A Dangerous Promise

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  On Saturday evening, July 20, the one-armed, tough, and courageous Union General Sweeny commanded twelve hundred men who had been assembled in a mix of infantry, cavalry, and artillery to break up a camp of secessionists at the small southern Missouri town of Forsyth. Mike was among the assembled men; Todd was among those who stayed behind.

  Among the soldiers, Mike sloshed along roads that rain had turned into beds of mud. His forage cap, protected by an oilskin cover, remained dry, but the rest of his clothes were soaked by the rain. This is it, he thought. This is what Fve been waiting for. Close to Captain Dawes's side, ready to send any order through his drum calls, Mike envisioned himself helping to guide the men through the fight.

  It took two days to cover the forty-five miles of hilly, rugged countryside between Springfield and Forsyth, and the rain changed to a hot dry sun that seemed to beckon every biting, flying bug in the county. The stink of drying wool and sweating bodies overpowered the cleaner fragrances of wet earth and washed meadow grasses.

  Riders on horseback brought the conunand to a halt. Word swept down the line faster than a grass fire. A handful of Rebs had challenged General Sweeny's mounted advance guard, but the guard had captured two of them instead.

  General Sweeny directed Captain Stanley of the cavalry to take his two companies and the mounted Kansans and surround the town. The artillery and infantry were to follow.

  To Mike's disappointment, the battle was over before the Second Kansas Infantry arrived, and on July 24 he found himself back in Springfield. "Wasn't much to it," he complained to Todd. "There were only a hundred and fifty state guards, headquartered in the courthouse. They fired on the mounted troopers as they rode into town, but when the troopers fired back, the Rebs fled into the hills, hiding in the trees and underbrush. The artillery flushed them out of those woods like a covey of quail."

  Todd looked hopeful. "Maybe the rest of the Rebs will run off, too."

  "Sure," Mike said, puffing out his chest and looking wise. "All we have to do is throw a scare into them."

  "I wish it had been like that at Bull Run," Todd said, and Mike saw the worry in Todd's eyes and a drawn, frightened look on his face.

  "What's Bull Run?" Mike asked, wishing he hadn't been so full of his own story that he hadn't seen that something terrible was bothering his friend. "What are you talking about?"

  "You didn't hear the news?" Todd answered. "Our Union forces took a terrible beating from the Confederates at what they're calling the Battle of Bull Run, near Manassas, Virginia. A woman spy for the Confederacy told them the Union Army's plans. We should have won, but instead there were many . . . many Union soldiers killed."

  Mike tried to swallow. His mouth was dry, and his throat tightened with fear. "Captain Taylor and your pa, Todd . . . they would have been there, wouldn't they? Do you know if they . . . ?" Mike couldn't continue.

  Todd's eyes filmed with pain as he shook his head.

  Mike clenched and unclenched his clammy hands. "I have to know. I'll ask Captain Dawes how we can flnd out."

  "You aren't going to teU him about Captain Taylor adopting you, are you?"

  "No," Mike said. "There has to be another way." As he headed toward his company headquarters, he murmured, "Don't worry. By the time I find Captain Dawes, I'll come up with an idea."

  His heart pounding, Mike found the captain leaving the headquarters tent. The muscles in his face were tight, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.

  Quickly stepping to the captain's side, Mike blurted out, "Sir, I have a friend in camp named Todd Blakely. His father's Captain John Blakely, serving with Captain Joshua Taylor in Virginia."

  Captain Dawes's eyes lit with recognition. "Josh Taylor was a classmate of mine at West Point."

  Mike was cold, even though sweat tickled his neck and backbone. "What I mean, sir . . . Todd is awful worried about Captain Tay—that is, his father and Captain Taylor. Is there any chance of knowing whether they were at Bull Run, and whether they . . . uh . . ." Mike couldn't finish.

  Captain Dawes clapped a hand on Mike's shoulder. "I can tell you about Captain Taylor, because we were just reading correspondence about the battle and its unfortunate outcome. Josh's name stood out to me because he's a

  friend. He survived the battle with honor. As a matter of fact, he received a field promotion to major."

