“John Oglethorpe,” came the tentative reply.
“Is that coffee I smell?” Fredrick sniffed the air.
“We aren’t allowed to share it with the prisoners,” the guard snapped.
“Pity that. It smelled so good I just had to run and get my cup. It’s been many months since we’ve had good coffee. You people issue it to us, but there’s usually not enough to go around—or it’s moldy. You wouldn’t mind just sharing a little sip?”
“Yes, I would mind. We aren’t supposed to be talking to the prisoners. Now go away.”
Lewis made his way along the opposite wall and up to the door leading to the keeper’s room. If Lester couldn’t get the saw, he’d have to find a way into the room.
“What harm is it going to do? You’ve got us in this stockade, you’ve beaten us, and we’ve surrendered.” Fredrick felt the tension rising in his voice. There had to be some way of getting at a handsaw today.
“I told you no, so go away.”
“I’m going.” Fredrick walked a little to the side and away from the view of the windows. The two outside windows were at shoulder height and three foot square on all three sides facing the compound. There was no sink for the guards, so they had to make do with the common prison sinks some way distant from the barracks. It was not uncommon to see one of the guards trudging his way to them, unhindered by the prison population. The relief detail would all march together and relieve each man in turn, and there would be little way to get into the room during the changing of the guard. Time was slipping by. Soon prisoners would have to be in their barracks, and no one would be allowed outside again until daybreak.
Fredrick paced back and forth, rubbing his hands absently. Of all the chances they were taking, this one little thing was proving an absurd obstacle.
Fredrick crept around the building until he bumped into Lewis. He was pressed against the wall by the doorway, looking wild-eyed.
“What are you doing?” Fredrick whispered.
“You knock on the door; I’ll grab him,” Lewis said quietly.
“What?”
“You heard me, now knock!” Lewis pointed to the door.
“No!” Fredrick knew the stakes for Lewis—get out now or face never getting away—but attacking this guard would be madness. He’d ignored Stephen’s entreaties about Lewis, but now they didn’t seem so off. Lewis might actually be thinking of killing this John Oglethorpe. Escape wasn’t worth bringing down Lord knew what upon them all. These guards, these students from Hudson College, were not the enemy to Fredrick, not the same way as those who might have been in a line of battle. They were just boys doing a duty. He couldn’t allow Lewis to kill one of them.
“Then I’ll do it!” Lewis drew back to strike the door when movement from the other side stayed his hand.
Both men froze and concentrated on the creaking of the chair from inside the room; each man heard his own heart beating in his ears, loud enough that it contrived to be heard by the guard. They heard the man rise and slide the chair across the floor. His footfalls rang from steel heel guards on his brogans: a clack, click, clack, and the sliding of the door’s bolt.
Fredrick’s heart jumped. The creaking of the door upon its hinges was like the sound of home. Fredrick pressed himself hard against the outer wall and held his breath. The room’s occupant stuck his head out of the door and looked this way and that in indecision. Fredrick slid out of sight around the corner, and Lewis ran down the length of the barracks and out of sight.
“Shit,” the guard said. “Where the hell is the relief!”
Taking another look around, Oglethorpe gritted his teeth and stepped out of the room, allowing the door to slam behind him as he trotted off toward the sinks.
Fredrick listened for a moment more to assure himself that the man’s footfalls were headed away, and then he dared to peek around the corner of the barracks. The guard was dogtrotting toward the sinks at the far end of the compound and was soon hidden from view. Taking a deep breath, Fredrick slipped around the corner and into the room, allowing the door to close behind him. The room was sparsely furnished. A chair and a well-worn wooden desk stood against the wall below the barred window facing into the barracks. There was nothing of note on the desk save for an old copy of the Columbus Dispatch. Against a corner of the wall near the Franklin stove opposite the door stood a collection of shovels, pickaxes, hammers, and the coveted handsaw. Seizing the saw, Fredrick tucked it into his tunic, clasped his arm tightly against it, and slipped out of the door, closing it behind him and noiselessly slipping back around the corner.
