The Men of Pride County: The Rebel

by West, Rosalyn

  Pleased by his words, Juliet embraced her father, but her misgivings didn’t lessen. “At least I’ll be there to watch your back, should any of your own men try to stick something in it.”

  “I am comforted in that knowledge.”

  Later, Juliet paced her Maryland hotel room, fretting over the situation. She was a born campaigner, taking up where her mother had left off. She knew no other life than the hard one she led, accompanying her father to isolated posts on the frontier. She didn’t think to complain of the loneliness, the difficulties, or the continual danger. She considered those a part of daily living. What worried her was the men her father would command for the next year or two, men he’d faced in battle and had secured in a Northern prison—men her father would have to trust to follow his instructions and not desert at the earliest opportunity.

  She had no fondness for Southerners. There had been a few in her father’s last command in Texas before the war began. She thought them vain, arrogant, and more than a little lazy. The were used to lackeys doing their work and to women who’d fawn and faint to earn their favor—pompous fools, all of them, severing the Union for their own selfish purposes at the cost of innocent soldiers’ lives, and forcing her to spend three long years in a prison of her own while her father was pulled from her life to fight in the Western Theater.

  She’d hoped to put all that behind her when her father was reassigned to Fort Blair in the New Mexico territory. She had more tolerance for Indians defending their land than for beaux galants defending their self-indulgent ideals. How could her father trust such shallow aristocrats to cover his flank when under hostile fire?

  She had a very bad feeling about the whole thing.

  Juliet’s feeling only worsened when she got her first glimpse of the recalcitrant troops.

  They formed a ragged line just inside the gates of Point Lookout Prison, shivering with cold in thin uniforms. Mere skeletons, less than men, she thought—until she saw their eyes. Those eyes burned with a fever of pride and indomitable will.

  Her father was going to have his hands full.

  And it didn’t take more than a second to figure out who was going to cause the most grief.

  He wore the insignia of major, but even without it, there could be no mistaking him for anything but the Confederates’ leader. Even weakened by the harsh conditions of the camp, he braced the blustery weather with a posture as stiff as a Stars-and-Bars-bearing flagpole. His ice-blue stare was fixed upon her father with an unblinking intensity, his look not one of arrogance or hostility, as it was with many others, but with a wary gauging, a careful studying. This man was no soft Southern fop. She read intelligence in those unswerving eyes, confidence in his rigid stance, and authority in the way the others deferred to him as her father spoke.

  “I am Colonel John Crowley. From what you know of me, I’m sure it’s a name you’ve cursed since your incarceration in this … facility. From what I know of you, you are men deserving of more respect than this place allows you—a respect you have already earned by your cunning and valor in the field. It’s my wish to put you in that field again, not here in this theater of brother against brother, but in the West, where we can all rally together against a common foe.”

  He scanned the impassive troop, looking for a reaction, finding none. Juliet wondered if he’d expected any from these hard and hostile men.

  “I don’t expect you to thank me. In fact, I am certain you’ll have even more cause to curse me. A U.S. soldier on western duty has little to be grateful for. I have heard it said that where we are going, everything that grows pricks and everything that breathes bites. You will be facing an enemy tougher and more ferocious than you can imagine, and if you are foolish enough to think of them contemptuously as simple savages who are no match for our military acumen, they will be wearing your hair on their lances. The danger is ever-present. The pay is rotten, a miserly sixteen dollars a month for most of you, and you’ll earn every nickel of it ten times over. So don’t thank me for taking you out of this hellhole. You haven’t seen hell yet. But you will. You will.”

  A rousing speech sure to win these sullen troops over. Her father was not one to sugar-coat any given situation. He was forcing them to swallow a bitter pill while saying it was for their own good as they choked on it. She found herself studying the Rebel major, watching for any sign of response. His whiskered features might well have been slashed from stone. Juliet smiled. He probably thought, just as his men must think, that they’d endured the worst life could offer. How quickly they’d discover they were wrong!

