by Mike Kearby
MIKE
KEARBY
The Road to
a Hanging
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Praise
Copyright
Prologue
Anderson Farm, Missouri 1864
Wide ribbons of light peered over the horizon, heating a fog that had settled on the hemp fields during the cool of the night. Touched by the sun’s warming rays, the scorched mist rose skyward in slender wisps of gray, hanging delicately in the air like a spider’s web. The seasonably cool morning temperature gave no hint to the heat of an extended Missouri summer and dangled a deceptive offering to the slaves of Anderson Farm. The slave workers, shackled in perpetual bondage, always included in their prayers the hope of a temperate day in which to toil.
George Washington Anderson looked to the east and saw a great mass of red thrust itself onto the morning sky. By mid-morning, he knew his skin would be baking under the burning sphere.
“Missouri weather,” his father said.
George, yawning, moved with little want toward the morning’s work of cultivating the hemp rows.
“George, you open that mouth any wider, and it’s going to be full of flies.”
He laughed at his father’s joke, then caught midway between laugh and yawn, began to cough uncontrollably, choked by his action. His father burst out laughing as George tried to regain control of his coughing. Then his father’s hand plopped on his shoulder, and all seemed right in his world. The youth of eighteen had worked with his father in the hemp fields since age eight. For as long as he remembered, his father William had been his best friend and teacher. By example, he always inspired George to work hard, and speak proper.
“Son, did you hear cannon fire last night?”
George looked up at his father, trying to remember the previous evening.
“It sounded like it was coming from west of the farm, out near the Little Blue.”
“I don’t remember hearing any sounds last night, Father.” He could see a troubled look on his father’s face, the same look his father took on when the hemp quota was short for the week.
“George, I think the war may have finally reached us. It’s probably nothing, but stay alert this morning.”
“Why? What’s going to happen?”
His father’s hand left his shoulder. “I don’t know, Son. Just stay alert. Now let’s get about our work.”
George took up his hoe and began breaking the ground around the hemp stalks. The work was back wrenching, and only the strongest of slaves could work the stalks for fourteen hours a day. Over ten years, the harsh labor had transformed George into a lean, muscular six-foot man. The most striking feature of the young slave was his hair. Unlike other slaves at Anderson Farm, George’s hair was a mixture of light and dark brown, full, and tightly coiled. His mother often told him, he had the hair of a tribal king.
“This is for Jeff Davis.” He smashed the hoe into the rich soil beneath his feet, causing the ground to splatter in all directions. “And this is for Hiram Anderson.” He laid the tool to earth once more with a tremendous concussion. Committed to his task, he looked toward his father working the row next to him. He was leaning on his hoe in a statue-like pose with his forehead resting on the back of his hands.
“Father?” George froze. His brain tried to comprehend the event. “Father!”
Then his father collapsed in a heap upon the dark Missouri soil. In a second, George was on his knees next to his father’s limp body. He lifted his father’s head and stared into his eyes. “Father!
What is it? What’s wrong?”
“George.”
He strained at his father’s almost inaudible whisper. “What?” An ashen color had formed on his father’s lips.
“Your chance, son.”
“I don’t understand.” George felt the wetness of tears running down his cheeks.
“The army. Run to the army. Be free, son.”
His father’s mouth began to open and close in a strange rhythm. After an endless time, his muscles surrendered, and his mouth did not open again. Under the hot Missouri sun, his father’s eyes rolled slowly toward the sky. He grabbed the lifeless figure and began rocking him back and forth, his father’s head pushed into his chest.
George felt a cooling shade cross his back. Strange, He thought. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky this morning. He felt the sensation of his body being lifted, separating him from his father. He tried to resist, but all of his energy was gone. He felt helpless as his shoulders drooped downward.
Then he was back in the world. He sensed the hands from other slaves trying to comfort him, holding his shoulders, rubbing his arms, moving him away from the field. Several women knelt next to his father’s body. They were swaying back and forth, singing aloud an African death chant.
He violently pulled his arms from the Samaritans moving him toward the slave quarters. “My mother!” he cried. “I’ve got to see my mother.” He composed himself by wiping the tears from his face. He would approach his mother as a man. He would bury his father this day; then he would find the Union Army.
He would be free.
Chapter 1
Palmito Ranch, Texas 1865
Free Anderson tasted the strange mixture of dust, acrid smoke, and sweat running from his brow and settling on his lips. A heavy layer of dirty white powder floated head high around his regiment, making all who walked through it take on an eerie, ghost-like complexion. The source of the fume was a barrage of artillery rounds bombarding retreating Union regiments.
Free prodded his men, members of the 62nd United States Colored Infantry First Regiment, to quick time their retreat, but to no avail. Each of his soldiers, involved in skirmishes for almost twenty-four hours straight, walked as if mired knee-deep in mud.
