The Confederate 2

by Forrest A. Randolph

  For a moment, Chambers looked embarrassed. “You’re quite right. I had an expertise in management and supervision that kept me in a civilian capacity during the war. Now, then, as to your requirements for men. Give me specifics and I will contact a person who might help you. His name is Longknife, he’s a half-breed, but a reliable man all the same. You can contact him when you reach Saint Joseph.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “He’ll know you.”

  “There it is! I see it … Saint Joseph!” Jeremy Stark cried out in excitement, standing on the wagon seat.

  Evan Tucker looked with fondness on his excited nephew. Nearly seven, the tow-headed youngster had an undiminishable fountain of energy. His black eyes glowed with intelligence and his high cheekbones gave him an almost Oriental cast, despite the snowy hair that hung straight, without kink or curl. To be an orphan at six, Evan thought, and through so cruel a means.

  He had experienced his own cruelty at the hands of the Yankees. His amputation, and the sickness that followed it, had wasted his body. Now extremely lean in waist and hips, the long months after his return had enlarged his shoulders to nearly their former massive girth. If only, he began with a touch of his past bitterness, he had both hands. Jeremy’s agitation had increased and the boy danced up and down on the seat, sending Evan’s reflections in another direction.

  They had pulled out, gone north, to Illinois. There, Evan and Julie’s soft Southern accents had got them no welcome. So they liquidated all their remaining assets, except Evan’s smithing and veterinary tools. Then they headed West. To the promise that lay beyond St. Joe for all the weary and defeated, they told each other. It sounded romantic nonsense to Evan, yet his own heart quickened at the prospect. He could start over.

  “Will there be Indians, Uncle Evan? And wild mountain men?”

  “Uh … oh, I hardly think so, son.” At Jeremy’s disappointed expression, Evan felt the need to elaborate. “Once we leave Saint Joe, you’ll see ’em aplenty. All the books say so.”

  “Evan, please.” Julie Tucker laid a cautioning hand on her husband’s arm. “The child’s imagination is fired enough. Why, I declare he hardly sleeps of a night, head all filled with bloodthirsty savages and wagon-train massacres. Such foolishness for an impressionable mind.”

  “Even so, Julie, much of what is written is true. There are Indians out there. Lots of our own kind, too. Some good… some bad. Let the boy have his dreams. Lord knows he’s seen enough reality lately.”

  “When will we go?” Jeremy demanded for the hundredth time.

  “In a week now, no more than two,” Evan patiently answered. “The letter from Captain Fallon indicated that we would leave before the end of August and winter at a small fort near the Lower Platte crossing.”

  “There’ll be Indians at the fort, won’t there?”

  “Yes, Jeremy. Tame ones, dependent on the army for their sustenance.”

  Jeremy frowned. He wanted to see wild Indians. What was the word he had learned in Illinois? Hostile Sioux. His small barrel chest puffed with satisfaction. Yeah, that was it: hostiles.

  “If Jeremy’s eyes are sharp as they seem, we’ll be to town before nightfall, find a place to stay. I’ll locate Captain Fallon in the morning.”

  A worried look dulled Julie’s eyes. “Are we doing the right thing, Evan?”

  Evan Tucker put his left arm around his wife’s shoulder, missing again the left hand that could comfort her. “We’ll know in time, my dear.”

  In early afternoon of the last day of August, Griff Stark chose a small inn on the outskirts of Chattanooga, Tennessee. They had been advised that the city itself had become the private playground for idle Union troops and unscrupulous carpetbaggers. It would not be safe for refined folks after dark. Griff pulled into the courtyard and halted the buggy.

  “I’ll see to a room and take care of the livery, Jenny. You can wait inside.”

  “It will be nice to get out of this sun,” she agreed. In fifteen minutes, they had secured accommodations and sat at a small table in their quarters, sipping lemonade provided as a courtesy by their host. Griff took a long swallow and peered at the glass in his hand.

  “I could sure use some of that famous Tennessee sippin’ whiskey in this.”

  “So could I,” Jennifer heartily agreed. “Griff … Illinois is a long way.”

  “I know.” He also had a good idea what would come next.

