“Emancipated,” Frank corrected.
“Where about is this Jordan Lowe place?” Mr. Cobb asked. He tried to stand tall, but kept leaning against the railing. He tried to keep his lips tight. Tried to keep tears out of his eyes.
“Southwest of Independence,” Frank said. “Dozen miles or so.”
“Reckon Mister Lowe would let me dig up my boy? Ermintrude … like as not, she’ll want him buried alongside her ma, her pa, and our little ones that didn’t make it through their second winters. She’d also want to see where he fell.”
Frank had been rocking on the old chair’s back legs, easy-like, but now he gripped the arms and lowered the chair back onto all fours. For a second he stared at the rough planks, then spit tobacco juice expertly between the cracks. Slowly he looked at Alistair, then let out a breath, and faced Mr. Cobb.
“I don’t allow that’s such a good idea, sir. Lowe abandoned the place a long while back, and … I mean, I know it would comfort your wife and all, but, well …” For once Frank James didn’t know what to say. Suddenly he turned to Alistair again, his face pleading for help.
“It’s like this here,” Beans began, and Alistair quickly jumped in, afraid of what Beans would come up with.
“Yanks buried all our dead in a common grave,” Alistair shot out, blending the truth with several falsehoods, making it all up on the cuff. “And burned down the buildings. The place’d been abandoned for years, like Frank said. Place like that … well, it would just torment Missus Ermintrude. And digging up his remains … well, sir, it’s been warming up, and I don’t think it would be good to … I mean …” He fell silent. Lucy had stepped outside.
“The boys talked about it a lot, Mister Cobb,” Beans said, his voice surprisingly solemn, almost like Captain Quantrill, or a preacher. “We all agreed. We’d like to be buried where we fell in battle. It’s the way of a soldier, sir.”
Frank and Alistair studied Beans Kimbrough long and hard. Sometimes Beans acted like doggery, but, other times, he’d surprise the hell out of a body.
“That’s right, sir,” Frank said. “‘Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth.’”
Alistair handed Mr. Cobb the pipe. Frank rose, striking a lucifer on his boot heel. After Mr. Cobb had the pipe going, he withdrew the stem, tapping the pipe on the hard railing, and said: “Reckon you be right. Frail as she is, Ermintrude wouldn’t be up to a ride that far. All that way from Independence. And what you say about where a soldier fell, yes, that’s the way it would be. I’ll explain it to …” His voice cracked, but he quickly recovered. “No, I allow I’ll just put up a headstone.” He turned to Lucy for assurance. “I’ll fetch the preacher. You boys stay for supper?”
“No,” Frank said. “We’ve brought you nothing but sorrow. We’ll go see our own folks.”
“Be a good thing.” Mr. Cobb nodded. “Your mothers’ll want to see you durin’ these dark days.”
“Here.” Frank withdrew a thick envelope from inside his waistcoat, handing the envelope to Mr. Cobb. “It’s a letter from Captain Quantrill.”
And some money, Alistair knew. Yankee gold. Quantrill cared little for Confederate or state script.
Leaving the pipe on the railing, Mr. Cobb took the envelope, turning it over in both dirty, thick hands, hearing the clinking of coins inside. A lone tear broke through, disappearing in his beard stubble.
“I’ll read it to you, Pa,” Lucy said.
His head barely bobbed. Clearing his throat, he looked again at Beans, Alistair, and Frank. “Reckon the preacher can come tomorrow afternoon if I gets word to him. You’ll come to Tommy’s funeral?”
“Of course,” they answered in unison.
* * * * *
Thomas Blake Cobb
Born March 3, 1847
ASSASSINATED
by Yankees
April 15, 1862
Corn Cobb had quite the turnout. More folks kept arriving at the Cobb farm, in buckboards and farm wagons, a few on mules and horses, and many had walked. Everyone brought food. That was the Missouri way.
Alistair turned away from the wooden tombstone, knowing Lucy must have carved the words since Mr. Cobb could neither read nor write. Another wagon had pulled up, and he recognized Frank following it on that dun thoroughbred. Alistair moved from the woodshed toward the buckboard.
