As daylight broke, the dawn was discomforting. Stephen could not make much over a shuffle, and Will was pulling out of sight trying to keep up a quickstep march. By this time, Stephen didn’t care. He wished for a cavalry patrol to scoop him up, ending his misery and the apprehension of being caught. Dawn brought only the relief of slowing their pace and passing through Middletown before leaving the roadway and fighting their way through woods once more. Creeks and streams cut across their path, and Will lead them through ankle- and knee-high water to hide their trail when the waterway led southward, but the going was slowed to a crawl. Midday overtook them with an unrelenting fatigue.
Stephen pushed himself on as Lewis fell further behind, even at the slowest pace. Stephen moved as if stuck in mud, each step a will to make. Throat parched and limbs numb, he kept the lieutenant in sight.
Will pushed himself to make one more step and then another and another. Hungry and thirsty, the effort was making his head swim. A glance over his shoulder, and Stephen was fifty paces behind, only visible now and again as he moved through the trees. He didn’t see Hopewell, if he was still following.
Thirty yards back, Lewis stopped and doubled over, leaning heavily upon a tree trunk, hugging it for support. He’d lost sight of Stephen through the trees. His legs quivered, and his feet felt numb. If they were caught this time, no one was going to make it back. He was keeping far from the road and wandering amid thick forest. His nose told him they were going south, and south was where they wanted to end.
Will halted and caught his breath. He was winded, and he slowly backed up to a tree and leaned heavily upon it. A stumbling through the dead leaves alerted him to Stephen’s approach.
“Sir, I … I can’t keep up,” Stephen gasped as he caught up to Will.
“I know; but you got to if you want to … live,” Will said as he tried to catch his breath.
Stephen collapsed into a heap and sat as if his arms and shoulders weighed too much to hold up; his clothes were now but hanging on him by threads, and his frame had shrunk back, making them look two sizes too big. Will peered at his companion and nodded.
“You know how much further?” Stephen asked.
“No, a day or more. Don’t matter. We get there or we hang.”
“Lewis somewhere behind,” Stephen said listlessly.
“You fall behind an’ he catch you, it’s over for you.”
“He wouldn’t …”
Will looked sharply at Stephen. “All the faith in the world ain’t gonna change the fact that Lewis almost did you in before. Quit lookin’ at what ain’t there; you believe he’d try it again.” Will stood and offered a hand.
“We keep going, c’mon.”
Stephen stared at it for some moments, the will to stand and the will to accept the challenge equally absent.
“You don’t want to die at the end of a rope, or by Hopewell’s hands. We keep going.”
“What about Lewis? Should we do somethin’ about him?”
“No, won’t waste time on him again. He’s on his own. You have to keep up.”
Staggering to his feet, Stephen took a few unsteady steps forward and nearly tripped. Will caught him and struck a slightly slower pace. The ground was becoming more rugged, cut by dead logs and few traceable paths. The woods were not as traveled as they had become accustomed to. Unseen but behind them, Hopewell was thrashing about noisily.
Lewis Hopewell was slowing down, and his head was throbbing. The effects of being trussed for long hours and the beating delivered by Hunter were impeding his progress. The others were ahead, but nowhere in sight. The woods were more hindrance than help in his estimation. He couldn’t see far enough ahead, and he could tell nothing of what might be around to quench his thirst. Creek beds were numerous, but it was a long hour since he’d stumbled through one. That bastard Hunter isn’t going to get away this time, he thought. But his legs were not cooperating in taking the next steps needed to close the distance. If he stopped, he’d lose them for certain. There was no trail to follow. Dead leaves and branches were thick everywhere, leaving no trace that he could see. In his near delirium, he was drifting eastward.
Ahead, he saw them. Standing next to some trees. Or were they trees? He willed his legs to go. They were there. Backs to him, looking unconcerned. They hadn’t heard him. But how could they not? Each step he took crashed loudly in his own ears; stealth in the dense underbrush was impossible. Still, they didn’t move. There was Hunter lounging—or was he asleep? He would do Hunter first, then Stephen. He was indifferent toward Murdoch, but no reason to leave a witness. The boy wouldn’t put up much fight. Hunter, now—he’d have to take him unawares.
