Ghosts of Vicksburg

Kathleen Ernst

Preview

Chapter 1: Jamie
August, 1862
Near Corinth, Mississippi

Jamie swallowed hard as sudden perspiration beaded on his forehead. Drat this fog! He was lost. The suffocating gray mist obscured any landmark. And concealed whatever—whoever—was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand erect.

He stood still, clenching his Union Army-issued rifle, and strained to hear the faint sound again. He’d never known that dense fog not only cloaked sight, but muffled hearing as well. Fog like this was rare in northern Wisconsin, where he’d mostly grown up. He was not a stranger to Mississippi; he’d spent every sultry summer near Vicksburg, visiting cousins. But his slight knowledge of the terrain only made his skin prickle. Mississippi was home to more than the Confederates who’d run him through with a bayonet if they got the chance. Mississippi slithered and crawled and buzzed with creatures unknown in the cool dry forests back home, all just as dangerous as the enemy soldiers.

Jamie hated picket duty. Hated it. Tromping a lonely line in the wee hours of night, while his pards snored safely in their tiny tents, tied his belly in knots. But this choking dark fog—this was the worst yet. One wrong step and he’d lost sight of the last Union campfire. A careful step back in what he thought was the right direction had not provided the comforting glimmer he craved of his army. Nor another step, or another. Now he was hopelessly lost. Was he two steps away from the Union encampment? Half a mile? His best pard Elisha slept like the dead, and wouldn’t wake to wonder why Jamie hadn’t returned when expected.

The damp night smelled of rotting vegetation. The 14^th Wisconsin Regiment had skirted a slimy maze of bayous and swamps before making camp. Wetness oozed through the seams in Jamie’s army brogans.

A tiny splash pricked the night. What direction had it come from? Goosebumps rose on his skin.

Then a breath of damp air brought the sound of a voice. The snatch of words were unintelligible. But they were unmistakably Southern. He’d spent too many hours arguing with his cousin Althea to mistake that drawl.

"Who’s there?" Jamie demanded, his voice ripping open the night. "Who goes there?"

Silence. Heart thumping, Jamie eased the rifle to his shoulder. Eased back the hammer with a trembling finger. Gritted his teeth. Waited.

Crack! A footfall snapped a stick.

And then the night exploded.