Doug Bowman puts the reader in the saddle beside Civil War veteran Litt Blue as he heads west after Lee's surrender. Blue is taken in by a rancher who is the grandfather of a close friend who died in the war. While learning the cattle business from the ground up, run-ins with toughs prove to the large-framed Blue that size alone is not enough to hold his own on this harsh cattle frontier. He learns to box and becomes on of the fastest draws around, and none too soon, for a big man draws challengers in cattle country--and Littleton Blue is as big as they come, in The Three Lives of Littleton Blue.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Doug Bowman puts the reader in the saddle beside Civil War veteran Litt Blue as he heads west after Lee's surrender. Blue is taken in by a rancher who is the grandfather of a close friend who died in the war. While learning the cattle business from the ground up, run-ins with toughs prove to the large-framed Blue that size alone is not enough to hold his own on this harsh cattle frontier. He learns to box and becomes on of the fastest draws around, and none too soon, for a big man draws challengers in cattle country--and Littleton Blue is as big as they come, in The Three Lives of Littleton Blue.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
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Overview
Doug Bowman puts the reader in the saddle beside Civil War veteran Litt Blue as he heads west after Lee's surrender. Blue is taken in by a rancher who is the grandfather of a close friend who died in the war. While learning the cattle business from the ground up, run-ins with toughs prove to the large-framed Blue that size alone is not enough to hold his own on this harsh cattle frontier. He learns to box and becomes on of the fastest draws around, and none too soon, for a big man draws challengers in cattle country--and Littleton Blue is as big as they come, in The Three Lives of Littleton Blue.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466881433 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 09/16/2014 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 320 |
| File size: | 367 KB |
About the Author
Doug Bowman was a Grand Ole Opry performer who came from an established family of country singers. He is the author of The Quest of Jubal Kane, The Guns of Billy Free, and The H&R Cattle Company-all from Forge books. He passed away in the summer of 2000.
Read an Excerpt
The Three Lives of Littleton Blue
By Doug Bowman
Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 1996 Doug BowmanAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-8143-3
CHAPTER 1
"Lord, we're a-givin' ya back the bidy o' this pore soul," the old preacher was saying, as he stood over the last of the newly occupied graves. "They say his name wuz Littleton Blue. Prob'ly never done a wrong thang in his life, prob'ly jist a God-fearin' Southern boy that done his part."
"Amen!" several members of the congregation shouted in unison.
"Now, Lord," the preacher continued, "I ain't a-sayin' that he never kilt nobody. What I am a-sayin' is that they wuz all on th' other side, an' we all know that shootin' Yankees don't count ag'inst a man. Says so right here in th' Book, somewhur." He held his Bible aloft, riffling its pages with his thumb.
"Amen!" the congregation repeated.
The grave was filled in and patted down by young boys with shovels, and the people returned to their respective homes. Thus the little churchyard in western Virginia became the final resting place for six Confederate soldiers who were among the last few men killed in the American Civil War. The date was April 8, 1865, and tomorrow General Lee would surrender his ragged army to General Grant.
Once he had been forced to abandon both Petersburg and Richmond, Lee had retreated westward, hoping to join with the Confederate troops of Joseph Johnston in North Carolina. He found that his way was blocked by Union forces, however, and after fighting several running battles, the decision was made to surrender.
Two members of Sage Hill Church had found the bodies of the six soldiers, left where they fell by a fast-moving company of Confederates who were running for their very lives. The decision was quickly made to bury the fallen men in the church cemetery the following morning.
The funeral of Littleton Blue was many years premature, however, for though he had received a decent burial, a grave covered with flowers and a spoken eulogy of sorts, he was not in that hole. He was at this very moment lying behind a log thirty miles to the east, keeping his head down and waiting for confirmation that Lee had surrendered. Then, and only then, could he return unmolested to his South Carolina home.