Lewis slowed down and moved further east to get around to Hunter’s blind side. He was still there, leaning against the tree. It would be simple. It would be quick. It would be fun. He’d have his revenge.
****
“Lieutenant Fisher! Sir!” Sergeant Millidge shouted from outside Fisher’s tent.
Fisher sat up slowly and looked around, momentarily disoriented.
“Sir, prisoners have escaped! Trooper Clegg is dead.”
“What?” Fisher cried.
“Sir,” Millidge said as he entered the tent. “All three prisoners are gone. Trooper Clegg looks like he was strangled. He was guarding the entrance to the tent.”
“Escaped?” Kearns appeared from a nearby tent where he slept under guard.
“Christ!” Fisher slapped his hands down on his cot. “Get men in the saddle and after them, all roads. Take Kearns here with you.”
“Sir, how do we know this man hasn’t been helping these men? He brung that one in, but he was worthless in leading us to them other two. Sir, we shouldn’t puttin’ much stock in what he says,” Millidge protested.
“Just do it, Sergeant. Bring whoever was on watch this morning to my tent.”
Trooper Harris, after waking his relief and getting comfortable in his blanket, was roused by a cry coming from the middle of the camp. Shouts and curses rang out from every quarter, and he sprang up from his bedroll and rushed out in his nightshirt. All of the activity was around the guard tent. Dawn was starting to break and cook fires were roaring, but all attention was on the ruckus where the three Rebel prisoners had been. A circle of watchers was gathered not around the guard tent, but around the tree where Harris had tried to rouse Trooper Clegg. Pushing his way through the throng, he found the troop surgeon leaning over Clegg. The lieutenant was in a terror, and no one wanted to be near him.
The guard tent stood empty. A sick feeling came over Harris as he looked at the lifeless body of Clegg and the now-empty tent. Clegg had been alive when he was on his relief, he knew that for sure. But what of the prisoners?
The night guard was assembled outside of the lieutenant’s tent as troopers were getting their kit and saddling their mounts. Someone was going to have to answer for this. Still in his nightshirt and socks, Harris shivered uncontrollably as he was called into the wall tent.
“Trooper Harris, reporting, sir.”
“What the devil are you doing in your undershirt!” the lieutenant burst out, his face red. “This is no way to present yourself to your superior officer! What did you see last night? You had the two to four guard?”
“Yes sir, two to four guard.”
“And? What did you see, man? Out with it!” the lieutenant roared.
“Sir, I saw nothing unusual while on my duty.”
“Did you see and speak to Clegg? You were on his duty, no?”
“Sir, I did speak with Clegg. He was guarding the prisoners in the guard tent,” Harris lied, unsure whether he should speak ill of the dead.
“Did you see the prisoners?”
“No, sir, I did not. The tent was dark, and Clegg was facing the tent.”
“Was he asleep?”
“Sir?”
“Damnit, Trooper; was Clegg asleep? Was he sleeping while on watch?” The lieutenant slammed his hand down on his writing desk, knocking of
f his inkwell.
Harris jumped. “Sir, I don’t know, sir. I might have caught him sleeping.”
“You might have? Trooper, did you or did you not see Clegg asleep, and was he watching the prisoners?”
“Sir, I don’t know. I walked a beat about the camp for my watch. The prisoners could have left at anytime if Clegg were asleep.”
“Did your beat take you to the tent?”
“Yes, sir.”
Harris was trembling more from the conversation than from the chill. He’d done his duty and tried to make Clegg do his; why was he in trouble?
“Dismissed; send in the next trooper. Next time you report to me I want you to be presentable!” The lieutenant waved him away.
Trooper Harris gladly obliged. Scurrying to get his traps together, Harris was disappointed to learn that instead of mounting up to pursue the fugitives, he had been assigned to ride the wooden mule. Why, he thought, I wasn’t the one asleep!
