“You shoulda trussed ‘em both up an’ carried them on a pole,” Pickering said, laughing. “Serve ‘em right ta be cooked over a fire.”
“Now, sir; that will not do, not for a Christian,” Sheffield interjected.
“The hell with that! Them are dogs what brought this all on all of us, an’ nothin’ but the fire of hell should be reserved for them.”
Philip listened to the two men argue about the efficacy of boiling prisoners alive and was there a Christian way to do it. Reflecting that not even when he was facing the Rebel lines at Shiloh had he ever thought of such nonsense he kept quiet. It did not take a special man to go through the fires of hell, but perhaps it did to realize that hell was made for all of them. There by the grace of God go I, he decided.
They were still arguing about the humane treatment of Rebel prisoners when something caught Philip’s eye off in the distance. They had already gone through Middletown and were some way out of the town when they spotted a man in grey sitting by the road.
The man, in tattered Confederate garb, saw the riders coming from a distance but didn’t seem to care. The morning was growing hot, and he looked as though it had been a while since he’d quenched his thirst. Traffic coming and going ignored him, though there was little doubt as to his position in their society with his uniform and ragged appearance. They didn’t care to treat with him as much as he didn’t care if they did.
The man sat and watched the riders leisurely progress without emotion. It was over.
“You!”
Lewis, head down with weariness, didn’t react.
“What the hell?” Pickering exclaimed. “Them stupid cavalrymen let him escape!”
“What in the name of all that is good are you doing here?” Philip asked.
Lewis looked up and into the confused but tender eyes of Philip.
“Them other Rebs escape, too?” Pickering said.
Lewis raised his hands uneasily. The confrontation could go anywhere, though he felt a sense of relief that he had run into these men and not others.
“Where’s the others?” Philip asked again.
“I fell behind.”
“You mean you gave up,” mused Pickering.
Lewis nodded.
“Well, dammit, we’re going to miss getting out of here if we don’t get to Cincy tonight,” Pickering protested.
“I’ll take him back,” Philip offered.
“You’ll never get to Nashville to report,” Sheffield stated.
“Can’t leave him out here. I’m sure to run into a cavalry patrol along this way,” Philip replied.
“Chaplain, I’ll bid you farewell then,” said Major Pickering as he thrust out his hand.
“Look up the 24th Ohio for me when you get to Corinth,” Philip replied. “You can find out if Captain Bacon ever got any new gauntlets.”
“Oh, the man whose adoring wife made him suffer with those homemade ones?” Captain Sheffield exclaimed with a chuckle.
“That’s the man. Poor woman would have blushed had she known what we called him. Behind his back, of course.” Philip joined in the mirth. In their long conversations in the trip from Columbus to Germantown, Philip had related his war experience and of some of the silly things he’d witnessed his officers doing, one being the gauntlets that were too big to fit his captain’s hands and how he had always tried to hide his hands when he wore them with an air of embarrassment.
As the two officers rode away, Philip turned to Lewis. He sat with shoulders hunched over and head down, his face still puckered and bruised from his earlier beating and with a few fresh cuts on his lips. He was breathing as if out of breath.
“Get up. We passed the camp this morning and seen all the activity, though we didn’t know what it was about. They must not have taken precautions with you.”
“Lieutenant conned them Yanks into giving ‘em the guard tent; then they escaped early this morning. He killed one them guards,” Lewis said slowly.
“Oh?” Philip paused a moment before taking another step as he led the horse forward. The man had lied before, but Hunter might do anything to escape.
“Then there’s not much I can do for you,” Philip said. “They’ll probably hang you instead of take you back.”
“I didn’t know what the lieutenant was going to do,” Lewis protested, “but it were quick. I felt sorry fer the man all the same. It were bad to kill him in that way. It were wrong.”
“It will be seen as murder by a court-martial, and you as accomplice … if you can convince them you didn’t do it.” Philip worked it over. This was a far cry from the defiant man who’d been accused of killing two others already. He detected a hint of insincerity in the performance.
