"My pockets are as empty as my belly," Mike said.
The tavern keeper laughed. "Very well, a fair exchange. Roast chicken and bread in exchange for a clean kitchen." He paused and said kindly, "And if you want to sleep in front of the fireplace tonight, I'll have no objections."
"Thanks," Mike said. He held out his right hand. "The name's Mike Kelly."
"Knew you were Irish when I spotted that red hair." The
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tavern keeper shook Mike's hand and smiled. "Around these parts I'm known as Pat Duffy." With his chin he nodded in the direction of a back room. "There's a cupboard just inside the kitchen where you can put your belongings. Rest easy. They'll be safe enough."
Mike found the cupboard easily and stashed his knapsack in it. When he returned to the counter, Mr. Duffy handed him a heaping plate of food, which Mike took to a table off in a comer. Delicious! He stuffed himself with roasted chicken, thinking of nothing beyond his plate, until a conversation at the next table caught his attention. 'Think those Confederates will be in here tonight?"
"I hope not. That one—the blond sneaky kind of feller—I wouldn't say it to his face, but I suspect he cheats at cards."
Mike nearly dropped the chicken leg he was holding. Jiri! That meant his unit hadn't left their encampment in the area! And Jiri was still up to his tricks of cheating people. Mike couldn't believe it. The biggest hoodlum in the entire Confederacy had stolen Todd's watch! Mike's mind raced. If Jiri's coming here, I'll have to stay out of sight Will Jiri have Todd's watch on him? And if he does . . . ?
One of the men put an abrupt stop to Mike's panic when he told his friends, "There's no chance you'll see 'em tonight —or any other night in the near future. Their party was fixin' to leave today and head north."
"North to where?" someone asked. "Are we lookin' at another battle?"
"Not unless they're goin' to rendezvous with the whole of Price's army and then some. I heard they were off toward Jefferson City."
"Then they may meet up with Fremont. Think they can take him single-handedly?"
There was general laughter, and the conversation shifted to local gossip.
How was he ever going to catch up with Jiri Logan and retrieve Todd's watch? He'd come so close and had missed
Jiri by only a day! Frustrated, Mike wiped his greasy hands on his pants legs and climbed off the stool, carrying his plate to a back room where other dirty dishes were stacked.
Mike had made a bargain, and he intended to keep it. He stirred up the smoldering fire in the fireplace, filled the kettle with water from a pump near the back door, and hung it on a hook over the fire. He emptied the sink, wiped it free of food and grease, and found a small sharp knife to cut slivers from a large chunk of lye soap.
When the water was hot enough to melt the soap, Mike plunged his hands into the suds and scrubbed the plates and cups in the dishpan with all his energy, getting rid of some of the anger and frustration he felt about Jiri.
When Mike reentered the main room of the tavern, he froze. In the center of the room, at a table with two other Rebel soldiers and some of the local men, sat Jiri.
Jiri's eyes were on the cards he was dealing, and the other players watched just as intently, so none of them noticed Mike.
Mike turned and slipped out of the room. Leaning against the wall for support and breathing deeply, willing his heart to stop banging against his chest, Mike tried to think clearly.
It seemed logical that the Confederate detail hadn't left the neighborhood yet, but they were bound to be packed and ready. Jiri would probably have Todd's watch either on his person or in his saddlebags.
The saddlebags would be an easy place to begin his search. Mike slipped out the back door. Circling the building, he discovered three horses carrying Confederate Army saddles, pouches, and bedrolls. The horses were tethered with other horses to the rail that ran across the front of the tavern. The Rebel cavalry must be planning to get under way at first light, and these three Rebs—packed and ready to go—had probably decided to spend their last night in the area at the tavern.
There was no way Mike could tell which of the Confederate horses belonged to Jiri. He might have to go through all the saddlebags. He spoke quietly to the first horse, a spotted gray, and stroked his neck until the animal stopped its nervous stomping and whinnying. Then Mike opened the clasp nearest to him and reached inside. He pulled out a fistful of papers—among them a girl's photograph and a letter addressed to Sergeant Tom McKinney.
