinging close.”<br>
Still the element of fear did not enter into the minds of any of the three, not even into those of the women, although another shell passed by and then others, all with a sharp, screaming note, full of malignant ferocity. Then they ceased to come and the battle again hovered in the distance, growing redder and redder than ever against a black background as the day darkened and the twilight approached. Its sound now was a roar and a hum—many varying notes blending into a steady clamour, which was not without a certain rhythm and music—like the simultaneous beating of a million mighty bass drums.<br>
“They still press us back,” murmured Harley; “the battle is wavering.”<br>
With the coming of the twilight the light in the forest of scrub oaks and pines, the light from so many cannon and rifles, assumed vivid and unearthly hues, tinged at the edges with a yellow glare and shot through now and then with blue and purple streaks. Over it hung the dark and sullen sky.<br>
“It comes our way again,” said Harley.<br>
It seemed now to converge upon them from all sides, to contract its coils like a python, but still the house was untouched, save by the drifting smoke and ashes. Darker and darker the night came down, a black cap over all this red struggle, but with its contrast deepening the vivid colours of the combat that went on below.<br>
Nearer it came, and suddenly some horsemen shot from the flame-cloud and stood for a moment in a huddled group, as if they knew not which way to turn. They were outlined vividly against the red battle and their uniforms were grey. Even Helen could see why they hesitated and doubted. Riderless horses galloped out of the smoke and, with the curious attraction that horses have for the battlefield, hovered near, their empty saddles on their backs.<br>
A groan burst from Harley.<br>
“My God,” he cried, “those cavalrymen are going to retreat!”<br>
Then he saw something that struck him with a deeper pang, though he was silent for the moment. He knew those men. Even at the distance many of the figures were familiar.<br>
“My own troop!” he gasped. “Who could have thought it?”<br>
Then he added, in sad apology: “They need a leader.”<br>
The horsemen were still in doubt, although they seemed to drift backward and away from the field of battle. A fierce passion lay hold of Harley and inflamed his brain. He saw his own men retreating when the fate of the South hung before them. He thought neither of his wounds nor of the two women beside him, one his sister. Springing to his feet while they tried in vain to hold him back, he cried out that he had lingered there long enough. He threw off their clinging hands, ran to the door, blood from his own wounds streaking his clothes, and they saw him rush across the open space toward the edge of the forest where the horsemen yet lingered. They saw him, borne on by excitement, seize one of the riderless horses, leap into the saddle and turn his face toward the battle. They almost fancied that they could hear his shout to his troops: “Come on, men; the way is here, not there!”<br>
The horse he had seized was that of a slain bugler, and the bugle, tied by a string to the horn of the saddle, still hung there. Harley lifted it to his lips, blew a note that rose, mellow and inspiring, above all the roar of the cannon and the rifles, and then, at the head of his men, rode into the heart of the battle.