To Tame A Rebel

by Georgina Gentry

  She looked past his crooked nose and prominent mole to his fine cigar and his custom-made uniform and boots. “That, my dear sir, is because you have obviously never had to do without it. You’ve always lived as a privileged gentleman.”

  His expression became glum. “I won’t if our side loses this war. Oh, by the way, you’ll have to cut that beautiful hair.”

  “My hair?” April reached to touch her long black locks, pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck.

  He nodded. “A soldier would hardly be wearing long hair, now, would he? One last thing: I can’t caution you enough—trust no one, even from our side. The one you trust may be the spy and the very one to betray you.”

  April shuddered. “I understand.” She was stubborn and had no intention of cutting her hair. She’d pin it under her hat instead. “Well, Major . . . ?”

  He smiled. “Just call me John Smith.”

  “That’s not your real name?”

  “Is April Grant yours?” His tone was sarcastic.

  “I suppose names don’t matter. When I see you again, Major, have the money ready.”

  “If I see you again,” he muttered.

  “What did you say?” She paused in the doorway.

  “I said Godspeed. Another officer will get your uniforms and necessary paperwork. In a few days, you should be deep in Indian Territory.”

  “Good-bye, sir.” April nodded and left his office. What in God’s name had she gotten herself into? And what good was all that gold if she didn’t live to spend it?

  Chapter 14

  Eastern Indian Territory, June 15, 1864

  Lieutenant Jim Eagle, of the crack Confederate Cherokee Mounted Rifles, swung down off his palomino stallion and handed the reins to his aide. “Here, little brother, hold my horse while I report in.”

  Tommy frowned, then nodded and accepted the duty. “I should have gone on that patrol with you.”

  “Maybe next time.” He sighed with weariness. The war seemed to go on and on, and he couldn’t remember anymore what they were fighting for. Years had passed since Wilson’s Creek, when the Confederates had attempted to take Missouri and had failed; the same for Pea Ridge. Then they had planned to keep invading Yankees from taking Texas, but the Yankees hadn’t made that move. Now the two sides just seemed to fight up and down the Indian Territory, burning and leveling everything, destroying crops and looting farms with much loss of life among the civilians. Jim frowned as he strode toward the general’s tent. He wondered if his widowed mother was still alive, and whether their ranch had been burned to the ground. The Yankees held that area, so he couldn’t get home to find out.

  Jim knocked the dust from his hat and strode to the general’s tent, bending his big frame to enter. “Lieutenant Jim Eagle reporting in, sir.”

  The legendary Cherokee officer looked up from his small desk. Stand Watie was squat and dark. “Ah, Wohali. At ease, Lieutenant. You know Captain Big Horse?”

  For the first time Jim noticed the superior officer standing in the shadows, and saluted him. Jim didn’t really like the captain.

  The other tossed him an almost condescending salute. “Wohali, you look tired.”

  Jim straightened his wide shoulders. Wohali. The Cherokee word for “eagle.” “I’ve been out on patrol, sir.”

  “Got anything worth reporting?” the general asked.

  Jim smiled. “Believe it or not, there’s a boat coming up the river.”

  “What?” Now he had both men’s undivided attention.

  Jim nodded. “I saw it myself or I wouldn’t believe it. It’s about four miles south of us.”

  “Headed to Fort Gibson to resupply the Yankees, no doubt.” The general frowned. “Our men could sure use some of those supplies.”

  Jim looked down at his own worn-out boots and thought wistfully of how real coffee would taste, to say nothing of better food. The war hadn’t been going well for the Southern side for a long time, and things were getting lean.

  Captain Big Horse shook his head. “I don’t know, sir; maybe we shouldn’t risk it. That boat is probably armed.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but Clem Rogers and I know that area well,” Jim argued. “There’s a bend in the river up ahead where it narrows and the water’s shallow—good place for an ambush.”

  The arrogant captain shook his head. “Maybe we shouldn’t, sir. We could lose too many men.”

  Jim frowned. He’d always thought Big Horse a coward.

  The old Cherokee general paused, considering. “You think we can capture it, Lieutenant?”

