Prologue: Shells On The Sabbath
The Mississippi River shimmered under the relentless September sun of 1863, its surface a deceptive mirror of calm that belied the undercurrents of tension swirling through Rodney for months. The air hung heavy with the scent of river mud and pine resin, a natural blend that usually brought comfort to the town's residents, but today it carried an edge—a faint, acrid hint of gunpowder drifting from the west, where the echoes of distant battles still lingered in whispers among the cotton fields. On this particular Sunday morning, young Willie Smith, a lanky 15-year-old errand boy for his father's modest eating house on Commerce Street, paused on the bluff overlooking the water. He wiped sweat from his brow with a frayed sleeve, his calloused hands still dusted with flour from the morning's biscuit prep. His eyes, sharp and watchful from years of running messages through the winding streets, traced the outline of the USS Rattler anchored just offshore. The Union gunboat's tinclad hull gleamed like polished silver in the sunlight, its federal flag snapping crisply in the breeze—a sight that had become all too common since the fall of Vicksburg two months prior, yet one that never failed to set his nerves jangling like a poorly tuned fiddle string.
Earlier that day, Willie had watched from the shadows of a nearby oak as a dozen blue-coated sailors rowed ashore in a sturdy skiff, their oars dipping rhythmically into the muddy currents. Their boots thudded steadily on the wooden dock as they disembarked, rifles slung over shoulders, faces etched with the weariness of men far from home. They made their way up the gentle slope toward the Presbyterian church, a sturdy brick sanctuary that stood as a beacon of normalcy amid the war's encroaching shadows. Reverend Baker, a stern figure with a voice like rolling thunder and a beard that seemed to bristle with righteous indignation, had met them at the entrance. "No weapons in the house of the Lord," he'd declared firmly, his eyes unyielding as the sailors hesitated, then reluctantly unbuckled their holsters and stacked their pistols in a neat pile by the door. Guns had no place in God's house, he'd insisted, and the men complied with muttered grunts, filing inside to join the congregation for the morning service. Hymns had already begun to rise from within, voices blending in tentative harmony, a fragile attempt to reclaim some semblance of peace in these troubled times.
Willie lingered on the bluff a moment longer, kicking at a loose pebble that skittered down toward the water's edge. His thoughts wandered to his father back at the eating house, barking orders in the steamy kitchen, and to his little sister, who would be fidgeting in her pew right about now, her pinafore starched and spotless. But then his gaze shifted to the tree line beyond the church, where the dense pines whispered secrets in the wind. A sudden glint of steel caught his eye—sunlight flashing off bayonets, half-hidden among the shadows. Gray uniforms materialized like ghosts from the underbrush: Confederate cavalry, their faces hardened by the rigors of campaign life, eyes narrowed with grim determination. Willie's stomach twisted into a knot; these were likely scouts from the 22nd Mississippi Regiment, men who'd ridden hard through the night, their mounts lathered and weary. A shout built in his throat, but before he could release it, the sharp cracks of musket fire shattered the morning stillness, echoing off the river like thunderclaps.
The Confederates charged down the slope in a thunderous wave, horses' hooves churning the dry earth into clouds of red dust, muzzles flashing orange as volley after volley tore through the air. Bullets whined and thudded into the church's facade, splintering wood and pocking the brickwork. Inside, the hymns dissolved into pandemonium—screams of terror piercing the chaos as the congregation recoiled in horror. Shards of stained-glass windows exploded inward in a kaleidoscope of crimson, blue, and gold, raining down onto the trampled grass like fallen jewels. Willie dove behind a weathered barrel stacked with empty crates, his heart slamming against his ribs like a trapped bird, the acrid smoke already stinging his eyes and throat.
The church's two sets of heavy oak doors burst open with a splintering groan, and townsfolk spilled out in a desperate surge. Women clutched wailing children to their bosoms, skirts tangling as they stumbled down the stone steps; men shoved past in blind panic, some tumbling headlong into the dirt, hats flying. A young girl, no older than ten, in a faded calico dress crawled through a jagged hole where a window had been, her small hands bloodied from the razor-sharp glass, tears streaking her dust-smeared face. Her mother, wild-eyed and frantic, yanked her to safety just as another bullet whistled by. Others escaped through a gaping breach in the western wall, blasted open by a well-aimed musket ball that had torn through the aged brick like paper. Their Sunday best ripped on the splintered edges, adding to the cacophony of ripping fabric and anguished cries. Through the haze, Willie glimpsed the Union sailors inside, their blue coats stark against the dim interior, hands empty and defenseless as they ducked low, scrambling toward the exits. Without their pistols, they were sitting ducks in this ambush, their faces pale masks of shock and fury.
