Уильям Дитц - Battle Hymn

And there was another threat as well. It didn’t seem likely given the circumstances. But what if Everson was flat-out lying? And more than that, leading the task force into a trap? It was a possibility that Mac and Walters had discussed. So unbeknownst to Everson, a Predator drone was scouting the route ahead. Lieutenant Collins was responsible for maintaining contact with the operator—and would let Mac know if there were signs of trouble.

But there weren’t any alerts as the Union vehicles ventured out into the countryside. “This is Longarm-Six,” Mac said. “We’re in the zone. Keep a sharp lookout. Over.”

Mac heard a flurry of clicks before ducking down into the cargo area below. The rest of the passengers turned to look at her. “So,” Mac said, as she sat down. “We’re getting close. What’s next?”

“We’re going to pass through the town of Frogsong,” Everson replied. “It was founded by ex-slaves immediately after the first civil war. Then we’ll enter the farm. According to what I was told during my visit, it’s about half the size of the family’s original holdings. But it still includes something like a thousand acres of land and swamp.”

“Okay, and then?”

“Then we’ll drive to the center of the farm. Union troops burned the original mansion to the ground. When the war ended, Colonel LeMay’s great-grandfather built a new home on an island in the middle of Snake Bayou where, in Mrs. LeMay’s words, ‘the Yankees couldn’t get at it.’”

“We’ll see about that,” Mac said dryly. “So LeMay is on the island. How can we reach it?”

“There’s an old drawbridge,” Everson replied. “But the colonel is likely to raise it. Maybe we can locate some boats.”

Both of the LAV-25s were amphibious, and could “swim” out to the island, so long as there was a beach to launch from. But Mac saw no need to explain that and didn’t. She went forward to stand in the hatch again.

The vic passed dilapidated houses from time to time, along with empty fruit stands and a run-down church. Then the column entered Frogsong. There weren’t many people on Main Street, and those who were stood and stared. Mac figured they hadn’t seen much of the war and weren’t sure who the vehicles belonged to.

Judging from the brick buildings that lined both sides of Main Street, Frogsong had been a bustling place at one time. But those days were over. At least half the stores were empty and hung with FOR SALE signs. The sidewalks were sagging, weeds grew in the neglected street planters, and the clock on the bank was more than four hours off.

After passing a defunct Ford dealership, the task force entered the leafy tunnel formed by two rows of ancient oak trees. The passageway delivered the convoy to a formal gate with an overarching sign: FROGSONG FARM. The soldiers had arrived.

The gravel road went past a rusty tractor and a tumbledown barn before turning north. Mac caught a glimpse of the Mississippi off to the left but lost sight of the river as thick trees blocked the view. Rays of sunlight streamed down through broken clouds to splash the land with pools of liquid gold. No wonder the LeMay family loves this place, Mac thought. I would, too.

The road narrowed as water appeared on the right. Snake Bayou? Probably. And that meant the task force could run into trouble at any moment. LeMay had a lot of employees according to what Everson had told her, some of whom were so-called swamp rats, and excellent shots.

That’s what Mac was thinking about when she spotted the vehicles parked up ahead. There were cars, pickup trucks, and a bus. People were milling around but none appeared to be armed. It wasn’t what Mac expected to see, and she told Provo to pull over. Then she asked Yancy for his mike. “This is Longarm-Six actual. We’re pulling over. Gunners will remain at their stations. Longarm-One, Longarm-Four, and I will go forward to check the situation out. Longarm-Five will be in command while I’m gone. Maintain situational awareness. Over.”

The back ramp was down by the time Mac dropped down into the cargo compartment, and Sergeant Preston was waiting outside. “Bring three soldiers,” Mac told him. “Whoever you’d like to have around you if the shit hits the fan.”

With her M4 at the ready, Mac led them up the road. A well-kept cemetery bordered the road on the left. It was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence on which wreaths of flowers had been hung. A man in a black suit was helping an elderly woman out of an ancient Cadillac. Mac paused to speak with him. “Excuse me. I’m Major Macintyre, Union Army. What’s going on here?”

The man had short black hair, dark skin, and a dignified manner. “Welcome to Frogsong, Major… I’m Mayor Cummings. This is my mother, Natalie. We came for the funeral.”

“May I ask who died?” Mac inquired, as people entered the cemetery.

“Of course,” Cummings answered. “We’re here to say good-bye to Colonel LeMay. This was his farm.”

LeMay was dead? Mac could hardly believe it. “What happened? Did he have a heart attack?”

“Oh, no,” Cummings replied. “He deserted, and Mrs. LeMay shot him. Then she planned the funeral.”

Mac stared at him. “You’re serious?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, Mrs. LeMay is in jail?”

“No, ma’am,” Cummings answered. “The sheriff says the army should deal with it. He means the Confederate Army, but they left the area. Maybe you can handle it. Would you like to meet Mrs. LeMay?”

“The locals don’t want to charge her,” Everson observed. “They think Mrs. LeMay did the right thing.”

Mac knew that her father would agree. And, because she was his daughter, she had similar feelings. Would she shoot a deserter? No. Maybe. She wasn’t sure. “Thank you, Mayor. Please lead the way.”

The Union soldiers followed Cummings through the gate and up the aisle, which, according to the names on the monuments, served to divide the LeMays from everyone else. They included in-laws, servants, and a Great Dane named Duke.

And there, at the end of the corridor, about fifty folding chairs had been set up. And as the mayor arrived, a woman in a knee-length black dress came forward to greet him. “Mayor Cummings! How nice of you to come! And Mrs. Cummings… I do hope you brought some of your famous peach pie for the wake. It’s a pity, isn’t it? The peach crop was only half what it should have been. Peach trees don’t like waterlogged soil.

“And Lieutenant Everson! What a wonderful surprise. That was such a beautifully written note that you sent us. Please allow me to apologize for the colonel’s actions. His father is buried right over there, and I can hear him rolling over! There’s no excuse for cowardice, none at all, and I’m sure the Lord will explain that to John when they meet in heaven.”

Mrs. LeMay’s bright blue eyes were alight with patriotic fervor, or was it madness? Regardless of that, Mac could feel the power of Mrs. LeMay’s personality as the other woman turned to confront her. “I don’t believe we’ve met, Major. Union Army, I presume?”

“Yes,” Mac replied. “My name is Macintyre. I was sent to find your husband.”

“Well, mission accomplished,” Mrs. LeMay said as she directed a nod toward the ornate casket. “He’s right there.” The coffin was sitting on two sawhorses draped with bunting. “Macintyre you say… I met a general named Macintyre about three months ago. Are you related?”

“He’s my father.”

“And you’re fighting for the North ? How extraordinary. That must be very difficult for him.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mac replied. “We haven’t spoken to each other in a long time.”

Mac cleared her throat. “Please accept my apologies, ma’am, but I need to look in the casket. More than that, we’ll have to take photographs and a tissue sample.”