Chapter 66

The angle of the bullet concerned him, though. Tom had been shot from behind—from the Union lines. Friendly fire had killed him. It happened, more than either side liked to admit. Hadn’t the Rebel general, Stonewall Jackson, been shot by one of his own men?

No one had stepped forward to admit to firing the shot. Tom was a well-liked officer, and the shooter probably realized the men would tear him to pieces.

But no matter which way you looked at it, Tom was dead, and Steve had to deliver that news—and Tom’s body—to his family.

* * * *

Once Steve arrived in Manhattan, he rented a wagon, had the plain wooden coffin loaded onto it, and asked for directions to Chelsea—he’d lived in Brooklyn after he’d graduated from West Point and was more familiar with that city.