  “The last bank draft nearly didn’t make it in time.” “I know that also.”

  “Maryland is no farther away than Illinois.”

  “Yes. But … Jeremy is in Illinois.”

  “Somewhere in Illinois,” Jenny amended. “Lately it seems as though you were backsliding. You were doing so well. Now … all the travel, the strain. It would be better if we went back. You should rest through winter and rebuild your condition more. Then, in the spring, you could start out.”

  “I … it’s tempting, Jenny. Believe me, I have looked at this all ways. I must find my son and soon, or … I may never locate him again.”

  “I understand, I … sympathize with you on this. But, you’re driving yourself too hard, Griff.”

  “We can take the train from here.”

  “That’s not the point. Where do we start looking on the other end?” Jennifer hesitated for a moment, then reached into her small reticule and took out a folded piece of paper. “This was hanging on the wall downstairs. I pulled it down before you came in.” Griff took it and unfolded its fresh creases. “WANTED!” the boldface letters declared:

  FOR ASSAULT AND MURDER on the Persons of Five Warranted Regulators during the Performance of Their Duties. GRIFFIN STARK, Notorious Southern Brigand and Terrorist, a Sympathizer of the Infamous JOHN WILKES BOOTH and Known Collaborator with the Secret Societies of the Unreconstructed Rebels. The Railway Protective Association will pay $500 Dead or Alive for this Heinous Outlaw. Contact Mr. Chambers, General Manager, Rocky Mountain Railroad, St. Louis, Missouri.”

  “The likeness isn’t very good,” Jennifer said quietly.

  “But, why? Who would concoct so many lies about me like this? What is going on?”

  “I can’t answer your questions, Griff, but you would be safer finding out about it all in Maryland than here under the eyes of the Reconstruction Government. Or in Illinois.”

  “I could take an assumed name.”

  “And eventually be caught. This has to be cleared up and you have to lay solid plans in the event of trouble. Please, will you consider turning back now?”

  “I … I’ll think on it.”

  The commodities available to civilian hostels like the one chosen by Griff had been severely limited. Their meal, consequently, was meager. Boiled potatoes, cabbage, and pork comprised the main—and only—course, served in a lackluster way on crockery plates with hard biscuits and chickory coffee. They ate in the dimly lighted main tavern room, taking little pleasure in the bland food. They were immediately noticed when three Yankee soldiers entered, voices loud, nasal, grating and, slurred somewhat by the vast quantity of liquor they had consumed. One, considerably more inebriated than his fellows, took an immediate shine to Jennifer Carmichael.

  “Say, boys. Looka there. Ain’t that a pretty one? Wha’ she doin’ with that stinkin’ Rebel cripple?”

  “Keep it down, Fred,” one companion advised.

  “ ‘Keep it down,’ ” Fred sniggered. “Hell, it’s standin’ up like a flagpole right now.”

  The events of the day, and the past three months, had become too much for Griff Stark. The thought of being a wanted man for an act of self-defense against their assailants near Riversend tipped the scale of his anger when this new aggravation confronted him. He rose, steady for once on his legs, and unbuttoned his long frock coat.

  “Reserve your gutter remarks and vulgarity for the barracks, soldier,” he snapped in a decisive tone of command.

  “Lord ’a mercy!” Fred lisped in feigned fright. “It turns out to be a w
ashed-out Reb ossifer.” Suddenly his voice grew hard, a whiplash of authority. “You ain’t commandin’ troops now, Johnny Reb. Button up or I’ll kick your crippled ass up between your shoulder blades. An’ tell that Hooker’s girl with you to come over here and entertain some real men instead of some bunged-up half man like you. We wants to get our ashes hauled.” Fred started forward before he finished speaking.

  “Last warning, gentlemen,” Griff advised in a tone that bore low, ominous thunder. “Conduct yourselves with decorum or be expelled … forcibly.” He swept back the wings of his coat to reveal the brace of Starr revolvers holstered at his narrow hips.

  “That’s against the law for you, Johnny Reb. When we get through bein’ serviced by this little gal, we’re gonna get the Provost Marshal’s boys and have you thrown in the lockup for havin’ guns.”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Apologize to the lady and get out of here … or else.”

