The Andre Norton Megapack

by Andre Norton

  But he was making no impression; he couldn’t. At Boyd’s age you could not imagine death as coming to you; nor were you able to visualize the horrors of an ill-equipped field hospital. Any more than you could picture all the rest of it—the filth, hunger, cold, and boredom with now and then a flash of whirling horses and men clashing on some road or field, or the crazy stampede of other men, yelling their throats raw as they charged into a hell of Minié balls and canister shot.

  “I’m goin’ to ride with General Morgan, like Shelly did,” Boyd repeated doggedly, with that stubbornness which seasons ago had kept him eternally tagging his impatient elders.

  “That’s up to you.” Suddenly Drew was tired, tired of trying to find words to pierce to Boyd’s thinking brain—if one had a thinking brain at his age. Slinging his carbine, Drew mounted Shawnee. “But I do know one thing—you’re not goin’ with me.”

  “Drew-Drew, just listen once.…”

  Shawnee answered to the pressure of his rider’s knees and leaped the brook. Drew bowed his head to escape the lash of a low branch. There was no going back ever, he thought bitterly, shutting his ears to Boyd’s cry. He’d been a fool to ride this way at all.

  CHAPTER 2

  Guns in the Night

  There were sounds enough in the middle of the night to tell the initiated that a troop was on the march—creak of saddle leather, click of shod hoof, now and then the smothered exclamation of a man shaken out of a cavalryman’s mounted doze. To Drew’s trained ears all this was loud enough to send any Union picket calling out the guard. Yet there was no indication that the enemy ahead was alert.

  Near two o’clock he made it, and the advance were walking their horses into the fringe of Lexington—this was home-coming for a good many of the men sagging in the saddles. Morgan’s old magic was working again. Escaping from the Ohio prison, he had managed to gather up the remnants of a badly shattered command, weld them together, and lead them up from Georgia to their old fighting fields—the country which they considered rightfully theirs and in which during other years they had piled one humiliating defeat for the blue coats on another. General Morgan couldnot lose in Kentucky!

  And they already had one minor victory to taste sweet: Mount Sterling had fallen into their hold as easily as it had before. Now Lexington—with the horses they needed—friends and families waiting to greet them.

  Captain Tom Quirk’s Irish brogue, unmistakable even in a half whisper, came out of the dark: “Pull up, boys!”

  Drew came to a halt with his flanking scout. There was a faint drum of hoofs from behind as three horsemen caught up with the first wave of Quirk’s Scouts.

  “Taking the flag in…” Drew caught a snatch of sentence passed between the leader of the newcomers and his own officer. He recognized the voice of John Castleman, his former company commander.

  “…worth a try…” that was Quirk.

  But when the three had cantered on into the mouth of the street the scout captain turned his head to the waiting shadows. “Rennie, Bruce, Croxton…give them cover!”

  Drew sent Shawnee on, his carbine resting ready across his saddle. The streets were quiet enough, too quiet. These dark houses showed no signs of life, but surely the Yankees were not so confident that they would not have any pickets posted. And Fort Clay had its garrison.…

  Then that ominous silence was broken by Castleman’s call: “Bearer of flag of truce!”

  “…Morgan’s men?” A woman called from a window up ahead, her voice so low pitched Drew heard only a word or two. Castleman answered her before he gave the warning:

  “Battery down the street, boys. Take to the sidewalks!”

  A lantern bobbed along in their direction. Drew had a glimpse of a blue-uniformed arm above it. A moment later Castleman rode back. One of his companions swerved close-by, and Drew recognized Key Morgan, the General’s brother.

  “They say, ‘No surrender.’”

  Perhaps that was what they said. But the skirmishers were now drifting into town. Orders snapped from man to man through the dark. The crackle of small-arms fire came sporadically, to be followed by the heavierboom-boom as cannon balls from Fort Clay ricocheted through the streets, the Yankees being forced back into the protection of that stronghold. Riders threaded through alleys and cross streets; lamps flared up in house windows. There was a pounding on doors, and shouted greetings. Fire made a splash of angry color at the depot, to be answered with similar blazes at the warehouses.

  “Spur up those crowbaits of yours, boys!” Quirk rounded up the scouts. “We’re out for horses—only the best, remember that!”

