Destiny Made Them Brothers

by Andrew J. Fenady

Genres: Historical Fiction; Humor & Satire; War & Military

Synopsis

Screenwriter, actor, producer and award-winning author Andrew J. Fenady knows the Western genre as few do. Destiny Made Them Brothers follows General Ulysses S. Grant, George Armstrong Custer, and Rebel Johnny Yuma, united by fate and friendship. The elusive one of the bunch, Johnny plays a vital role in Grant's victory for the Union, Lee's surrender at Appomattox and Custer's deadly campaigns in the West.

Release date: February 1, 2013

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 432

Sample

Entwined, the naked bodies that knew each other so well since their marriage eleven years ago, he a flamboyant, heroic figure of the Civil War and scores of Indian campaigns, and she, one of the most beautiful women in America, together in triumph and disgrace, and even more in love for having tasted both.

The bedroom dark, except for a slanting colonnade of moonlight. Silent, but for the soft, sibilant ticking of the timepiece on the bed stand—and the murmurs of rapture, until:

The persistent rapping on the downstairs door, and becoming even more persistent and intense.

“George,” she whispered.

“Whoever it is, he’ll go away.”

“It doesn’t sound like it.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“George . . .”

“All right.”

He sat up in the bed, reached for the gold watch and chain, and held it up to catch the moonlight.

“Can’t quite tell . . . After two.”

“It must be important.”

“I can think of something more important.” He smiled in the dark.

“George . . .”

“All right, all right. But I’d better put on my pants—and I’ll be right back unless the house is on fire, in which case . . .”

“George . . .”

The rapping became even more relentless.

“Have a little mercy on that door, you bastard!”

“The bastard can’t hear you.” She smiled.

“He will—and then some.” Shirtless, he made his way down the stairs, stuffing the gold watch and chain into a pocket.

The knocking stopped only as he opened the door and a big man in civilian clothes stepped in, followed by two bigger men in uniform.

Without hesitation he clipped the first man with his right fist, backhanded the uniformed sergeant, and caught the other soldier with a swift left hook.

“I don’t remember inviting you in.”

“Sorry, sir. We were just following orders.” The man in mufti rubbed his ample chin.

“Whose orders?”

“Not at liberty to say.”

“What are you at liberty to say?”

“We’re special couriers.”

“What’s so special?”

“Before two thirty a.m., the morning of May 16, 1873—in Monroe, Michigan, to be delivered by hand, General Custer.”

“I’m not a general anymore, not even a colonel. Maybe not even in the army. I’ve been suspended for a year without pay—or haven’t you heard?”

“I’ve heard. Everybody has, but you’ll always be the general I followed on the charge at Yellow Tavern, sir.”

“What?”

“I was Lieutenant Gary Aikins then, sir.”

“Oh, I’m . . . I’m sorry. Didn’t recognize you out of uniform, Lieutenant.”

“I’d recognize you, sir, in or out of uniform.” Aikins smiled.

George Armstrong Custer grinned. “Been a little out of sorts lately.”

“Don’t blame you, sir. You’ve got good reason to be.”

“There’s diverse opinion about that, Lieutenant.”

“Not with me, or any of us who know you. And I’m out of the army, too, sir. As I said, special courier now, from Washington.”

“What’re you couriering?”

“Don’t know. Just following orders, General.”

“So did I . . . sometimes.”

Special Courier Gary Aikins reached into his coat pocket and handed Custer a letter and a package.

“Hope it’s good news, General.”

“Not likely, not lately. And I apologize to all three of you for my . . . my . . .”

“Not necessary, sir. It’s been an honor to be . . .”

“Be whacked?”

“That, too, sir. Good night . . . and good luck, General.”

“Thank you, gentlemen, and . . . ‘pearls in your oysters.’”

Gary Aikins smiled and saluted. So did the two soldiers as they turned and walked out.

Custer closed the door, looked at the letter and package in his hand, and whispered, “Custer’s Luck.”

He remembered the story about Napoleon. One of Bonaparte’s generals had recommended a young officer for promotion, saying that the officer was intelligent, loyal, and brave. “Yes,” Napoleon responded, “but is he lucky?”

Napoleon believed in luck. So did Custer—in spite of recent events.

“George.”

It was Libbie’s voice, Elizabeth Bacon Custer, as she walked down the stairs, in her robe, carrying a small lamp.

“Who were they? What was all that about?”

“They were old acquaintances, Libbie. And it was about this.”

He held out the letter and package.

After receiving the telegraph from Mr. Dodson—and the long journey home—Yuma had been back in Mason City only a matter of days. But during that time he once again realized how much he loved Rosemary, now a widow, and her son, who was his son, too.