  “Apologize, Hell!” Fred took another step forward determined to smash this arrogant ‘Southern gentleman’ in the mouth and take what he wanted.

  Then Griffin Stark drew one of the big .44 percussion revolvers and thumbed back the hammer. No one saw Fred dip slightly and slide a slender-bladed knife from its booth sheath. It flew through the air a second before Griff’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  “Griff, look out!” Jennifer shouted when she saw the bright object in flight.

  Forty-three grains of black powder going off made a loud report in the low-ceilinged room. The Starr’s muzzle jumped, though not before it directed the .44 ball to its target. Steel bit into Griff’s left shoulder only a fraction of a second after the hot lead smashed Fred’s right ball joint and shoulder socket.

  The Yankee soldier screamed, a high-pitched, feminine sound, and dropped to his knees. His left hand clasped his ruined appendage. The shriek of agony decreased into a whimper. In the comparative silence following the attack, the Starr hammer ratcheting back made a prominent noise.

  “Get your sewer-mouthed friend out of here before I finish him off,” Griff commanded.

  No one moved. Three customers had started to their feet, though, at the sound of the fired revolver, they froze in stooped positions, half out of their chairs. For a long moment, even the tavern keeper stared, gape-mouthed at the tableau in front of him. Then he gave a final decisive wipe to the glass in his hands and spoke in a rumbling voice.

  “You heard the man. Drag him out of here before he bleeds any more on my floor. Damn Yankees anyhow. Nothin’ but trash.”

  Griff gestured with his smoking muzzle. “There’s four more balls in here. Plenty enough for all of you. Get him moving.”

  “Yes, sir,” one soldier stammered.

  The moment the trio disappeared out the door, the tavern owner came to Griff’s table. “They mean it, I’m afraid, about the Provost Marshal. You had better go. There’s a back way around the ‘Pike road that’ll get you to the trace that runs out of Cleveland.”

  Griff nodded agreement. “What about you?”

  “They’ll close me down, no doubt. For a week or so. Not much else they can do. I didn’t fire the gun. You need some treatment for that knife in your shoulder. While that’s looked after, I’ll see to your rig bein’ made ready.”

  “Thank you, sir. What do we owe you?”

  “For the pleasure of seein’ one of those damn Yankees get his comeuppance? Nothin’, suh, not a penny. Made me feel ten years younger. Doc Grimes,” he called toward a table to one side. “Y’all come over here and care for this gentleman.” He started for the rear door, then stopped and turned back.

  “I served with Brax Bragg from before Vicksburg to the bitter end. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, suh.”

  “I was cavalry, with Early’s brigade, Army of Northern Virginia,” Griff returned. His throat constricted at the sound of the old names. Then the pain hit him and he slumped into the chair, his legs suddenly unsteady.

  Half an hour later the buggy rattled down a dark country lane, far from the lights of Chattanooga. Griff still lay slumped against the seat, drained of all energy, his shoulder a dull throb. Jenny had packed for them and, with the innkeeper’s help, loaded the small vehicle and driven off into the night. Beside her, she felt Griff stir.

  “We want to put as much distance as we can between us and those Yankees back there before we stop,” he advised her.

  “Yes, I know. Oh, it was so terrible. And you’re hurt again. If ... if they had seen that wanted poster—”

  “They didn’t.” Again Griff slumped into a fitful doze, partly unconscious.

  When the buggy’s motion ceased, he revived again. To his unspoken question, Jenny replied. “It’s two in the morning. We are well on the way to Ducktown. A couple of miles beyond that we’ll be in North Carolina. The landlord explained it all to me. Here, let me help you down.”

  “I can make it,” Griff snapped, his mind full of fury at himself. He had tried to defend Jenny’s honor, only to get wounded again. He had even passed out. Useless. That was the only label he could find for himself. Jenny had been right. He could no more seek his son now than flop his arms and fly. His bitter anger and self-derision spilled over while he helplessly watched Jenny set up camp.

