Will nodded. The more they jabbered, the more he felt the tension rise as one or the other would ask another fool question that he’d have to lie about.
The dockhands finished the loading of all of the animals and led them below decks, and the gangplank was lowered for the human cargo to board. Will hung back, as did the other soldiers, allowing the civilians to board first. The military cargo queued up next, and each man shouldered his load and stood silently in line. It would be even harder to keep to himself now. The paddle-wheel steamer had broad-planked decks, three in all, and the lower decks were semi-open to the air. Stalls and other areas for horses were filled with animals, most with expensive-looking saddles and gear. The deckhands unsaddled and prepped the animals for the journey like men who knew horses.
Will leaned over the railing on the main deck as Stephen watched each and every man around them nervously and as the stalls were filled with feed and a groomsman combed each animal in turn. If his horse had a name, it was a mystery to him. Getting the idea that he might escape further scrutiny, Will motioned to Stephen to follow and both stole down to the lower deck.
The smell of hay, urine, and feces was strong. Several black deckhands skittered about doing their chores and paid him no mind. The steamer was just casting off from the dock as Will found his stall and removed the saddle. The trooper, the loudmouth in charge of the other two he’d surprised and rendered hors de combat, had a supply of whiskey in his saddlebag and a nice carbine. There was nothing to reveal what the beast’s name was. He’d have to make a new one.
The animal did not seem to care who was feeding or brushing it as long as the saddle came off. Will, a practiced hand at horseflesh, went to work brushing the animal. It would not seem unnatural for an enlisted man to be doing the grooming, and even as an officer, he had groomed his own mount. The movement of the steamer and the gentle whoosh whoosh whoosh of the paddles almost made the trip enjoyable. He found himself breathing more easily. He was out of Ohio.
Stephen, on the other hand, had never ridden, and he watched Will closely for a clue as to what to do next. Struggling with the saddle, he lifted it too high and nearly fell over.
Will smiled to himself. At least for the moment they were out of scrutiny by nosy passengers.
One of the groomsmen stopped in front of Will’s stall and sized him up curiously.
“Massah, you no need do dat,” the man said in that peculiar slow and deprecating drawl people of his race had when addressing someone who was a social better—or at least had the power to punish and kill.
“No matter,” Will said and turned to face the man. He was a dark man, as dark as pitch, a trait that belied his pure African origins. He was no mulatto. There was something about the man that Will did not understand.
“You let ole Seth take keer of yo hoss, sah,” the man said and advanced a step, a quirky grin on his lips that said he was smiling on the outside but thinking something else on the inside. It was not from deference that he’d learned these traits, but from a lifetime of having to put up with the whites.
Will stopped and regarded his man closely. There was something about him … he was more than just a slave or a former slave he might have seen before. The name, the face. It was him. All thought of getting to Kentucky and of avoiding scrutiny vanished. Seth. He hadn’t gotten that far. Will might have even found him had he only kept looking in Cincinnati. He paused. Could he escape and somehow bring Seth along with him? Will smiled, reveling in his good fortune. He would wait for them to get underway and see what might present itself. Will breathed in deeply and finished seeing to his gear along the stall wall and stepped into the stall next to his to help Stephen.
“We push off an’ hang out down here with the groomsmen an’ stay out of sight, we be safe,” Will whispered.
“Where we headed?”
Will rearranged Stephen’s saddle along the wall, pommel toward the opening, and stowed the saddlebags in like manner so that all one had to do was turn, grab the saddle pommel-first, and turn to drop it on the horse’s back. Stephen stood by, taking it all in.
“A few points along the Ohio, then we’ll be stopping at a few Kentucky ports an’ we’ll decamp,” Will replied, taking another look at Seth.
Stephen nodded. “Found some hardtack and some salt horse in my saddlebags; I think we get some food finally.”