He also realized, that more often than not, he gravitated toward trouble, or else trouble gravitated toward him. This time another gunfight, right here in the newspaper pressroom where he and Sheriff Jess Evans shot it out with Jim Gettings and a passel of his henchmen, killing Gettings and two of his gang, while the rest of them fled, a couple with bullets embedded in their bodies.

But several bullets that the attackers had fired were now embedded in Mr. Dodson’s printing press, rendering it inoperative.

It was past midnight and he was doing his best to fix the Mason City Bulletin’s press so he and Elmer Dodson, who was now upstairs asleep, could print the story and meet the weekly’s deadline.

Not yet twenty, he had run away to join the 3rd Texas and fought valiantly until his brigade suffered overwhelming losses at Vicksburg in May of 1863, ten years ago—a lot of dead men ago, both gray and blue.

The events before and after Vicksburg he recorded in a journal he had sent back to Elmer Dodson, a journal that one day he hoped would be part of his dream to be a writer.

And now he and Dodson would write about the gunfight with Gettings—if he could repair the press. There were broken windows and other damage to the room, but his present concern and task was the press.

He wiped at the ink smeared on his face and spun toward the sound at the door—the sound of knocking, then rattling.

His immediate thought was of some of Gettings’ survivors back to finish the job—a thought he quickly dismissed. They wouldn’t have knocked.

He could make out the silhouettes of three figures in the darkness as he approached the front entrance. “Okay, hold on. I’m coming.” He unlocked and opened the door with his left hand. His right hand hovered just above the holstered Colt at his side.

Three men in uniforms of the United States Army. A captain, a sergeant, and a private. All three looked as if they had ridden hard and far. He could hear the snorting of their sweated mounts hitched to the rail in front.

“Good morning, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

“All depends,” the percussive voice responded. “Is your name Yuma?”

“It is, Captain.”

“Late of the Third Texas?”

“And other outfits.”

“Then can we come in?”

“Come ahead.”

They entered.

“You were at Vicksburg?” the captain asked.

“And other places.”

“My brother died at Vicksburg.”

“So did a lot of other brothers. Is that why you’re here?”

“You weren’t easy to find, but we did and just in time.”

“In time for what?”

“To make a delivery. I’m Captain Robert Bixby.”

“Captains make deliveries these days?”

“Captains follow orders—in the United States Army.”

“Whose orders?”

“You’ll find out before we do—if we ever do. All we know it’s from one of our superior officers, to be delivered before two thirty a.m. the morning of May 16, 1873.”

“What’s the delivery?”

Captain Bixby reached into the pocket of his tunic and produced a letter and package and handed them to Johnny Yuma.

“Well, I guess your mission is completed, Captain. Anything else?”

“Not as far as I’m concerned, Reb.”

“At Appomattox General Grant said to General Lee, ‘We are all countrymen again.’”

“Not as far as I’m concerned, Reb.”

“Sorry to hear that. Good night . . . gentlemen.”

As the three turned and left, a beautiful, but apprehensive, young woman entered through the open door.

“Johnny.”

“Hello, Rosemary. You just missed a little get-together.”

“They came to my place first. What is it? Is anything wrong?”

“What could be wrong? The war’s over. Least I thought it was, ’til this came.”

“What is it?”

“What the hell is going on?” Dodson’s croaking voice called out as he came down the stairs.

“Special delivery,” Yuma smiled, “from the U.S. Army.”

“At this time of night? What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until daylight?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Yuma said.

Vicksburg—disputed passage of North and South.

Whoever held Vicksburg controlled the Mississippi and the Mississippi bisected the South—east and west.

Vicksburg, the most strategic geographic prize of the war.

And General Grant had been ordered by President Lincoln to siege and seize the guardian gate of the Confederacy—at any cost.

The South ultimately would stand or fall with the outcome at Vicksburg.

And so would Grant.

There were those, those in great number, who shook their heads in dismay at the appointment of Grant to command the Army of the Tennessee, a man who had been a flat-out failure at the age of thirty-nine, less than two years ago when the war began.

And it was rumored around that Grant had fallen back on his old weakness—whiskey.

But Lincoln had put his faith in nearly a dozen other generals, including McDowell, McClellan, Lyon, Scott, Fremont, Hooker, and Meade. They had all been out-generaled and suffered defeat at the hands of the Southern commanders, most of whom had graduated from West Point, as did Grant, but unlike them, near the bottom of his class. One achievement few could dispute: U.S. Grant was the best horseman in his or any other class, with the possible exception of George Armstrong Custer a few years later.

