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    Caleb Thorn 4: Bloody Shiloh
    Caleb Thorn 4: Bloody Shiloh
    Caleb Thorn 4: Bloody Shiloh
    Ebook159 pages2 hours

    Caleb Thorn 4: Bloody Shiloh

    By L J Coburn

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    About this ebook

    Thorn’s Raiders were the most feared seek-and-destroy unit on the Union side in America’s bloody Civil War. A gang of condemned criminals, they had been reprieved only to be sent on savage suicide missions against the Confederacy. They were led by Caleb Thorn, the young born killer with a personal mission of vengeance against the South. But now, on the orders of his commanding officer, Caleb had been temporarily separated from his band of desperadoes. His murderous skills were needed this time not on a guerrilla raid into enemy territory but in the thick of one of the most viciously savage pitched battles of the war: the mass carnage that was Shiloh...
    L.J. Coburn is a pseudonym used by two authors, Laurence James and John Harvey.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPiccadilly
    Release dateMar 31, 2014
    ISBN9781310762079
    Caleb Thorn 4: Bloody Shiloh
    Author

    L J Coburn

    LJ Coburn is the pseudonymn for the writing team of Laurence James and John Harvey, brought together to create the Civil War series CALEB THORN.

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      Book preview

      Caleb Thorn 4 - L J Coburn

      Issuing new and classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

      The rear lines were still being ordered on by officers who could see nothing of what was taking place further forward. Those who had gone in first and still survived were turning and trying to push their way back away from the steady Confederate fire that seemed to come from behind every tree and bush.

      Cursing and swearing, a young Lieutenant drew his sword and charged into the thick of things, knocking men about body and head and ordering them back into line.

      ‘Cowards! Cowardly bastards! Fight, damn you!’

      He slashed down at a private who was crawling on all fours, a wound deep in his shoulder. The blade of the officer’s sword sliced through the back of one hand and the man scrambled on, leaving three fingers behind on the earth...

      BLOODY SHILOH

      CALEB THORN 4

      By L. J. Coburn

      First Published in 1978 by Sphere Books Limited

      Copyright © 1978, 2014 by L. J. Coburn

      Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: April 2014

      Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Series Editor: Mike Stotter

      Text © Piccadilly Publishing

      Published by Arrangement with the Author.

      For my father – who opened up the west for me. And did it pretty up-and-walking good.

      ‘It was too shocking, too horrible. God grant that I may never be the partaker of such scenes again ... when released from this I shall ever be an advocate of peace.’

      From the Diary of A.H. Mecklin, Mississippi Department of Archives and History

      Chapter One

      The man lay flat along the wooden beam. His eyes were closed and his face was lined with anxiety and beaded with sweat. He looked old, careworn: he was eighteen. Private in the Army of the Potomac. Still. No way of ridding himself of that. Any more than the pink birthmark alongside his right eye. He realized that now.

      Yesterday it had seemed simpler. Easier. The way O’Halloran had explained it, all they had to do was bide their time and then light out.

      All they had to do!

      He tensed as something swung the door below him open by as much as three feet. Waited open-mouthed for the body following through the gap.

      Nothing.

      The wind.

      Again. He had lost count of how long he’d been there. Not daring to change his position. Certain that if he had any chance of escape it lay where he was. Not that he did think he had a chance. Not really. Not now that Thorn was after him. Lieutenant Thorn. Leader of Thorn’s Raiders. He knew it was the Lieutenant right enough. Earlier that day he had seen him, astride the same horse he always rode. Straw colored hair. Blue eyes scanning the countryside around. Handsome. Arrogant. Used to owning, to being obeyed. Even those cut throats and murderers in his platoon, they obeyed him.

      Well, he had escaped Thorn that time. That once. Not many had ever got close enough and lived to think about it afterwards. The man knew he was living an extra life. A charmed life. He should have been dead. To all intents and purposes, he was dead. As good as.

      Maybe he should climb down and walk back out of the building. Let the patrol see him. Give himself up.

      The man opened his eyes and looked at the timbers of the wall opposite. His limbs were numb; his fingers seemed to have become a part of the beam they clung to. No: he would not go down. Not yet. Not of his own accord.

      The sliver of chance he rested his future on was less substantial than the wood that bore his body’s weight. Far, far less.

      And O’Halloran, he thought, what of him? Damn him! It was all his fault; his tongue carried away by the whiskey he had stolen. Damn him, then, damn him to hell!

      It was a little late for such a sentiment.

      Private Daniel O’Halloran was past damnation. If hell were his chosen home, then the soldier was already there. Some part of him was. The rest lay where he had died. Would stay there until he turned to decay and dust. Except for his eyes. One was already gone. An empty socket, raw and ravaged, turned upwards to the cloudy spring sky and saw … nothing.

      The body lay on a grassy slope, dipping away from a small wood to a river bottom. The green grass was starred with yellow flowers, petals opening in search of what light there was, what warmth.