  Jim tried to control his mounting excitement. “If we take them by surprise, sir. Of course, if we let them get too near Fort Gibson, the Yankees will come to their rescue, and we won’t have time to loot the boat.”

  “It’s worth the gamble.” General Stand Watie stood up. “All right, we’ll give it a try.”

  “But, sir,” Big Horse began, “I don’t think—”

  “I said we’ll attack the boat.” Stand Watie glared at the captain.

  Big Horse didn’t look too happy, but he hushed and glared at Jim.

  “Lieutenant,” the general said, “this is your project; you can lead the attack.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jim snapped a salute and left the tent at a run, forgetting his exhaustion. Behind him, he heard the old officer come out of his tent, barking orders, and the camp stirring to life.

  “What’s up?” Younger brother Tommy handed him the reins to his horse.

  “We’re going on a raid, little brother. How would you like a new pair of boots?” Jim swung into the saddle, and his horse, sensing the excitement, began to dance in circles.

  Tommy grinned. “I’d like some good food better.”

  “You’re gonna get it. Tonight Yankee grub is going in Southern bellies.”

  “What?” Tommy swung up on his own gray horse.

  “We’re raiding a Yankee supply boat moving upstream.”

  “Snooty Captain Big Horse in charge?”

  “No, I am,” Jim said. “He didn’t even want to do it.”

  “Great!” Tommy’s handsome dark face gleamed with excitement. “I want to be in the thick of things so I can finally get a promotion and some medals.”

  Jim shook his head. “Don’t take any foolish chances. I promised Mother I’d look out for you.”

  The boy glared at him. “I’m old enough to look out for myself. Besides, we don’t even know if she’s still alive.”

  Jim winced at the thought. His brother was right. They hadn’t made it back to the ranch in months since that area was in Yankee hands. For all they knew, Mother might be dead and the home burned and ransacked. That would be the most devastating thing to happen since their middle brother, Will, had deserted and gone over to the Yankees back in ’61.

  Around them, men grabbed up weapons and ran for horses as the bugle blew. With any luck, Jim thought, they’d surprise that Yankee boat, kill or capture the crew, and help themselves to supplies. He spurred the palomino stallion and led his gray-clad cavalry toward the river.

  Aboard the Union supply boat J. R. Williams, Private A. G. Grant watched the muddy river swirl past as the boat headed north. So far, April had managed to pull off her masquerade. She spoke little and did not mingle with the other soldiers. Always she was aware of the danger, but the lure of the reward was strong. She concentrated on the money and how it would buy her the respectable white life she craved. If she kept her wits about her, maybe she’d uncover the spy . . . if indeed it was a Yankee.

  The day was sultry warm, and she felt perspiration running down between her small breasts under the blue uniform. There was no breeze, but she pulled her hat farther down around her ears. It wouldn’t do to have her black hair cascade down. She should have taken the major’s suggestion about cutting it. April watched the riverbank with its forest of oaks, willows, and cottonwoods. She had left this country more than five years ago and had never intended to return south, but her mother’s death had
brought her.

  She was shocked at what she’d seen so far. The war had wreaked havoc on the landscape and especially the Five Civilized tribes. As she’d come up the river, she had seen burned crops and destroyed farms as both armies fought up and down the eastern Indian Territory while bushwhackers roamed at will, raiding both sides.

  Was that a glimpse of gray she saw through the trees? April blinked in the blinding sun and looked again. Maybe she had only imagined that movement. Up ahead the Arkansas River narrowed and she’d get a better look. She leaned on the railing and watched the muddy bank as the boat chugged upriver. Maybe she was imagining things. They were only a few miles from Union-held Fort Gibson, and there were no Southern troops reported this close.

  Suddenly, she caught the sound of running horses and saw more gray moving through the brush a few hundred yards away, and her heart went to her throat.

  Frantically, she glanced around. The other Yankee soldiers were gathered about a man playing a mouth organ while they clapped and sang, “ . . .de camptown ladies sing dis song, doo dah, doo dah . . .”