  A rush of relief and thankfulness left Mike hght-headed. His voice cracked as he asked, "And Todd's father? Captain Blakely? Do you know what happened to him?"

  Captain Dawes hesitated. "I wish I had good news for your friend, but as yet I haven't. We weren't sent a list of casualties."

  Mike slowly made his way back to where Todd was waiting. "They don't have a list of casualties yet," Mike said. "But that doesn't mean anything bad happened to ... to either your father or mine. We've got to keep thinking that they both survived the battle with honor."

  Tears flooded Todd's eyes, and he rubbed them away angrily as he dropped cross-legged to the ground. After a few moments he said, "Mike, we'll be going into battle soon, and I've been thinking—not everybody lives through a battle to tell about it."

  "Don't say that!" Mike scolded as he squatted next to Todd. "It's not right."

  "It's right to face the truth," Todd said.

  Mike shook his head. "It's just asking for trouble," he insisted.

  Todd put a hand on Mike's arm. "I don't own much of any value, but . . ."He reached into his pocket and pulled out his simple gold-plated pocket watch, which had been dented by baby teeth. "You know that my pa gave this to me on my last birthday." Todd bit his lip hard enough to leave marks before he asked, "Mike, if I'm killed in battle, v^U you take my watch, and when you once again reach home, will you give it to my sister Emily?"

  "Todd! You're not going to get killed!"

  Todd tightened his grip on Mike's arm, and Mike winced.

  "You've got to promise, Mike! Promise!"

  "All right," Mike said. "I promise. I'll do whatever you want."

  Solemnly, Mike and Todd shook hands.

  "And now," Mike said, trying hard to sound cheerful and hearty, "let's decide how we'll celebrate once the battle's over and the victory's been won."

  "Celebrate with what?" Todd asked.

  Mike winked. "Maybe with a nice roasted turkey. I saw a few in a field a ways back. Now, wouldn't turkey taste good along with applesauce? I think I'd dive in headfirst. Gobble, gobble, gobble."

  Todd couldn't help smiling, and Mike was cheered.

  When the mail arrived, both Mike and Todd received their first letters from their families, and Todd's good humor seemed completely restored.

  Like many of the soldiers who had received mail, Mike found a place apart from his friends and settled down to read the letters over and over in private.

  Mike read Louisa Taylor's letter first. In no uncertain terms she wrote that she was frantic about Mike, who was much too yoimg to serve his country. Yet she added, "There is nothing that can be done about it now, so I can only say that my prayers and love will follow you wherever you go."

  In the next letter. Ma gave Mike a good blunt scolding before her words lost their edge and became as tender as Mike remembered. "My impulsive, my adventuresome son," Ma wrote, "I guess I should have expected to see you leap to be one of the first to serve your country. Just remember, you are still a boy, not yet a man. Stay away from those who drink and gamble with cards, choose your companions wisely, and don't forget to pray. Throughout each and every day, I'll be praying for you." Ma sent her everlasting love and included a funny note from Peg, who wrote a gleeful description of mean Mr. Crandon tripping and falling facedown into a mud puddle. Mike would never forget Mr. Crandon—the stuffy bank president who had wanted to send him back to New York—and prison. He hoped he never met up with that man again.

  There was a short letter from Megan, who promised to write every week, and a longer letter from Frances, who didn't scold, as Mike thought she might. She longed for the slave issue to be
settled once and for all, the war to be over soon, and Mike to return safely to his home with the Taylors.

  There was no letter yet from Danny, but Mike wasn't worried about his brother, who'd have to take a long drive to town in order to post his letter.

  Soon Todd, with a wide smile on his face, joined Mike and dropped to the ground next to him. "Ma got it all off her chest, and then she began writing loving things and telling me how she was arranging with her brother Peter to have me live with his family in Boston when the war is over." Todd chuckled. "All I care about is that Ma's got over being mad at me. From now on everything's gonna be all right."

  Todd punched Mike's arm, Mike punched back, and they scuffled, rolled, yelled, and laughed until two men plucked them apart, dangling them in the air by their belts.

  "Cut out the fighting! You want to get in trouble?"

