“Quiet!” Will hissed.
“Wha …? What’s going on? We moving out already?”
“Sort of. Pull yourself together and listen. We get one chance at this; we got to move.” Will looked down at the irons that still adorned his wrists and grabbed onto the slack in the chain to keep the links from chinking together.
“You mean escape, again?”
“Yes, again. These green troopers left the door wide open fer us to walk right on out of here an’ get back to the woods, but we gonna hafta move. They likely to use dogs on us now that we obliged them with leaving our scent all over these cots. We got till sunup, prolly, so collect yourself an’ we’ll sneak out.”
“What about the captain? And Lewis?” Stephen whispered.
“Leave ‘em both; Lewis has a date with a noose, an’ Jackson’s lucky he sleepin’ in the his own tent and not out here,” Will replied softly and with a hint of disappointment.
Will stepped back to the edge of the tent opening and listened for the footfalls of the trooper walking the beat. He didn’t hear anything for some moments. Stephen sat on the cot and watched Will, waiting for some signal that it was okay to stand up. Will strained his sense of hearing for all it was worth. Somewhere in the snores and the night sounds, the footfalls of the guard had to be heard. There was little use in trying to peek, lest he come face-to-face with the man. The moments dragged into minutes. Stillness.
The man leaning against the tree started. His head bobbed, and he jerked. Will, looking straight into the man’s eyes, willed himself to become part of the tent flap. The man straightened himself out and stretched.
Will knew it was up. There was little to keep him from being seen now with the man less than twenty feet away.
Then, to his delight, the man made himself comfortable on the ground, with his back to the tree, and bowed his head. He would have boxed the man’s ears had he been in Will’s command, but he thanked the man now for his ill discipline. There was still no sound from the other guard. What if he went to bed? What if he was jawing with some other trooper out of sight? What if he was just relieving himself and would be back just as Will peeked around the corner?
Prudence said to wait, but impatience said to check. They didn’t have all night. Hoping that the darkness that had hidden him from the guard sleeping against the tree would do it again, Will took his chance. He bobbed his head quickly around the corner, just long enough to steal a glance. Nothing but grass and canvas. He repeated it again. Same grass and sagging tent canvas. No guard.
“Commere, let’s go.” Will waved Stephen forward, “I’m going to walk straight past that guard there,” Will said, pointing to the man lying against the tree. “I’m going to go straight ahead, and you keep me in sight. When I signal you, you just walk like you belong here and know where you’re going.”
Stephen nodded but didn’t look entirely convinced of the plan. Weeks on the run when he could almost see himself free of what bound him, then only to welcome the end. The lieutenant, set on more mischief and escape, offered another glimmer of hope to break free of the enemy and captivity. He had another choice to make, to go along or go back to the prison camp. Comfort or freedom?
Will steeled himself and took a step out of the tent, turning to either side to make sure no one was about. Then, footfall after footfall, he stepped as light as he could make himself. The crunch of the fresh grass was thankfully quiet. The man sleeping under the tree didn’t budge, and he took careful, measured steps. The carbine stood invitingly against the tree, just within the man’s reach but not in his grasp. A simple lift from the trunk and a swing onto his shoulder was all it would take. They could use a weapon—even if it weren’t loaded, it would provide something of security just having it be seen.
Will was now parallel to the guard and the carbine. Its butt rested on the ground easily enough, but when he reached for it, his shaking hands fumbled the barrel, and it fell against a projecting root with a hideous thunk. Will reached for it quickly before it could clatter to the ground. He stared at the limp, sleeping guard. Not even a stir in response.
Footfalls from behind drew his attention. His back to the tent, Will cursed Stephen under his breath. Turning slightly, he drew in a quick breath. The guard walking the beat turned the corner of one of the distant tents and broke into view.
Still holding on to the barrel of the carbine, Will acted. With steady determination, he slowly moved between the tree and the approaching sentry’s line of sight. It would not do to be caught taking the weapon and shot summarily without much ado. Safely behind the tree, he held his breath.
