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Overview
The Scarlet Pimpernel meets Gone with the Wind in this tale of desperate choices during the American Civil War
One woman holds the fate of the country in her hands.
Can she allow her brother to die so that others might live?
AS THE CIVIL WAR grinds into its second year, a mysterious figure known only as THE LION OF THE SOUTH emerges from the shadows to rekindle the Confederacy's spirit of defiance.
JULIA DANDRIDGE returns to the Virginia home where she was raised, only to discover that the war has changed everything—and everyone—once dear to her.
With no one to turn to and nowhere to turn, Julia is caught in a tangled web of secrets and deception. The only way to save her beloved brother from the hangman's noose is to unmask the Lion—but who is he?
When she finally discovers the enigmatic hero's true identity, Julia sets off on a desperate journey to stop the vengeful plot she helped set in motion, determined to save the two men whose lives hang in the balance—and redeem herself from the deadly mistake she has made.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781941020166 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Patriot Press |
| Publication date: | 04/06/2018 |
| Pages: | 338 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.76(d) |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
January, 1863
The sun cast its last rays of the day across the western horizon, creating a spectacular display of color in the process. But the three riders hidden in the trees overlooking the Union camp did not see it. They focused their attention on the white tents below them, and the long shadows creeping like fingers toward their objective.
They did not talk. Their eyes were the only things that moved as they waited, watched, and listened. From the intensity of their expressions as they stared down at the Federal encampment, one would think they were closely evaluating the next move in a chess game.
Most of the activity below appeared to be concentrated in a large, canvas tent, so there was not much to see — but there was plenty to hear. The din emanating from within the enclosure's folds had increased substantially over the past two hours; the strains of music pealing forth, and the offbeat clapping of hands, suggested a lively celebration had been underway for quite some time.
When an elegant carriage arrived in front of the tent, the men still did not move or display the slightest inclination to react. But the moment the fiddle stopped playing, they seemed to collectively hold their breath, and lean forward in anticipation.
An uproar of laughter soon replaced the sound of music — at a level so raucous as to provoke a dog to bark in alarm at the disturbance. It was clear the party was breaking up, just as the encroaching shadows created by the setting sun reached the encampment.
As figures began to appear, all three men on the hillside concentrated on the scene with hawk-like intensity. Union soldiers, mostly officers, spilled out like a dark blue stream and promptly melted away into the shadows. The gentle buzz of voices drifting on the breeze created a general hum, making individual conversations impossible to discern, no matter how hard the horsemen strained.
Within moments, two elegantly dressed civilian men and a commanding officer walked into view. They moved at a leisurely — and unsteady — pace to the carriage, where they paused to converse, just as two more shadows materialized in the doorway.
A screech owl chose that moment to emit its eerie call from above, but still, the riders did not move. Even their mounts stood alert, yet motionless, as the soft glow of light radiating from the tent illuminated the first figure. It was a woman — an elderly lady of distinction, if one could judge from the twist of gray hair, the elegant attire, and the high position of her chin.
Three sets of eyes immediately shifted to the next figure, another woman, but she had raised the hood of her lavish cloak before walking into the light, making it impossible to distinguish her age or any identifiable characteristics.
The gentlemen helped the ladies into the carriage before climbing in behind them, causing the conveyance to rock precariously, and the horses to pull impatiently. The older woman leaned out and took the general's hand. Her distinct voice carried easily. "Thank you so much for your hospitality, General Carlyle."
"My pleasure." The officer inclined his head into the coach, appearing to talk to the other woman. "I expect to hear from you soon ... about my proposal."
The voice that answered was that of a young female, soft in tone, and full of mirth in attitude. Her reply drifted up the hillside. "I shall not keep you in suspense for long, General. In the meantime, please accept my gratitude for your kindness in providing a pass."
Two Federal outriders cantered up just then to escort the conveyance as far as the pickets, bringing the conversation — or at least any sound of it — to an end. As the carriage pulled away, the men on the hillside backed their horses into the tree line.
One of the men leaned close and whispered to his leader, "Did you see what you came to see?"
The man questioned did not answer, but the expression on his face as he stared in the direction of the disappearing carriage made it clear he had seen something he had not wished to see.
Without another word, he turned his horse and spurred it into the darkness. The other two riders swiftly followed.
CHAPTER 2
February, 1863
Charles J. Thorpe, chief detective of the Union Intelligence Service, walked down the long corridor with hurried strides, even though he knew he was in for a tongue-lashing from his superiors.
Anyone who saw the detective's corpulent figure stomping along knew enough to move out of his way. The hallway was narrow, and Thorpe's temper, like his waistline, was bigger than anything around it.
The spring of discontent had descended upon the Army of the Potomac with little warning and no respite. The bloody sacrifices of the past two years had been offset by the timid, vacillating leadership of those to whom the highest commands had been entrusted. McClellan — the worst of them — could not be induced to attack unless his force was overwhelmingly superior and victory was assured. The President had at last replaced him, but little had changed.