  The captain. She had to alert the captain. She ran, shouting. Even as she did so, a small cannon opened up from the thicket, laying a shot across the boat’s bow.

  Acrid black smoke boiled through the sultry hot air and now rifle fire opened up along the bank. Aboard the ship, the surprised soldier dropped his mouth organ as other blue-clad soldiers ran up and down the deck in confusion. The commanding officer came out of his cabin, looking about wildly. “What the hell . . . ?”

  “We’re being attacked! Rebels!” April yelled. She found her knapsack and her rifle and tried to decide what to do. The cannon boomed again and, this time, found its target. The J. R. Williams shuddered as it took a hit. The officer in charge was yelling something, but April couldn’t hear him, and the small escort of soldiers seemed too panicked to respond.

  Rifle fire was pouring down on them from both sides of the river now as they neared the narrow bend, and the boat was listing as if taking on water.

  The officer waved his arms wildly. “If we can make it a couple more miles upriver, men, our troops at Fort Gibson will hear the battle and come to the rescue!”

  They’d sink before they made it that far, April thought in a panic. She hurried to the steps and looked down into the engine room. Water was coming up from below. Men ran up and down the deck, shouting to each other while, from the riverbank, gray-clad troops poured rifle fire at them.

  She’d never live to collect that reward, she thought; she was going to be shot down in this Confederate ambush and buried as a common Union soldier. Worse yet, if she were captured by this bunch of rebels, there was no telling what they’d do when they discovered she was a woman. Out here in the wild, these men probably hadn’t seen a woman in months. That thought galvanized her into checking her pistol. She didn’t care which side they were on—she’d kill the man who tried to rape her.

  Another cannonball found its mark, and there was no doubt now that the J. R. Williams was sinking.

  The Union officer yelled to this bugler to blow retreat. “The water’s shallow here, men!” he shouted. “This cargo isn’t worth dying for!”

  The soldiers needed no urging. They began going over the far side, swimming away from the deadly-accurate rifle fire. April hesitated. She couldn’t swim.

  “Come on, young fellow,” a grizzled old sergeant gestured as he jumped.

  April paused by the railing, considering what to do. Not much choice. Either she drowned trying to get away or stayed here and got captured and maybe raped. She’d have to take her chances in the water.

  Her knapsack. It lay forgotten on the burning deck, and inside was the Confederate uniform she’d need later when she tried to sneak through Southern lines. The roar of cannon and screams of dying men deafened her. The sooty smoke from the shells and burning boat made her choke. She ran back for her knapsack as the last Yankee soldier went over the side, swimming for the far shore. She had the knapsack now; all she had to do was get off the boat. If the water was shallow enough, maybe she could flounder to the opposite bank.

  Even as she thought that, a rifle bullet grazed her, cutting into her arm, and she screamed out and went to her knees. Her flesh felt as if it were on fire. Numbly she reached out and clasped her arm, noting the scarlet blood on the torn blue fabric. Well, at least she wouldn’t have to chance the water now. Around her the boat foundered and burned as screaming gray-clad soldiers dismounted, charged down the riverbank and onto the bloody decks.

  Even in her pain, April tried to keep a clear head. If she was going to be captured, she’d better get rid of that telltale gray uniform before the rebels found it. Her arm seemed to be on fire, but she staggered across the deck. If she could drop the knapsack in the river where it would float away, the damning evidence would be lost.

  “What the hell you doing?” A big, dark Confederate lieutenant raced onto the deck. “What you got there?”

  She didn’t answer. She must get rid of the evidence so her captors would think her only a common Union soldier and treat her as a prisoner of war rather than as a spy. She clutched the knapsack and staggered toward the railing, leaving a trail of blood behind. However, the big Indian caught up to her, grabbed her wounded arm. “What the hell you got there?”

  April gasped in pain and dropped the knapsack. It went sliding across the deck but not into the water.

  “Answer me, you Union scum!” He pulled her close to his face, and she realized just how big he was. The pain in her wounded arm made her so giddy, she thought she would black out, but she knew she had to get rid of that evidence. She gritted her teeth and pulled out of his grasp, tottering toward the knapsack, but he moved fast as a striking snake and scooped it up. “What’s in here that’s so important?”