Will combed through his own bags and found some food and a flask. One whiff revealed weak whiskey. Rejoining Stephen, he wiggled the flask and winked. Leaving the stalls, they were once again at the railing on the mid-deck level, and Will took a tug on the flask. It was watered down, but it had been months since he’d tasted any alcohol at all. It sent shivers down him. Stephen declined.
“Paw said you ain’t a man till you had your first tug of bark juice,” said Will and took another short one, “but this stuff more argee than good whiskey.”
Stephen reached for the flask and took a tentative taste. He grimaced. “That as bad a rotgut what they tried to issue us before we seen action at Shiloh.”
Will chuckled. “Now it’s done, Trooper Murdoch. You a man.”
Stephen shook his head violently and worked his tongue. The taste was not desirable, nor was the burning down his throat inviting. “I think I’ll go back to being a lad then.”
With their backs against the railing, the two absently munched on hardtack and watched the groomsmen work on the horses, relaxing for the first time in weeks.
Chapter 24
Pearson Residence, Germantown, Ohio, August 22, 1862
Philip woke early, acutely aware that he’d found himself in the middle of a vast turnabout. He was never going to get to the 21st Ohio if he kept allowing these little things to sidetrack him. After delivering Lewis to the angry-looking cavalryman as dusk was setting, he’d quietly walked back through his father’s front door. Charles, surprised but too stiff to show it, looked at his son questioningly before returning to his study. Paul, however, regarded him with some level of curiosity. Philip waved him into the kitchen where he rattled the coffee pitcher, stoked the coals left over from supper, and replaced the boiler over the fire.
“Ran into one of our Rebel friends again—escaped from those fool cavalrymen and killed one of their men. Not either of the two we caught, but the other one,” Philip related.
“Where were the other two?”
“The other two are out there again, and probably in Cincinnati by now. Three other troopers came back on foot telling how they’d been tricked of their mounts, uniforms, and weapons. The whole camp is in a panic, and they didn’t look too kindly on Hopewell either—that’s the third man. Hopewell says the lieutenant is the one who killed the camp guard. Don’t know that I believe him, but either way, the cavalrymen are out for blood now.” Philip impatiently tapped the coffeepot.
“What you gonna do?”
“Do? Nothing. Head back out. I’d have headed back to Cincinnati today if it hadn’t been for the group I turned Hopewell over to being ready to lynch him.”
“Don’t seem right to leave him in their hands, though, murderer or not.”
“They might kill him, but he might hang all the same. Nothing I can do about that. The man is evil, that’s about all I can say about him. They have the mind to do him in, they can do it at anytime.”
Paul nodded, though he didn’t look convinced.
Philip sighed heavily; the day’s exertions had worn him out, and the walk on new boots had been excruciating.
Charles, smelling the coffee, appeared in the doorway and regarded his sons skeptically. “You found the escapees again?”
“Yes, sir, or one found me again, you could regard it like. I brought him back to the camp. It was the one they accused of several murders.”
“Murders, you say?”
“Yes, sir. One guard was murdered while sleeping on duty. They aren’t going to treat him too kindly for that. It was their own fault for not taking the duty seriously enough. I suspect they are going to probably execute the man be
fore this is all over—after a tribunal, of course.”
“Hmmm,” Charles mumbled and looked at the coffeepot as it started to steam. “You should go and speak with their commander. See if you can get him to prepare his soul.”
“I tried yesterday; the man wasn’t going to do anything but welcome death, it seemed—the permanent kind. I don’t see that he’s going to confess or have much to do with facing eternity. I can’t say that he did or didn’t kill the guard, but he definitely killed the other two Rebels.”
“If the man is innocent, he should have an advocate. If he’s guilty he should stand trial. You say they might kill him?”
“He was involved in what led to their man’s death. I can’t see that a court-martial will have any leniency on the man even if he didn’t do it, but I can’t see how they can prove it either way.”
“We do what we can as advocates of the Most High. You took up the collar again, and this is what it means to wear it again, son. You can only try to convince him.”