The attack had scarcely unfolded when a deep, resonant boom rolled across the river—the USS Rattler's cannon awakening with a vengeance. The first shell screamed overhead like a banshee, slamming into the church's upper facade with a thunderous crack that sent a shower of brick dust, splintered wood, and mortar cascading into the air. Willie flinched instinctively, clapping his hands over his ears as the ground trembled beneath him. Another cannonball followed, embedding itself into the wall just below the steeple with a bone-jarring thud, cracks spiderwebbing outward from the impact. The church's bell, which had been clanging wildly in alarm—a frantic toll that mingled with the cries of the fleeing congregation—now bore the brunt of the barrage. Some worshippers bolted for the river's edge, splashing into the shallows in hopes of cover; others veered toward Commerce Street, their clothes dirt-streaked, torn, and bloodied from grazes and falls.
Then came the third shell, a heavy lead ball hurtling straight for the belfry. It struck the bell dead-on with a deafening, discordant crack-gong—a piercing metallic crash that warped into a deep, shuddering groan, the brass buckling and deforming under the brutal force. The sound assaulted Willie like a physical blow, a chest-thumping wave that rattled his teeth, made his ears ring with a high-pitched whine, and stole his breath for a heartbeat. The bell's vibrations lingered in the air, a haunting, off-key screech as it swung crookedly on its mount, cracked and irreparably skewed, the steeple above trembling as if in agony. Smoke curled lazily from the Rattler's deck, its cannons belching fire relentlessly, each blast sending ripples across the river's glassy surface and stirring waves that lapped at the shore.
Willie's eyes watered from the dust and smoke, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he huddled tighter behind his makeshift cover. He watched in stunned horror as the Confederate cavalry pressed their assault despite the naval fury, one rider dragging a captured Union sailor from the church's rear, the man's uniform ripped and bloodied, his struggles futile against the iron grip. Other rebels, realizing the tide turning, wheeled their horses and retreated into the protective embrace of the pines, musket balls from the gunboat whizzing after them. The cannonball scar on the church's facade gaped like an open wound, raw and jagged, while the broken bell's fading echo served as a somber dirge—a permanent scar on Rodney's soul. This Sunday had shattered the town's fragile peace under the merciless crossfire of musket volleys, cannon blasts, and the desperate flight of its people, loyalties clashing in a whirlwind that would leave echoes rippling through time itself.
Chapter 1: The Call of Rodney
The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds of my cluttered office in my cozy home on the outskirts of Natchez, Mississippi, casting long shadows across the stacks of maps, old photographs, and adventure journals that lined the shelves. The air hung thick with the kind of Mississippi humidity that made everything feel a little heavier, like the world itself was pressing down just enough to remind you it was still there. I lounged in my worn leather armchair, the cracked cushions giving under my weight with a familiar creak that sounded a lot like my own joints these days. Deeply engrossed in the latest Longmire novel by Craig Johnson, I turned the pages with a satisfying rustle that pulled me straight into those rugged Wyoming landscapes. They mirrored my own restless spirit in ways that always left me feeling a little exposed, like the man had written half the book while staring at the inside of my skull.
Born in Canada but carrying deep Swedish roots that ran all the way back to Peter Nilsson Lycon—my eighth-great-grandfather who’d packed up from Lyckan in Gunnarskog, Värmland, Sweden, back in 1663 and crossed the Atlantic looking for something better—I’d always felt that same tug toward uncharted paths. That bloodline hadn’t just handed me a love for history; it had given me the quiet satisfaction of knowing where I came from, even if I still managed to trip over where I was going most days. I glanced over at the prized Hasselblad camera on the shelf, its Swedish-engineered body catching a sliver of that fading light like it knew it belonged to better hands than mine. The thing was a relic passed down through generations, precise as a Swiss watch and twice as reliable. Me? I was still learning not to drop it.
My phone buzzed on the side table, jolting me out of Absaroka County and back into my own messy corner of the South. I glanced at the screen—Stoney—and hit answer with a grin that felt rusty from disuse.
“Yo, Peter! It’s Stoney. What’s up?” came the familiar voice, laced with that easygoing Cajun drawl from down in New Orleans.
“Stoney! Hey, man, just chillin’ with the latest Longmire book—Craig Johnson’s still killing it. How are you?”
“Yeah, can’t complain. Wait, hold up—Longmire’s a book? I thought it was just that show. Anyway, dude, I’ve been itching for another trip since Woodville Prison. New Orleans is a mess right now with all the street crap—wanna head up your way instead.”
