Philip rode to the camp with the troop drawn up in company front. He did his best to look commanding.
“Sergeant, fall the troop into marching column on the road.”
Sergeant Millidge eyed Philip and shook his head. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing,” he muttered.
“Troop, by column right, march!”
The horsemen peeled off by files and fell into a column of twos on the road with the wagons making up the rear. Philip rode up to the front to take his place. The two troublesome NCOs were at the front and waiting. The look of disgust on Millidge’s face told Philip all he needed to know about what to expect.
“Troop, forward, march!” Philip commanded and spurred his own mount forward.
****
In the rear of the column, choking on the dust kicked up by the sixty horses in front, Lewis sat jostling with the camp equipage and the body of Kearns. A corporal and four troopers flanked the wagon.
Lewis had been untied, finally, but the leg irons were rubbing a sore on his ankles and banged uncomfortably against his ankle bones. His perpetual expression of disdain and roughness was usually enough to prevent anyone from approaching him.
He was bored, and so were the troopers surrounding him. The wagon creaked and groaned, rocking gently to and fro until mile after mile became an annoyance.
“You troopers think I kilt your man?” Lewis said.
Trooper Boyd, riding behind the wagon, eyed the prisoner and looked to Trooper Phipps, who was riding in front of him behind Lewis. Phipps turned and nodded.
“You know’d it were one of us, but you don’t know which, do ya?”
“Shut up!” Phipps commanded.
“Phipps, now?” Boyd asked, fingering his holster.
“No,” Phipps replied.
“How do you know you got the right man? Lieutenant Hunter and Private Murdoch are still out there; maybe they done it.”
“What if Sergeant Millidge fergets?” Boyd asked Phipps.
“Boyd, shut up,” Phipps said in a low voice.
Lewis looked at Trooper Boyd and winked. “Do it.”
Laughing heartily, Lewis grinned to himself. He seemed to be having a lively conversation within his own head, tossing his head this way and that and mouthing unheard words.
“What you troopers waitin’ fer? You kin take me now an’ kill me; that preacher is at the head of the column. He couldn’t stop ya.” Lewis leaned his head back and addressed the trooper above him on the horse.
“I told you to shut up,” Phipps retorted.
“One of us kilt yer friend, right? Someone deserve to be kilt in return, right? That’s what you wanted to do, right? Kill me. You was ready to string me up, right?”
Corporal Hardin, riding at the front of the wagon team, brought his horse out of the line of march and slowed its gait so as to draw up beside the wagon. He could hear talking, and he wanted to know what was going on. The one with the crazy look in his eye was needling Trooper Boyd about something.
Catching up, he heard, “Yep, string me up, that’s what ya wanted, right? Get a li’l revenge, a li’l hand o’ God on them Rebs, right?”
“You, keep quiet,” Hardin ordered. “The rest of you, ignore the prisoner and keep an eye on him square.”
“It’s the corporal o’ the guard, the man what wouldn’t come when ordered by that preacher, the man what wanted to see me lynched. How do you like me now?” Lewis gave Hardin a big grin.
Hardin huffed and rode ahead of the wagon. There was little sense in engaging the prisoners in talk, not when it didn’t make any sense.
Lewis was still jabbering from behind as Hardin’s horse moved along the wagon column. Ahead, facing the column of troopers as they passed, sat Sergeant Millidge. As Hardin drew up even with him, Millidge spurred his horse forward and drew abreast.
“Don’t think you’s going to escape trouble,” Millidge said smugly.
“Sergeant?”
“You know what I mean, Corporal. Don’t think you is going to escape trouble. You just mind your own business an’ do what Lieutenant Fisher tole you this mornin’. You turn a blind eye, or it’ll be more than your stripes you lose.” Millidge spurred his horse once more and left Hardin behind.
Hardin hung back a few steps to catch up with the lead trooper in front of the wagon with the prisoners.
“Tell me straight. You know of anything going on?” Hardin asked.
“Corporal?” the boy asked. He was the youngest in the troop, but the hardest working and never one to be late with a detail or to be seen hanging back when there was something to be done.
“What do you mean?”
“Have you heard anything being planned about the prisoner? From the men, I mean,” Hardin asked.
“No, Corporal. I ain’t heard nuthin’. Why?”