The squadrons assigned the chase gulped coffee and hardtack before filing down the Dayton Pike south. There was little different in their approach: ride down any and all roads that intersected and fanned out from Germantown to hopefully catch up with the three Rebels. It was a tall order. Split into groups of three, the troop made for any passage that would lead them southward, the best guess of the sergeant in charge of the movement.
Elected for his sensibility and easy manner with the men, Sergeant Millidge took his group down the Germantown road leading to Middletown. The morning was well up, and traffic along the road was brisk enough that little hope remained of gaining any trail from footprints amidst the wagon and hoof tracks already laid down this morning before them. The other groups scrounged Germantown for dogs and civilians to handle them.
The searchers were not from this area of Ohio; the forests and roads were a mystery, and maps had not been given them when they left Camp Dennison. Local guides helped, but unless they trucked the path to Cincinnati regularly, they were of little use once they ventured out of their county. Millidge rode in silence as the two troopers from his troop lazed about their mounts, letting the gentle canter slowly rock them into complacency. The Germantown road was vacant of passing traffic coming from the direction of Middletown, and the inhabitants of the houses scattered along the roadway were just showing signs of life. In the front of one such house a woman was scattering feed to a brood of chickens whose clucking woke one of the troopers from his daydream.
“We should ask if’n anyone see’d them,” one trooper finally broke the silence, motioning toward the woman in her yard.
“An’ ask what?” Millidge replied.
“Ask ‘em if they’d see’d ‘em!” the trooper insisted.
“Was you up at that time to see’d ‘em?” Millidge mocked. The woman looked up and gave the three a nod. She was plump with red cheeks and had the carelessness of dress common for a workday around the house. The brood of chickens pecked and clucked and tussled for the seeds. The house was modest in size and enclosed with fence enough to keep the chickens enclosed. A strong odor of manure crept across the road.
“No, but someone see’d ‘em, shore. We chasin’ wind ag’in, Sergeant.”
“That’s Lord’s truth,” the other spoke up.
“We ain’t gonna ask nobody, ‘cause nobody ta ask,” Millidge snapped in ill humor. All he needed was a strong dose of chicken dung to tell him he didn’t want to stop and chat with the woman.
“How far we goin’?”
“Till we find ‘em.”
“And how we knowed that we gonna?”
“Jus’ shuddup!” Millidge snapped. “If they headed down this way we’ll catch up to ‘em in Middletown.”
Clegg had been a cousin, and though a worthless one even before the war, that did not mean that some Rebel could do him the injustice of a strangle. Millidge was not much for revenge, but these Rebel scum would pay by his hands.
“What you goin’ ta do once you do find ‘em?” the talkative trooper asked Millidge.
“We’ll just get to that. Now shut up and keep a weather eye. They won’t be sittin’ by the road jawin’ like you, so watch the trees an’ houses.”
They had been sent out to find the Rebels, but no one had said what they were to do once they did; something would be done about them. Accidents happen. Men die. Millidge smiled to himself.
“How we know’d this Reb ain’t helpin’ them what escaped?”
“We don’t.” Millidge replied angrily, glancing at the captain.
“I can assure you I didn’t …” Kearns said but was cut short.
“Well, dress me down an’ call me a nigger,” Milidge exclaimed.
Off in the distance, sitting forlorn by the side of the road, was a man in Rebel wools, looking for all the world just like what Millidge was after.
Chapter 23
Pearson Residence, Germantown, Ohio, August 21, 1862
Philip rose and woke Paul to make coffee and breakfast. Paul sluggishly wandered about the house in his nightshirt, going through the motions while Philip washed from a basin of refreshingly cold water. Morning in Germantown in the fall was always alive with birdsong. The water, fresh from the pump, was at its coolest this time of the morning when you least wanted it to be cold and least needed a sip. But splashed on the face first thing, there was nothing like the shock of it.