As fast as he could, Mike shoved the papers back and moved to the next horse, a tan with white markings on his legs and forehead. The horse seemed to sense Mike's nervousness and shied away from him, bobbing its head, snorting, and stamping.
Mike finally managed to soothe the horse, but the commotion had made the other horses nervous and noisy. What if Mike was discovered? With shaking fingers he unfastened the clasp on the saddlebag, reached inside, and gasped as his fingers touched something round and cold. The watch!
As Mike tried to grasp the watch, it slid from his fingers, dropping to the bottom of the pouch. Mike stood on tiptoe, shoving his hand more deeply into the pouch. But the horse backed sideways, away from him, and he stumbled, nearly falling under the animal's feet. As the first horse whinnied and the third horse snorted and stamped, Mike clung to the saddle, trying to regain his footing.
Suddenly the tavern door opened and someone yelled, "Who's out there with the horses? What are you up to?"
"It's the anny horses that are actin' up," a man said.
Then Mike heard a familiar voice that sent chills up his backbone. "Whoever's out there won't cause trouble for long."
Jiri!
"Now, wait!" Mr. Duffy bellowed. "There's no call to shoot anyone. Put the handgun away."
"You there!" Jiri called out, ignoring Mr. Duffy. "Move
away from those horses! Put your hands up and come out slowly."
Mike had no intention of facing Jiri. He knew that the imderbrush was thick along the side of the road, the forest deep and dark. He picked up a small stone and skittered it along the dirt under the horses' feet. As the startled animals snorted and stomped, Mike bent low and dashed silently down the road and into the forest.
Well away from the tavern, Mike settled down imder a tree and tried unsuccessfully to sleep. His heart still raced, and his mind churned with anger both at Jiri and at himself for so narrowly missing his opportunity. He had touched the watch. He was sure of it. He had actually come that close to the watch, dropped it, and lost his only chance!
"Oh, Da," Mike whispered aloud. "How am I going to keep my promise to Todd? What should I do?"
First things first, the answer came. For a moment Mike didn't know what the words meant, until he remembered his promise to Pat Duffy. In the morning, when his customers have left, Fit fulfill my part of the bargain, Mike thought. And come to think of it, Fll have to return anyway to collect my knapsack. More at peace with himself, Mike curled up and fell asleep.
It was still dark when Mike awoke and made his way back to the tavern. The horses were gone and the building was dark and silent, but Mike approached cautiously.
He'd already determined that there was no room for living quarters in the tavern, so he'd have the place to himself. He tried the front door, only to find it padlocked. He checked the back door next, but it too was locked. Mike was undaimted. There must be a window to open. Sure enough, he soon found one next to the back stoop. Mike sUd it open and climbed inside the kitchen.
The fire in the fireplace still glowed, so it was easy to add kindling and wood and bring it to life again. Then Mike set about completing his chores. With cloths and hot soapy wa-
ter Mike tackled the greasy tables and chairs, then swept the floor. Pleased with his work, he attacked the remaining dirty dishes, put them up on the shelves, and poured the wash water out the back door.
The sky slowly softened to gray, and Mike knew it was time to be on his way. "I did a good job.
Da," he whispered. "You can be proud of me."
All was in order and the fire low again, in no need of banking, so Mike opened the cupboard and reached for his knapsack.
To his surprise, an envelope lay on top of his knapsack. He opened it and found a few bills and a note from Mr. Duffy: Knew you'd be back. Have a safe journey.
Gratefully, Mike tucked the note and the money into his knapsack. The cash would serve him well.
He left the tavern through the window and pulled the sash back into place. By nightfall, he should reach RoUa and rejoin his company. With a new drum and drumsticks, he'd soon be ready to take his place in battle again, and maybe he'd meet up once more with Jiri Logan.
Mike had trudged for only a short while when a wagon driver stopped and offered him a lift. "Goin' into RoUa?" the man asked, and when Mike nodded eagerly, he offered, "Climb in the back. There's room between the potato sacks."