“Don’t know … something Sergeant Millidge said,” Hardin replied.
Lewis was still jabbering and needling the escort. The troopers were showing their annoyance with little glances at him and at one another.
Corporal Hardin made the rounds of the troopers surrounding the wagon with the prisoner. Most of these men were in his squadron, and he knew and respected them. If something was up, it was a closely guarded secret.
“You hear of anything being planned?” Hardin said quietly to Trooper Boyd. Boyd was a big, husky man, a man who looked out of place upon a horse and in an arm of service where most men didn’t tower over their horses. The uniforms for him had to be made special by the quartermaster, as nothing issued ever fit the man. Even then, he appeared to be ready to burst out of his shell jacket if he made any sudden moves.
“Whut?”
“You been told to do anything about the prisoner?”
“Like whut?” Trooper Boyd replied innocently.
“Did Sergeant Millidge give you any instructions regarding the prisoner?” Hardin pressed. Boyd was not much for talking, even with his pards around the mess fire.
“Yeah, so?” Trooper Boyd replied and quickly turned away.
“Follow me,” Hardin said and spurred his mount away from the wagon.
Trooper Boyd didn’t follow but looked torn as if he should.
“Boyd, c’mere,” Hardin snapped.
Looking to the others riding in their places, Boyd steered his mount away and fell back a little to make up the rear with Hardin, who glared angrily at him.
“You tell me what he said, now!” Hardin ordered. He was getting a sick feeling in his gut.
“He said I ain’t ta tell no one!” Boyd stammered.
“Damnit, Boyd. You were ordered to watch the prisoner, and that meant keep him alive!”
Trooper Boyd looked cross, stuffing his chin into his chest and gripping the reins tightly.
“When?” Hardin demanded.
“Soon; Sergeant Millidge supposed ta relieve you, an’ then I’s to shoot ‘im. Then Sergeant Millidge is to shoot … the preacher.”
“Damnit, who else?”
“Jus’ me an Phipps. Sergeant don’t trust no one else.”
“You go fall back into line; you’re relieved,” Hardin said sharply and spurred his horse to catch up with the wagon. He waited until Boyd had passed him and taken up line of march at the rear of the column of twos and away from the wagon. “Phipps, you are relieved. Go rejoin the column.”
“You men,” Hardin said aloud for all to hear to the rest. “Keep an eye out for Sergeant Millidge; he intends to shoot the prisoner.”
Lewis laughed and looked about him wildly. The other troopers looked about in confusion.
“I tole you,” Lewis said smugly.
Unaware of Hardin, Millidge had slowed his horse up and allowed himself to hang back as the column passed him by; he was of the mind that now was as good a time as any. The noise, the distance between the meddlesome preacher and the rear of the troop, and the necessity to act made up his mind. That was, until he spotted Boyd.
“Nation, Boyd. What the hell are you doing here!” Sergeant Millidge sna
pped at the man.
“Sergeant, Corp’ral relieved me of detail, sent me back to the column,” Boyd whined.
“Boyd, c’mere; you too, Phipps!” Millidge barked. “You gonna do what I told you! Follow me!”
The two troopers fell out of the line of march and followed the sergeant as they trotted toward the rear wagon.
Hardin tensed as the three horsemen approached. Intent glared in Millidge’s eyes.
“I relieved you once, Hardin, and I’ll do it again! Fall out of line an’ report to the chaplain,” Millidge ordered.
Falling in around the wagon, Millidge, Boyd, and Phipps got in close.
Without warning, Corporal Hardin unholstered his pistol and trained it on Millidge.
“Halt the wagon!” Hardin shouted to the trooper leading the team. The wagon and the escort clattered to a halt, the men not in on the situation looking about as if just rudely awakened.
“Put that weapon down!” Millidge cried and reached for his own.
Boyd drew his pistol and aimed it at Lewis, but Phipps just sat dumb and wild-eyed.
“Sergeant, I’m placing you under arrest,” Hardin called out.
“Boyd, Phipps; disarm the corporal!” Millidge screamed.
The escort reacted slowly, but react they did. Soon all three were being covered by leveled pistols.
“Do it now?” Boyd called.
“Yes, no; cover Hardin!” Millidge shouted in panic.
