Casca 26: Johnny Reb Read online

  This is a book of fiction. All the names, characters and events portrayed in this book are Fictional and any resemblance to real people and incidents are purely coincidental.

  CASCA: #26 Johnny Reb

  Casca Ebooks are published by arrangement with the copyright holder

  Copyright © 2007 by Tony Roberts

  Cover design by Dynamic Arts

  All Rights Reserved

  Casca eBooks are for personal use of the original buyer only. All Casca eBooks are exclusive property of the publisher and/or the authors and are protected by copyright and other intellectual property laws. You may not modify, transmit, publish, participate in the transfer or sale of, reproduce, create derivative works from, distribute, perform, display, or in any way exploit, any of the content of our eBooks, in whole or in part. eBooks are NOT returnable.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 27 The Confederate

  PROLOGUE

  The smoke of battle drifted across the ground in front of the line of standing men, waiting for the attack. A neat triple row of blue and white, all armed with the Charleville musket, 60 inches of killing machine that could deliver a .66 calibre ball capable of hitting a target with some degree of accuracy at around 100 yards. The row of waiting French soldiers peered ahead into the nebulous cloud that somehow seemed threatening, sinister, and from inside the grey-white mass the sound of metallic clinking could be heard. The sound of buckles and buttons scraping across muskets and bayonets as a host of enemy soldiers advanced, as yet unseen.

  Casca gripped his musket nervously, fear eating at his innards. Why he was so frightened he didn’t know, but some black dread was engulfing him; he knew that what was coming for him would be his nemesis. Why this was so he had no idea, for a man cursed to immortality such as he, no-one could possibly kill him.

  The men to left and right of him stood stolidly, their black bicornes firmly on their heads, their blue and white uniforms smart and clean. Why are theirs so clean when mine is soiled? His mind asked the question without looking at them. His own uniform was shabby, unkempt. The campaign into Russia had been long and hard, and his once spotless uniform was beginning to fall apart. It was torn and ragged on the sleeves and down the front, where some buttons were missing, and his culottes – his trousers – were torn, muddy and soaking wet. His comrades to left and right showed no sign of any dirt or wear, and they could have just arrived from training camp, so spotless they were.

  The sound of thousands of tramping feet from ahead carried to him and he stared at the swirling clouds in front, his legs trembling and his arms shaking. His guts felt like lead and he almost felt as though he wanted to void his innards, rather like having a sudden attack of dysentery. Terror. Pure unadulterated terror. He’d never felt like this before – so why now?

  The smoke in front of him began thinning and suddenly scores of shadowy figures began appearing; tall, relentless, unstoppable. Their bayonets pointed wickedly forward and Casca felt the intent emanating from them, an intent to destroy him.

  A voice drifted eerily across the waiting French line, viser! Casca shook and leveled his musket, and as he did so the line of men with him followed suit. The advancing soldiers came on, tall and broad, their feet stamping hard into the ground so that their tramping sounded like a drum roll filling the air. He waited a heartbeat, then the order came floating to the French line like some disemboweled voice from Hades: tirez!

  A crashing volley roared out from hundreds of muskets, a terrifying wall of lead balls that screamed at the advancing Russian figures, but the advancing figures carried on, unscathed. No! That should have killed them! Casca’s mind screamed. Now he could see their faces and his fear knew no bounds. Dead faces, grinning skulls, all heading for him. He cried out, and fumbled into his pouch for another cartridge. How could hundreds of shot miss so many of the enemy? The men to left and right of Casca made their minds up and turned and ran, throwing away their guns, leaving Casca to face the apparitions alone.

  Their eerie voices came to him as they closed in, bayonets gleaming in the light. Longinus! Longinussssss! Thousands of spectral figures, skeletal hands gripping their muskets, surrounded him. Casca frantically reloaded but his fingers betrayed him and the ramrod slipped to the ground.

  He tried to run but some unknown force held him fast, and he looked down. His shoddy boots, the soles of which had been working themselves loose for a few days now, had stuck to the mud and he was sunk up to his ankles and no matter how hard he pulled, the earth held him fast. All round him lay the discarded French muskets, and standing silently around him, skulls grinning beneath the caps and bicornes of the Russian Imperial army, were the enemy.

  Some, he saw, had bullet wounds in their skulls; others had wounds in their chests and he could see shattered ribs underneath, and he realized these were men he’d killed on the campaign. They’d all returned from the grave to exact their revenge.

  He was trapped and all round him a forest of bayonets pressed against him. All he could see were the nightmare apparitions and he pleaded for them to let him go, but he knew there was no pity from them. Then, beyond the wall of revenants, another came slowly towards him, pushing aside the skeletal figures and finally was stood before Casca.

  The Eternal Mercenary gagged. Putrid flesh was falling off this one’s face, and maggots writhed amongst it. Empty eye sockets glared at him malevolently and an arm slowly raised to point a rotting hand at him. “Longinusss,” it hissed, “you have been damned for all eternity. Your sentence has been passed and you will suffer in hell forever!”