The footfalls continued to approach, and Will let out his breaths in short but uncontrolled exhalations. The trunk of the tree was not thick enough to conceal his presence if anyone ventured too close. The sentry needed to continue on his earlier pattern. He didn’t.
The footfalls came nearer—or were they moving parallel? Will strained to hear directionality in the sounds. Was the sentry now within view of the tent flap? Was he looking directly at the sleeping soldier? Was he discovering that the tent was only half-full?
****
Trooper Harris, the man dutifully walking his beat, was bored and missing his hard but comfortable bed in the barracks of Camp Dennison, where the 7th Ohio Cavalry was organizing and training. The little jaunt to round up the escaped prisoners had been jolly fun for the first few days, but a week had dragged by, and they all longed to get back to food and their regular routine. This was war, he and his fellow troopers joked. It was not what it was made out to be by the speeches: the comely daughters of grateful Ohio farmers and townspeople hadn’t come out to lavish gifts and attention on them. The command had not gotten used to its own horses, and yet they were out in the night and riding along the roads daily looking for ghosts. But no more!
Harris rounded his corner, a path set by no one but himself, his duty for protecting the camp from robbers or those damned Vallandigham Copperhead saboteurs everyone was in a heat over. He and his cohorts in the troop referred to his honor, Congressman Clement Vallandigham as “that Vallandamn” and reviled his continued presence in Ohio after his recent declaration of “the Constitution as it is, the Union as it was.” The man most reviled in any circles was purportedly leading a clandestine group of Rebel sympathizers called Copperheads and openly flaunting his miserable self in public. It was not a stretch for Harris and his fellows to see that his sympathies lay rather close to treasonous action.
But there were no sympathizers invading the camp tonight. The three Rebels they had were going back where they belonged, and he to his bed, after an easy ride tomorrow.
The night and early morning were misty, making everything monochromatic. What was he doing standing guard to begin with? Other than the enemy in irons, there was no enemy about. The good people of Germantown tolerated their camp. And there was Trooper Clegg—asleep. They had been told that to sleep while on duty was a serious offense, and he himself made sure he walked around whenever he had an early morning detail, but the silence and the snores and the wanting to be in bed were working on him, lowering his eyelids, taking his mind off to far more enjoyable places.
“Clegg,” Harris whispered as loud as he dared. The man moved not an inch. “Clegg, wake up!”
The slumbering soldier snorted in return. The troop had not yet been beyond the Ohio borders, into territory crawling with bushwhackers and Rebels where being on guard was the only thing that might keep you and your fellows alive. He himself hadn’t volunteered to sleep or to play the pretend soldier. Clegg’s lack of enthusiasm for the role was disheartening.
“Clegg, if the first sergeant sees you!” Harris hissed again, taking a step closer. “You’re gonna be sittin’ that log too!” The punishment log, or “riding the wooden mule,” as they called it, was just one of the seemingly innocuous horrors that might be visited upon a trooper who didn’t keep a sharp eye on his deportment. Not having one’s kit in order and horse saddled properly vexed the tr
oopers more than silly infractions of the camp. Those who already were making themselves pernicious by always being right and always in order were rewarded with corporal and sergeant promotions.
“Clegg!” Harris said in a low voice that still seemed to carry throughout the camp.
This time the man stirred and shook his head. “Your turn, huh?” Clegg mumbled, preparing to get off the ground.
“No!” Harris hissed. “You’re asleep! Can’t sleep on duty, you know that!”
Hiding, Will closed his eyes and willed the two chatterboxes to shut up and go about their business. It was bad enough having to escape twice, but to be caught by two fool Yankees just because they happened to be there was insulting.
“Why’d you wake me?” Clegg protested. “If it ain’t my turn to be done with, then leave me alone!” His voice carried about the tents, causing a few to stir with sounds of coughing and curses.
“Shut up, Sentry!” came the gruff call of Lieutenant Fisher.
“Leave me alone,” Clegg said to Harris.
Harris shrugged and turned around. It wasn’t his responsibility to keep Clegg out of trouble. The guard tent was dark save for a shaft of moonlight that arched into the front opening. The other two men under punishment were cocooned in their wool blankets, asleep, and the third Rebel was lying on his side with his legs bound to a rope that looped his neck and bound his hands behind him.