Trooper Phipps raised his hands, palms out, and shook his head negative. He wasn’t going to have anything to do with this brawl.
“Now, someone disarm Millidge and Boyd,” Corporal Hardin called.
Lewis was shaking like a leaf but grinning all the while, making little tittering noises as if tickled at the showdown. Boyd wasn’t lowering his pistol, but he wasn’t quite keeping his eyes on Lewis either.
“Disarm Boyd,” Corporal Hardin ordered again.
“Do it now?” Boyd asked, his aim bobbing slightly.
“Shoot Hardin!” Millidge shrieked.
Trooper Boyd straightened suddenly in the saddle and pulled off a shot that went wild, missing Lewis. Everyone jumped. The trooper next to Boyd lunged at him, pulling both from their saddles and into the dust. Lewis stopped his antics.
Millidge swore and tried to reach for his pistol but was cut short by another of the escort batting his arm away and knocking the pistol to the ground. Corporal Hardin kept his bead on Millidge.
“Get off me!” Boyd called as the two men wrestled in the dirt.
Lewis fixed Phipps with a stare and winked before tumbling over the side of the wagon and disappearing from sight. Phipps, no longer covering that side of the wagon, just watched Lewis hobble away. Falling into a heap, Lewis rolled once, leapt to his feet, and ran as fast as the leg irons would allow.
“God damnit! Someone shoot that sonofabitch!” Millidge cried, pointing at Hardin.
Corporal Hardin kept his attention on Millidge, but the tussle happening at his horses’ feet was distracting the rest of the escort.
“Shut up!” Hardin shouted. “Charles, go fetch that one back!”
The pistol report alerted the column that something was amiss, and soon a dust cloud hailed the approach of a dozen riders.
Philip took in the standoff and wished he were somewhere else. “Disarm that man!” he ordered, pointing at Millidge.
Millidge sat brooding, giving Corporal Hardin an icy stare.
Hardin lowered his weapon. “Sir, Sergeant Millidge and Troopers Boyd and Phipps were about to shoot the prisoner. Boyd took a shot at him, but missed and allowed him to escape. Trooper Charles is chasing after him.”
“Tie up the sergeant, Boyd, and Phipps, and put them in the wagon; they can ride back to Dennison that way!” Philip ordered. Trooper Phipps tried to protest but was silenced with a wave of Philip’s hand. “Gag these three as punishment,” he added.
Another shot rang out, and soon Trooper Charles returned with a tall lump draped over his horse. “He wouldn’t surrender, sir,” was the laconic report.
Philip slapped the pommel in disgust and shifted in his seat. They’d gotten their revenge. “He was in leg irons, Trooper! He wasn’t going far.”
Charles shrugged in reply.
Stunned, Philip just stared at the group of troopers. Some were looking disdainfully on the corpse; others, like Hardin, were in shock. He wasn’t going to deliver Hopewell to the authorities after all; but he was just an escaped prisoner; they were more interested in getting the 7th Ohio’s troop back in good order. That moment in the jail cell, when he’d had the last opportunity to try to persuade Hopewell to make his peace, could now be added to a long list of things he should have done, shouldn’t have said, wished he could do over. Twice, men had gone to their reward refusing to acknowledge the hereafter under his auspices. He couldn’t help but feel like he hadn’t tried hard enough.
“Put the body in the wagon with these three; they can ride with it staring at them,” Philip said and pulled his horse up to Corporal Hardin’s.
Philip pulled Hardin aside. “Replace Millidge as sergeant, and I’ll make it official when we arrive at Dennison.”
“Sir,” Hardin replied and saluted.
“Close up to the column,” Philip ordered, and the wagon and escort got underway.
****
Nightfall found the weary troopers entering the gates of Camp Dennison and Philip arguing with the colonel of the 7th Cavalry about his troublesome troopers.
Camp Dennison was a sprawling outpost established at the beginning of the war as a camp of instruction for Ohio’s volunteer regiments. Unlike Camp Chase, which had the dual role of garrison for the prisoner of war compound and camp of instruction, there was a lax atmosphere to Dennison—too lax, to Philip’s way of thinking.
“Sir, from Lieutenant Fisher down to the sergeants, there was a lack of courtesy and attention to duty, and a gross lack of leadership,” Philip stated while standing before the commander of the regiment, whose own demeanor was little different from that of his men.