Catching his breath, Fredrick Lester smiled to himself.
“Detail, by the right flank, march!”
Fredrick pressed himself against the outside wall once more, transfixed by the sudden arrival of the relief detail. A lieutenant marched a group of twenty soldiers around the bend of the barracks building in front of Fredrick, ten feet away. Fredrick’s heart leapt in his chest. He was plainly out of place and suspiciously loitering where he should not be.
“Detail, halt!” ordered the lieutenant. “You there—what are you doing there?”
“Keeping watch out fer y’all,” was Fredrick’s lame reply. His mind racing, he knew they had him—and soon all of them—dead to rights.
Footfalls rapidly approached from around the corner, heralding the barracks keeper come back from the sinks.
“What the devil!” blurted the lieutenant. “Oglethorpe! You left your post!”
“You!” the hapless man cried, espying Fredrick. “What you doin’ there?”
“Never you mind that, Oglethorpe! You are relieved. Get your traps and fall in!” the lieutenant commanded. He turned his attention back to Fredrick.
“You, answer for yourself, Prisoner. What were you doing there?”
“I told your man Oglethorpe there I’d keep an eye out fer any other prisoners who might get it in they minds to take advantage of his bein’ gone to the sinks.” Fredrick nodded at the man, whose sheepish expression had turned to confusion.
“Is that so? Oglethorpe, you’re going to the guardhouse for this infraction. Peters and Hanks, search this man.” The lieutenant stood with his arms folded, glaring at Oglethorpe while Peters and Hanks advanced on Fredrick with rifles at port arms. The lieutenant’s uniform was smartly tailored, and his finely trimmed mustachios wiggled as he worked his mouth impatiently.
“Step away from the wall, Rebel,” one of the men ordered, giving Fredrick the business end of his bayonet in a menacing gesture.
While Hanks slung his rifle over his shoulder, Fredrick took a tentative step forward with his palms outward and fingers spread. Impatient with his recalcitrance, Peters grabbed his arm and gave a solid tug, knocking him off balance.
“Ow, watch me arm! It hurts something awful,” Fredrick yelped. He tried to keep his arm pressed tightly against his side to keep the saw from falling through his tunic.
“Quit crying, Rebel.”
The dejected-looking Oglethorpe appeared from around the corner with the rest of his equipment on and fell in at the rear of the detail.
“Quit the shines, search him already,” the lieutenant barked.
“C’mere, Rebel. Stand still or my friend here’ll skewer you!” Hanks jabbed at Fredrick with his bayonet. Both men, barely out of their teens and more bookish than soldierly, tried to look in charge.
Fredrick winced and clutched his arm to keep it firm against his side. Peters, searching his coat, clearly did not relish the job—his pats and searches were ineffectual. When Peters tried to search under his left arm, Fredrick yelped and moaned pitifully again.
Satisfied that their prisoner wasn’t concealing anything, the two young soldiers turned to their lieutenant and shrugged their shoulders. Fredrick, still feigning pain, smiled wanly.
“Get out of here, Prisoner, and don’t let me catch you lingering around any barracks keeper again.”
Fredrick nodded assent and turned on his heels with a q
uick step.
“Harris, take your station. Your orders are … “
Fredrick kept his pace for a few more steps and then stopped to catch his breath. That’s when he noticed the real pain coming from under his arm and felt the flesh of his left side aching from the bite of the saw’s teeth through his shirt.
Fredrick’s walk back to his pards was anxious and slow. No one paid him any mind.
Lewis nodded in Fredrick’s direction when he presented himself to the group, a big grin broadening his mouth.
Fredrick slipped the saw out and handed it to Peter. Lifting his tunic, he found half a dozen bloody holes and splotches in his shirt.
“What happened?” Stephen asked.
“Let’s just say thank goodness for the Hudson College volunteers!” Fredrick looked at Lewis, who returned the glance with a glare. He took the hint.
“Pick up the box and get going,” Lewis snapped. “We’re already late.”