Lieutenant Grant had served with distinction and valor in the Mexican War in 1846 under command of General Zachary Taylor. He was at the front of the charge at Buena Vista, led by a colonel named Jefferson Davis—along with other comrades, including West Point graduates Robert E. Lee and George McClellan. Grant fought at Monterrey and at the fall of Veracruz and marched with General Winfield Scott into Mexico City.

After that campaign Captain Grant married Julia Boggs Dent. Never before or since had Grant been with another woman. There were few married couples as suited to each other as Ulysses Grant and Julia Dent—from the time they met through their lifetime together. She was the sister of Fredrick T. Dent, Grant’s roommate at West Point. Julia and Grant became acquainted while he was on leave, and the mutual attraction was immediate and permanent.

Julia was somewhat less than beautiful, with one eye slightly askew, but winsome, with a ready smile which widened at the sight, even the mention, of her husband. What her countenance lacked in outright beauty, Julia more than made up for in grace and sparkle.

It was a cool cloud-free February evening with a silver ring of moon. They sat on the steps of the Dent family plantation, White Haven, just west of St. Louis, Missouri:

“Julia, do you know the date today?”

“February 14, eighteen forty . . .”

“The year doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No . . . well, I mean . . .”

“What do you mean, Ulysses?” She smiled.

“Well . . .” He cleared his throat. “This sounds sort of . . . juvenile, coming from an army man, but . . .”

“Charge ahead, Lieutenant.”

“Will you be . . . my valentine?”

“Juvenile or no, the answer is ‘yes’—or as you say in the army—‘affirmative.’”

“Will you be my wife?” he blurted.

“You do know how to charge ahead, Ulysses. Do you want the answer in army triplicate? The answer is ‘yes’ . . . ‘yes’ . . .”

“That won’t be necessary!” He leaped to his feet, grinning, and brought her closer. “Besides, I won’t always be in the army . . .”

“But I’ll always be your wife.”

“Then we’re engaged?!”

“Unofficially.” She took his hand. “Meanwhile, I’ll wear your West Point ring.”

It remained “unofficially” for four years, including the Mexican War, during which Grant saw Julia only once—until their marriage on August 22, 1848, at White Haven. And after that Julia mostly called him “Ulys.”

Grant had remained in the army, with Julia never far away, until he was sent to Humboldt, a remote outpost in California—without her.

That was the beginning of heavy drinking and led to the end of his military career—and failure after failure in civilian life—until the North–South hostilities.

The armies of both North and South needed soldiers, and soldiers needed to be led by officers, especially officers with battlefield experience. Grant reentered service at the outbreak of the Civil War as a colonel of an Illinois volunteer regiment. In August of 1861, he was appointed brigadier general and found his destiny—or destiny found him.

There was never a more tenacious, aggressive, defiant, and determined officer, and his men loved him, because inevitably, he led them to victory, from Fort Henry to Fort Donaldson, to Shiloh, and that led Lincoln to put him in command at the siege of Vicksburg, where it was his mission to divide the Confederacy in two—a mission that put a visible strain on Grant as never before.

By the time of Vicksburg, Grant and Julia had three sons, Fredrick Dent Grant, Ulysses S. Grant, Jr., Jesse Root Grant, and a daughter, Ellen Wren-shall Grant.

Major General Ulysses S. Grant—commanding the frontline hammers of his Army of the Tennessee, Generals William T. Sherman, Phil Sheridan, James B. McPherson, and Lew Wallace—had crossed the Mississippi River, then drove back the Confederate army of Lieutenant General John C. Pemberton, but into strong defensive lines circling the fortress city of Vicksburg.

Union assault after assault against the determined Confederate defenders were repulsed and Grant’s army suffered severe casualties. Pemberton had the advantage of terrain and fortifications.

Heavy artillery bombardment, laced with torrential spring rain, bolts of thunder and lightning, along with creeping fog, had rendered the area miles around Vicksburg a moat-like no-man’s-land.

Corporal Johnny Yuma and a tattered 3rd Texas Brigade had suffered the worst casualties from Grant’s attacks, and the remnants of what was once a proud fighting force were scattered and dug in somewhere in that midnight no-man’s-land.

It was Yuma’s misfortune to be isolated with two of the worst remnants, brothers Joe and Jim Darcy. If this was to be Yuma’s last night of the war he would have preferred to die in better company, or alone. Both Darcys were possessed of porcine features: piggish eyes, ears, and noses. The only reason they were with the 3rd Texas was that a Houston judge gave them a choice after they were convicted of assault and robbery, the choice of spending five years in prison or enlisting in the Confederate Army. It was either iron bars or stars and bars. They chose the Confederate battle flag until they could make an escape. The Darcys were known among the rebels as the “gray vultures,” a sobriquet due to their habit of stripping dead soldiers, blue and gray, of everything—boots, watches, rings, money, and anything they could carry away. But now Johnny Yuma found himself in the company of the scavengers, Privates Joe and Jim Darcy, amid shellfire exploding closer and closer.