I don’t know why the lieutenant let them Rebs take hold of the guard tent, Harris thought. He should have trussed them both like the other. Harris shook his head and resumed his path.
Will, listening for the sentry’s footfalls to trail away and for further movement from Clegg, pressed himself against the tree trunk. The short altercation hadn’t brought the whole camp out, and neither had it gained the easy coup had two troopers been alert.
As Harris’s footsteps faded to nothing, Will peeked around the trunk. Trooper Clegg was still seated comfortably, resting, the bill of his hat over his eyes, breathing deeply. Will motioned to Stephen and looked every which way nervously.
Steeling himself, Stephen was resigned for the chase once more and took a tentative step into the moonlight, careful to not arouse the drowsy Clegg. Somewhere a man coughed, and the two troopers in the stockade snored loudly. Even the crickets were sound asleep, leaving the humans to fill the night air with their own guttural songs. The road lay just beyond sight amidst the forest of canvas Sibley tents.
Stephen made it most of the way to the tree when he froze.
“Pssst, Stephen!”
Lewis, wriggling to gain his knees, wormed to and fro.
Stephen regarded Lewis, then Will.
Will motioned to Stephen to take care of Lewis by interlocking his fingers together tightly. Stephen looked at him wide-eyed and shook his head no.
“Untie me!” Lewis whispered.
Will shook his head no, but he was helpless to do anything from behind the tree.
Stephen hesitated. He understood what Will wanted, but it meant the unthinkable. Stephen stepped back a few paces and approached Lewis. For his part, Lewis looked as helpless and innocent as he could muster.
“I’m going with you, or we’re all staying,” Lewis whispered.
Stephen looked at his hands for a moment. Those hands could solve the problem immediately, and Lewis would be helpless to stop him. But it was impossible. He untied Lewis, and the man collapsed in a heap, a freed heap of tired and cramped muscles after hours of being tied up.
Will watched in disbelief as Stephen did the opposite of what he wanted. Still clutching the carbine, he waved them over, his impatience growing. The sentry would not be long in returning.
Resuming his move toward Will, stealing past Trooper Clegg, Stephen let the iron links on the chain connecting the shackles on his wrists clink together. Barely audible, it was enough to rouse Clegg once more.
“What’s goin …” Clegg mumbled and then was cut off by Lewis’s hands over his mouth. There was little time to deliberate. Lewis was on top of the man in an instant. A muffled cry escaped Clegg’s throat before Lewis could put the full weight of his body on the man’s neck. Stephen, spellbound, watched in growing horror. Will grabbed Lewis to restrain him, but any scuffle was sure to call the whole thing to a halt.
Clegg, struggling to free his windpipe, could only gurgle and gasp. He kicked and tried to throw Lewis off, but the prisoner was firmly planted on his chest and squeezing as hard as he could. Clegg’s eyes met Stephen’s in one brief cry for help, understanding, or pitiful mercy, and Stephen could only stand and stare. Soon, Clegg’s hands loosened as the man lost consciousness, and Lewis pressed down with one last ounce of his strength before Clegg was totally still.
Will gave Lewis a violent shove just as he let go of Clegg’s neck. Moving quickly, Will propped Clegg up against the tree and put the hat back on his head. Without a word, Will motioned Stephen forward.
Stephen followed blindly, neither taking care nor being clumsy—just following. Was it murder? Was it necessity? Was it evil? One thing was for sure, they would have a hot time of it making it to the river now, still miles and miles away with the morning soon to be upon them. And they would be wanted for murder now, murder of a Union man. Their head start was going to be short.
Striking the road, Will kept up a steady pace, and once far enough away from the campsite, broke into a gentle jog. Stephen followed, but his mind was still on the brutal scene. Clegg, clutching desperately for breath, for relief, and Lewis bearing down on the boy with murderous intent. Stephen was now not only a twice escaped prisoner but an accomplice to murder. That did not sit well.