Months ago, Thorpe had been certain the war would be brought to a conclusive end within weeks, but since then, the winds of war had changed. A new leader — an antagonistic, lawless villain — had stepped forward and transferred the conflict into the shadows. Every move Union forces made, every advance, and every strike, was anticipated by the enemy and used against the North. Still worse, prisoners were disappearing by the dozens — not all at one time, mind you. Only a few here and a handful there. Just enough to be considered a singular incident, and not a big one at that.
In the past few weeks, the enterprising escapades had become more frequent and singularly daring — and the prisoners of higher value. Just last week, two Confederate officers had disappeared from the prison at Point Lookout. The week before that, three colonels and a major vanished into thin air while being transported to a prison in New York.
The incidents had sparked the rise of curious rumors. Incredible stories traveled like wildfire from as the population in Washington became strangely excited about it all. In fact, on the streets and in homes, in open society and in private conversation — they spoke of nothing else.
The facts, according to local gossip, were that a gang of ruffians from the countryside had organized the raids and recruited others to take part under threat of death. Even those convalescing in Confederate hospitals were not exempt from being drafted to assist the vigilante band's nefarious endeavors. They reportedly slipped out at night, bandages and all, only to be found recuperating once again in their beds by morning.
As winter continued with little actual fighting, the feats performed by the meddlesome band of reprobates had increased in frequency — and grown more cunning and creative. Who they were, and where exactly they'd come from was not yet clear, but it was widely accepted they were under the leadership of a man whose brazenness and fearlessness were almost too bold to be possible.
Stories of his stealth, his daring, and his bravery were magnified and enhanced as they passed from ear to ear, so that now the troupe of traitors was never spoken of without a superstitious shudder.
And why not? The blatant impudence of the midnight crusaders knew no bounds. In recent weeks, after a sudden defeat in a battle or the loss of valuable prisoners, a communication would appear — sometimes an official dispatch delivered by courier, but just as often a slip of paper mysteriously discovered in an officer's coat or an ominous warning scratched out in the ashes of a burned-out campfire.
The message always contained a brief notice that the crew of ruffians was at work, and it was always stamped with a wax seal depicting the figure of a winged lion.
Everyone took the symbol as it was no doubt intended. The lion, of course, was a courageous animal — noble, regal, majestic. The wings symbolized the evil-doer's ability to fly away unseen — as he so often did.
One thing was for certain. This irreverent troublemaker knew the most effectual way to injure the enemy. With a vigilance hard to escape, the Lion would pounce upon messengers bearing important dispatches between the War Department and the officers in the field. As a result, the Lion's band of miscreants captured papers of great importance and left Union commanders feeling insecure about advancing or even retreating, resulting in no movement or action in any direction.
Fear, rather than sense, ruled the deliberations of the federal government, and terror was greatly felt by those serving in the field. Although outright attacks by the unknown foe were seldom waged, the results, when they occurred, were always the same. The brave bandit would launch his riders like a storm wind, striking Union forces with unbridled ferocity and undaunted impetuosity. A peaceful hush would follow, like the quiet after a storm — with the battlefield littered with the fallen.
Mostly as a way to protect himself and his job, Detective Thorpe took great pains to diminish the grandeur of the miraculous feats pulled off by the Lion. He blamed the officers in charge, or the prison wardens under whose failed leadership the events occurred. Within the last few weeks, he had doubled the number of his assistant detectives and spies and flaunted liberal rewards to the ailing country people for their help in capturing the elusive and insolent cad. One thousand dollars in U.S. gold was promised to the man or woman who revealed the identity of the mysterious and elusive Lion of the South.
Thorpe prided himself on his reputation for craftiness and cunning, but recognized that his ability to corner and capture the Lion would take more than just guile. He needed an ally in the field to help sway public opinion against this enterprising daredevil — and he knew just the man for the job.
Unfortunately, it was too late to prevent the Lion from getting fresh accolades. News of the infuriating foe's latest triumph had obviously reached the White House, and Thorpe knew where the blame was going to fall. He knocked once on an ornate, wooden door before entering and found, as he expected, about a dozen high-level officers sitting around a large table. Aides and orderlies stood awkwardly along the wall or were seated in the few extra chairs scattered throughout the chamber.
"Nice of you to join us. I suppose you've heard the news." The Secretary of War did not bother to greet Thorpe with salutations, nor did anyone else in the room.
"I've caught wind of some of it, sir." Thorpe stood beside a chair apparently reserved for him, gasping and wheezing as he tried to catch his breath after the short, brisk walk. "Surely, it can't be as bad as they say."
"Can't be as bad as they say?" The secretary's fist hit the table. "It is worse than what they say. I want to make it clear that this scoundrel must be caught, and he must be apprehended soon." The official calmed himself by taking a deep breath and then opened a folder to pass out the papers contained within. "Now that Detective Thorpe is here, I won't keep this under wraps any longer. You have all probably guessed, the Lion of the South has struck once more."