The true name of the soldier who had been buried in Blue's stead would probably never be known. The luckless young man had been identified only by a letter that he carried in his pocket. The letter had been lost by Littleton Blue several days earlier.
Upon General Lee's surrender, General Grant had ordered General Sheridan to see that the starving Confederates received an abundance of food, and they had indeed eaten well for the past three days. Today was April 12, and the time had come to surrender weapons.
All morning long the ragged Southern divisions came into the field. Before the watchful eyes of Union officers, each Rebel soldier affixed his bayonet, then stepped forward and laid his rifle on the huge stack, followed by his cartridge box. Then, with much anguish, and some men crying unabashedly, the Confederate flags, all battle-worn and some bloodstained, were carefully folded and laid down. The Army of Northern Virginia was no more, and indeed the Confederate States of America would soon cease to exist.
Grant allowed the Confederate officers to retain their sidearms, as well as their private baggage. When informed by General Lee that, unlike the Union soldiers, the men of the Southern army owned the horses and mules they rode, Grant acquiesced further. He stated that he had not known that the soldiers of the South rode their own animals. Then, either out of compassion or because he already had his eye on the White House, Grant made another decision: Any Southern soldier now in possession of an animal could keep it, for it would be needed for spring planting.
Though Littleton Blue was unarmed when he headed south, he would not be for long. General Lee's impending surrender had become common knowledge along the line several days prior to the actual happening, and many of the Southern soldiers had begun to stash things against the day when they would be left with only the shirts on their backs. Littleton Blue was among them. During the final days of fighting he had hidden the rifle and cartridge box of a fallen comrade in a hollow log, knowing that his own weapon would be taken from him when the surrender became final.
Today, not far from the little churchyard that had supposedly become his final resting place, he retrieved the rifle and cartridge box, then rode south on a twenty-year-old mare named Nellie.
At six-foot-four and a hundred thirty-five pounds, the young man was a mere shadow of his former self, and could count on his fingers the times when he had actually sat down to a decent meal during the past year. He had lived mostly on hardtack and parched corn, usually eaten on the run, while his weight dwindled by more than seventy pounds.
Nellie had fared no better, losing at least two hundred pounds during the campaign. Always on the move, the horses were seldom allowed to graze all day or all night, and on occasions when good grass could be found, it could rarely be held for long. Many was the time when Nellie had fought the bit and Blue literally had to whip her away from her grazing. Today, on his way south to Orangeburg, he set a slow and deliberate pace, allowing the faithful animal to graze as much as she wanted. He would also eat well himself, for he had stolen a sack of food from the Yankees.
On the first night of his journey he camped on the north bank of Sandy Creek, where it emptied into the Banister River. He picketed Nellie on good grazing, then built a small fire. He had no cooking utensils, but had retained his drinking cup and spoon, as well as his folding knife. When the fire began to die, he laid three potatoes on the gray coals, covering them with hot ashes. Supper would be ready in half an hour.
Later, lying on his bed of leaves, he was thinking of home, and expecting the worst. He knew from word of mouth, as well as from the few newspapers he had read, that Sherman's march through South Carolina had been devastating. The city of Columbia had been reduced to ashes, and Blue had no reason to believe that the small town of Orangeburg, which lay directly in Sherman's path, had not suffered a similar fate.
On one of the propaganda sheets that were systematically passed up and down the Southern lines, Blue had read that not one male had been left alive in Sherman's wake, and that all females had been beaten and raped. He could only hope that Uncle Charley and Aunt Effie had been spared, and that his sister, Roberta, who was one year younger than himself, had not been molested.
Littleton and Roberta had been brought into the world by Mary and Walter Blue, who had dumped the children on Mary's brother, Charley Mangrum, at the respective ages of six and five. The couple then sailed for Germany, never to be heard from again. Charley and Effie Mangrum raised the children on their small farm and saw that they received an education.