“You say the lieutenant left you behind?” He’d seen a man shot for desertion before, a pitiable sight with the whole regiment drawn up in a square as witnesses. But for a single choice, the cost could be high, with no manner of leniency pertaining to it. The penalty for desertion was death. The penalty for murder was death. Philip pulled the carbine from his saddle holster.
“I thought I caught up wif ‘em, thought I was gonna have my … my revenge on that bastard Hunter,” Lewis said with a half-smile on his parched lips.
Philip looked at him askance. “You were going to murder, again?”
“If I could’ve. It were jus’ my imagination or something. I found myself on the road, an’ them nowhere to be see’d.”
“But you gave up instead?”
“What else was they to do?”
He brandished the carbine. “I will shoot you if you do anything rash.”
Lewis laughed weakly. “The preacher gonna murder him a murderer.”
“You do know there is one last chance for you, right?”
“From the gallows?”
“No, from damnation.”
More laughter that grated on Philip’s ears. “Now you going to preach to me?”
“Just telling you; there’s no authority on this earth that isn’t going to see you dead. But there is another Authority with the power to see you to hell. You should avoid that death.”
Hopewell laughed. From the poor benighted soul who’d been tricked into escaping to the one now heaping abuse, the turn in the man’s attitude was jarring.
Philip kept Hopewell in front of him as he walked and led his horse along. In his weakened condition, the man did not look like he was going to offer any resistance, but Philip was more interested in something else. What had stung him most about Lee Harper was the man’s refusal to accept what he must have known to be the truth about what lay ahead. Hopewell was going to be executed if there was any justice left on earth, but that was earth. What of heaven?
“I were dead when they put me in that camp. I dead now. You can leave yer preachin’ fer those what care to hear it. I dun’ care to hear it.”
“Preaching is for the converted; truth is for everyone. You have to decide what you believe.”
“I believe you wastin’ yer words.”
Philip believed that now as well. He hadn’t been able to make Harper see it; why would Hopewell?
The morning grew warm, and an hour passed with no sight of any cavalry along the road. Philip was beginning to think he’d never actually leave Ohio. For a time there was silence between the two men as the miles drew on. Then, as Philip was despairing of having to go all the way back to Germantown, a small group of horsemen appeared, heading in his direction. Philip halted and waited for the group of four to come close before hailing the leader.
“Corporal, I have something you might be looking for,” Philip called.
“Sir, this is one of the escaped Rebs. Yes, we be lookin’ fer ‘im all right.”
“He was waiting on the side of the road when I and two others came upon him. I offered to bring him back. Was he the only one?”
“All three is missing. But one of them murderous Rebels killed one of our own, sir. We mean to take care of ‘im this time sure.” The corporal and his charg
es looked sternly at Lewis.
Lewis didn’t react, only looked at Philip with something of a smirk.
“Well, I suppose that’s for a court-martial to decide, Corporal,” Philip replied, though for his own part, he felt if they lynched the man it would also serve justice. But it wasn’t for him or them to decide.
Looking miffed at the suggestion, the corporal jerked the reins and guided his horse sidestep toward Philip’s. “I’ll take the prisoner from here, sir.”
The man’s manner struck Philip in the wrong way, and he gave up all hope of reaching Cincinnati today. “You may take custody, Corporal, but I’ll accompany you back to your camp to see that this man does indeed make it for his court-martial.”
Looking hurt, then angry, and then resigned, the corporal mumbled something unintelligible and transferred Lewis to the back of his own horse. The squadron of horsemen turned about with Philip in the rear. Protecting Lewis from a sure lynching was foremost.
****
Sergeant Millidge was sore. Thinking he’d caught his prey napping by the side of the road, he had deployed his two men off into the trees while he and Kearns rode up to the man idling by the roadside. What they found was a tunic and hat on a stick. Swearing loudly, he was soon in for a second row. His two privates did not show up. They were supposed to creep up behind the man and cut off his retreat, but after waiting impatiently for fifteen minutes, Millidge dismounted and tore into the trees, leaving Kearns by the roadside.