  As if he felt her interest, the major’s steely gaze cut over to where she sat, bundled in a rented hack. Though protected from the weather, she felt vulnerable to the sudden penetrating cold of his stare. A tremor raced through her, but instead of a chill, she was suffused by heat, a confusing warmth of response and unbidden reaction.

  Confusing because she wasn’t one to be intimidated by a man. She’d grown up in the army and considered herself the mental and in many cases the physical equal of a man in uniform. Not understanding her own emotions, she looked away, embarrassed, then back, angered that she should feel guilty. But she no longer had his attention. It was riveted on her father. A strange shiver rattled her sensibilities. The man unsettled her. And for that reason, she disliked the Confederate officer before they’d exchanged a single word.

  “I’ve told you what you have to look forward to,” her father said with his typical brusqueness. “Now, there’s something I want from each of you. I would have you swear allegiance to our United States of America and will take your word as gentlemen that you will not raise your hand against her for the duration of this war and that you will carry out the duties placed upon you by our Federal government, for which, in return, you will be paroled from this prison.”

  Juliet expected the Southerners to balk and they did. Rebellion, resentment, and open defiance flared in their hollowed eyes, in the tight flexing of their stubbled jaws, in the fisting of their hands.

  Her father ignored the signs of approaching mutiny with a calm demand. “Major Banning, I would have an oath from you and your fellow officers, then you may turn the task over to your sergeant to relay to the rest of your men.”

  He wasn’t going to do it. Juliet read refusal in the prideful narrowing of his glare and knew a moment of relief.

  “Major?”

  At her father’s prompting, other emotions played over the lean and dangerously set features, strong emotions that challenged and humbled an inherent arrogance. She saw in that raw moment the cost of bowing to her father’s command: a sacrifice of conscience, the crushing of loyalty and honor beneath the heel of desperate circumstance, the bending of an independent will for the good of many. And for just that instant, she felt sympathy for the proud soldiers and their conviction-torn leader.

  “Major?” her father repeated.

  A tense pause was followed by the reluctant lift of Banning’s right hand. The gesture was repeated by his two captains. Clearly, fiercely, they spoke the words binding themselves to the very nation they’d parted from with bloodshed and bitterness. Then the same oath was spoken by the enlisted men, their sentiments more apparent, their phrases more grudging. Juliet listened. And didn’t believe a word.

  They were traitors. They would go back on their vows the first chance they got.

  How on earth were they all going to survive the trip to New Mexico?

  But her father appeared satisfied with the pledges of loyalty, for he turned to his aide and ordered, “Secure the release of these men from the prison commandant. I want them bathed, clean shaven, issued uniforms, and fed all they can hold. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir, Colonel Crowley.”

  Then, in a lower aside, the colonel said, “And don’t take your eyes off them for a minute.”

  Chapter 2

  Nothing felt as good as washing off three months of captivity. Noble scrubbed until his skin was as raw as his emotions and
stinging like his conscience.

  Because theirs wasn’t a freedom without cost. A cost dear to pay.

  The mood in the washhouse was strangely subdued. If his men had strong opinions, they kept them in check as baths were filled, then the filthy contents emptied, and razors scraped pallid faces bare.

  His own reflection startled him. He didn’t recognize the gaunt features at first, all hollowed by constant hunger, worries, and weariness. Not a vain man, he’d never put much store in looks, so it wasn’t his haggardness that alarmed him. It was the guilt shadowing his stare. He had the look of a man who was haunted.

  “You did the right thing, Noble.”

  George Allen’s freckled face appeared in the glass alongside his. Allen was close to twenty and looked all of maybe fourteen. An innate innocence kept his features free of harsh experience, even after the horrors he’d seen. A small-town boy, his only ambitions were to return to the church where he was baptized and to lead its congregation of fewer than four dozen. Allen’s spiritual optimism had pulled the men through more than one dismal night.