  “I’m no good, Jenny. Useless. If those other two had been as drunk as their friend, Fred, I would be dead now. I couldn’t help you and I’m no good to myself. I should have died on that table back in Virginia.”

  “No! Don’t talk like that, Griff, darling. It’s … it’s only that you were tired out from all we’ve done so far. You have a son to find. Don’t lose sight of that. You’ll get strong, well. It all takes time. You weren’t responsible for what happened. But you do have to take responsibility for your recovery and the search for Jeremy. We’ll go on to Maryland, to Oaklawn. You’ll see then.”

  “Yes … we’ll go to Maryland,” Griff agreed moodily. “I can hide my frailty and shame there.”

  “Don’t say those horrid things! Griff … Griff … Oh, don’t you see? I love you. I always have. Nothing’s changed, except I’m not a little girl anymore with a little girl’s crush. This isn’t eight years ago. I won’t take this any longer. You will get well and you will find your son. Meanwhile, you have me to help you, to care for you and to … to love you.”

  “Jenny?” he gasped out wonderingly. “I ... Jenny?”

  A rustle sounded in the darkness and Jennifer rose. To his astonishment, she slid out of her cumbersome dress. The chemise below she rapidly pulled over her head. The moon came out from under a heavy cloud then and dappled her naked body with leafy patterns. Despite all the ravages of the day and the haunting memories of the past, Griff felt himself harden. His long inactive penis rose to press tightly, demandingly against the tightness of his trousers. Jennifer bent over him, her fingers flying rapidly at his shirt front.

  “I’m a woman now, Griffin Stark. Love me like one. Love me in spirit and in body. Make me a whole woman, Griffin Stark. Do it now, while I ache so for you.”

  “Yes, Jenny. Yes, my dear one. I will.” Griff found he had begun to tremble as he had not done since his wedding night. Gently, mindless of the pain in his shoulder, he folded her into his arms. Overhead the night birds scolded and the heavens rejoiced.

  Chapter Two

  “THE WAR … ALL that has come after it—I’ve had enough of soldiering. I’m really thinking of mustering out.” Damien Carmichael finished rebaiting his hook and threw his line into the stream. The cork bobber settled a moment at the center of the pattern of concentric circles, then floated downstream to the limit of his line. The warm spring breezes of late April blew off the land, out across the distant Chesapeake Bay, rippling the waters into a snowfield of whitecaps. Birds twittered all about and the fresh green foliage rustled playfully overhead.

  “But ... the Army is your career,” Griff Stark protested. “Your promotion—”

  “Yes. What about my promotion? Now that the fighting is over and they don’t
need my expert services anymore, I’m informed that I can take a voluntary reduction in rank to captain, or leave the service. It’s happening to everyone. Even George Custer has lost his brigadier’s star. He’s a lieutenant colonel again.”

  “I can see a cut in rank by one grade, but there’s no valid excuse for you to be less than a Major.”

  “There’s one that suits the politicians in Washington. Too many of their fat, moneybags friends are majors, lieutenant colonels, and colonels. Slots have to be found for them. It’s peacetime now. They never fought in the war so they’re ideally suited for the small, noncombatant army that Congress is cutting us back to. Fighting soldiers are an embarrassment to the politicos in time of peace. Except, of course, out West.

  “There’s always room for us out on the frontier, fighting Indians. Provided, naturally, that we take the voluntary cut in rank. I might do that,” Damien went on, speculating aloud. “It would be a change to be in a real cavalry unit for once. I wonder what that would be like?”

  “Rough. From what I’ve heard, the savages don’t follow any known rules of warfare. They make it hotter on the troops out there than any Union commander ever did to us. Yet, I can tell you firsthand how bad that was.”

  Damien’s bobber suddenly disappeared with a violent lurch. The string taut from the end of his pole, he fought the finny creature for a moment, then hauled it from the water. A tidy pound and a halfer. “That’s enough for today. With the six of you got and the four I landed, that makes a good mess for supper.”

  “If you decide to get out, why don’t you come with me, help look for Jeremy?” Griff asked while he gathered his tackle.

  “Who’d look after Oaklawn?”

  “Jennifer and your over … ah, manager have done quite well for the past five years.”