Chip Shatto (Perry County Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Keeping his face stern as a frozen Indian's he leaned over the aide's polished desk and helped himself to a sheet of paper. He fingered a lead rifle ball from his pouch and. pressing hard on the paper, drew a duplicate of the Shatto arrowhead brand. He replaced the ball and thrust the paper under the aide's mustache.

  "Give this to the General now. I'll wait for an answer." His cold black eyes brooked no questioning and the crudely drawn arrowhead was surely a secret coded for only the General's recognition.

  His dignity ruffled by relegation to messenger, the young officer sought to recoup by intently examining the sketch as though he too were privy to its significance. Satisfied that all in attendance appreciated his control of the situation he nodded knowingly and turned toward the heavy, paneled door that his desk protected. Belatedly he turned to ask, "Your name, sir?"

  "Just say 'Rob Shatto, Lieutenant." Of course, the General would think it was Pap, but his name was the same even if everyone called him Chip. Now he'd discover about how highly Georgie McClellan valued his arrow branded horses.

  The aide returned appearing mildly surprised. An instant later a harassed looking civilian clutching a number of rolled documents let himself out of the inner sanctum and the aide held the door for Chip's entrance.

  It was a handsome room with deep bay windows on both sides. Dark wood paneling and thick walls helped the high ceiling in suggesting cool comfort in summer. Indeed the room was less stifling and Chip noticed that the windows opened on the shaded side were protected by some sort of fine meshed screening.

  The General stood a trifle regally beside his desk with a clenched fist knuckling its polished surface. Uniformed in a cut of his own choosing and standing as tall as his slight stature permitted, George McClellan looked the leader his supporters believed him to be.

  His first words were, "What in hell?" and Chip was forced to grin at their astonishment.

  "Rob Shatto, Junior, General. Most call me, Chip."

  He stepped forward, hand extended.

  McClellan thumped his desk in recognition. "Of course—Chip! My God, but you gave me a start. For an instant I thought I had somehow reverted to my youth."

  The General's hand clasp was strong with an extra heartiness that Chip believed was genuine. Probably a man in McClellan's position shook hands a dozen times a day with individuals he wouldn't give two cents for. In the old days he had liked the Shattos and the memories of those younger times, riding wild and carefree among the Perry County hills, probably still pulled at him.

  They sat for a few moments judging each other and remembering how Chip, only a boy, had met newly commissioned Lieutenant McClellan on the Carlisle Road just off Mahonoy Ridge and how they had gone on over to the Little Buffalo to choose George's first Shatto horse. That had been back around 1845 and they had both grown some since then.

  McClellan was more than a little taken with Chip Shatto. How old would he be? Perhaps thirty, he judged. Obviously a physical man, Chip possessed that almost fearsome grace and power his father had worn so casually. The young man had looked death and danger in the eye—that too was plain in his confident ease and straight-eyed appraisal.

  Surrounded by the servile and self-seeking, George McClellan could envy Chip's uncomplicated independence that would stride through the crafty and calculating maneuvering of many he would encounter without realizing they were even in competition,

  Chip spoke of his own admiration of young Lieutenant McClellan who, with polished boots, gleaming buttons, and glittering saber had been a sight almost beyond a mountain boy's imagination. General McClellan laughed heartily and supposed that the young Lieutenant had also thought himself just about that magnificent.

  When they got down to the reason for his unexpected appearance, Chip's words grew slower. He found it necessary to explain how he and his brother had gone west to see the mountains. Ted had taken up ranching but for Chip the wild country had tugged too strongly and he had traveled widely, living with the trappers and among the many Indian tribes. Finally the raw lonesomeness of the life had turned him again east and an increasing itch to build with his hands and turn soil to raise crops for his own family brought him home to Perry County. He shook his head ruefully when he came to that part." Can't say as I look much like a farmer, decked out in guns and skins, but once this war is behind that's what Chip Shatto is going to be."

  His wide grin broke the harshness of his tanned features. "Pap liked to have died when I told him that, but I expect Ma won't really care too much what I do, so long as I settle nearby.

  "The fact is, General, I've come to where I can't put off doing my part in this war. Now Pap—he'd just as soon ignore it and I'm not claiming I'm looking forward to fighting, but...." He hesitated, hunting words. "Well, there's work to be done and it's as much mine as anyone's." That out of the way, he felt better and went on more easily,

  "Of course, I can sign up for almost any regiment and serve alongside other good men, but it seems to me there ought to be outfits that can use the skills I've grown into."

  He had to grin again. "I doubt there's much need for shooting under a running horse's neck or translating Sioux or Crow talk, but if there are scouts or rangers like they had during the Revolution, that's where I'd fit in."

  McClellan listened gravely. The war had long ago slowed to a brutal slugging match with the armies locked in mindless struggle.

  Each side drove in new companies seeking weakness or bracing soft spots. Usually they fell apart, spent and exhausted, with neither side clearly victorious.

  For the North, it was a war of attrition; kill all you could and destroy everything the South had until the Confederacy ran out. For the South, it was fight like catamounts: scratch, claw, dig, or crawl, but hang on buying time until Europe joined in or the increasingly dissatisfied Northern populace demanded a truce and negotiated peace.