  Out of the now aroused Lexington just as daylight was gray overhead, they were on the road to Ashland. If Red Springs might have proved poor picking, John Clay’s stables did not. One sleek thoroughbred after another was led from the stalls while Quirk fairly purred.

  “Skedaddle! Would you believe it? Here’s Skedaddle, himself, just aching to show heels to the blue bellies, ain’t you?” He greeted the great racer. “Now that’s the sort of stuff we need! Give us another chase across the Ohio clean up to Canada with a few like him under us. Sweep ’em clean and get going! The General wants to see the catch before noon.”

  Drew watched the mounts being led down the lane. Beautiful, yes, but to his mind not one of them was the equal of the gray colt he had seen at Red Springs. Now that was a horse! And he was not tempted now to strip his saddle off Shawnee and transfer to any one of the princes of equine blood passing him by. He knew the roan, and Shawnee knew his job. Knows more about the work than I do sometimes, Drew thought.

  “You, Rennie!”

  Drew swung Shawnee to the left as Quirk hailed him.

  “Take point out on the road. Just like some stubborn Yankee to try and cut away a nice little catch like this.”

  “Yes, sir.” Drew merely sketched a salute; discipline was always free and easy in the Scouts.

  The day was warm. He was glad he had managed to find a lightweight shirt back at the warehouse in town. If they didn’t win Lexington to keep, at least all of the raiders were going to ride out well-mounted, with boots on their feet and whole clothing on their backs. The Union quartermasters did just fine by Morgan’s boys, as always.

  Shawnee’s ears went forward alertly, but Drew did not need that signal of someone’s approaching. He backed into the shadow-shade of a tree and sat tense, with Colt in hand.

  A horse nickered. There was the whirr of wheels. Drew edged Shawnee out of cover and then quickly holstered his weapon, riding out to bring to a halt the carriage horse between the shafts of an English dogcart.

  He pulled off his dust-grayed hat. “Good mornin’, Aunt Marianna.”

  Such a polite greeting—the same words he would have used three years ago had they met in the hall of Red Springs on their way to breakfast. He wanted to laugh, or was it really laughter which lumped in his throat?

  Her momentary expression of outrage faded as she leaned forward to study his face, and she relaxed her first half-threatening grip on her whip. Though Aunt Marianna had never been a beauty, her present air of assurance and authority became her, just as the smart riding habit was better suited to her somewhat angular frame than the ruffles and bows of the drawing room.

  “Drew!” Her recognition of his identity had come more slowly than Boyd’s, and it sounded almost wary.

  “At your service, ma’am.” He found himself again using the graces of another way of life, far removed from his sweat-stained shirt and patched breeches. He shot a glance over his shoulder, making sure they were safely alone on that stretch of highway. After all, one horse among so many would be no great loss to his commander. “You’d better turn around. The boys’ll have Lady Jane out of the shaft before you get into Lexington if you keep on. And the Yankees are still pepperin’ the place with round shot.” He wondered why she was driving without a groom, but did not quite dare to ask.

  “Drew, is Boyd here with you?”

  “Boyd?” />
  “Don’t be evasive with me, boy!” She rapped that out with an officer’s snap. “He left a note for Merry—two words misspelled and a big blot—all foolishness about joining Morgan. Said you had been to Red Springs, and he was going along. Why did you do it, Drew? Cousin Merry…after Sheldon, she can’t lose Boyd, too! To put such a wild idea into that child’s head!”

  Drew’s lips thinned into a half grimace. He was still cast in the role of culprit, it seemed. “I didn’t influence Boyd to do anything, Aunt Marianna. I told him I wouldn’t take him with me, and I meant it. If he ran away, it was his own doin’.”

  She was still measuring him with that intent look as if he were a slightly unsatisfactory colt being put through his paces in the training paddock.

  “Then you’ll help me get him back home?” That was more a statement than a question, delivered in a voice which was all Mattock, enough to awaken by the mere sound all the old resistance in him.

  He nodded at the Lexington road. “There are several thousand men ahead there, ma’am. Hunting Boyd out if he wants to hide from me—and he will—is impossible. He’s big enough to pass a recruiter; they ain’t too particular about age these days. And he’ll stay just as far from me as he can until he is sworn in. He already knows how I feel about his enlistin’.”