  Harley's deep voice broke in: "Leave the boys alone. Don't you remember when you were their age and havin' fun?"

  And so the men dumped Mike and Todd on the ground, where—still laughing—they scrambled to pick up their mail.

  During the next few days camp life followed its usual pattern, with one exception. General Lyon, concerned about protecting the citizens of Springfield from unwarranted raids, issued an order temporarily forbidding foraging. As a result, all soldiers under his command were existing on half-rations. The soldiers' empty bellies made the long wait to fight the Confederates seem all the longer.

  "General Fremont took charge of the western army," Harley said during one of the men's countless card games, "and I heard tell that he won't send Lyon the troops he's

  been begging for. Lyon is afraid of getting beat without the extra men, and he's hoping Fremont will change his mind."

  Sitting on the sidelines with Todd, Mike listened intently.

  Ben squatted on his haunches as he slapped down a six of spades. "How come you know so much about what's going on, Harley?" he asked.

  Harley spat to one side and wiped his mouth on his sleeve before he answered, "Nobody tells a foot soldier nothin', so a long time ago I learned to keep my ears open. That's how come I know what the officers talk about."

  Ben grunted. "Well, if all they're gonna do is wait and try to make up their minds when they're gonna fight, I'll be long gone out of here, and so will the other volunteers who signed up with me. Our ninety days will be over on August fourteenth, some volunteers even earlier than that."

  "Don't count on it," Harley answered. "If Lyon isn't goin' to get troops to replace the volunteers, then he's bound to go into action while he's still got men under contract." He studied his cards, then added, "Word is that Lyon's spies told him that the Rebs are movin' up strong from Cassville, hopin' to march on Springfield."

  Mike couldn't help bursting in: "Then why doesn't General Lyon do something about it right now? General Sweeny sent those Rebs on the run down at Forsyth. We could do it again!"

  Ben snickered. "Want to tell that to General Lyon, Harley?"

  Harley laid down a card and smiled a satisfied smile. "I don't talk to generals. I listen to what they've got to say, and then I pass along the word."

  But on August first, orders were given so swiftly that even Harley Botts had no advance notice. General Lyon had learned from his scouts that a strong column of Confederate soldiers was less than eighteen miles from Springfield.

  That afternoon, the men in Major Sturgis's battalion left

  camp and began their march to join Lyon's brigade. They forded Wilson's Creek, which was fairly shallow in the August heat, and halted in a field north of Skegg's Branch. Mike eagerly helped set up camp for nearly six thousand officers and men. He beat his drum calls with unmatched vigor and excitement, and the next morning, when the march began again, he was sure his drumbeats were the liveliest along the route.

  Captain Steele, with a battalion and artillery, led the advance, chasing off a smattering of Confederates as he deployed two of his companies along Telegraph Road after them.

  "I told you," Mike said proudly to Harley, as the march was halted and word was passed down the line, "it's easy to send those Rebs scurrying."

  Harley grunted. "Don't be too sure. Take a look at what's around us—forest, thick underbrush, steep hills. It's easier to fight in the open than in terrain like this, take my word for it."

  Word came that the Missouri State Guard had attacked Steele's vanguard at Dug Springs, so Lyon sent some of his brigade ahead to reinforce Steele's forces.

  As instructed, Mike's company stood by to wait for further orders. "Why don't we go into action?" Mike demanded.

  "Settle down," Todd answered. "We'll find out soon enough."

  "Eager to fight, are you, boy?" Billy muttered.

  To Mike's surprise, he saw that most of the men seemed restless or nervous. Few of them shared the excitement he felt.

  That night at camp, rumors were as thick as the clouds of moths that beat against the lanterns' glass. A group of soldiers gathered around Harley, eager for any scrap of information, but Harley could only guess at what was happening.

  The next morning, under cover of Totten's battery of guns, Lyon's army resumed its advance. Word filtered down that five men liad died and thirty-six were wounded. Mike didn't know the men who'd been killed, so the statistics meant little to him. He was interested only in the order for the Second Kansas to advance past Dug Springs for three miles into McCulla's Springs, where the army would look for and engage the Confederates.