  Casca suddenly knew who this figure was; the rotting cadaver had wounds on wrists and down one side, and he realized with terror where he’d seen wound like this before. He’d put them there himself.

  “I didn’t condemn you to death!” Casca yelled, shaking, “I tried to end your suffering! Why must I suffer these long years?”

  The figure laughed deeply, a low rumbling noise. “You did your duty, the duty of a professional soldier. So you must learn what it is to be a soldier, for all eternity, until we meet again…….”

  “But we are meeting now! Does this mean my curse is lifted?” Casca suddenly felt a surge of hope, a possibility that these long centuries of dreadful suffering were finally at an end, and now maybe he could finally enjoy peace.

  Jesus shook his head slowly. He laughed again. “Longinusss, you hope too eagerly. No, your suffering must go on, and on…and on….” He stepped back and lowe
red his arm.

  That was the signal for the dead Russians to move in on Casca. The bayonets began to sink into his body and he screamed….. and screamed……and screamed…….

  The house echoed to screams of anguish that carried to all parts from an upstairs room. Casca sat up suddenly, his face bathed in sweat, relieved it had only been a nightmare. He was still hearing screams, though, and looked round blearily. He was in the kitchen and it was early morning, just after dawn. He’d fallen asleep at the table during the night, waiting on the ailing woman upstairs.

  The kitchen table was occupied by another man, slumped listlessly in one of the oaken chairs set round it. He looked up at Casca – or as he was called by these people, Case Lonnergan - with red-rimmed eyes, then returned his attention to the bottle of whiskey in front of him. “She’s dead,” the drinker mumbled indifferently. “Good riddance!” he threw back the contents of a glass down his throat and wiped his mouth with the back of a hairy hand.

  “That’s Mary McGuire you’re talking about,” Case growled, still bad-tempered from his dream. He got up and advanced on the other and stood over him. Case was a scar-faced burly man with clear blue eyes, and looked capable of taking care of himself any time. “Go upstairs, Sean,” he said softly, “no call to start drinking now.”

  Sean glared at Case, then shook his head and reached for the bottle. The scarred man leaned over the seated man and took the half-completed whiskey bottle away. “You’ve had enough, Sean. Time to stop.”

  Sean made a half-hearted grab for the bottle but Case stepped away and poured the contents down the lead sink. “Like I said, enough.”

  “Damn you, Lonnergan,” Sean slurred. “What’s the harm? The old battleaxe is dead and now who cares about my drinking?”

  “Maybe Ann does, and your son?” Case Lonnergan stood leaning with his back against the sink, arms folded. He was wearing a white baggy shirt and faded gray jeans, held up with brown bracers. The sleeves were rolled up past the elbows and the arms were scarred in a few places, rather like he’d been careless with a bear in his past. But these scars weren’t caused by any animal; they were the legacy of a man cursed to live through all the ages until the Second Coming. Case Lonnergan had been born Casca Rufio Longinus over eighteen hundred years previously in northern Italy, during the reign of Augustus Caesar. He had served as a legionary in Rome’s legendary army, but he had been cursed by a dying Jesus as he lay on the cross to live until the Second Coming for his part in the crucifixion.

  So he’d fought down the ages, fighting as a Viking, Persian, Chinese, Mongol, Magyar, Byzantine and a dozen other empires or kingdoms. His scars were evidence of what he’d suffered during that time, but he wore them with pride, for what else did a warrior have to show for his courage? Only his dreams un-nerved him, a legacy of his endless fighting.

  Sean, on the other hand, was in his mid-twenties and had a normal life of growing up in Virginia. He had married a neighboring girl who had come across from Ireland and very soon afterwards had become a father. He’d found it a bit too much to handle and had taken to drink, and was little better than useless. The old woman of the household, Mary McGuire, had often threatened to throw him out of the household but her daughter Ann, Sean’s wife, had pleaded successfully for him to stay on.

  Now Mary was dead, taken by consumption. Case watched as Sean got unsteadily to his feet and glared at him. “You’re not going to stop me drinking, Lonnergan.” He staggered out through the open door to the yard. Case watched him go and shook his head sadly.

  The soft footfalls caught his attention and he turned to see a boy enter the kitchen, staring out through the door. He looked stricken. William Brady – or Billy – the son of Sean and Ann. Slight of build, dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. He had been born eight years previously when Case had been fighting in Mexico.

  “Uncle Case,” he said hesitantly, “Ma told me not to go into Nana’s room. Why are they all crying?”

  Case rolled his eyes. Damn that drunkard Sean Brady! This is what a father should be doing, not me! “You know your Nana has not been very well these last few months, Billy.” The boy nodded, his eyes wide. “I’m sorry but she’s gone to sleep for good now.”

  “Gone to sleep for good?” Billy’s eyes grew wide. “You mean she’s not going to wake up, ever?”