The rebels had moved their artillery up in line, and Free heard the shouts and hoorays of the Confederate cavalry carrying across the plain. The land against which the 62nd retreated was no more than a scrub prairie of marsh plants and palmetto trees and offered little in the way of cover. Free was not a stranger to battle, but he could never get accustomed to the sounds and smells of war. The continual bombardment, deafening in its effect, allowed confusion to slip into a man’s mind. He had witnessed many a brave soldier, disoriented by wave afterwave of combat, wandering through a battlefield, oblivious of the consequences. The dread of dying wreaked havoc on the human body. It forced the stench of fear out of a man’s every pore, leaving the battlefield reeking with the bitter smell of sweat, blood, and piss.
It seemed straightforward that Colonel Barrett was scooped into this fight, and now the exhausted men of his company might pay the price of it. The colonel had ridden to the back of the line only once to order Captain Johansson and forty-six men of the 34th Indiana to break out of formation and scatter as cover for the runn
ing retreat. Free knew Captain Johansson to be a first-rate officer and hoped he would fare well against the energized rebel force.
Three miles into the Union retreat, the Confederate bombardments went quiet as the artillery was once again moved forward in their line. Free halted his brigade for a pause and noticed a lone rider from the front moving toward their position. He could tell right away from the rider’s low position over the horse’s shoulders that the approaching pony carried Union Lieutenant Parks Scott, a volunteer with the 2nd Texas Cavalry and a man Free called friend. He had met Parks when the 62nd first dispatched to Brazos Santiago. The young Cavalry Lieutenant was a first-rate horseman and the sole officer of the 2nd Texas who was still mounted. He held ground when the hornets buzzed about and men around him fled. And when all others shunned the men of the 62nd, Parks Scott would not. He had spent each evening in the colored camps offering to help any man who wanted, to learn to read and write. Free knew the men of the 62nd would ride the river at first call with Parks. He was a man you could tie to.
The paint mustang dug heels into the ground in front of Free, kicking up rock and powder. The rider, a lean young man of no more than twenty years, leaned over the horse’s shoulder and tipped his hat upward, revealing sky-blue eyes.
“Seems you boys are in a might of a pickle back here.”
“Oh, it’s just a little fuss, Lieutenant.” Free moved up close to the paint and stroked the horse’s neck. “Chew?” He looked up at his friend.
Parks Scott lifted a leather pouch from around his neck and tossed it into the air. “Your men appear pretty well played out, Sergeant.”
Free looked at his lines. He knew from experience a soldier’s words might claim the fight, but a man’s eyes never disguised fatigue. There was not a doubt in his heart that his men, whipped by exhaustion, needed relief. “Not these men, these men are in apple pie order, sir.”
“Well that’s good to know because Colonel Bar-rett has decided to pass the buck back to you and the 62nd while he skedaddles to Boca Chica.”
“So that’s how it is?” Free cut off a plug of tobacco and pushed it into the back of his jaw.
“Would appear so.”
“Well, I appreciate you riding back all this way to let me know.”
“I figure it would be best for us to wind up this business so maybe I can go home.”
“You plan on staying back here with us?”
“Sergeant,” Parks rubbed his pony’s neck, “you know this paint is the fastest in South Texas, but he’s having a dreadful time keeping up with the 34th. I’ve never seen men depart a scrape so quick. I figure he deserves a rest back here where the company is more to his liking.”
Free let a wide smile come over his face. “Scuttlebutt is Jeff Davis is captured, and his cabinet spread to the wind.” Free bit down hard on the tobacco plug, causing the brown juice to flow to the corners of his mouth.
“I’ve heard that.” Parks said.
“And Lee himself has surrendered?” Free asked.
“I’ve heard that also.”
“Not to shirk my responsibility, but doesn’t that mean the war is over for these men?” Free spit at a large pad of cactus.
“Not for Colonel Barrett. He was so right and ready to capture Brownsville that he failed to consider how the Confederate forces would react. When he broke General Wallace’s truce with old Rip Ford, he threw down a challenge to these Texas boys. And now it appears they’ve got their backs up and aim to make him pay.” Parks turned an ear toward the Confederate lines. “I would figure by the commotion behind us and the fact we aren’t hearing any report, that Johansson’s group is captured or killed.”
“That would be a pure tragedy.” Free looked back in the same direction as the lieutenant. “What do you figure we need to do to slow down these Graybacks?”
“If it were me, Sergeant, I’d spread my men across this plain, in line and as far apart as possible. Spread out, we might take the artillery out of play. You take one flank, and I’ll take the other. I think we all might be game for it.”
“Good luck to you, Parks.” Free handed the leather pouch back to his friend.
“Try to take care of yourself, Sergeant.” Parks grinned broadly. “I might not have time to come back and save your old hide.”
Free watched the lieutenant ride away as he called orders for his men to move out in line across the South Texas plain. For the next three hours, both sides fired on one another with little ambition as to battle. He figured the lateness of the afternoon and exhaustion kept the Confederates from pursuing his troops more vigorously. Near sundown, the incoming artillery diminished, and the 62nd crossed the remaining three miles back to the skiffs.