Though the children had wanted many things that they never got, Uncle Charley had seen to their physical needs in an adequate fashion, working from daylight till dark as he scratched a living from the thirty acres left to him by his father. And he had done it all while dragging about on a wooden leg that he had made himself. Many were the times that the children had watched Aunt Effie bathe his blistered, bleeding stump with liniments and salves, brought on by his sometimes futile effort to keep up with the fast-walking plow horse. Eventually, Uncle Charley had partially remedied the situation by trading the horse for an older, slow-walking mule.
Young Littleton stood half a head taller than other boys his age, and established himself early on as one not to be trifled with. All of the would-be school bullies quickly learned that picking on Littleton Blue or his sister was a sure way to get clobbered. Though Roberta had never fought anyone in her life, she usually stayed close to her brother when other children were around, for she knew that he would be quick to defend her.
Roberta had just turned sixteen when Littleton rode away to join the Army of Virginia, and he had heard her described by more than one person as the most beautiful girl in the county. He supposed it might be so, for with her well-turned figure, long, wavy hair the color of corn silks, and copper-colored eyes as big as quarters, she was a creature that even a brother could find fascinating.
Littleton had often been told that he was the spit and image of his father, a man he remembered only vaguely. With dark, curly hair and dark complexion, a straight, well-shaped nose, and wide, firm mouth, young Blue's face looked as though it might have been chiseled from stone. Handsome though his face was, it might have gone unnoticed by some except for the eyes. Seated beneath heavy brows, his eyes were the clearest of azure blue, seeming to have a life of their own as they darted about. The eyes went unnoticed by no one, especially the opposite sex.
Like his father, Littleton was broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip, with long, muscular arms and legs. He had stood six feet tall on his fifteenth birthday, and was still growing to this very day. He would be twenty years old at the end of next week, and was hoping to celebrate his birthday at home. As his campfire died on its own, he pulled some more leaves under his body and was asleep quickly.
* * *
It was now the first week in May, and Blue's trip south had taken longer than he had anticipated. Nellie had pulled up lame, and there was no course but to wait for her leg to heal. He had turned twenty years old in a dry creek bed in North Carolina, having a baked potato and half of a possum for his birthday dinner.
Today, sitting astride Nellie and gazing at the ruins that had once been the beautiful city of Columbia, the full realization of what it was like to be conquered both physically and mentally came home to him. Few buildings were left standing, and Blue could see none that were undamaged. A few of the fires had been put out even as the Union soldiers were leaving town, and the occupants had patched up their homes to livable status again. Others lived anywhere they could among the ruins, or out in open fields.
Recognizing Blue as a returning Confederate soldier, most folks spoke to him with reverence, and some of the older women cried as they asked the Lord to bless him. Seeing the dilapidated condition of his footwear, one woman offered him a pair of new shoes that had belonged to her now-dead husband. After being told that the shoes were size twelve, he happily accepted them, discarding his worn-out footwear before her very eyes.
Another woman who stood nearby produced a denim shirt, and yet another handed him a new pair of overalls. There would be no problem with a fit on the overalls, any discrepancy in length could be adjusted with the galluses. After accepting a dipper of cold water, he spoke to one of the women.
"Any word on how it went over at Orangeburg?"
"The same way it went right here," she answered. "Went up in smoke." Nodding, he reined Nellie south and kicked her to a trot. He soon turned slightly west, away from the path that had been taken by Sherman's sixty-two thousand troops. The mare would need some grass on the two-day ride home, and there was none to be had anywhere near the road. Every living thing within a mile-wide swath had been eaten or trampled, and the earth scarred to a point that it would be several years in renewing itself. He rode till sundown, then camped near good grass on the North Fork of the Edisto River.
Nellie quickened her step the following afternoon, and Littleton wondered if, considering all that she had been through, she actually realized that she was on familiar terrain. His question was answered a few minutes later. Of her own free will, the mare broke into a fast trot. No doubt about it, Nellie knew that she was finally home again.