  The warring capitals were only two days ride apart and it could not be a war of small scouting parties or long, secretive patrols. Of course, those tasks popped up now and then but they were rarely foreseen.

  There was continued planning of a mighty sweep down the Shenandoah Valley and through the heartland of the South.

  "Burn the guts right out of them," as some cavalry officers put it. That could suit a man of Shatto's abilities but when that campaign would develop, if ever, was still undecided. There were many ramifications involved in bypassing the Southern armies and destroying the breadbasket of their confederacy. Strategically it was sound warfare, but the emotional tragedies of such a campaign would remain open sores long after other horrors of conflict were healed so that again becoming one nation would be made increasingly difficult. Yet, thinking about that powerful sweep presented a glimmer of an idea to the General and he looked sharply at Chip Shatto as he let it grow in his mind.

  When the talk slowed the General drew a fine gold pocket watch from a small slit pocket barely visible in his uniform jacket.

  "Chip, duties await me. Some in the outer office, more at the War Department. Although I am considered retired, the condition cannot last and I try to keep my hand on at least a few reins." He tapped the watch lightly in his palm allowing his fingers to caress the smooth metal.

  "Come again tomorrow. Say a little after noon. By then, I may have a suggestion." His eyebrows raised a little in hint of special knowledge. "And, I might even have a proposition that could interest you."

  He rose and came again alongside his desk. The grip of his hand remained warm and friendly. It appeared that George McClellan, a man who had commanded armies and now vied for the presidency, still had time for old friends.

  Chip doubted that many could successfully barge into the General's time, so it was plain that the Shattos had left good impressions over the years.

  With most of the day remaining, Chip chose to ride through the city and across the Potomac taking in the sights en route. Wartime Washington was busy alright and in some ways exuded an excitement he had encountered only in the jumping
-off towns along the Mississippi where the great trek across the plains began. It was a spirit drummed up by the urgency of the tasks and the probability of danger. There too men scurried, their thoughts ranging far ahead. Some connived for gain at others' expense but most sought more worthy goals. In the west it was land, cattle, gold, or furs. Here it was victory, honor, duty, and power; though Chip was not sure of the order of those priorities among these swarming people.

  The confusion was wearing and Chip rode free of the city well before dark. He camped in a farmer's meadow along a small brook. He kept his cooking fire small in the Indian manner, feeding in only enough sticks to create a hot flame that grew no larger than his fist. He heated sausage by the slice and chewed it slowly along with his mother's hearty bread. Occasionally he leaned on an elbow and drank deeply from the brook.

  It was the kind of a meal he was used to and he found it satisfying. He could remember a thousand like it, sometimes alone on the Great Plains where the horizons stretched forever, more often deep in the mountains at a spot chosen for easy escape and far enough from rushing water that he could hear anything approaching. Back then he had eaten with his feet under him and rifle ready.

  He pushed his blankets into a comfortable rest against his saddle and watched the Appaloosa tear at the succulent meadow grass. In the west he would have hobbled the horse so that marauders could not steal her or, if danger grew close, he would rest with a rein in hand and cinches tight, ready to be gone in an instant. It was comforting to know that savages did not come this way but old habits held on and he knew he automatically listened to the night sounds around him.

  After the horse had grazed, drunk noisily, and rolled to its satisfaction, he tied her nearby and made his bed on soft dry ground. He placed his weapons as he had found handiest over the years. The two-barreled pistol was unfamiliar but after a moment's consideration he pulled the holster around front so that the butt lay close to his hand. He closed his big fist around the mesquite wood stock his father had made when the original maple had cracked too badly. Percussion guns were about finished he supposed, but to those who knew how to use them, they were still deadly weapons. The Rob Shatto pistol had been built right and used by men who knew guns; so it had never failed. It was comforting to have it resting against his body as it had against his father's and his great grandfather's.

  ++++

  Chapter 4

  George McClellan was not a man to beat around bushes, but he was also a politician. A night of consideration had convinced him that Chip Shatto was a man he needed and he planned to couch his words to gain Chip's assistance.

  The day was another scorcher with humidity making even the flies listless. They sat again in the General's office while the line of anxious supplicants sweated in the anteroom.

  McClellan started. "Chip, I've given your request serious consideration. For a time I thought the only answer might be scouting service with troops beyond the Mississippi. Although big armies receive all of the notice, there is hard riding and fighting in Missouri, Kansas, and on into the Indian Territories."

  Chip did not appear enthused and McClellan was pleased. "You may be best fitted for that sort of duty, but having just returned from the west, I doubt you would prefer it."

  He bit a lip and rose to close the open windows that had given at least a hint of fresh air. Back at his desk he leaned forward to speak more softly as though fearful others might hear.

  "What I am now going to speak of must remain entirely between the two of us. If you choose another course, this conversation must never be repeated or referred to. Are you in agreement?"

  Mystified, Chip nodded assent and the General continued. "In a deep Southern state, an older man lives quietly under an assumed name. He has been there, undiscovered and undisturbed since before hostilities began. However, we now have reason to believe that his assumed name has been disclosed and although his whereabouts are unknown, a search has begun. We know who leads the search and can assure you that the hunter is deadly and implacable."