I chuckled, setting the book pages down over my knee like a tent holding my place in the chapter, and leaned back. The leather creaked again, protesting the shift. My mind already shifting gears from fictional mysteries to real-world ones. The Woodville trip had been a highlight—creeping through the abandoned penitentiary’s crumbling cells, capturing eerie footage under flashlight beams that made the hair on my arms stand up. “For sure. Aiyana and I have been hearing about that chaos down there. Probably smart to skip the city and hit some backwood history instead. Ever heard of Rodney, Mississippi?”
“Rodney? Nah, can’t say that I have. What’s the story?”
My eyes lit up as I pictured the forgotten town, its weathered buildings standing sentinel along the Mississippi River like ghosts from a bygone era. The thought alone made the humid air in the office feel a little less oppressive. “It’s an old ghost town on the river. Feels like stepping into a time capsule—tons of history. I know a gal with the Rodney Preservation Society; they’d flip if we brought cameras and shot some video to help ’em out with preservation efforts.”
“Oh, I’m down! Where’s it at, though?”
“Hang on, lemme check…” I hopped up, placing my book on the side table, my worn leather coat brushing against the chair as I crossed the room. The hardwood floor felt gritty under my boots, a small mercy against the late-day heat still radiating through the walls. I stopped in front of the large, frayed map pinned to the wall. Pins dotted it like battle scars from past expeditions—red for ruins, blue for bayous. I’d always been drawn to charting new territory, the same way my eighth-great-grandfather had stared down an ocean and decided Delaware was worth the gamble. I traced my finger along the winding blue line of the Mississippi, murmuring coordinates under my breath. “Coords are 31°51’40.6”N, 91°11’59.4”W.” The Southern landscapes had become my adopted home, their humid whispers and hidden stories a far cry from the crisp Nordic winters my ancestors left behind. “It’s not far from here, man. Rodney’s got some vibes worth checking out.”
“Sweet, I’m in. Hey, what about camping there? September’s still toasty, and the mosquitoes’ll probably eat you alive, but that’s half the fun, right?”
I laughed, the sound echoing a little too loud in the quiet room, and shook my head at my own eagerness. “Eat us alive? Dude, you’re making ’em sound like winged piranhas. But yeah, I’m game—history and a little roughing it? Count me in. Lord knows I could use something that doesn’t involve me pretending I know how to fix a leaky faucet.”
“Awesome. I’ll hit up Gigi and Wyatt. Can you call Jax?”
“Yep, I’ll buzz him. How’s Saturday morning at my place sound? We’ll roll out from there.”
“Works for me. Just don’t forget the coffee, alright? Catch you then!”
“You know I’ve got the brew covered. See ya, man—gonna be a good one.”
“Hell yeah!”
I paused before hanging up. “Oh, and Stoney—Longmire’s a book series first, show came later.”
“No way. Ha! Alright, nerd, I’ll take your word for it.”
I hung up with a shake of my head, amused at Stoney’s perpetual surprise at the world beyond screens. The guy could navigate a swamp blindfolded but still looked at me sideways when I mentioned books. I immediately dialed Jax, listening to the rings as I paced the office, my boots scuffing softly on the hardwood floor. It went to voicemail, Jax’s laid-back voice prompting a message.
“Hey, Jax, it’s Peter. Just giving you a heads-up—we’re hitting Rodney, Mississippi this weekend. Cool ghost town, lots of history. We’re going to document the remnants of the town for the preservation folks. Be awesome if you’re in. Hit me back, man.” I tossed the phone on the desk and flopped back into the reading chair, a restless spirit momentarily at ease with my book.
A few pages into Walt and Henry’s latest escapade, the phone buzzed again, cutting through the quiet like an impatient knock. I grumbled, “Seriously? Right when it’s getting good.” I hauled myself up and grabbed the phone, figuring it might be worth the interruption for the weekend plans. My back twinged—a little reminder that I wasn’t twenty anymore and probably never had been as tough as I liked to pretend.
“Jax! There you are. Was just trying to track you down. You good?”
“Hey, Peter! Yeah, sorry I missed you—had to run my dad back from the doc.”
“All cool there?”
“Yep, he’s good, no worries. So what’s this voicemail about?”
“Oh, right—weekend plans. We’re headed to Rodney, this old ghost town up by the river. Figured the Krewe could poke around, maybe shoot some stuff for the preservation group.”
“Rodney? Sounds dope. I’m in.”
I grinned, feeling the excitement build like a low-grade fever I couldn’t quite shake. “Knew you’d bite. Stoney’s roping in Gigi and Wyatt, so it’s shaping up.”
“Sweet. Just tell me when and where, and I’m set. Appreciate the heads-up, man.”
“Wouldn’t leave you out, bud—you’re Krewe. We’re kicking off from my place Saturday morning, early. Oh, and pack a sleeping bag.”