The four prisoners crossed the compound between the prison buildings. Fredrick, still rattled, kept a wary eye on everyone they passed. Stephen, though willing, was nonetheless nervous. Leaning over as they walked, Fredrick whispered to Stephen “Lewis wanted to throttle that guard. I agree with ya, we watch him.”
Stephen nodded, plagued by all his old worries. Was it morally acceptable to escape? To steal? To do any of a number of things to make their getaway, even kill? Stephen had surrendered and made no attempt to escape when he and another group of prisoners were being loosely guarded by equally jaded Union soldiers on the battlefield of Shiloh. But his black-and-white world was falling apart. Was he honor-bound not to take up arms again against the Union should he be duly exchanged? They had not been mistreated, just not allowed freedom of movement—and there was a war on. How far was he willing to go in this bid for freedom? Was he willing to kill to maintain his freedom should this succeed? Would Fredrick kill someone? Stephen had little doubt that Lewis would, be they friend or foe. Peter wouldn’t have the temperament to kill anyone up close and personal. But once on the outside, they would have to run and hide and take care of themselves somehow. Who knew what that might lead to?
The Federal chaplain who came into the compound to lead Sunday morning services preached nothing about freedom, only about reliance on the Spirit of God and acceptance of where each man was in life as God’s direction and path. That message never went over well with the prison population. Words about being God’s slave and prisoner, words of Paul’s about his imprisonment and how he ministered to his Roman guards, did not carry much weight when freedom was an easy walk out of the prison doors. Redemption was another favored topic of the chaplain’s, but the hope of being exchanged was the only redemption that Stephen wanted to hear about; God’s redemption of souls was important too, but likening the hope of exchange to the promise of being redeemed by the blood rang false. One was a temporary relief from being caged and the other a permanent state of the soul. Though they all loathed to hear it, the prison walls were apt lead-ins to the more important questions of life and eternal life, questions which his father, the deacon, would consider more important to attend to than this attempt at temporal release. Few of the prisoners ever attended the meetings, and Stephen really wasn’t sure why he did either. Dirty and hungry, the prisoners had other problems to deal with. Boredom and survival took up all of one’s thoughts.
Peter tucked the handsaw underneath his armpit and followed behind Fredrick as he and Stephen carried the box ends. Lewis, his hands stuffed deep into his trouser pockets, looked the model bored prisoner. The distance was short, but it seemed to Stephen like a mile. Lewis, scanning the wall for the guards, waited a moment, then directed where he wanted the box to rest butted up against the pine enclosure. Standing still, he motioned with his hand for them to wait another moment. Stephen and Fredrick watched as Lewis steadied the box. All eyes were fixed on Lewis, and his were moving to and fro, calculating and estimating the view that any of the guards atop the fence’s catwalk would have of their final game of chess. Satisfied, Lewis nodded, and Fredrick seated himself at the end of the box.
****
Will Hunter waited impatiently on the steps of his barracks, waiting for the foursome to show. Fearing he’d missed them, he would get up and walk around, checking the spot they went to each afternoon. Not seeing them, he’d return and wait another few minutes before checking again. They were late by his reckoning. Then he spotted them, making their way through the yard to their usual spot, a spot he had tested out the evening before, confirming his suspicions. It wasn’t too hard to imagine what they were up to once he stood still, in the gathering darkness. He had waited until dark and stood, watching the sentinels move along the wall, peeking out and around to judge if any could see him. Nothing. He jumped and flailed his arms. No notice.
Jackson Kearns was idling on the steps of the barracks looking ill at ease and watching Will closely. He wasn’t to be trusted, but he couldn’t be left behind. Will’d taken a chance letting him know about the escape; catching him going to a barracks keeper was just more grist for the mill. Kearns had lied about where he was going, of course—was probably lying about being sick. Once they got out of the stockade, he would have to decide then what to do with Kearns.
****
Peter took his seat at the long side and waited as if looking for some instruction.
“Crawl in,” Lewis whispered in Peter’s ear, and in a moment the boy was hidden from view inside the box.
“Where’s the pieces?” Lewis asked, annoyed.