“Here.” From her seat in the driver’s box, Ma James handed him a covered dish that smelled like ham. Alistair took the platter, stepping back as Frank helped his mother down. Bearded Doc Samuel, Frank’s stepfather, set the brake, and grunted as he climbed from the wagon, and tried to button his coat of black broadcloth, but promptly surrendered.
Wild-eyed Jesse, Frank’s fifteen-year-old brother, leaped off the back, and Alistair helped their sister, Susan Lavenia, not quite thirteen, to the damp grass.
“Where be Ermintrude?” Ma James spit out snuff, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Inside,” Alistair said.
“Well, don’t just stand there like a knot on a log!” she barked. “Get that ham inside. You-all wait out here. Jesse’d just et all the victuals good folks have brung these poor sufferin’ souls. Come along, Reuben.”
As Alistair and Doc Samuel followed Ma James inside, he heard Beans Kimbrough, leaning against the railing on the front porch, say underneath his breath, “Now I know why you joined up, Frank,” and heard Frank snigger.
* * * * *
The McBrides were there. So was the Kennedy family. The McCoys. The Kennards. In fact, half the congregation from New Hope Baptist Church had come to pay respects to Tommy Cobb, and it was a good afternoon for a funeral. The clouds had cleared, leaving a clear blue sky.
The preacher read the Beatitudes, talked about what a fine young man Tommy Cobb had been, and what a fine life he would have lived had Yankees not cut it short. Nothing he said, though, would Alistair remember. Mrs. Cobb sat in a rocking chair, bawling throughout the whole service. Ma James spit into her small snuff cup. Menfolk stood with hats in hands, waiting for the service to end. Ladies clutched Bibles or handkerchiefs. Frank James remained away from the family plot, Remington revolver in his right hand, reins to his dun in his left, watching the path and woods for any Yankees. Beans Kimbrough was farther up, in the woods, serving as a sentry near the Centerville road.
Then Lucy Cobb, wearing a navy dress, with a black shawl over her shoulders and a black ribbon around her right arm, stepped in front of the congregation. Alistair stared as she began to sing. He never realized she had such a beautiful voice. He’d never heard this song.
We shall meet but we shall miss him.
There will be one vacant chair.
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our ev’ning prayer.
When one year ago we gathered,
Joy was in his mild blue eye.
Now the golden cord is severed,
And our hopes in ruin lie.
Mrs. Cobb wailed harder as Lucy began the chorus.
We shall meet, but we shall miss him.
There will be one vacant chair.
We shall linger to caress him
While we breathe our ev’ning prayer.
Ma James spit into her cup, shaking her head in apparent disgust. Cally, however, dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and mouthed the words.
At our fireside, sad and lonely,
Often will the bosom swell
At remembrance of the story
How our noble Willie fell.
How he strove to bear the banner
Thro’ the thickest of the fight
And uphold our country’s honor
In the strength of manhood’s might.
After the chorus,
Lucy continued again.
True, they tell us wreaths of glory
Evermore will deck his brow,
But this soothes the anguish only,
Sweeping o’er our heartstrings now.
Sleep today, O early fallen,
In thy green and narrow bed.
Dirges from the pine and cypress
Mingle with the tears we shed.
A few other voices joined in as Lucy sang the chorus once more, then, breaking down, she hurried away, and ran to Alistair, who wrapped his arms around her, awkwardly, and pulled her tight.
* * * * *
After the funeral, after Mr. Cobb and Lucy managed to get some brandy down Mrs. Cobb’s throat and put her to bed, they gathered in the cabin, around the tables full of food.
Ma James lowered a chicken leg and told Lucy: “That song you sang. It’s a damnyankee song, ain’t it?”
Cally tried to play peacemaker. “I think it’s a beautiful song, Missus Zerelda.”
“Damnyankee song. And secular to boot. Won’t catch me allowin’ a song like that played at one of my boys’ funeral, God spare me the day.” She dropped the greasy bone onto a tin plate.
