Chapter 1
19 November 1863, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
Cadmus loved this new rifle musket with its finely checkered stock and telescopic sight along the left side. His hands were sweating as he embraced the grip of this elegant killing machine. It was sighted directly at the speaker’s platform.
They gave him an Enfield when he was with the army. They had no Whitworths, no telescopic sights, in his ragtag regiment. Cadmus had found the Enfield was good only to about 900 yards. But this little beauty could kill at 1500 yards, and play hell on an enemy at a mile. Today, his target was only 212 paces away—a clean shot, impossible to miss.
He leaned into the eyepiece, saw the white-haired animated speaker magnified three times, filling the scope. It was as though he was right in front of him. If he reached out, he could touch him—if he spoke, the man would answer. It always gave Cadmus a thrill to see the target loom so close through the sight; but this was not his target, not yet. Nerves exposed, mouth dry, he waited, his nostrils wide to breathe deep. He knew this was his one chance to make everything right, only one shot.
At twenty-three, Cadmus Buell, formerly of the South Carolina Palmetto Sharpshooters, was not tall, but thin and muscular, with shocks of auburn hair bristling like a porcupine from his head. He habitually used a lot of grease in a futile attempt to slick it down. Cadmus’ rather fat nose flattened into his pointy face, framed by large, bulbous ears. He tried to grow a full beard, perhaps to cover what only a mother could call handsome, but the final effect was an abysmal failure.
On this clear, crisp afternoon in November 1863, Cadmus wore his faded Confederate uniform with the sharpshooter’s badge on the left sleeve—a red diagonal stripe with a red star above it. According to plan, his uniform was covered under a long white smock. He did not want to frighten the folks in this small northern town before his big moment. Then it would be different. Then they would all know.
He had moved a chair and a large chest over to the window. It was still uncomfortable, with all the photographic paraphernalia jammed in around him. It was the perfect disguise to conceal the rifle among equipment, camera, and tripod legs. That did not make it any less unpleasant.
Crouched in the upper room of the Evergreen Cemetery gatehouse for several hours, Cadmus was cramped all over—especially his right leg. He leaned out the window and tried to see “Dodger” Kally, who was guarding the photography wagon and the door to the tower. Normally, he could not have missed the huge man scowling up with those knife-like dark eyes, his hairless head shining in the bright sun; but there was no way Cadmus could bend out far enough to spot him. Cadmus genuinely feared this surly Englishman.
Although a crowd milled about the base of the tower, and indeed, the entire gatehouse, no one looked up or bothered with the photographer in the window. He was anonymous, just as they hoped. All eyes were on the platform where the short man with conspicuous white hair was closing his long, tedious speech.
Cadmus perked up. A big, stocky man stood and shouted a few words, but that was not the evil one, either. A murmur rippled through the crowd as they stirred, shifting feet, pressing forward. The soldiers surrounding the platform held their ground, preventing the shoving masses from moving any closer.
A tall, extremely thin man, whose long arms hung loosely by his sides, stood quietly for a moment, then moved to the platform center. Wearing white gloves, he took spectacles from a pocket of his black frock coat and placed them on his nose; he adjusted them as he glanced briefly at the paper in his hands, and in a steady voice, he began speaking. The crowd grew silent.
At the tower door Dodger Kally pulled three times on a rope attached to Cadmus’ chair, signaling that this was indeed, the target. It wasn’t necessary. Cadmus recognized the evil one as soon as he stood. He could almost feel Satan’s presence as the tall man spoke. He had caused it all.
This man caused the war—wanted to free the slaves—invaded his sacred home. This man was the root of the constant sharp pain in Cadmus’ leg, like being stabbed with a knife twenty-four hours a day.
Most of all, this man was the reason Cadmus was discharged by his own army, ignored as an unwanted piece of trash. Wounded in the knee more than a year ago, the Confederate army dubbed him unfit for service. They pronounced the war over—for him—said he would limp for the rest of his life.
Cadmus was not ready for that. No, indeed, he relished military life. He came from nothing, an unknown, a nobody. Then almost overnight, in what he considered a stroke from the mighty hand of God, he became a hero! He, Cadmus, was admired by everyone as a sharpshooter … a killer of Yankee scum.
Cadmus took profound pleasure in the killing and savored the power it gave him. He wanted, craved, that feeling of supremacy and control. He would show them. He thought, How could they not take me back after this daring act. I’m changin’ the world?
The cramping was gone now, as was the sweat. Even the pain in his leg disappeared, replaced by the satisfying coldness that always overwhelmed him before a kill. He made certain the rifle was securely resting on the trunk, and the percussion cap was solidly seated on the nipple. He rubbed his hand affectionately over the wooden stock, smiling to himself, touching the checkered grip gently, as he would a woman.
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