  Her gloved hands tightened on the reins. “If I could see John Morgan himself—”

  “If you could get to Lexington and find him—”

  “But Boyd’s just a child. He hasn’t the slightest idea of war except the stories he hears…no idea of what could happen to him, or what this means to Merry. All this criminal nonsense about being a soldier—sabers and spurs, and dashing around behind a flag, the wrong flag, too—” She caught her breath in an unusual betrayal of emotion. And now she studied Drew with some deliberation, noting his thinness, itemizing his shabbiness.

  He smiled tiredly. “No, I ain’t Boyd’s idea of a returnin’ hero, am I?” he agreed with her unspoken comment. “Also, we Rebs don’t use sabers; they ain’t worth much in a real skirmish.”

  She flushed. “Drew, why did you go? Was it all because of Father? I know he made it hard for you.”

  “You know—” Drew regarded a circling bird in the section of sky above her head—“some day I hope I’ll discover just what kind of a no-account Hunt Rennie was, to make his son so unacceptable. Most of the Texans I’ve ridden with in the army haven’t been so bad; some of them are downright respectable.”

  “I don’t know.” Again she flushed. “It was a long time ago when it all happened. I was just a little girl. And Father, well, he has very strong prejudices. But, Drew, for you to go against everything you’d been taught, to turn Rebel—that added to his bitterness. And now Boyd is trying to go the same way. Isn’t there something you can do? I can’t stand to see that look in Merry’s eyes. If we can just get Boyd home again—”

  “Don’t hope too much.” Drew was certain that nothing Marianna Forbes could do was going to lead Boyd Barrett back home again. On the other hand, if the boy had not formally enlisted, perhaps the rigors of one of the General’s usual cross-country scrambles might be disillusioning. But, having tasted the quality of Boyd’s stubbornness in the past, Drew doubted that. For long months he had been able to cut right out of his life Red Springs and all it stood for; now it was trying to put reins on him again. He shifted his weight in the saddle.

  “He’s been restless all spring,” his aunt continued. “We might have known that, given an opportunity like this, the boy would do something wild. Only the waste, the sinful waste! I can’t go back and face Merry without trying something—anything! Can’t you…Drew?”

  “I don’t know.” He couldn’t harden himself to tell her the truth. “I’ll try,” he promised vaguely.

  “Drew—” A change in tone brought his attention back to her. She looked disturbed, almost embarrassed. “Have you had a hard time? You look so…so thin and tired. Is there anything you need?”

  He flinched from any such attack on the shell he had built against the intrusion of Red Springs, for a second or two feeling once more the rasp across raw nerves. “We don’t get much time for sleep when the General’s on the prod. Horse stealin’ and such keeps us a mite busy, accordin’ to your Yankee friends. And we have to pay our respects to them, just to keep them reminded that this is Morgan country. I’ll warn you again, Aunt Marianna, keep Lady Jane out of Lexington today—if you want to keep her.” He gathered up his reins. “Boyd told me about Grandfather,” he added in a rush. “I’m sorry.” And he was, he told himself, sorry for Aunt Marianna, who had to stay at Red Springs now, and even a little in an impersonal way for the old man, who must find inactivity a worse prison than any stone-walled room. But it was being polite about a stranger. “Major Forbes…he’s all right?”

  “Yes. Only, Drew—” Again the urgency in her voice held him against his will, “Boyd.…”

  He was saved further evasion by a carrying whistle from down the road, the signal to pull in pickets. Pursing his own lips, he answered.

  “I have to go. I’ll do what I can.” He set Shawnee pounding along the pike, and he did not look back.

  If he were ever to fulfill his promise to locate Boyd, that would have to come later. Quirk’s horse catch delivered, the scouts were on the move again, on the Georgetown road, riding at a pace which suggested they must keep ahead of a boiling wasp’s nest of Yankees. There was an embarrassment of blue-coat prisoners on the march between two lines of gray uniforms, and pockets of the enemy such as that at Fort Clay were left behind. The strike northward took on a feverish drive.