“Got it. Can’t wait. Catch you later!”
We hung up, and I dropped the phone back on the desk, already stoked for Rodney. The Krewe—my ragtag group of fellow explorers, each with their own quirks and backstories—always turned a simple outing into something memorable. I settled in to wrestle with Longmire a bit longer, the words blurring slightly as my mind wandered to the ghost town’s secrets waiting to be uncovered.
I sank back into my reading chair, ready to pick up where I left off. Just as I flipped the page, the office door burst open, hitting the wall stopper with a thud. Lena strode in, clutching a piece of paper, catching the rebounding door with her free hand.
“Dad! Check it out—football schedule’s here. We’ve got to line up our trips with my cheer gigs,” Lena said, her voice bubbling with that infectious energy that always lit up the room.
I set my book down with an exaggerated sigh, the kind that said I was only pretending to mind. “So much for peace and quiet. Alright, let’s see this thing.”
Lena came across the room with that boundless energy of hers—she’d picked it up from all those years roaming the Southland with me, camera in hand, turning ordinary scenes into stories worth telling. Athletic, fearless, and quick to connect with anyone, she had a natural gift for exploring and documenting the world. I loved that about her. It reminded me of my own youthful wanderlust, only now tempered by a bit more experience and a lot more bruises. “Alright, little explorer, let’s fit this football chaos into our plans.” With a quiet strength that echoed the Old West heroes in my novels, I took the schedule from Lena, who was practically bouncing on her toes, and scanned the dates like I was plotting a new expedition. “Gridiron battles, cheer routines—looks like we’ll juggle some ruins and touchdowns this season.”
“It’s gonna be awesome, Dad,” Lena exclaimed.
“Darn right it will. One day we’re digging into history, the next you’re flipping on the sidelines. Keeps things interesting,” I stated.
“Thanks for making it work, Dad. You’re the best,” Lena said.
“Wouldn’t miss it, Lena. You’re the spark in this group. Now, let’s get ready for both.”
We locked in the plans, both buzzing about what lay ahead—a mix of discovery and Friday Night Lights that promised to keep life vibrant.
“Okay, back to my book. But keep me posted if anything else pops up,” I said.
“Will do!” Lena stated with great excitement.
I began, “Oh, Lena, one more thing. This weekend the gang is coming up, and we’re going over to Rodney.”
Lena’s eyes lit up as she darted to my bookshelf, pulling down *Rodney’s History* by Robert Spencer. My curiosity, forged through years of bayou and ruin explorations, shone in her as she flipped through the pages. “Gonna read up before I pack,” Lena stated. I smiled, proud of her drive to get the story right and honor the town’s past. We shared a quick, knowing look before Lena headed out. I sank back into my chair, book in hand, already stoked for our next outing, made even better with Lena’s game days woven into the mix.
I settled into my reading chair again, craving a few more pages before the day wound down. The scent of pine from the open window mingled with the faint aroma of coffee lingering from my earlier mug, creating a cocoon of comfort that almost made me forget the rest of the world. Before I could crack the book open, Aiyana burst in, her long black hair swinging like a raven’s wing. “What do you want for dinner?” she asked.
I sighed, setting the book on my knee, and muttered, “Whatever you’d like, dear,” regretting the noncommittal words the second they escaped my lips. Smooth, Peter. Real smooth. You’d think after all these years I’d have learned that “whatever” was code for domestic surrender.
Aiyana turned sharply, her hair snapping like a whip as she left without a word, the door clicking shut behind her. I debated following her into the kitchen, where the sounds of pots clanging would soon fill the air, but I knew from years of marriage that some battles were best left unfought. Instead, I grabbed my weathered hat—a relic of countless adventures, its brim frayed from sun and rain—and stepped outside onto the porch. The evening air was thick with the hum of cicadas, the horizon painted in hues of orange and purple as the sun dipped low behind the tree line. The wooden steps felt warm under my jeans, still holding the day’s heat like a promise it wasn’t quite ready to break.
My loyal German Shepherd, Molly, trotted up beside me, her tail wagging in that uncomplicated joy only dogs could muster. We settled on the wooden steps, me scratching behind her ears as we watched the sunset in companionable silence. My bond with the land whispered through the stillness—the same land my Swedish ancestors had crossed oceans to claim, now intertwined with Aiyana’s indigenous heritage in ways I still didn’t fully understand but was grateful for every damn day. As the light faded and the first stars poked through, I wondered idly if we’d even have dinner tonight, but the thought was fleeting. With the team’s trip on the horizon, bigger mysteries awaited, and I figured I’d let the small ones slide.