Alistair had heard enough. “We’d best be on our way,” he said, retreating. He shook Mr. Cobb’s hand, paid his respects to the preacher, the McCoys, and the Jameses, and held the door open as his parents and sisters filed out.
Frank James walked to him before he left. “Week from today,” he whispered. “The Jubal place. Harrisonville.”
“I know. I’ll be there.”
“Keep a sharp eye.” Frank made a beeline for his dun. “County’s crawling with Yanks.”
The Durants had two new mules now. Mr. McBride had even provided Alistair’s pa with a bill of sale, although those two jacks had actually been liberated after the boys had ambushed a Yankee paymaster. Alistair was helping the twins into the back of the farm wagon, when Lucy ran outside, tears streaming down her face.
“Missus Persis?” she called out.
His father had just assisted Alistair’s mother into the wagon. She was putting on her bonnet, but stopped to look at Lucy.
“Yes, child?”
“Might I spend the night with y’all?” Before anyone could reply, she blurted out: “I just can’t stay here tonight. I just can’t. It’s just for tonight.”
Persis Durant pursed her lips, and looked at her husband.
“I know what you’re gonna say,” Lucy cried. “Family needs to be together at times like this. Ma … she’ll need me. So’ll Pa. But that horrible old hag … Zerelda … she’s stayin’ here tonight. And I …”
Alistair was afraid his mother would stare at him, but Cally sang out: “She can sleep in my bed, Ma.”
“Come along, child,” his mother said sweetly.
Chapter Nine
Back at the Tate farm, a Minié ball had plowed a furrow just below Alistair’s ribs. Only a flesh wound, but it still throbbed relentlessly, and Alistair wanted to get back home, let his mother clean that ugly gash, and put a fresh bandage on him.
Last time the redlegs had paid the Durants a visit, the time they stole the horses, they’d killed all three hounds, so the farmhouse was quiet when they pulled up to the house that evening. Later, after Alistair had time to think on it, he would realize it had been too quiet. No chickens squawking. No nighthawks or bats fluttering in the gloaming. No crickets chirping. He didn’t even see any fireflies.
He swung off his horse, wrapping the reins around a porch column, and gripped the harness to the mules hitched to the wagon, ready to lead them to the barn—holding the leather with both hands, away from the revolvers he had worn to see Tommy Cobb buried.
The door to the cabin opened, followed by that unmistakable metallic click of a carbine being cocked.
“Stand easy,” a voice sang out, echoed by more guns being readied to fire.
One of the twins stifled a cry.
“Don’t let go of that harness, young ’un,” another voice said, and Alistair tightened his hold on the leather. He felt like an idiot. Frank James had warned him.
The sun had gone down, darkness quickly descending, but he could make out the silhouettes of three men approaching from the barn. Another man came around the corner of the house. Yet another popped out of the two-seat privy, standing in the doorway. That one appeared to be aiming a revolver.
“Who are you?” Alistair’s father shouted. He had his hands full helping Alistair’s mother from the wagon.
“Any questions will be asked by me,” the man on the porch said.
“This be my property,” his father said. “You’ll answer to me.”
“Easy, Pa,” Alistair said.
“We’re looking for bushwhackers,” Porch Man said.
“Ain’t none here!” Cally said bitterly.
“Oh, I think that’s Alistair Durant holding them mules,” Porch Man said.
“I’m Alistair Durant,” Alistair said with a sigh. “But I’m no bushwhacker.”
A match flared, and soon a lantern’s wick burned, the globe being lowered, bathing the front of the house with warm light. “No bushwhacker, eh?” Porch Man laughed. “Unless my eyes deceive me, that’s a bushwhacker’s shirt you got on underneath that frock coat. Don’t you think so, Abe?”
Abe, still standing at the privy, said: “Iffen you say so, Lieutenant.” Unless Abe had eyes like a hawk, he couldn’t see Alistair’s face from where he stood.
“Yankee swine!” Lucy Cobb said. She stepped from the wagon, moved straight to Porch Man, and Alistair had to fight to keep his hands on the harness. He called out Lucy’s name, warning her to stop, lying that everything would be fine, but she kept right on walking, eyes filled with hate. By then, however, the three men from the barn had surrounded the wagon, and one shifted his carbine to his left hand, and wrapped his right arm around Lucy’s waist.