“It’s hard to tell,” Yuma said, “but . . .”

“It ain’t hard to tell,” Joe Darcy interrupted, “that if we stay here we’ll be buzzard feed by mornin’.”

“I was going to say that it’s hard to tell, but it seems like most of those shells are coming from the west.”

“So?” Jim Darcy shrugged.

“We’re heading east toward our brigade.”

“You mean,” Joe smirked, “what’s left of it.”

“So long as there’s any of us left, we fight.”

“You fight, soldier boy.” Jim grinned. “Us Darcys are leggin’ it in the opposite direction.”

“You mean deserting?”

“We mean keepin’ alive, right, brother Jim?”

“That’s it, brother Joe. So long, soldier boy, say hello to the buzzards. We’re quittin’.”

Both Darcys lifted themselves from the shell hole, turned, and started to move.

“Just a minute, scum.” Yuma’s pistol was aimed in their direction. “Lay down your rifles and sidearms.”

“Like hell we will!” Joe said.

“Like hell you won’t, or you’ll both die right here. Either that or I’m taking you back as deserters. I’ve got no compunction about doing it either way.”

“‘Compunction’?” Joe said. “What’s that mean, brother Jim?”

“Don’t know.”

“You’ll find out if those guns don’t hit the ground, slow and easy, right now.”

“What chance you got,” Jim Darcy said through his crooked teeth, “of gettin’ us back to anywhere through this hellfire?”

“I’ll take that chance and so will you, unless you want some hellfire from this.” Yuma pointed his gun. “Now drop those weapons—like I said, slow and easy.”

“Sure, soldier boy.” Joe Darcy shrugged. “But it’s your funeral.”

Both Darcys did as they were told—for the time being.

Johnny Yuma had run away from his home, Mason City, from his father, Sheriff Ned Yuma, and even from the girl he loved more than anything in the world, Rosemary Cutler.

But this was one thing he could not run away from.

Captain George Armstrong Custer and a young, frightened Union lieutenant, Gregg Palmer, were crouched against the stump of an oak tree, amid a curling, patchy mist. The captain wiped at his face with his red scarf.

Custer’s eyes tried to penetrate the fog and midnight darkness. He motioned for the lieutenant to follow him. They advanced cautiously from tree to rock, looking for any familiar landmark and looking for anything that moved, blue or gray. The area was wracked with bursts of blossoming explosions and shrapnel that rained down around them.

Custer made out a large shell hole, which might mean temporary safety. He tapped the lieutenant and pointed.

The two of them made their way toward it, dove in, and flattened against the ground.

“Load up,” Custer whispered.

Both started to pump shells into their pistols.

“Captain, you got any idea where we are?”

“In hell’s front yard, I’d say.”

“Well, Captain, I’ll say this. There’s nobody I’d rather be with, Captain . . .”

“Quiet.”

But the night was anything but quiet, and George Armstrong Custer’s life had been anything but quiet.

He was born in New Rumley, Ohio, December 5, 1839, and born to be a soldier, his childhood ambition. As a young boy he moved to Monroe, Michigan, to be with his only sister, Lydia, and go to school.

When little more than a baby he had had difficulty pronouncing his name. Instead of Armstrong it came out “Autie.” As often as not, the nickname stuck to him through his teens and beyond—but not with Elizabeth Bacon, better known as Libbie. To her he was Custer Boy or George. Some considered him “wild”; others settled for “spirited” as he set a new record for outlandish pranks and after-school punishments. Autie loved to hunt, fish, hike, and ride his sister’s horses.

Libbie’s father, Judge Daniel Stanton Bacon, glowered with disfavor and admonished his beloved daughter to keep away from such riffraff. She did, but only when the judge was in the vicinity.

At the age of sixteen, Autie moved back to New Rumley and even became substitute principal and teacher in a one-room schoolhouse. But not for long. Back in Monroe, Custer petitioned Senator John A. Bingham for an appointment to West Point.

Custer passed the exams, barely, but barely was good enough for Autie. With the pending war he reckoned this was his path to glory, a glory he would someday share with Libbie.

Lieutenant George Armstrong Custer graduated last in the West Point class of 1861—last in academic subjects and first in demerits. Many of those demerits were due to pranks; however, one went undetected and unpunished. It involved a superior officer who took great pride in a fl. . .