“But sir, the Rebel is probably deserving of the gallows just for being a Rebel! I can’t say I blame the troopers for wanting to string him up as soon as I delivered him. The Rebs may try to fight with honor, but they are still guilty of treason.”
“It does not matter what they are doing. The soul and justice are all that matter, son. You brought those other two into my house as an act of charity, and you saw that they needed some care regardless of what side they have chosen in this war. It is a war, but you acted with honor and compassion. Continue to do that, son.”
Philip stared at his father and blinked. Would even the kindest soul bother to expend any more words on the man? It was beyond credulity to think he was going to make a dent in the evil he saw in Hopewell. Perhaps Jesus would, but Philip wasn’t a saint, and what if Hopewell deserved what might happen at the hands of these cavalrymen?
“Even if this man has the devil in his heart? There was something to him, something that chilled my bones. If Judas was beyond redemption for betraying his Lord, then this man is certainly second to him in condemnation.”
“We are not the judges of men, son. God will deal with this man in his own way. You should be concerned less about what he deserves and more about what he is in God’s eyes. If you know he might be lynched, you should act.”
“Saint Paul said, ‘Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived. Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor—’”
Charles cut him short. “For Christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh, but quickened by the Spirit.”
That was the problem: this verse from Romans had been off his lips and spilled before the crowd gathered to hear something to comfort them at Robert Harper’s funeral, and here it was again. Philip sighed. “I’ve done it again, sir.”
“It’s not too late this time. You should do what is right, son.”
Charles sniffed the coffeepot, poured himself a cup, and left the kitchen. As for Paul, the smile on his face told Philip everything: Paul was glad he wasn’t Philip at this moment.
****
The morning coffee was steaming invitingly as Philip beheld the state of affairs with a clear head and a night’s sleep behind him.
“What ya gonna do?” Paul asked and sat down heavily in a chair.
“Do I have a choice?” Philip shot back.
“Yeah, you can ride on out of town,” Paul said calmly.
Philip grunted and screwed his lips into a grimace. Defy Father at your own peril, he thought. “Sure, if I do not want to ever return,” Philip said aloud.
“I’ll go with you as far as the camp; I heard there’s a recruiting rally in Middletown for the 21st Ohio; your new colonel, I think, is speaking at it. Thought I’d pack myself on out.”
Philip grunted again. Paul was going to go through with it after all.
“How’d you hear about it?”
“Was down at the post office an’ seen a broadside. Middletown is on the way to Cincinnati, and it’ll get me out of the house.”
“I might not be able to get away if I have to do this thing immediately.”
“So, I can do this,” Paul said, raising himself upright.
“You told Father yet? You sure you want to do this? It’s not like taking an apprenticeship. You are in it until death or discharge.”
“No, not until I’ve volunteered, and yes, I’ve made up my mind.”
Philip sighed. “I’ll ride with you as far as the cavalry camp.”
“I’m going to walk, so I’ll be gone all day,” Paul said and jiggled his empty cup at Philip.
“Fill it yourself!” Philip snapped.
“Move out of the way, then.” Paul stood and advanced but stopped when Philip stared him down.
“Didn’t Father teach you to respect your elders?”
“Only the ones deserving of it.”
Philip ceded the spot and continued his brooding at the table.
After a cold breakfast, Philip and Paul quietly left the house and walked down to the camp.
“You sure about this? It isn’t the life they say it is; the army doesn’t truck with independence and disobedience. You sure you want to volunteer? There are far safer ways to serve the Union.”
“Mind’s made up. B’sides, you’ll be there to look out for me, so Father won’t worry himself.”
“Take this note to whoever’s in command of the recruiting detachment with my compliments, and tell him I’ll report tomorrow to him.” Philip handed over an envelope.
Paul stuffed the note into his pocket and strode off down the road. Philip greeted the sentry at the road.
“Requesting permission to enter camp.”
“What business you have?” came the impertinent question.
“Don’t you know to salute when addressed by an officer, Private?” Philip barked.
