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United States--History--Civil War, 1861-1865--Fiction, Desertion, Military--Fiction, Historical fiction, War stories.
publication date
:
1990
lcc
:
PS3561.O29D4 1990eb
ddc
:
813/.54
subject
:
United States--History--Civil War, 1861-1865--Fiction, Desertion, Military--Fiction, Historical fiction, War stories.
Page 3
The Deserter
by Robert Koch
Page 4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Koch, Robert, 1943 The deserter / by Robert Koch. p. cm. ISBN 0-8361-3519-9 : 1. United StatesHistoryCivil War, 18611865Fiction. I. Title. PS3561.029D4 1990 813'.54dc20 90-30530 CIP
The paper used in this publication is recycled and meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.
THE DESERTER Copyright 1990 by Herald Press, Scottdale, Pa. 15683 Published simultaneously in Canada by Herald Press, Waterloo, Ont. N2L 6H7. All rights reserved. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-30530 International Standard Book Number: 0-8361-3519-9 Printed in the United States of America Cover art by Edwin B. Wallace/Book design by Merrill R. Miller
97 96 95 94 93 92 91 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Page 5
To my parents Roy Swartz Koch and Martha Horst Koch for teaching me the way to peace
Page 7
PART ONE THE TELEGRAM
Page 9
1
A tongue of icy wind licked at his neck, then lifted a strand of his thinning gray hair off his forehead. It went on, traveling down his arm where it riffled the unopened telegram he held in his left hand, away from his thick body like something dirty. He stood rooted to the spot he'd been in since the boy had handed down the message without dismounting his mare. Now messenger and beast were disappearing in a distant cloud of dust. Dust that rose slowly into a sky grown heavy with thunderclouds.
Benjamin King was fifty-five years old, overweight, nearsighted, and sick at heart. He knew he did not need to open the wire he held to learn that his life from this day on would be vastly altered. A mere shadow of its former vitality. The chill in his heart seemed a fitting echo of the mid-September wind which was suddenly unseasonably cold.
"Telegram from Washington, sir!" The boy's four words had been enough. No need to tell this aging citizen what that signified. It could mean only one thing. He shuddered as another gust of wind slid around him, finding his heart somehow.
He thought of Joseph, somewhere in Virginia. Or was it Maryland? It didn't matter, anymore. They would be shipping him homenow he would be useless as cannon fodder. In a box. Would they bill him for the freight, here in far-off Michigan? By the mile? Or by weight? His son was tall, long, and solid.
Page 10
Grim humor bubbled around his heart, but in an instant it turned into a film of tears on his gray eyes. He brought up his free hand and pinched away the water. His mind spun, striving for balance, for normality. One part of it pushed away the thought of the news that fluttered in his fingertips, another portion of him recalled his son's last letter. From a place in Virginia near the capital, Washington city. Nothing more definite than that, because censorship limited details. It seemed ridiculous to Ben, for letters posted to the West to be considered a possible benefit to the rebels!
But there was never a shadow of doubt where the Army of the Potomac had been, Ben thought bitterly. The New York Tribune took care of hindsight admirably. Even in distant southern lower Michigan the fire and ire of Horace Greeley left their marks in every local rag-and-scandal sheet till a semiretired farmer and part-time preacher felt like giving up his subscriptions, starved as he might be for fresh reading matter.
He sighed and stared at the sealed telegram. He wiggled a blunt, calloused thumb beneath the envelope flap. Something caught in his throat. Impulsively, he jerked his thumb away again, and stuffed the flimsy paper into a breast pocket of his broadcloth vest. No need to read the actual words. Not yet, anyway. In his mind's eye he already could see the message of sympathy. The personal condolences from Father Abraham. Maybe even in that worthy's own hand, from that great white city which had for over a year now been the seat of the great god of war who ruled the hearts and minds of men. For too long the passions of greed and selfishness had reigned in their souls.
Ben King realized he was trembling. He ran a hand over his balding head. His knees shook. Suddenly, he felt old and he grasped the gatepost to steady himself. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and the movement seemed to
Page 11
cause a door to open into his memory.
Washington city, the District of Columbia, nation's capital. It was a familiar place for Ben King, when he lived just a short buggy ride north, in southern Pennsylvania. That was home, before his father's sudden death and his move to the frontier with his mother and new bride. He had returned there once in the intervening years. It had been back in the late forties and he had taken nine-year-old Joseph with him. The boy had never seen the original family homestead. He had loved it, the trip on horseback, and the paddle-wheel steamboat.
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