“Boyd! You an’ Phipps get your asses over here!” Millidge shouted, his voice echoing among the tree trunks. Neither man nor beast answered. “We’ve got to go on!”
Striking a trail, Millidge had found his two men tied to a tree and unconscious. Their two horses were missing, as were their sidearms. Both were stripped to their undershirts.
“Damnit!” Millidge cried as he realized he too had left his carbine with his horse next to the decoy on the road. Running as fast as his riding boots and dangling saber would allow, Millidge struck the road once more to find his horse, Kearns, and the decoy missing. Millidge, in a fit of passion, churned up the dusty road with stomps, shouts, and curses. Someone was playing sneaky pete with him.
****
As Millidge ran off into the woods Kearns shook his head in wonder. Even if he had given his word of honor not to try to escape, he was left alone and on a horse, and freedom was just a gentle ride away. Looking about, he missed seeing the figure slide up behind him.
“Captain Kearns, lookin’ fer me?”
Jackson turned with a start. The carbine poking his ribs and the man holding it were most unwelcome. “What the …”
“Dismount, Captain,” Will said, a note of satisfaction in his tone.
Stephen led two horses out from the trees and stood waiting where the decoy was and broke it down. He was wearing Federal blue, as was Will.
“Look, Hunter, what are you going to do, leave me?” Jackson said as he reluctantly slid off the horse.
“No one stoppin’ you from headed down this road,” Will said as he grabbed the reins and began walking the horse toward Stephen.
“You need to leave me the mount!” Jackson called.
“You want to go, go. Them troopers’ll be along shortly, so you’d better get movin’. You ain’t comin’ with us an’ you ain’t keepin’ this horse,” Will called.
“Them troopers is all up about that man you killed; they likely to kill me if they catch up to me!” Jackson wailed. For the first time he was worried.
“Then I say run,” Will called over his shoulder.
“Lieutenant, you gonna leave him to them?” Stephen asked as Will drew up to him and mounted Sergeant Millidge’s horse.
“We ain’t stoppin’ him from going on, he just ain’t gonna do it on horse,” Will replied testily.
“What we do with these extra horses?” Stephen asked.
“Take ‘em down a ways an’ let ‘em go. They’ll probably head back to the camp eventually,” Will said.
Will took another look over his shoulder as Stephen mounted. Jackson was standing dejectedly and rubbing his hand through his hair. “Captain,” Will called with a lazy salute.
Jackson turned toward the woods in the direction Millidge had taken. Whatever Will had done, it wasn’t going to last forever. All his comfort, all his plans, delayed or gone forever. He’d seen how worked up those troopers were about that trooper’s death, and it wasn’t only going to be worse when they found they’d been robbed. He didn’t have a choice but to run. Jackson started off at a fast pace.
“Halt! Where you going?” a voice behind him called, followed by the unmistakable cocking of a pistol.
****
Will Hunter and Stephen Murdoch rode into Cincinnati as if they belonged there. The day’s ride was uneventful, and no one paid them any mind. The good sergeant had provided a permanent relief from the wrist irons by turning over a key found in his saddlebag. They looked the part. US horse, US uniform, US traps, and a US attitude took them through peaceful countryside and greetings from peaceful Ohio citizens hailing peaceful-looking Federal troopers.
Stephen looked about him nervously as they entered the city; there were so many Federal soldiers about that it seemed fantastic that they should have so easily made it. He kept a close gait behind the lieutenant, who was now sporting the lowly rank of private.
Ten days of walking and hiding and scrounging, and now he was almost across the river and into Kentucky.
Plenty of steamers were loading along the docks, and passage should be easy to obtain. Several were taking on passengers and cargo as they rode down the main thoroughfare and into the muddy riverbank. Men and ladies with carpet bags, Federal officers with valises and chests, soldiers returning from leave, merchants supervising the loading of cargo, and black deck- and dockhands all milled or stood about waiting their turn to walk the boarding planks that extended from the lower decks of the vessels.