The aroma of brewing coffee wafted into his room, his old room, and drew him inexorably into the kitchen. Paul, still looking asleep, teetered over the tin pot stoking the fire. Still in his shirtsleeves himself, Philip made a mental note to relish this last morning of home comfort.
The good-byes were short and manly. A brief and affectionate hug for Paul, a handshake for his father, and Philip walked to the livery to fetch his horse with his other belongings strapped to his back. There was food for the journey to Cincinnati and government scrip in his wallet for the hotels along the way. His pards from the 24th Ohio had not seen kith and kin for almost a year and were now milling about the once Rebel stronghold of Corinth. Officers were likely sleeping in the former beds of Rebels, while the men slept on the ground. Officers, he thought. Officers like me now. The officer ethos, promulgated by the West Pointers in command of the armies, was anathema to volunteers, despite how many general orders might be issued by generals with a West Point pedigree; volunteer officers were as liable to disregard the edicts to not fraternize with enlisted men as the enlisted men were to look upon their superiors as next-door neighbors, as they might often have been. He would get a tent to himself, issued by the government or paid for by himself. He would get baggage, a thought that ran through his mind like the anticipation of first coffee in the morning, a giddiness that had his mind racing all the way to the Germantown Hotel where his traveling companions were waiting. What he could carry with him, and not on his back!
Philip found Major Simon Sheffield and Captain George Pickering sipping coffee from china cups and reading the latest Columbus newspaper to make it this far. The paper was dated from last Friday.
“You finally ready to win this war?” Sheffield asked brightly.
“You forget, I only bought the carbine for sport,” Philip replied.
“You ready to save heathen souls from hell, then?” Pickering corrected.
“You ready to build them bridges what won’t be burnt by guerrillas?” Philip chided.
“Now that’s dirty gambol. As long as bridges are wood, they burn!” Pickering huffed.
“That they do,” Philip laughed. “Just don’t be an insufferable boar to the privates assigned to work on your bridges.”
“You get your jollies from seeing that dirty Reb?” The major changed the subject.
“I did; found me the other two dirty Rebs, as you put it, also.” Philip grinned, knowing the news would surprise them both.
“No! You?” The major looked goggle-eyed. “That Reb captain pulled one over on them troopers. Took a carbine-armed chaplain to pull them in, an’ you ain’t even supposed to be a
rmed!”
Sheffield laughed and banged the table. “Our preacher caught them other two.”
Relishing the attention and the brief admiration, Philip recounted his accidental tripping over the hidden Rebels and turning them over to the cavalry.
With all three fortified with breakfast and coffee, they collected their traps and saddled up for a long, dusty ride to Cincinnati and points south along the river ways. Germantown was waking up with the sun and beginning to bustle, and there was activity in the cavalry camp as they passed by it. Troopers were saddling up and trotting off in twos and threes, and the camp looked to be in a high state of anxiety. No tents were being struck as Philip would have expected once they had all of the remaining prisoners in hand. Every trooper who passed them felt obliged to salute the two captains and major as they rode by, making so much of a nuisance of the protocol that they eventually started to ignore the return.
“What’d you do when you took them two?” Sheffield asked, turning his attention away from the camp activity and back to Philip.
“What any good an’ hospitable Yankee would; gave them coffee an’ mincemeat pie.”
“What? You took them dirty Rebs into your house an’ fed ‘em?” Pickering cried.
“They were hungry and tired, and the chase was up. I was curious, mostly,” Philip replied sheepishly. “I wanted to see them and hear their story.”
“If my son brought them into my house, I’d tan him good!”
“They were ready to give up, I think. One of them was a slave hunter or something to that effect from Alabama—the officer we had breakfast with, you remember?” Philip recounted. His impression of Hunter was that the man was mean when he needed to be and gentle when he wanted to be. But there was something else about him that did unsettle him—a darkness just under the surface.
“I turned them over to the cavalry, and that was that. They still have that other one trussed up like a pig, so they weren’t taking any chances with them.”
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 64