  Case shook his head sadly. “You remember Charlie the cat?” The family cat had died the year previously, an old moggie that they’d adopted a few years back. “Well, the same.” Case cursed silently again. He wasn’t very good at comforting kids; soldiering was his thing. Still, he did the best he could.

  “Aww….Nana!” Billy’s eyes welled up. He bit his finger in anguish, not knowing what to do or where to go. His mother had sent him down from the bedrooms and his father had just staggered out of the house; not that he was much good for anything anyway. He only smelled awful and beat him, that was when he could catch him. Case awkwardly put his thick arms round the boy who began to cry. Billy had liked his Nana; she had always been kindly and gave him treats. She had often spoken of Ireland, a mystical place far away, a place he wanted to visit. A place of mountains, green fields, leprechauns who jealously guarded their crocks of gold at the ends of rainbows, a fabled giant’s causeway and a place where snakes didn’t exist, having been banned by Saint Patrick long, long ago.

  Billy wept for the loss, but he was comforted by the big man’s presence. He was more of a father to him than the drinking, angry man who said he was. “Uncle Case,” Billy looked up, his cheeks wet.

  “Yeah?”

  “You won’t go away like Nana, will you?”

  Case smiled and shook his head. “No, Billy, I promise I’ll not go to sleep like her.” He knew this was no false promise, for he couldn’t die. One day he’d have to move on before his secret became obvious to these people, but for now he would continue to live in this farmhouse in Virginia. Besides, there was another reason he was staying other than to look after the boy.

  He knew that Billy, Ann and the others would die if he left. And that was a secret he couldn’t tell anyone.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It wasn’t often that Doctor Julius Goldman was able to combine his hobby with his profession, but the exhibition at the National Museum of Health and Medicine in Washington DC promised to do both. He had received an invite through the post, and normally when such items arrived he threw them away. Junk mail, a waste of time.

  However this was different. He had always been a keen amateur historian and a chance to attend the exhibition was a great chance to mix his hobby with his professional calling. Packed with the invite was a small bronze arrowhead. It had made Goldman shiver, and goose bumps broke out over his skin. He’d first seen this item after he’d operated on a remarkable man in Nha Trang hospital, Vietnam, back in 1970. A bronze arrowhead a couple of thousand years old had been resting inside this man’s thigh. Ever since that day his interest in history had become even more marked.

  The remarkable man, Casey Romain, was in fact not an American but a Roman soldier who’d speared Jesus on the cross and been cursed. Casey – or Casca – had told him his remarkable story in the hospital in Nha Trang, and ever since that day had returned to Goldman at irregular intervals to continue his story. Of late Casey had been concentrating on more recent events, maybe because they were freshest in his mind.

  Goldman had always looked forward to his meetings with Casey, and when the invite had arrived with the arrowhead – Casey’s calling card, so to speak – Goldman had cancelled all appointments for that week and booked a hotel in the capital. The poster had been scrawled with a date and time, and it was one appointment the ageing doctor would certainly not miss for anything.

  So here he was in 2003 driving along Georgia Avenue, safely out of the chill air of late autumn towards the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The museum was within the Walter Reed hospital campus so he’d need to drive through there to get to where he hoped Casey was waiting for him. He’d made sure t
he exhibition was open and was assured that it was definitely open on all days except December 25. He’d driven along beltway 495 and taken exit 31B and now slowed as the black wrought iron gates of the Army hospital came into view on the right. Just where the intersection with Elder Street stood was the entrance, and Goldman stopped at the gates where a security guard stood behind the obligatory barrier. Goldman wound down the window, wincing at the sudden assault of the chill November air.

  “Good morning. May I see some ID please?” the guard asked politely, peaked cap set firmly and securely on his head. Goldman was glad he’d gone into medicine rather than that of security. Security was not a job people got praised for. You were seen as a necessary evil at best, but everyone needed security at the same time. Goldman much preferred the warmth of a surgery to that of a cold, chill outside occupation where you were the front line against all kinds of hazards.

  Goldman produced his photo I.D. “I’m Doctor Goldman M.D. I’ve driven down from Boston to see the exhibition on battlefield surgery at the museum.”

  The guard checked the I.D., and seemingly satisfied with that, stood back. “Please step outside the car, Doctor, and sign in at the desk.”

  Goldman grumbled but decided the poor guy was just doing his job. Ever since 9/11 security had been tightened up everywhere, and not just in the States. The trouble was, in these days of cost cutting and budgets, security was an expense some companies would rather not pay out on, but popular demand said it was needed, so they tried to cut costs by employing cowboy firms. And that was just as bad as having none.

  The security desk was in a warm booth, big enough for four men to sit in. Another guard sat behind the desk and asked the same questions, and consulted a visitors’ check list. He scanned the list of names and found Goldman. After signing for a visitor’s pass which he clipped to his jacket, Goldman left the booth and saw the first guard standing by his car, holding a mirror on an extended arm. “No worries, Doctor Goldman,” he said, a smile on his face, “just going to check your vehicle. Have you left your vehicle alone at any time over the past twenty-four hours?”