In a way Mike was glad to be relegated to the wagon bed. The potato sacks made a lumpy but not too uncomfortable cushion—and a good hiding place in the event they met up with a Confederate patrol.
There was no sign of Rebel cavalry, however. Mike deduced that the soldiers had abandoned their camp and followed a side road north to Jefferson City. He lay back to relax, staring up at the bright blue sky, glad that soon he would return to his company.
After hours of light sleep and anticipation, Mike at last stood by the Union Army camp outside the town of RoUa.
But instead of bounding toward the encampment, as he'd expected to do, Mike felt such a heavy mixture of pride and dread that he was unable to move from the roadway. He watched the activity at the gate as though he were a stranger and not a loyal drummer returning to duty. This was his company, where he belonged, yet his captain had been killed. . . . Ben, the Kansas volunteer so eager to return home when his three-month tour of duty was up, had been shot dead as well. And Todd was doubly violated— killed and robbed of the one thing he valued most.
The same fearful visions Mike had tried to forget—splattered blood, screaraing wounded, and the pounding roar of the fight at Wilson's Creek—rushed back into his mind with renewed force. As frantically as he tried, he was powerless to push them away. War, no matter its purpose, was a horrendous nightmare made real. Mike remembered when he and Todd had thought that joining the army would be a great, exciting adventure. He couldn't believe he'd been so wrong.
But for all the brutality of battle, he had signed on to help put an end to slavery by serving his country, and now it was time to report for duty. Mike limped to the guard at the gate.
Before he could identify himself, someone shouted, "Mike Kelly! It's really you! We all thought sure you were a goner!"
"Billy Whitley!" Mike exclaimed with enormous relief as he looked up to see the familiar face. But the relief was short-lived as Mike remembered that he didn't know to whom he should report. He said to the guard, "My captain was Captain Dawes of the Second Kansas Infantry, killed at Wilson's Creek."
"We'll find Sergeant Gridley," Billy offered. "He'll fix things right for you."
"How about Harley?" Mike asked quietly.
"Harley's here," Billy answered, and Mike let out a long breath of relief.
As they walked through the camp, Billy chuckled. "Thought we'd be home by now, didn't we? Those Rebs really fooled us."
"Have you heard where we'll go next?" Mike asked, raising his voice over the bustle going on around him.
"Harley says he heard that General Fremont plans to march down from Jefferson City and retake Springfield."
Mike thought sorrowfully about the people who had remained in and near the battered town of Springfield. How were they going to withstand another attack?
Billy raised one hand and let out a "halloo!" and Mike looked up to see Sergeant Gridley. As fast as he could, Mike limped toward his sergeant and shouted, "Michael Kelly reporting for duty, sir!"
Sergeant Gridley stopped abruptly as he watched Mike approach. "Mr. Kelly," he said, returning Mike's salute, "you weren't listed among our wounded. We feared you were dead."
"I was badly hurt, sir," Mike explained in a rush of words. "The Confederate surgeon wanted to take my leg, but the lady of that farmhouse that was in the thick of the battle took me in. She cleaned the wound and tended me until I could walk again." Mike puffed out his chest. "And now I'm as fit as ever."
The sergeant squatted and shoved up the right leg of Mike's trousers, whistling as he saw the size of the scar. He touched the leg, and Mike winced. "Still hurts a lot, doesn't it?" Sergeant Gridley asked.
"Hardly at all," Mike blustered. "My leg grows stronger every day."
Sergeant Gridley stood and slowly shook his head. "Mike, you wouldn't be able to keep up with us on a march, and I'm guessing it'll be this way for quite some time. That's
a bad wound. I'm going to fill out the papers needed to give you an honorable discharge."
Dismayed, Mike stammered, "B-but the company needs me!"
"It needs men who are fit to stand the rigors of a march into battle. Go home, Mr. Kelly, and get well again. Grow a couple of years older and a couple of inches taller. Then we'll be glad to see you reenlist."
As the drum call to supper rolled through camp, Mike's fingers instinctively reached for invisible drumsticks. Heartsick at the thought that his drum was truly lost forever and his days as an army musician brought to an end, Mike stared at the ground, unable to look at the man who was so easily dismissing him.