  Georgetown with its streets full of women and cheering males, too old or too young to be riding with the columns. Mid-afternoon, Friday, and the heat rising from the pavement as only June heat could. Then they reached the Frankfort road, and the main command halted. The scouts ate in the saddle as they fanned out along the Frankfort pike, pushing toward Cynthiana. Sam Croxton strode back from filling his canteen at a farmyard well and scowled at Drew, who had dismounted and loosened cinch to cool Shawnee’s back.

  “Cynthiana, now. I’m beginnin’ to wonder, Rennie, if we know just which way we are goin’.”

  Drew shrugged. “Might be a warm reception waitin’ us there. Drake figures about five hundred Yankees on the spot, and trains comin’ in with more all the time.”

  Sighing, Croxton rubbed his hand across his freckled face, smearing road dust and sweat into a gritty mask. “Me—I could do with four or five hours’ sleep, right down here in the road. Always providin’ no blue belly’d trot along to stir me up. Seems like I ain’t had a ten minutes’ straight nap since we joined up with the main column. Scoutin’ ahead a couple weeks ago you could at least fill your belly and rest up at some farm. Them boys pushin’ the prisoners back there sure has it tough. Bet some of ’em been eatin’ dust most all day—”

  “Be glad you’re not ridin’ in one of the wagons nursin’ a hole in your middle.” Drew wet his handkerchief, or the sad gray rag which served that purpose, and carefully washed out Shawnee’s nostrils, rubbing the horse gently down the nose and around his pricked ears.

  Croxton spat and a splotch of brown tobacco juice pocked the roadside gravel. “Now ain’t you cheerful!” he observed. “No, I’ve no hole in my middle, or my top, or my bottom—and I don’t want none, neither. All I want is about an hour’s sleep without Quirk or Drake breathin’ down my back wantin’ to know why I’m playin’ wagon dog. The which I ain’t gonna have very soon by the looks of it. So.…” He mounted, spat again with accuracy enough to stun a grasshopper off a nodding weed top, which feat seemed to restore a measure of his usual good nature. “Got him! You comin’, Rennie?”

  The hours of Friday afternoon, evening, night, crawled by—leadenly, as far as the men in the straggling column were concerned. That dash which had carried them through from the Virginia border, through the old-time whirling attack on Mount Sterling only days earlier, and which had brought them in
to and beyond Lexington, was seeping from tired men who slept in the saddle or fell out, too drugged with fatigue to know that they slumped down along country fences, unconscious gifts for the enemy doggedly drawing in from three sides. There was the core of veterans who had seen this before, been a part of such punishing riding in Illinois, Ohio, and Kentucky. The signs could be read, and as Drew spurred along that faltering line of march late that night, carrying a message, he felt a creeping chill which was not born of the night wind nor a warning of swamp fever.

  Before daylight there was another halt. He had to let Shawnee pick his own careful path around and through groups of dismounted men sleeping with their weapons still belted on, their mounts, heads drooping, standing sentinel.

  Saturday’s dawn, and the advance had plowed ahead to the forks of the road some three miles out of Cynthiana. One brigade moved directly toward the town; the second—with a detachment of scouts—headed down the right-hand road to cross the Licking River and move in upon the enemies’ rear. From the hill they could sight a stone-fence barricade glistening with the metal of waiting musket barrels. Then, suddenly, the old miracle came. Men who had clung through the hours to their saddles by sheer will power alone, tightened their lines and were alertly alive.

  The ear-stinging, throat-scratching Yell screeched high over the pound of the artillery, the vicious spat of Minié balls. A whip length of dusty gray-brown lashed forward, flanking the stone barrier. Blue-coated men wavered, broke, ran for the bridge, heading into the streets of the town. The gray lash curled around a handful of laggards and swept them into captivity.

  Then the brigade thundered on, driving the enemy back before they could reform, until the Yankees holed up in the courthouse, the depot, a handful of houses. Before eight o’clock it was all over, and the confidence of the weary raiders was back. They had showed ’em!

  Drew had the usual mixture of sharp scenes to remember as his small portion of the engagement while he spurred Shawnee on past the blaze which was spreading through the center of the town, licking out for more buildings no one seemed to have the organization nor the will to save. He was riding with the advance of Giltner’s brigade, double-quicking it downriver to Keller’s Bridge. In town the Yankees were prisoners, but here a long line, with heavy reserves in wedges of blue behind, strung out across open fields.