"Did he make off with prisoners again?" one of the men asked.
"Or was it horses this time?" A man in civilian dress, sitting with arms crossed and looking bored, waited for the papers to be distributed.
"Gads," Thorpe grumbled as he hurriedly scanned the report. "I tell you ... that man, Captain O'Keefe, must be a fool! That meddlesome bandit wouldn't get by my men unless he be the devil himself."
The secretary ignored the comments as he stood and began to pace with his hands locked behind his back. "As you can see," he said, shaking his head as if still trying to come to terms with the exploit himself, "a lone rider galloped headlong toward the pickets at O'Keefe's outpost near the Chain Bridge last night, waving a white flag and yelling at the top of his lungs."
"Military protocol would require that they stop him." An officer at the far end of the room stretched impatiently for a copy of the report that had not yet reached him. "It's inconceivable to think any foe would dare come this close to the defenses of our nation's capital."
"Oh, yes. They stopped him."
The room grew quiet as the men concentrated on the single sheet of paper in their hands.
"As you can see in the report," the secretary said, "the rider, all red-faced and out of breath, told the pickets he was a local farmer and that he'd run across the Lion and his men, encamped in a nearby grove of trees."
"Then what happened?" A wide-eyed young man who was apparently an aide to one of the important people at the table — and therefore not privy to the report — leaned forward in innocent anticipation.
"I'm getting to that." The secretary shot the man a punishing look for speaking. "Captain O'Keefe gathered his men and sent them spurring out of the camp, all in a flurry and armed to the teeth, certain, no doubt, that he would be the one to snag the Lion and the reward." The official shot a scathing rebuke toward Thorpe.
"And was he there?" The young man was too anxious to hear the rest of the story to heed proper protocol and remain quiet.
"Oh, he was there all right."
"So, he's been captured?" The soldier slapped his leg.
"No, you stupid jackanape. He wasn't captured."
A soldier wearing the stars of a general shook the paper in his hand. "'Twas a trick! The Lion's men, and a whole lot more of them damned rebels, were waiting in the woods."
"That's right." The secretary finished the story, hitting the table with his hand again as he did so. "They gobbled O'Keefe's men right up. Not a shot fired. The entire regiment swept away to a Southern prison, probably never to be seen again."
The entire circle of men fell silent after a seemingly shared exhalation of breath. The story certainly lent itself to something of supernatural proportions and left them awestruck. Truly, the Lion must be the devil himself to have ventured right to their doorstep. Surely, this will-o'-the-wisp was aware that the gaping mouths of hundreds of cannon were aimed at that bridge, and thousands of armed men were within hailing distance.
Yet each was also aware that no effort, or next to none at any rate, had been made to guard against such flagrant brazenness; such blatant, deliberate impudence. Who indeed would dare such a foolish and dangerous act of diversion?
"If those of you in this room cannot do the job," the Secretary of War said, loudly enough to get everyone's attention. "I will find those who can. This rebel is toying with us, laughing at us. The constant aggravation he is causing me is either through a lack of exertion on your part or a preponderance of determination on his!"
The group remained seated, silent and sullen, either staring out the window or eyeing one another warily, wondering whom the Lion could be.
"The impertinence," one finally said.
"The insolence," said another.
"The courage ..."
CHAPTER 3
Early March, 1863
All was astir at the usually quiet Welbourne Manor. Set among the rolling hills of Virginia and less than fifty miles from the outskirts of the nation's capital, the home was striking in both size and magnificence. Even the most casual observer could ascertain that the owner of the property was not only a prosperous man, but also one who valued taste and refinement.
The sprawling plantation house that dominated the property was not just a place of regal splendor, but a home that displayed character, grace, and charm. Beautiful sculptures and statues embellished the vast gardens, and white marble fountains rose in small clearings among the rich foliage. In every direction, one could see horses grazing, and miles of stone fence that rose and fell with the undulating landscape.
As for the dwelling itself, four massive, cathedral-like columns accentuated the front porch and welcomed guests with great stateliness and majesty. Two large windows bookmarked the front door, and a balcony overhead added a touch of sophisticated charm to the scene. The house and its grounds could certainly compete with any palace in the world for its attractiveness and expression of bygone glory.
The interior of the grand home was no less magnificent — yet not ostentatious in the least. Dark, wooden floors gleamed with polish, and ornate silver candelabras in the foyer shone like new. The ceilings were of an impressive height, and the decorative plaster corbels in the doorframes displayed a high level of intricacy and elegance. Wealth, combined with excellent taste and class, were in evidence everywhere, making it clear no reasonable wish or necessity would be left unfulfilled.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Lion of the South"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Jessica James.
Excerpted by permission of Jessica James.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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