“I don’t require your assessment, Chaplain. Just have the men delivered to the guardhouse, and you can be on your way. You are relieved of the charge of the troop,” Colonel Garrad said testily.
“Perhaps you do require that I report to Columbus the completion of what I was charged with, and my assessment? It was not this many days before that I met with General Hill and Colonel Moody, and I’m sure they would like to hear about the further conduct of your men.” Philip felt his anger rising. The simple ordeal of escorting a prisoner had been beyond the ill-disciplined lot.
“You are merely a perfunctory rank; you do not hold a field commission, and I will not stand for your meddling further with my command!” Colonel Garrad shouted.
“And I’m sure you will be most interested, then, in my report of the matter and of your own responsibility to General Hill.”
Colonel Garrad huffed but said nothing.
“Sir, I take my leave.” Philip saluted, though every fiber of his being wanted to turn about and storm out without the presenting of honors.
“Good day, Chaplain,” came the reply and return of salute.
The troop were seeing to their mounts and unloading the wagons as Philip strode out. The errand had been most disagreeable from start to finish. There was one final thing to do before taking his leave of the rest. The prisoners were still trussed in the wagon and sitting glumly in the dark.
Philip motioned to Sergeant Hardin, and as his last act of command, ordered the release of the troopers from their bonds to be escorted to the guardhouse. As further insult, Hardin removed Millidge’s stripes with a knife and laid them on his own shoulders, inspecting them with pride. Philip watched with some amusement. Perhaps his interference hadn’t been for naught; at least one good man was being rewarded for his service.
Chapter 26
Camp Dennison, Cincinnati, Ohio August 22, 1862
The body of Lewis Hopewell still
lay in the wagon next to that of Kearns. It was a finality that brought about the end result both he and Philip had wanted, in some roundabout way: their arrival in Cincinnati. Hopewell hadn’t expected to arrive a corpse, and Philip hadn’t expected to arrive in command of a troop of cavalry. Now the dead man would be buried somewhere and forgotten. Philip had studied evil all his life in Scripture but had never met it face-to-face. Even with all of the death he’d already witnessed, he’d seen nothing to compare to the look of the man’s eyes and the delight in killing for killing’s sake. There were, no doubt, many like him now on both sides, men who took some perverse delight in killing or were growing too used to it. There was no honor to be had in it, killing. Honor was in facing death and looking it in the eye without flinching.
Leaning against the wagon side, Philip stared at the lifeless form. It dawned on him that he’d missed, or perhaps passed right by, his brother on the way to Middletown, so taken up in the responsibility and then the ruckus had he been.
Philip walked his horse to the camp stables. The 7th was quartered in one of several barracks, and the company officers were billeted in a row of house-like buildings with private rooms and common areas. Several were set aside for visiting officers, and he found a vacant room to settle in for the night.
****
Will Hunter leaned back against the wall of the animal stalls, enjoying the motion of the paddle steamer as it passed slowly down the Ohio River. The boat had already made several stops on the Ohio, then the Indiana side of the river, and one on the Kentucky side. Stephen had declined to disembark by himself when Will pointed out it was his stop.
“What you mean, you’re not getting off too?” Stephen asked.
“Change of plans. You can make it all right; just make like you a courier with the 1st Kentucky Cavalry. No one will question it,” Will said.
“I don’t understand. This is what we risked it all for—to get to Kentucky. Why would you not come too?”
Will nodded to the stall where the groomsman was combing someone’s horse. “See that nigger? He the one I’s after afore the war. I’s going to finish what I set out to do then; deliver one last runaway.”
Stephen had looked hard and long at Will, disbelief showing in his expression. In the end, he stayed, saying, “I hope you know what you doin’.” It was dark now as the boat made its way westward. It was to stop for the night in Madison, Indiana. Will chanced to find out from a crew member what the ship’s route was to be: continue down the Ohio to Paducah, Kentucky, before heading down the Tennessee River. There would be plenty of other stops in between and time to formulate a plan. Stephen had made his choice and was sound asleep next to him. The flask of whiskey was almost empty, and Will was contentedly drunk. He would sleep the sleep of the dead this night.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 69