  And now the young reverend thought to apply that same gentle tolerance in the hope of quieting his commander’s regrets. Noble didn’t envy him the impossible task.

  “You’ve your men to think of before military pride,” Allen told him with conviction. “It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was the right choice.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Don’t second-guess your instincts, Noble. They’re all that’s kept us alive.”

  “I thought you believed it was divine intervention.”

  Used to his teasing mockery, George took no offense. “God works in a variety of ways.”

  Noble’s smile took a wry turn. “My reasons aren’t all that divine, George.”

  “Saving men at the sacrifice of your own honor?” His tone grew hushed, almost reverent. “I can’t think of a more unselfish motive—or one that will cause more personal pain.”

  “That’s only part of it. The rest—the rest is more inspired by darkness than divinity.”

  George’s unblemished brow puckered in concern. “I don’t understand.”

  Noble stared into those haunted eyes, trying to find the cocky confidence of the man who’d once stared back at him. “No, you wouldn’t, George. You’re a good, decent fellow with his mind on higher goals. I’m afraid mine are a bit more grounded in earthly pursuits.”

  “Such as?” He stared at his superior with a look akin to you-could-do-no-wrong worship. Noble hated to destroy that naïveté. But he did so with a single cutting claim.

  “Finding out who in our unit betrayed us to Crowley.”

  “Betrayed?” George whispered the word. “Noble, are you sure? I can’t believe that—that one of us—” He couldn’t finish, the idea too abhorrent.

  Noble cleaned off his razor with quick flicks of his hand, his mood as lethal as that bared blade. “I didn’t want to believe it, either, but there’s no other answer. Only our own men were privy to the details of the raid. There’s no other way Crowley could have been prepared and waiting for us. They sprang that trap before we could fire a shot. Someone told them to be there, George. And I intend to find out who.”

  There was a moment’s silence as the younger man absorbed the fierceness of his impassioned claim. He seemed shocked, alarmed—because his god had suddenly shown he had feet of clay? “And then what?” George asked at last, obviously disturbed. “Take matters into your own hands? Noble, there are higher courts than those of man.”

  “You mean leave the traitor’s judgment to God? I’m not that patient, my friend. Justice will be done here, by me.” He glanced at the young reverend’s furrowed brow. “I can see that troubles you, George.” Again the cynical smile. “Have I fallen in your estimation?”

  “No. No, of course not. It’s not up to me to determine who falls where and why. My influence is limited in that area.”

  “Well, use that influence on my behalf. Even if I’m not acting as the right hand of God, I’m dealing out his laws as only I know how.”

  “I’ll do my best, Noble.” He said that with all seriousness, and Noble didn’t chide him for the depth of his belief. It didn’t hurt to have God in his corner. This wasn’t a complex matter, like that which called Him to choose between North and South. It was a simple case of right and wrong, of trust and betrayal. Surely God wouldn’t have any trouble siding with him.

  “Major Banning?”

  Noble turned to face Crowley’s aide.

  “The colonel would like you to join him for drinks at his hotel. I’m to wait and escort you.”

  “Is he afraid I’ll try to run off?” Noble shrugged into the fresh uniform shirt, his lip curling at the color. Blue. Annoyance crisped his question. His word was something he didn’t care to have doubted.

  “It’s more for your protection, sir. Your accent, sir. It might cause—difficulties were I not with you.”

  “Ah. A Samaritan effort, eh, George?” He looked back at the mirror and rubbed his gaunt cheeks. “I wouldn’t want to be mistaken for an escapee from the prison camp. I suppose next he’ll be ordering me not to speak in public. I’ve already traded away my allegiance, why not my birthright?”

  “Noble—”

  Noble brushed off Allen’s concern by adopting a tight smile.

  “I’ll be ready in a moment, Corporal. And don’t look so alarmed. I may be bitter but I’m not suicidal.”