Blue sat at the edge of the clearing for quite some time, staring at the place that he had called home for most of his life. The unpainted, clapboard house was still standing. The barn and crib were also still in place, though it looked as though someone had torched the chicken house and pigpen. As he rode forward he could see Aunt Effie standing in the yard, one hand shading her eyes from the sun as she stared at the approaching rider.
"Is that you, Litt?" she yelled when he was forty feet away. He dismounted and ran the rest of the way.
"It sure is, Aunt Effie," he said, wrapping his long arms around her frail body.
"Lordy be," she said softly, tears running down her bony cheeks. "I didn't have no way of knowing if you made it or not. Lordy, this is a good day." He continued to hold her for a long time, then led her to the edge of the porch, where they sat down.
"Uncle Charley and Roberta all right?" he asked.
"Charley's dead, Litt, Yankees killed him right out there at the pigpen. He's buried out behind what used to be the cabbage patch." The lady looked away quickly, as if trying to hide the pain in her eyes.
Staring between his knees at the ground, Blue spoke softly. "Why in the world would they kill Uncle Charley? That man wouldn't have hurt a fly."
"Oh, yes, he would, too," she said quickly. "Fought 'em tooth and nail when they commenced to butcher our hogs. One of the sons of bitches hit him in the face with a rifle butt and broke his neck, then went right on butchering the hogs. They killed the milch cow too, then caught up all the chickens and burned the chicken house. Tore down the pigpen and used the planks for their cooking fires. They camped right out yonder in that field for three days and nights."
"Where's Roberta?" he asked. "She all right?" His question was ignored. The lady stretched her arms above her head and let out a deep sigh, then changed the subject.
"I thought that I recognized Nellie right away coming down that road a while ago, but I wasn't sure about you; you've fell off so much since you left. I tell you —"
"Where's Roberta, Aunt Effie?" he interrupted. She moved directly in front of him, looking him straight in the eye.
"I can tell you all about Roberta," she said, "but knowing how close the two of you were, I ain't for certain that you're ready to listen to it."
"Tell me anyway," he said.
"Your sister took up with the Yankees," she said, continuing to hold his eye, "just like a common whore." Something inside him wanted to refute what he was being told, but he knew his aunt well enough to know that he was being served the plain, unembellished truth.
"I tell you, Litt, you should have seen her shaking her ass and flirting with 'em, riding around in that field on their horses and laughing like a kid with a new toy.
"She laid up with 'em for two straight nights out there in that ditch, probably cooking our very own chickens for the sons of bitches. In a way I'm glad your uncle Charley wasn't around to see it, 'cause it just might have killed him anyway.
"I mean, they didn't drag her down there, neither, Litt, she went on her own. I stood right there at that window and watched her doing things for 'em all day, kissing on 'em and such. Lord only knows what all she did for 'em at night. And she was liking it, Litt, you could tell by just looking at her.
"That last day she came up here to the house on the arm of a damn Yankee lieutenant to get the rest of her clothes. Didn't say a damn word to me, not that it would have done her any good. They left here riding double on a high-stepping roan, and she never looked back."
Rising to his feet, Litt began to walk around the yard. He was thinking of all the good times they had shared growing up on the farm. Roberta had been his friend, his buddy, and they had kept few secrets from each other. The newfound knowledge that his beautiful, honey-haired sister had been sleeping with Union soldiers even as he had been fighting them in Virginia, was indeed a bitter pill to swallow.
"Guess you're sorry now that you pulled her out of the deep end of that swimming hole," Effie said over her shoulder. "Remember that day when she was going down for the third time? Ain't you sorry?"
"No," he answered, continuing to walk around. He held no ill will in his heart for his sister, but he never wanted to see her again. Roberta had made her bed.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Three Lives of Littleton Blue by Doug Bowman. Copyright © 1996 Doug Bowman. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
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