in a tooled leather sheath on his left hip and bragged to everybody how well he could use that wicked-looking blade. One evening in camp, after they’d eaten their evenin’ grub, Jorn Murphy was watching Jeff.
“Come over here, Private, and let me teach you how to kill a man, quiet like.” The big man motioned to Jeff. The federals had already fought in several engagements. Their side had been winning battles all that week. Jeff and his pa were bone-tired. They were sitting side by side on a log; they’d just finished sharing another huge watermelon as their supper. Jeff’s dad moved off the log. He was now sitting with his back against a tree, smoking his corncob pipe. Jorn Murphy had been their sergeant since Jeff and his papa joined up.
He motioned to Jeff again. “Come over here, boy, I want to give you a killing lesson. Pay attention now. Here’s how you can kill a feller real quick like. You right-handed? Good, now watch close. You slip up behind a man, real quiet like so he don’t hear no sound, you see, then you reach around him with your left hand, like this, you pull him to you quick like, and you slip your right-handed knife blade under his throat at the same time and slice him quick. Be sure you pull your knife left to right as you slice his throat. That way, the blood will shoot out away from your hand, you understand?”
Jeff looked at his papa, his papa nodded, silently saying, “Go ahead, son. Let the man teach you something. Remember, you don’t never have to do it to nobody if you don’t want to.”
“Here’s another way, boy. You creep up behind a man, walking on the balls of your feet quiet as a cat, you get real close, then you grab him, and quick, you pull him to you real close as you reach around and stab him high up in his gut right here under his rib cage. The blade will go right into his heart. You need to hold him close and tight till he quits trembling, then you let him sink down to the ground real quiet like.” Jeff shivered. He knew he’d never want any part of that kind of killing in this bloody war or any other time.
Two weeks later Thomas Abraham Nelson was shot in the head by a sniper’s musket ball early one morning east of Stanton, Virginia. His only son, Jeffery Nelson, had been allowed to hurriedly bury his father’s body. Jeff marked the grave with the digging shovel and hurriedly constructed a small wooden stake. He vowed to his papa he’d return someday and claim his bones. Then the Yankee colonel had ordered his soldiers to move on. They’d chased that Confederate ragtag army all the way into North Carolina, where they finally escaped the Yankees by fording a river. Young Jeff Nelson teared up off and on for a month over the death of his papa. He’d just had his seventeenth birthday. Sergeant Jornett Murphy took Jeff under his wing, looked after him, and kept Jeff nearby whenever they’d fought the rebels. He sorta became Jeff’s guardian for a short while. Then their colonel was killed, and the soldiers were regrouped, and Jeff got himself a new colonel. He saw Jornett Murphy no more.
Chapter Five
Jeff was bone-tired. They’d been marching without stopping since sunup. He’d eaten some salted beef and hardtack for his lunch while they were moving. Now he sat on a tree stump, his left leg across his right knee. He was inspecting a large blister on his left heel where his boot kept rubbing it. They were camped by a creek for the evening. It was almost dark, and Jeff was too dang tuckered out to eat any supper. He’d just finished drinking his third cup of canteen coffee, to fill his grumbling belly. His new sergeant, a religious man, walked by and noticed Jeff nursing his heel. “What you got yourself there m’boy, a blister?”
“Yes, sir, and it’s a big’un too.”
“Don’t sir me, boy. I ain’t no officer. Ain’t you got no socks to wear?”
“No, I ain’t got no socks, I’ve heard of ’em, but I ain’t never seen none. I’ve went barefoot till I was joined with you folks.”
“Stay put where you be, younker, I’ll brung you a pair, my old lady knits mighty fine socks.”
He returned with the socks. “Here, try these ’ens on fer size. The next Reb you dispatch, check to see if he’s wearing socks. If he is, take ’em off him. He won’t be needin’ ’em where he’s agoing, though, most of them fellers I’ve witnessed lately ain’t even wearing shoes, much lessen socks. Oh, and you be sure you put some carbolated grease on that heel blister before you pull them socks on, younker.”
At first light, Jeff was awakened by people already up; some fellows were moving about, some loudly talking, some fellows were praying quiet like, and others were eating their breakfast of salted beef and hardtack. Jeff knew that stuff wasn’t tasty, but it was filling. He’d slept in his given socks and now he’d carefully pulled on his scuffed boots. He stood, carefully, his blister had quit hurting since he’d smeared it good last night with carbolated grease. Maybe it was gonna be all right, he’d see. Jeff refilled his canteen with water from the creek. He drank it and refilled it, knowing he’d be thankful he did in a little while. Next, with his back to the creek bank, Jeff emptied his bladder into the red dirt, and now he was ready to march.
Jeff fell in step with his group of soldiers, and the regiment began marching at daylight. They stopped at noon, ate, and were resting under a grove of trees. A cavalry troop leading a string of riderless horses came by, stopped, and made inquiries. Jeff’s new colonel called his men to attention and asked;
“Can anyone in this company stay mounted on a galloping horse while firing his weapon accurately? If so, does he want to join these horse soldiers and be willing to die sooner than later? This captain here says he needs a few more able-bodied men who can ride horses and sharp-shoot the enemy dead from the backs of galloping horses. If any of you can do that, speak up. This young fool wants to ride up ahead of us and fight some rebel foot soldiers. If you wanna die sooner than later, he says to come, mount yourself a horse and join him.”
Jeff was tired of marching, facing the hot sun, choking on dust, walking with blistered heels, so he immediately volunteered. He’d ridden a horse at a gallop, and he could hit with a musket ball what he aimed at. Jeff was plumb tired of being a foot soldier, he figured he’d make a better horse soldier dead then a marching, blister-footed soldier alive, anytime.
“Here, sir, here I am, I’m your man, count me in. I fit all them qualifications you’re looking for. I’ll make you a fine horse soldier.”
So for the rest of the war, Jeff fought the Confederates from the back of a horse. He wore a pistol on each hip, two pistols in his waist belt, and a .50-caliber Sharps rifle in his saddle scabbard. Three horses had been shot from under him. He had two musket ball holes in his hat, several in his great coat, but so far, no musket ball or pistol bullet had found its mark anywhere on Jeff’s hide, knock on wood. He’d been promoted twice. Jeff was now a sergeant, and he had twenty cavalrymen he was responsible for.
At nineteen, Jeff Nelson was mature and clean-shaven, which was rare. He stood six feet tall and lean as a cane fishing pole. He had grown into a rugged cavalryman, a fighting machine, and a cold-blooded killer of men. When he walked, which wasn’t often, Jeff walked on the balls of his feet, like a cat. He often loomed in front of someone; which made some people nervous to be around him. Jeff forever stayed focused on his army duties. He’d become a professional. His superiors thought he was a grand fighter.
“Sergeant Nelson, front and center, on the double, pronto!”
Uh-oh, Jeff knew right away he and his men was being volunteered for another duty.
“Yes, sir, what’s up, Captain?” His captain was alone. He took Jeff by his arm, and they walked off by themselves. His captain lit a small black cigar and offered Jeff one, who declined. The officer spoke in a low voice. “Sergeant, there’s a fast stage wagon coming toward us on yonder road even as I speak. A little bird tells me it might be carrying a Confederate strongbox of gold and silver. I want you and your twenty horse-pistols to go and ambush that wagon, kill all them rebels, and bring that money back to me, post haste. You figger you can do that, Nelson, without gettin’ yourself and your men killed?”
“What does post haste mean, Captain?”
“It means go do it in a hell of a hurry, son.”
“Yes,