But Sergeant Gridley clapped a hand on Mike's shoulder. "There's been much talk around camp about how brave you were, how you stood your post no matter how thick the fighting around you. Captain Dawes was proud of you. I am, too. And I see no reason why there won't be a letter of commendation for you."
The words he wanted to say stuck in Mike's throat, but Sergeant Gridley didn't seem to notice his anguish. "Now come with me, Mr. Kelly. I think a large plate of stew is just what you need."
Supper with his company did, in fact, prove healing. Har-ley greeted Mike with a warm bear hug, and some of the other men gathered around, too. The evening was filled with reminiscences of some of the humorous stories that had been told, the practical jokes that had been played, and all that had gone on since the Battle of Wilson's Creek. The terrible hurt that had filled Mike's entire body and mind began to dissipate, and Mike told the men of his journey from Wilson's Creek.
There were sly nudges when he described the girl who gave him water, whoops when he told about nearly getting captured in the house in Springfield, mutterings when he
related the story of the farmer who rode in secret to bum the homes and bams of Union sympathizers, and angry grumbling as he told about Jiri's theft of Todd's watch.
"But tomorrow I'll be on my way home to Fort Leavenworth," Mike said bitterly. "Because of my leg wound, I've been discharged from the army."
"That's the way it has to be," Harley said. "Anyone experienced in battle knows that every member of a company depends on the others. One weak link breaks a chain."
"I thought you didn't have a home," one of the men said. "Heard you was an orphan."
Embarrassed, Mike shrugged. "Captain Dawes decided I must be an orphan after I told him I came west on one of the orphan trains, and I let him think so because I wanted so much to be an army drummer. But I'm not really an orphan. Ma gave me up to the Children's Aid Society, along with my sisters and brothers, to be placed in foster homes because" —Mike gulped and left out the part about his arrest for copper stealing—"because she couldn't take care of us in New York City."
"How does Fort Leavenworth come into it?"
"Captain Joshua Taylor and his wife took me in. The captain's with his company in Virginia, and Louisa, my foster mother . . ." Mike sighed. "I had to do something— anything—to help, so I ran away. That is, Todd and I ran away together—to join the Union Army."
After telling his secrets, Mike expected disapproval, but the men nodded as though Mike's decisions were strictly h
is own business.
"Which way will you travel to reach home?" Billy asked. "You'd better not go back through Springfield."
"He'll go by way of the river," Harley said. "It's the best choice. There may be a few mounted Confederate details scattered throughout the countryside, but General Fremont's gathering his army in Jefferson City, and Mike will be safer taking that route than any other. Jefferson City's
right on the Missouri River, and there'll be paddlewheelers headed for St. Joe to carry our lad as far as Kansas City or Fort Leavenworth."
"St. Joe," Mike murmured in a sudden burst of homesickness. "Maybe I'll travel to St. Joe and visit my mother before going back to the fort. That's where Ma lives now." But suddenly, the rest of what Harley had said hit him with such a punch he gasped for breath: Jefferson City! Where Jiri Logan was headed! If Jiri were anywhere in the vicinity of Jefferson City, Mike would find him.
After supper Sergeant Gridley handed Mike a pair of wool and rubber blankets and a thick packet of envelopes. "Mail from your family," he said with a smile. "Since we were waiting for further word about your whereabouts, I didn't return these with letters of condolence. So as far as your family's concerned, you've remained safe and sound."
As Mike clutched the letters eagerly, the sergeant added, "I've assigned you to Harley's tent. Get a good night's sleep and a good breakfast in the morning, and we'll send you off with as much food as we can spare and this bedroll as our parting gift."
Mike spread out the blankets and sat upon them cross-legged, happily reading his mail. Ma had written four letters, each of which included notes from Peg; Louisa, Frances, and Megan had written three times, but Danny had written just once. There was even a letter from Captain—now Major Taylor, and Mike tore the envelope open with trembling fingers. What if the major were displeased with him?
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