“Sir.” The trooper brought his carbine to port arms.
“I wish to speak with your lieutenant regarding the prisoner.”
“Corporal of the guard!” the man shouted.
Philip, keeping his face as stern as he could imagine it to be, was inwardly amused. The events of the last day must have put the fear of God and a general into these men. They were at least pretending to be soldiers.
“What is it?” Corporal Hardin asked. He was a short little fellow sporting a large mustache and brown hair that flowed down his ears and cheekbones into large sideburns. Philip recognized him as the corporal who’d upbraided the three of them after Hunter had slipped them at the boarding house.
“This man is requesting permission to enter camp.”
Hardin regarded Philip with suspicion. “What is your rank, may I ask, sir?” Though Philip looked and acted like an officer, he did not have any shoulder boards indicating rank. His black frock coat, though not regular officer’s wear, was nonetheless imposing.
“Chaplain, Corporal.” That was the problem with being a chaplain, he reflected—no one knew.
“Sir, follow me,” the corporal said gruffly.
“I see we have something in common. Corporal Hardin, is it?”
Hardin looked at Philip a moment before continuing on.
“I see we have something in common, Corporal Hardin; we’ve both lost the same Rebel.”
The corporal ignored the statement.
Philip followed the man to the wall tent where he’d met the lieutenant the day before.
“Lieutenant Fisher, sir, a Chaplain …”
“Pearson,” Philip said.
“A Chaplain Pearson to see you.” The corporal saluted and strode away.
“Chaplain, come in,” Lieutenant Fisher said and offered Philip a chair. The tent the lieutenant kept was sparsely furnished: a cot, a desk, an oil lamp, and a valise of the man’s personal effects sat next to the tent wall, and an air of mustiness and pipe tobacco filled Philip’s nostrils with a disagreeable
pungent odor. Philip sniffed and wrinkled his nose. The man said “Chaplain” in a way that put Philip in his place. “What can I do for you, again?”
“What is to become of the prisoner? Where’s the one who turned himself in? Kearns, wasn’t it?”
“The prisoner is to be shot, of course. I had to put a guard on him just to keep my own men from lynching him. There’s plenty of men here who want to pull the trigger on the firing squad and are just waiting for the word from me. Captain Kearns did not return with the group sent to run the prisoners down; my sergeant says he escaped.”
“You are going to deliver Hopewell for court-martial first, right?”
“Well, no. I don’t see the need to …”
“Lieutenant Fisher, you can’t go around shooting prisoners of war. They have to be remanded to a court-martial,” Philip said.
“Now, look here, Chaplain. This is all up to Captain Strauss and Colonel Garrad of the 7th. It’s going to be their call what we do with him. General Hill will probably also want some say, but once we are on the way back to Camp Dennison, anything can happen,” Fisher said, annoyed.
“And the other two? You’ve given up tracking them?”
“No, but we’ve had enough trouble with this one. I’d just as soon take care of him first.”
“Then you had better assure he’s delivered safely, as I’m going to be communicating with Colonel Moody at Camp Chase and General Hill all the same.”
Fisher regarded Philip harshly, his dark eyes seething with anger. Who was this man to question his motives and give him orders? He wasn’t even a real officer. “He’s escaped twice so far. If he were to try again on our way, then justice will still be served, Chaplain.”
“That’s ‘Captain’!” Philip snapped.
“Not according to regulation. You’re a chaplain, not a line officer,” Fisher shot back.
“I still hold the commission and rank of a captain, Lieutenant. Where is he? I want to speak to him.”
The lieutenant pursed his lips and stormed out of the tent with Philip on his heels.
****
Lewis was in pain, lots of it. The trussing of his arms and legs and the pole jammed behind his back forced him to try to relieve pressure by raising his arms slightly every few minutes, but once he did, he cut the circulation off from his lower arms, and the process repeated. He was also trussed and sitting on his knees. Two guards stood by him, looking bored. The troop was taking no chances with the prisoner this time.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 66