Motioning to Stephen to wait, Will dismounted and handed him the reins, then turned to look for anyone who appeared to be in charge of any of the vessels. Will walked down the slope toward the nearest paddleboat and passed cursing stevedores and dockhands with their peculiar half-English, half-slave dialect that he’d been all too familiar with in Alabama.
“Ya git thet hoss up’in thems hindquaters, poosh ya nah gud niggars.”
“We gointer pooshin’ ya auld niggar; shut ya mout an’ hep poosh you; nah un put ya in charge. You niggah same us.”
“Git them hoss up dah ramp less me fine some mo’ useful niggars.”
While the dockhands shouted back and forth, the white passengers went on like it was old hat, noise that was considered natural and nothing to pay attention to. Will walked up to the men making the most noise.
“Who do we pay for passage?”
“Up dere.” The dockhand who appeared to be in charge of the others motioned with his chin, a deft nod back up the slope to a row of warehouses spilling a trail of foot and wheel tracks to and fro. “Gib ‘em a hand, you good-nuffin’ niggahs,” the man shouted. He was enjoying being in charge.
Will trudged back up the steep slope and then back down again. Though the dockhands kept up a constant chatter, they did not appear to be antagonized by the berating. He never knew if it was a particular trait of the race to go at it verbally or if it was just to make the whites think they were acting like them. Plantation hands carried on a similar practice of verbal jousting that would have ended in fist or knife fights had it been between whites. These men jawed at one another and seemed to think nothing of it.
Feeling conspicuous, Will and Stephen waited for the gang to finish loading cargo as others stood by and chatted noisily. There was little to do to occupy the time, and small groups of soldiers or officers stood smoking and looking impatient to get the river voyage going. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the familiar faces of Captain Sheffield and Major Pickering from the boarding house. They were smoking cigars and standing idly by, waiting
to board the steamer he’d paid for. This was going to be a problem. Feeling even more conspicuous, Will motioned to Stephen to move back from the two officers and into a crowd of civilians. Several gentlemen and ladies stood waiting quietly next to two enlisted infantrymen with packs fully loaded.
One man was saying to the other as Will crept up, “Damn’d if I kin know where they get them.” He was in clean uniform, but his traps looked like they’d seen hard service. He leaned upon his musket with his arms curled around it for balance. His companion was sallow and thin and favored his left leg noticeably. Both men were shaven and newly cleaned. Even their fingernails told of their comfortable living.
“You don’t look so fit, Charlie,” the man continued.
“Leg’s done healed, an’ I kin walk on it mostly,” the thinner man replied.
Both men looked up at Will as he nodded in greeting.
“You got any tobacco?” the healthier man asked.
“No,” Will replied.
Stephen shook his head no.
“They din’t have none at the hosbittle. That’s where Charlie an’ I’se comin’ from. You headed ta Corinth too?”
“No, 1st Kentucky Cavalry’s at Bowling Green, chasin’ guerrillas,” Will said. Would they know of the 1st Kentucky?
“Got a cousin in the 1st Kentucky.” The thin man brightened. “They was recruitin’ in Ohiya a year ‘go, an’ he volunteered. Funny, huh? He’s in B Troop.”
“We been in Columbus running messages back an’ forth an’ prisoners to Chase; not spent much time with the regiment,” Will said.
“You get a letter from him?” the other man asked his friend.
“Ayah, he said they was going to be runnin’ down them bushwhackers in Missouri.”
“Mabbe they back in Kentucky?” his friend asked, turning to Will.
“If they left Bowling Green, I’ll find where they went next.” Will fidgeted.
“We got our orders to make fer the 40th Ohiya, but they’s not in Prestonburg, Kentucky, no more. So we gointa be like you—chasin’ all over creation to find our regiment.”
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 65