Stephen and Fredrick looked from one to the other and shrugged.
“Peter’s supposed to have the pieces,” Stephen replied.
“Pete, give me the chess pieces,” Fredrick whispered. He lifted the end of the box just enough to insert his hand underneath.
Rustling and banging came from inside as Peter groped around in the tight space. “I don’t have them,” he replied sheepishly.
“Damn your infernal soul!” Lewis pounded on the box.
“I’ll go,” Stephen said, hoping to stave off another outburst from Lewis.
Stephen returned with the chess pieces and sat down heavily. A loud and arrhythmic sound came from within the box as the saw bit into the boards. Stephen could hear Peter panting hard between efforts. All three men went through the motions of playing chess. The crude checkerboard pattern was colored in on the top of the wooden crate and the pieces arrayed in their places. It was too hard to concentrate on really playing, as the noise of the saw was louder than they had hoped it would be. The boards in the fence vibrated with each draw of the blade and moved the chess pieces around. Several times Peter drew too quickly and upset the board altogether with a loud knock. Lewis’s face would screw tightly with each resetting of the board, and Fredrick would calmly reset each piece as it had been before. Stephen was having his best game ever.
****
“What’s going on, Hunter?” asked the artillery lieutenant sitting at a table in front of Will’s barracks.
“Uh, nuthin’. Thought I seen someone I recognized,” Will lied.
“You lookin’ at them privates playin’ chess?”
“Thought I’d watch,” Will said and walked slowly in their direction.
The lieutenant looked at Will askance. They had completed just three games earlier in the day, games Will had lost. Will muttered something in reply and wandered off, making a circuitous route to get to the game.
“Think I’ll go along,” Jackson Kearns said as he stepped down the three steps leading up to the barracks entranceway.
“C’mon then,” Will called over his shoulder. He hadn’t gone to get him; Jackson had managed to appear at the right time anyway. There had been a moment when Will had decided to just chance leaving him behind.
Jackson coming abreast, Will muttered, “You best be watchin’ yerself.”
****
The sound of a board dropping caused them all to stop. Peter had cut out the first plank!
“I got the first one!” Peter’s muffled cry echoed painfully in their ears.
“Keep it down, Pete,” Fredrick replied softly. “Just keep going.”
Stephen held on to the box as Peter worked the saw to and fro. It was even harder now to keep the pieces in their place. Fortunately their games had lately gone unnoticed—the last thing they needed now was a crowd. The pretense of playing had evaporated. No one was looking at the board anymore, each staring into nothing as thoughts of freedom crowded out all thoughts of playacting.
Lewis sat holding the box to keep it from being turned over as chess pieces lay askew. His eyes darted from the wall to the box, up and down, side to side, watching to see if anyone was taking a note, and a steady stream of “C’mon, c’mon, come on, c’mon” escaped his dry lips.
Another hollow plunk, and a second board fell to the ground. There were just two more boards in the way.
“Two more to go,” Peter whispered triumphantly.
“Ready for that game?”
The three men jumped and then froze as heavy sawing came from within the box.
“We aren’t interested in playing a game with you today,” Lewis stammered.
Stephen hadn’t felt this much tension and excitement since stepping off at Shiloh. All thought and action attuned to a singular outcome: battle. The thought of perhaps being home in a few weeks, of being out of the cage in a few moments, relief at finally having the plan executed quickened his pulse. And now this. All were breathing heavily, their every movement pensive and strained. Now it was all about to come apart.
The box suddenly jerked, and all the chess pieces rattled off the board, waking Stephen to the absurdity of further pretense. While Lewis continued to act as counterweight, Stephen collected the chess pieces. His fingers tingled, and his hands shook so that it was impossible to stand the pieces back upright without trouble.
“Stop squirming!” hissed Lewis.
“I take it Peter in the box?” Will said as he knelt next to the end. Whispering, he said, “I know’d what yer up to, so either we in or I put a stop to it right now an’ you acknowledge the corn to the nearest guard about yer chess box.”
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 51