  For twenty boring hours, the Second Kansas remained at McCulla's Springs, with no sign of a single gray-coated Reb, before Lyon recalled them. The general had heard that a large force of Confederates was moving to support General Sterling Price, and there was a strong chance that their cavalry would cut off Lyon's army from its base in Springfield, twenty-six miles to the northeast. To make matters worse, supplies were almost depleted.

  "We're retreating? We've lost?" Mike was astounded when Harley passed on the news.

  56

  "We haven't lost," Harley explained. "We're just moving our army back a ways to regroup."

  Mike must have looked as dismayed as he felt, because Harley said, "Have you ever played draughts—maybe chess?" When Mike nodded, Harley explained, "Pieces are moved here and there, back and forth, and it's called strategy."

  "This isn't a game," Mike said stubbornly.

  "No, it's war," Harley agreed. "But we've got to do what the general decides is best."

  That night they camped at Terrell Creek, where the springs provided plenty of fresh water. Throughout the camp, soldiers supplemented their meager rations with boiled ears of newly ripened sweet com from nearby fields.

  The next day, Lyon led his army back to the outskirts of Springfield and ordered them to make a secure camp, allowing no one to leave or enter without proper credentials.

  "He'd better have us do somethin' pretty soon," Ben complained. "It's gettin' closer and closer to August fourteenth."

  "As I said before," Harley reminded him, "don't count on gettin' out by then. If Lyon loses most of his volunteers, he'll have to retreat practically out of the state and lose Missouri. Do you think he'll give up so easy?"

  "I don't," Mike answered loyally, and went off to find Todd.

  On August 8, a supply train arrived, providing many of the men with new clothes and shoes. Mike strode up and down in new, well-fitted boots, thankful he could throw away his old pair of shoes, which had large holes in the soles and one missing heel. Without the new boots, he'd probably have been marching south to meet the enemy in bare feet.

  He chuckled to himself at the number of volunteers who complained about being issued "crooked shoes."

  "Never had shoes like these afore this," Ben gnmibled.

  "One made for the right foot and one for the left. TheyYe not as comfortable as the straight shoes I've always worn."

  Mike had seen plenty of "straight shoes," shoes made with rounded toes to fit either foot. "Just be glad to have shoes," he said.


  Mike knew they'd be either heading into battle or retreating from Missouri soon. Everyone had been expecting marching orders for days. On August 9, the orders came.

  Soon after a dispatch from General Fremont, in which he stated his decision not to send reinforcements, one of Lyon's spies reported McCuUoch's decision to attack the Federals on the following day.

  Upon hearing this startling news, Lyon called for a council of war. Most of his officers agreed that retreating from Springfield would be a disaster. As Harley explained to the cluster of men around him, "The brigade would lose artillery and other equipment—and ultimately, the state of Missouri to the Confederacy."

  "Surprise is our only hope," Lyon said. Captain Dawes informed his men of Lyon's decision to attack that very night.

  Officers hurried to ready their troops to leave. Mike, his heart pounding, began to pack.

  Sergeant Gridley looked at Mike's stuffed bedroll. "Leave it behind," he told Mike. "We have to travel as light as possible."

  As Todd prepared to join Colonel Mitchell's unit, Mike gripped his hand. "Good luck," he said.

  Todd's eyes were dark with fear. "Remember your promise," he said.

  My promise? Oh, yes — the watch! "Of course I remember, but don't worry," Mike answered. "Just wish me good luck in return."

  "Good luck, Mike," Todd murmured. He grabbed his bugle and ran to join the colonel.

  He wouldn't be here except for my urging, Mike thought,

  watching Todd go. But there was no time to think about it. The army was ready to move.

  At six in the evening, with only two companies of home guards left to secure Springfield, the columns moved out. General Lyon's command, marching on the west flank along the Mt. Vernon Road, would cross Grand Prairie and attack the southerners' left flank. General Sigel took his troops to fight against the Confederates' rear and right.

  The march began briskly, with some of the men singing loudly along with the drumbeat, Mike among them. The Kansas volunteers outsang them all as they bellowed "Happy Land of Canaan."