She fought like a catamount, grabbed a handful of whiskers, jerked, and the Yankee flung her to the ground, cursing while bringing the carbine to his shoulder.
“Leave her be!” Alistair shouted. He let go of the harness. The mules brayed. One started to rear up, but Cally, still in the wagon, reached across the driver’s box, taking hold of the lines, calling out to the two jacks to go easy.
The twins began to cry. His father cursed the Feds. His mother sought the Almighty’s deliverance.
Porch Man barked out: “No one move. This ain’t what I want!”
Lucy wasn’t about to stay put until Alistair shouted: “Stay there!” To his surprise, she obeyed. Oh, she didn’t like it, but maybe she got a good look at that Sharps carbine aimed at her chest.
She sank back into the grass and dirt, and cursed the Federal holding the Sharps, cursed the lieutenant on the porch, cursed the other soldiers at the farm. The twins bawled, and Alistair’s mother went to them, enveloping them in her arms.
“This is my farm,” Able Durant said calmly. “You soldier boys ask anyone around this here county, and they’ll tell you I’m no Secesh.”
“Your son is,” said the man who had rounded the house. Striking another match, he fired up a second lantern, which he set on the porch railing.
Cally wrapped the lines around the brake, and eased off the wagon. “You Yanks drove him to the brush,” she snapped.
“Where’s Quantrill?” Porch Man asked. Alistair could see his face now, but that told him little. He wore a blue kepi, and a cavalry blouse. And tall boots. So he was a regular Fed, not a redleg. The Yank who had lit the second lantern walked around, an Army Colt in his right hand, hammer at full cock. “Back up,” he said.
Alistair obeyed. “You heard the lieutenant,” Army Colt said. “Where’s Quantrill?”
“I don’t know.” Which was true. Quantrill could be anywhere. In a week, he would be at the cave behind Joe Jubal’s farm
near Harrisonville. But this evening?
“George Todd?”
Alistair shook his head.
Porch Man stepped to the ground. “I can, and will, hang you right here.”
His mother gasped, but Alistair just stared into the officer’s pale eyes. He was close enough now that Alistair could see his pockmarked face, and the beginnings of a mustache and goatee.
“Tell me where Quantrill is, or even Todd, and I’ll let you live. And I won’t burn down this place.”
Rough hands jerked down Alistair’s coat. One at a time, Army Colt drew the two Navies from their holsters, and pitched the revolvers underneath the mules. Next, the Fed found the big Bowie knife, and tossed it toward the well.
“You’re young to die for a murdering scoundrel like Quantrill,” Porch Man said.
“I’m older than Tommy Cobb,” Alistair said.
“Leave ’em be!” his mother called. “He done told you he don’t know nothin’.”
The twins began crying again.
“Well?” Porch Man asked.
Alistair said nothing.
With a sigh, Porch Man tilted his head toward Army Colt. “Take him inside the barn. Hang him there.”
“No!” the twins and his mother cried out.
“If they move,” Porch Man said, “kill them. Nits and all. You two stay here.” The graybeard aiming the Sharps at Lucy nodded, and turned to point his big carbine at Alistair’s father. Another soldier kept his revolver on the twins.
Lucy sprang to her feet. “I’m comin’ with y’all!” she said. Tears flowed down her face. “He’s my beau!”
Porch Man shrugged. “Let her come. Maybe she’ll change his mind.”
“If not,” Army Colt said, “the barn might be a good place for her to be. Afterward.” Two other Yanks sniggered with him.
With the Colt’s barrel pressed against his backbone, Alistair walked toward the barn.
“Stay here,” Porch Man told Privy Guard as they passed. “Keep a lookout.”
Lucy ran alongside Porch Man, pleading: “You ain’t gotta kill him, are you?”
“Not if he tells us where Quantrill is.”
They reached the barn. Lucy helped one of the troopers open the door. “But he ain’t even turned seventeen years old already. He ain’t done nothin’.”
Wreaths of Glory Page 7