The exodus scene at the inlet was one of chaos. Many of the Union soldiers from the 34th were jumping on the skiffs, which were used to ferry the soldiers across the Boca Chica inlet, to the safety of Brazos Island, while wounded soldiers lay on blankets near the water. Free watched in horror as the field officer in charge showed little interest in stopping the throng of blue rushing the shoreline. His lack of action allowed the soldiers to run past him undaunted and into the shallow water where the skiffs waited. Free ran to the water’s edge, imploring the soldiers to help him move the wounded to the skiffs first. He removed his forage cap and began waving it back and forth. “Hey! Hey!’ He screamed toward the frenzied soldiers. “The Rebs have gone! They’ve all left!”
“Sergeant!” The field officer screamed. “Hobble your lip! We don’t need coloreds giving orders to white soldiers and especially not to white officers! Do you understand me?”
Free set a hard gaze on the officer’s face. He recognized him from Benton Barracks as Corporal Jubal Thompson. He was the one officer who continually harassed the soldiers of the 62nd. This mean, hard case of a man enjoyed the suffering of others and took great satisfaction in making the colored soldiers perform fatigue duty long after their normal workday was done. Free bit down on his lip and answered, “Yes sir. Sorry, Corporal Thompson.” He knew he had made a serious mistake. For a brief moment, he had allowed himself to forget his color. For a brief moment, he was just a man. The president’s orders may have freed him, but it did not make him an equal. He feared a world where he would always be inferior in the eyes of men like Jubal Thompson.
He watched as a broad smirk came over the corporal’s face. The look was a familiar one. He had seen it many times as a slave in Missouri. It was the look white men gave the slaves to reinforce that they were not in control of their own lives. Corporal Thompson turned away, back to the chaos, still exerting no control over the situation.
Free took one more look at the scene and moved back to his regiment. He called for roll and took the count. He was relieved to note that not one man of the First Regiment was lost, and only nine men were wounded. He gave his own thanks for this blessing and looked around the group for Parks. He had lost sight of him during the retreat and hoped that the lieutenant made safe passage to the skiffs.
Chapter 2
Tulosa Bluff, Texas 1865
Parks Scott made sure that Free and the men of the 62nd were out of danger and moving without difficulty toward the Boca Chica inlet. He observed that the Texas Cavalry attack had ceased, and the artillery battalion was moving back toward Palmito Ranch. Even after riding over twenty miles this day, he figured he could catch up to them before the soldiers reached the Tulosa Bluff. If he knew Rip Ford, that is where he would bivouac his men. Riding into the Rebel camp was a dangerous affair, but Parks knew that he and the 62nd were expendable in Colonel Barrett’s way of thinking. His only hope of avoiding the blame that most certainly would be brought to bear on him and Free was to convince Colonel Ford to vouch for the 62nd.
Parks’ father, Wyatt, had ridden with the colonel as a Texas Ranger. The two had chased and fought Indians from Mesquiteville to Fort Cooper during the Canadian River Campaign of ’58. He knew that the colonel, no matter what uniform he wore, always carried the respect of other mil
itary leaders.
As he raced toward the bluff, he could see the glint of sunlight reflecting off the hill. The point of light gave him a fixed position of the Confederate camp. Getting careless in your old age colonel, he thought. He reckoned field glasses were observing him, so in the spirit of showing off, he pushed the pony to top speed, raising a wall of dust behind him.
The paint mustang crested the top of the craggy bluff with little effort and created a small landslide of dirt behind him. Parks heeled the pony and walked him slowly over to a man he had known since he was a small boy. “Colonel Ford.” He acknowledged the old family friend.
“That’s a fine mount you have there, son.”
“He’ll do.” Parks Scott dismounted and let his reins hit the ground.
“You Union boys took us on quite a run today.”
Parks laughed. “Well, Colonel Barrett had his eyes set on seeing the elephant, and I think he took an immediate dislike to the beast.” He leaned over and shook the colonel’s hand.
“Parks, how are you?”
Parks acknowledged the men around him with a nod of his head and then looked back toward the colonel. “Well, sir.”
“So, tell me what brings you so late from battle?”
“I was hoping we might do some horse trading.”
“Horse trading, you say. And what is it you have to trade?”
Parks watched as the colonel looked back at his troops. He knew the bargaining was about to begin. No respectable Texan would turn down the chance to one-up a fellow Texan. Bartering was a delicate dance, where a man’s words indicated his interest or lack thereof in the deal. To show interest too soon could make a man pay through the nose, just as showing too little interest could head the deal south. Parks knew the colonel was an expert in the art, but he was no shave tail and figured to use that to his advantage. “The war’s over, sir.”
“And by the looks of today, it appears the Confederacy won.”
Parks listened as the colonel’s troops guffawed and clapped their hands together. He smiled to himself. “Lee’s quit. Jeff Davis is captured, and I hear General Kirby Smith is meeting right now to prepare the surrender of the Trans-Mississippi Confederate troops.”