      O’Halloran’s right hand curled inwards, the fingers stiff like twigs. Between the middle pair a single yellow flower grew, stalk cleaving the space.

      The left hand was missing.

      A jagged end of flesh showed past the uniform shirt, as if razored away. Black pustules of blood crowded against one another like blisters of paint.

      His neck was at a strange angle to his body, twisted, snapped. The bullet that had torn into the flesh of his shoulder had hurled him head forwards from his mount. One foot had caught in the stirrup. Not for long - seconds - long enough.

      A crow swung down over the slope, curving its path with almost perfect grace. A huge bird, it moved with beauty and power. Feet stretched out as it landed on the upper part of O’Halloran’s leg. The beak was dull, curved, strong.

      The bird shook its head feathers before jabbing downwards.

      Down: down: down.

      Daniel O’Halloran needed no damnation.

      On the opposite side of the river, the trees grew more sparsely. Provided less cover. Two of the deserters huddled low, their bodies squeezed down amongst roots and bracken. Hours earlier they had been in that identical place. Had seen their pursuers riding from the woods across the river. Four of them, the huge Sergeant they knew to be called Jubal Hardin in the lead.

      They had seen O’Halloran, too. Heard the shot; seen the horse stumble; watched as the man’s body had bucked, then held in the air, caught by the foot, before crashing to the grass. To the ground.

      They had watched as the breed had jumped down from his horse and lifted the knife from his belt. The silvery reflection of the blade in a fleeting moment of sun. The lank, long hair as the breed bent forwards over O’Halloran’s body.

      A glimpse of blood beyond the shimmering blue of the river.

      Hardin had led off to the east; they had waited and then run in the opposite direction. Hours of running, hiding, nerves popping at shadows and sounds of shadows. More running, out of breath, feet cut and sore.

      They had found themselves back where they started. The body of the man who had led them from the camp still lay where they had last seen it. At first they had stared in disbelief, not wishing to acknowledge how lost they had become.

      But, now they knew. And all they could do was keep watch over the corpse which haunted them. Haunted them with its own death and theirs also.

      ‘Looks like we got us somethin’ here, Sam.’

      ‘What’s that, then?’

      ‘Couple of rats.’

      ‘Rats? Strange place to find rats, skulking round trees.’

      ‘Best flush ’em out, then.’

      Sam Shuckstein lifted his carbine to his shoulder. He could see the shapes from his position, the one merging into the other. The pants of the Union Army contrasting with the dark bark of the trees.

      Ollie Bell squinted downwards, eyes slits in his fat young face.

      ‘Got a bead on ’em?"

      ‘Reckon.’

      ‘What you waitin’ fer, then?’

      The New York Jew wasn’t waiting. The gunshot sang out and was followed by a bellow of pain and a sudden, heavy movement away from the trees.

      ‘Damn!’ Shuckstein ran to one side, his sighting blocked by the branches as they cut across his view.

      Ollie Bell hurried in the opposite direction, moving to cover any attempt by the second of the deserters to break out the other way. Despite his girth and weight, Ollie moved without undue difficulty, balanced and alert. Scorning a rifle, he had his Colt Dragoon in his right hand, midway between belt and eye level.

      The soldier Shuckstein had hit ran, stumbling straight for the river. Each pace sent a jolt of fresh pain through his body. From the wound in his leg to his brain and from there through every nerve end. As he ran his fingers pushed inside the gap in his trousers, sliding bloodily into his flesh. One, two fingers. Easily. Past the first knuckle. Almost to the second.

      He skidded on the grass, arms suddenly flailing in the air. It saved his life: for the time being. Shuckstein cursed as his bullet went harmlessly by and took fresh aim.

      As the running, hobbling man set his boot into the edge of the water, Shuckstein squeezed the trigger back against the hard metal of the guard.

      The shell struck between the shoulder blades and spun the man round in a full circle. The two looked at one another: hunter and hunted: killer and killed.

      A fresh shell closed the deserter’s eyes forever. The body splashed down into the river and by the time Shuckstein had reached the level ground alongside it, the running water was streaked with red.

      Ollie Bell had been presented with no such target. The second man held on to the sides of the tree before him, knowing what would happen if he tried to make a break, fearing what would happen if he didn’t.

      ‘Come out, you cowardly bastard!’

      Sweat streamed down the man’s face, half blinding him, stinging his pupils and forcing him to blink continuously. The fingers on the bark were slippery, shaky.

      ‘You hard of hearin’ as well as guts? Get out here before I drag you out and shove the barrel of this pistol up your lily-livered ass!’

      Still the deserter did and said nothing. He wanted to pray but the words refused to form inside his brain. Wanted to picture his sweetheart. His mother. It was as if he had never seen them. As though they had never existed.

      A hand sprang round the tree and grasped him by the hair, hoisting him out into the afternoon. He screamed and struggled and another hand joined the first and lifted him high into the air. Turned him round through a circle that span faster and faster. Finally crashed him down on his side, so that he bounced up from the earth and rolled over until something stopped him going any further.

      Something like a

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