Before long the sleepy village houses were behind them, and the road narrowed to a tree-lined course flowing southward. Will picked up his pace. The only salvation lay in putting distance behind them. His feet were beginning to ache as the hard, dusty road pounded his shins and balls of his feet. The boots he wore had been made for riding, not running. The irons on their wrists weighed their hands down, rubbing with painful annoyance, the chains clinking with each step. Lewis was blissfully free of such impediment.
When they were safely away from any houses, Will stopped and turned on Lewis.
“I told you to kill him,” Will addressed Stephen.
“What? I …”
“He couldn’t, ‘cause he’s a good boy,” Lewis answered through swollen lips.
“He was going to alert the camp!” Stephen protested.
“I know, that’s why I said kill him!” Will snapped.
Lewis grinned. “You might have done that yourself, Lieutenant, jus’ like you tried to kill Kearns. Shoot a man in the back.”
“Coulda been anyone shot him as he ran away.” Will glared at Lewis. “You fall behind, that’s yore business; we ain’t waitin’.”
“You’da left me behind, an’ yer Captain Kearns, or killed ‘im.” Lewis said with a glint.
“Kearns got what he wanted. Traded us fer it,” Will said. Turning once more, he struck a fast walk.
Lungs burning and legs refusing to pump any faster, Stephen was falling behind, as was Lewis. His arms were becoming impediments to his movements, and he was getting hot. A house or two sat dark and idle along the way as their footfalls echoed loudly off wood sidings, waking dogs that lay listlessly behind fences. It was the dead hour of the morning when all sane people were sound asleep.
Will slowed his pace and dropped into a quickstep to let Stephen catch up but broke back into a run once more, giving Stephen little respite. He repeated the pace over and over—slow, quickstep, run. The eastern sky was starting to lighten and would soon bring everything into crisp relief. The lonely roadway beheld only three weary travelers this morning, but making poor time against the light. One mile, two, ten? How many had they relentlessly made away from the impending doom of recapture or worse? Stephen did not want to dwell on it, but the evil had been done, and he’d not done anything to stop it. Lewis was now bringing up the rear twenty yards back; fallin
g any further back meant being at his mercy.
Finally, Will slowed down again, keeping up his quickstep as Stephen caught up. Lewis was still ten paces behind. Each was breathing heavily, too heavily for conversation, but Stephen couldn’t let go of what had happened.
As if knowing what he was going to say, Will spoke first.
“I know what you’re thinkin’, Murdoch,” Will said between deep breaths. “Put it out of your mind.”
“We … didn’t … have to … kill that … man,” Stephen gasped.
“You didn’t have to wake him, neither.”
“We going to … to be shot, sure now.”
“Not if they don’t take us again.”
“They gonna catch up, you know.”
“Maybe,” Will replied. “It were him or us, an’ we couldn’t take him with us. They can catch up to Hopewell.”
“That weren’t war, that weren’t killin’. It were murder. Would you ah killed the captain, too?”
“Thought about it. Kearns weren’t a necessity,” Will said curtly. “Keepin’ that guard quiet were. It was him or us. Hopewell didn’t have to kill him, but it was done.”
“It won’t be long … before they down on us,” Stephen huffed. They had no food, no water, no rest for over a day, and were now running toward the promised land of Kentucky where they would still have to wade through a sea of Yankees, counting on the good auspices of friendly pro-slavery people to help them along. Kentucky wasn’t free of a Yankee army, but a Confederate army was making another go at forcing the Yankees out.
“No, so we keep goin’ an’ head for the woods come sunup. They’ll be bringin’ dogs this time, so we can’t let up. We put miles an’ pray for the best.”
Pray, Stephen thought, pray for what? God’s bounty on us murderers? “Don’t think prayin’ will do us any good.”
“It’s that or the gallows,” Will said.
Will broke into a trot once more, and Stephen did his best to keep up. The miles were going to become impossible to manage, and already his lungs burned. He didn’t know who to be more afraid of: the Yankees, the lieutenant, or Lewis. Any was capable of ending his life in a moment. Would it be better to take his chances with the Yankees and plead for clemency?
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 63