  McClellan sighed and leaned back in his chair as though to relieve tension. "To put it shortly, Chip, the man now living incognito is close, alarmingly close, to a person of highest influence in our government. The relationship is such that danger to the elderly gentleman would render an important arm of government ineffectual and prove highly detrimental to our war effort."

  Again the intense forward lean. "So, we must get the man out. But how? A regiment of cavalry could not penetrate, much less successfully withdraw. A spy or secret agent? Provocative, but they know most of ours as we know them. By whom and by what route? Those are the questions.

  "The answers I believe lie with you. "The General appeared pleased with himself but Chip wasn't nearly sold. He had seen himself in uniform standing with others and the Deep South was as strange to him as the far side of the moon. As a quick judgment, he expected he could get into about anywhere as well as anyone else could, but he wasn't sure he cared to try.

  "Consider, Chip. You are a man we can trust—and do not take that lightly. Loyalties have shifted with startling convenience these last few years.

  "Further, you are not known by our enemies. Particularly, you are not known to Jonathan Starling. He is the searcher I spoke of moments ago. A merciless hunter, Chip ... a soulless man who values only profit and his own twisted pride.

  "Plainly, you are a man of the west. You can ride where you will without elaborate pretext and without raising undo suspicion. Finally, you are a scout. You could enter and leave with as little disturbance possible."

  Chip did not appear enthused so McClellan drew up his heaviest artillery.

  "There is no greater service that you can do for our bleeding country, Chip. Of course you will save an elderly man from probable torture and perhaps death at Starling's hands. You will also prevent a government upheaval at this critical time when our national will weakens beneath the strain of a seemingly endless war."

  A deliberate hesitation and a piercing eyed look. "I would be gratified if you would seriously consider this mission, Chip, and I would take your acceptance as a personal favor. It means that much to me—and to all of us."

  Chip felt like a wolf with a foot in a trap. He was backed into a comer and he had no comfortable excuses. Actually, he could be interested in the complexities of penetrating deep into the Confederacy; it was just that he had seen himself soldiering and the idea took some dying time.

  As if sensing his thoughts, McClellan added "In the practical sense, you will be breveted Lieutenant on my staff and assigned individual scouting duties." He smiled a trifle grimly. "Even retired former commanders retain that much authority. Your scouting duties will be described in files open only to those who need to know. In that way your service will be a matter of record yet secrecy will be assured."

  Chip seemed anxious to speak so McClellan gave him the opportunity.

  "General, I'm in no position to judge the importance of getting this man out so I'll accept your word that it's essential. It's other things that bother me.

  "For example, what would you have done if I hadn't come wandering in? Who is this man Starling that you seem so sure is about to pounce and, along that line, I can't see southern men of influence allowing an old man to be held hostage or tortured. My God, that would open a nasty bucket of worms. Hell, we've all got relatives on both sides."

  McClellan nodded, pleased that Chip was showing interest and already expecting he would take on the task.

  "Alright, Chip. In order then. If you choose not to perform this duty, I have three men prepared to leave immediately. They will enter the Confederacy separately. One as a cotton speculator, another as an English writer observing the South in war and the last as a down-on-his-luck peddler.

  Competent men all, they will do their best. One or more may succeed in contacting the man they seek, but what then? Getting away will be extremely difficult.

  "Starling is an old acquaintance. Undoubtedly contacts from before the
war whispered what knowledge he possesses. The man who foolishly spoke the secret name has cursed himself a thousand times, but fortunately had the courage to admit his error and give us opportunity to arrive before our enemy.

  "Jonathan Starling was expelled from West Point for hamstringing a fellow cadet with a saber. Dueling itself was grounds for dismissal, but those reviewing the crime declared Starling's crippling of his opponent sadistically deliberate. Starling left the military behind but has since prospered through dozens of nefarious schemes. He has killed enemies in duels and his competitors suffer peculiar accidents and disappearances.

  "Starling answers your question concerning southern gallantry. We have considered requesting the Richmond government to take our hidden friend into protective custody. Among them he would be safe. But the wheels of politics grind even slower than the mills of the fabled gods and, believing him secure, we waited too long.

  Starling, you see, works for his own gain. He is tolerated within the Confederacy as a source of information and occasionally as a provider of armaments.

  "Starling feathers his own nest"—McClellan smiled in appreciation of his word choice—"and to do so he will resort to foul measures rejected by most men. We know this for he has done so with some regularity.

  "If Jonathan Starling captures our man he will be held hostage for heavy favors. He is not above returning severed fingers and the like to prove his determination. Understand, Chip, if this occurs, we will know who is responsible, but proof will never appear. Others will bear the messages, and evidence of Starling's complicity will not survive."

  When the General concluded, Chip hesitated only a moment. "This Starling, how will I know him?"

  Satisfaction showed on McClellan's features. "He is tall but slender like a rapier. He prefers to dress with elegance and pose as a man of refinement. You can know him by hair as dark as your own and a great beak of a nose down which he views this world of lesser mortals."