  “N-nothing,” she gasped, and sank down on the deck.

  “You’re lying, Yank.” He hung on to the knapsack, knelt next to her, pulled a knife from his belt.

  He was going to finish the job, and she was too weak to stop him. She stared up into his rugged, handsome face, too proud to beg for her life. He looked Cherokee. Cherokee had never gone in for scalping, but she’d heard terrible stories of atrocities during this bloody war. Around her, rifle fire dwindled as the rebels seemed to realize that most of the Union soldiers had gone over the side, swimming for the far riverbank, where they ran like rabbits.

  April held up a restraining hand. “Don’t—don’t kill prisoners,” she gasped.

  He slapped her hand away. “I ought to,” the lieutenant snarled, “but you might have some information for us.” He turned and yelled to his men. “Clem, you and some of the others see if you can force the captain to run her aground before she sinks, and then start looting her.”

  “Thieves!” April spit at him.

  “Shut up, Yank!” he ordered, then turned back to a younger boy, who ran to his side. “Tommy, tell the others to hurry up. The Yanks who escaped will be heading for Fort Gibson. We’ll only have maybe an hour to unload her cargo before reinforcements show up.”

  The Indian boy peered down at her with curiosity on his handsome face. “Jim, we got no wagons.”

  “Then we’ll take what we can carry on horses. Now, get a move on.”

  “What you gonna do with the prisoner? Kill him?”

  April sank back against the bloody deck. Having her throat cut might be more merciful than being gang-raped when they found out she was a woman.

  “Hell, no, I won’t kill him,” the big one snapped. “What’s the matter with you, little brother? We don’t kill prisoners. Besides, he might be able to give us valuable information.”

  The younger soldier nodded. “You might have to torture him to get it.”

  “Go do what I told you,” the officer growled. “I’ll deal with him.”

  The young soldier turned and left.

  Torture. Now she knew why the mysterious officer had been so hesitant to tell her anything. But would the rebels
believe that, or would they think she was just being stubborn? She was in so much pain, she wished she could pass out, but then he might kill her rather than bother with her. So instead, she gritted her teeth and glared at her captor. If he found out she was a woman, it might save her, but he probably wouldn’t believe she knew nothing. Besides, the rugged lieutenant kneeling on the deck might be the very spy she was supposed to ferret out. She remembered the major’s caution: trust no one.

  The rebel lieutenant took his knife. “You’re bleeding pretty bad, Yank. I’ll use strips of your uniform to staunch the flow.”

  She could only nod. “Water. You got water?”

  “I ought to let you go thirsty for trying to outwit me.” Even as he said that, he handed her his canteen and began to cut her blue uniform, tearing off strips and examining her arm. The blue cloth was sodden with scarlet blood. His big hands were gentle as he took the canteen and poured water over the wound. She flinched. “You’re a stubborn one. Don’t know how you managed to stay conscious with this wound.”

  She wasn’t sure she wouldn’t faint from the pain, but she said nothing, frantic about what to do next. Her telltale knapsack lay by his side.

  He reached in his pocket and retrieved a small bottle of liquor. “Damn, I hate to waste good whiskey to clean a Yankee wound. This is gonna hurt, soldier.”

  She bit her lip. “Can I—can I have a drink first?”

  He paused, glaring at her. “Oh, hell, yes. It ain’t your fault you’re here any more than it is mine.” He put his muscular arm under her shoulders and helped her to a half-sitting position, held the bottle to her lips. She gulped it, choking and coughing on the strong spirits.

  “Why, you’re just a boy, about the age of my brother.” His voice sounded almost sympathetic.

  A ray of hope kindled in April’s heart. Maybe if he took a liking to her, he might help her escape and never realize he was dealing with a woman. Escape? Not much chance of that until her arm was better and she might steal a horse and ride on to Fort Gibson. On the other hand, wasn’t she supposed to eventually infiltrate the Confederate lines if she didn’t find her spy among the Yankees?