  Strange how one took for granted the simple freedom of moving through a crowded room. With his Union escort trailing behind him, Noble crossed the busy hotel lobby, aware of the admiring looks he drew in his crisply pressed Northern uniform. He tried not to let it matter that the stamp on his buckle was USA instead of CSA or that the fabric was blue instead of butternut—tried, but wasn’t very successful, especially when approached by a gray-haired matron who seized his hand, forcing him to pause.

  “God bless you, young man,” she cried in a fragile tone. “Are you off to fight those damn Rebels? My husband and sons are in the middle of it. McNamara. Maybe you know them.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry, I don’t.” He spoke quietly, slowly, to de-emphasize his accent, not so much to protect himself but to spare the poor woman clutching at his hand. “I’m on my way to the western frontier.”

  She sighed in aggravation. “Why are we wasting fine officers out there when they are so desperately needed on our own home front? Let the Indians have their deserts. I want my family home for Christmas.”

  “I sympathize with you, ma’am.”

  When the woman began to frown at the sound of his drawn-out is, Crowley’s aide cut in with a prompting. “Sir, the colonel is waiting.”

  Noble nodded then smiled at the woman even as she jerked her hand free, as if his touch was suddenly repellent. “I shall hold your family in my thoughts, ma’am.”

  He reared back as her spittle stung his cheek.

  “At least you won’t be shooting at them, you damned Sesesh. You dishonor the uniform, sir.”

  Noble wiped off the dampness of her scorn as she swept away through the crowd. A wife, a mother, not an enemy to be despised, as she obviously despised him. That made her attack all the more personal. He was unable to move until the corporal prodded impassively, “This way, Major Banning.”

  Crowley had an elegant suite on the hotel’s second floor. Noble was directed into the posh sitting room that joined the two bedchambers. There he was greeted by the scent of a good cigar and a hearty handshake from the man who until hours ago had been his greatest nemesis.

  “Major, you’re looking much better than when last I saw you. It must be the uniform.”

  “It’s probably the bath.”

  Crowley laughed, a rich, full-bodied sound of genuine delight. “Have a drink, Major. I should like to toast our new alliance.”

  “No, thank you, sir. I prefer a clear head about me when I’m discussing business, military or otherwise.”

  Crowley wasn’t stu
pid. He read between the lines of Noble’s refusal. There was nothing the Southerner cared to drink to—not with the man responsible for having him imprisoned for the last three months.

  “Very well. Shall we get right to that business then?”

  “I wouldn’t refuse a cigar if it was offered.”

  Crowley smiled and gestured to a box on one of the side tables. “Help yourself.”

  While Noble trimmed and lit the aromatic cigar, he used the time to study the other man. He knew his reputation, but he’d never seen the colonel until just that day at the prison. He knew Crowley as a shrewd tactician in the field. In person, Crowley conveyed the kind of directness and confidence that led others to follow without question. But Noble had plenty of questions and he began them without delay.

  “Why my unit, Colonel? Surely if you needed a troop of galvanized Yankees, you could have requested one that held you in less personal animosity.”

  “So true. Have a seat, Major, and don’t be so modest. I’ve seen your men in action. I don’t mind their hostility just as long as they can direct some of it to the enemy we’ll be facing together.”

  Noble settled into one of the plush chairs and drew deeply on his smoke before continuing bluntly, “They’re not going to like taking orders from the man who’s responsible for the deaths of a good number of their friends, both in the field and in that prison.”

  “You’re not going to like it, is that what you’re saying, Major?”

  Noble’s icy stare was his answer.

  Crowley’s demeanor toughened. “I don’t give a damn if you like it or not just as long as you follow the orders you’re issued. You’ve given your oath that you would.”

  “Not of my own free will, sir. Your case of blackmail was quite convincing.”

  Crowley didn’t look particularly pleased, but he didn’t try to refute Noble’s claim. He couldn’t. “I’m not ashamed of the means I employed. The government has given me every right to demand your service, coerced or no. What I need to know is will you obey those orders once given? Are you a man of your word, Major Banning?”