“Of course, Lieutenant. We won’t complain,” Sanderson said.
“I expect that you won’t,” Ross said. His eyes shifted back to the men in the kitchen. “Remember it can always get worse.” He reached inside the room and broke off a piece of corn bread between his fingers.
The officers breathed heavily at this. Hungry eyes ate at the man in quiet rage, but they would never dare show it for fear of violent retribution. All they could do was watch in silence.
Ross smiled to himself, studying the yellowish crumbly bread. He shoved some in his mouth, tonguing it apart. He blinked and swallowed. Turning his head, he violently spat and tossed the rest of the bread to the side.
Every single man ogled the bread with wanton gluttonous greed. That was someone’s morning ration, if not perhaps two men’s, and this man flung it on the ground while the others starved around him.
“I would say stick to fighting because you men really are terrible cooks, but you’re here, so perhaps something else entirely. Sanderson, you used to work for a hotel at one point?”
Sanderson’s jaw tightened. “I did.”
“Perhaps you’ll have a future when the war is over.”
“Perhaps, sir.”
The prisoners seethed. Wolf clenched his jaw and shifted his eyes toward the floor to keep from killing the man.
Ross spit again. “Christ, that’s terrible.” He took the sole of his shoe and ground the bread into the grain of the wood. “A rat wouldn’t touch the stuff. Plain awful.”
He twisted his head to the side, and Wolf could feel Ross’s eyes boring into him. “Colonel, do you have something to say?”
The only indication of his irritation was a blink. He had plenty to say to Ross, starting with a punch to the face and ending with a knife in the belly. This disgusting human reveled in the prisoners’ torture and mistreatment like it was an everyday pastime. He deserved the most heinous of deaths, and if Wolf took a dozen bullets to the heart after he crushed the life from this evil little man, it would be worth every shot. Hell, if they wanted to put bullets in every single one of them, it would still be worth obliterating this man out of existence. He could think of no man on earth who deserved death more.
Wolf dipped his head and stared from beneath his brow. “No, sir.”
“Do not mock me. You have something to say, don’t you?”
The air grew tighter in his chest. Oh, I have something to say to you. You pigheaded, gopher-brained, dickless, bloody stinkin’ cunt. But no such words rolled off his tongue. Only a simple. “No, sir.”
Ross took a step closer, cocking his head to the side. “Suppose Captain Payne took all your fight. A pity.” He turned and left the room. Roberts knelt on the floor, chipping at the crushed bread with his jagged black fingernails.
Sanderson observed him with indifference. “You men finish up.”
Roberts stood with his flattened prize. “Ain’t bad enough to eat.” He shoved it in his pocket with a pat.
***
The Union officers ate their meager rations and spent the day confined to their floor. Before the escape a few months prior, the men could travel from room to room. Now they’d sealed the doorways. The prisoners would slip notes and papers underneath, but everything was harder than it had been.
In the afternoon, they repeated the process of cooking food. And with the encroaching darkness, the men all sat on the floor listening to the Libby Chronicle, a weekly rendition of the happenings outside and inside the prison. Everyone would stop what they were doing to hear what the newspaper said.
“You think anyone’s coming for us? Like we did with Kill-Cavalry?” Roberts asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“Why not?”
Wolf gave his friend a curt glance. “‘Cause it didn’t work. Now be quiet. Beaudry’s gonna talk.”
“Hear ye, hear ye!” Beaudry shouted, holding a newspaper. He was a handsome man with a theatrical flair to him. He had a short mustache and a comb-over. His blue captain’s jacket hung open. He waved a red handkerchief at the men. “Come hither and let me tell you a tale.” He snapped the handkerchief at a man in the front. “Do not dither or you will miss out on the most privy of gossip.” He threw the handkerchief over the top of his head like a woman’s veil and his voice raised an octave. “Do I have your attention now, gentlemen?”
The men laughed. “Take it off!” said a voice in the back. More men chuckled and smiled. It was odd hearing merriment in a place like this, but it eased the men’s souls as they grasped onto a fraction of their humanity.
Beaudry walked along the wall, shaking his behind with every step, batting his eyelashes at the crowd. He waved his hand with a limp wrist. Another officer jumped up from the congregation and took him by the hand, spinning him around like they were dancing a waltz.
The crowd roared with approval. After the officer dipped him and placed him upright, he planted a big kiss on his cheek and took his seat again to the laughter of prisoners. It was a tired mirth but still a lantern of joy in their cavern of despair.
“Very well, my brave men.” He pointed a finger out at all of them. “Now, nobody get any ideas, okay? I’m a married man!”
More laughter echoed from weary throats.
Beaudry tucked the handkerchief into his coat pocket. “We have much news this week. I’m going to need all of you who haven’t paid for this show to go on ahead and cough up the fee.”
A fellow officer rose from the crowd, using his hat to panhandle the others. Boos pummeled him until he sat down.
“Not all bad. Not all good. But it’s free.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows?” Holding a sheet of paper out, he added, “Maybe someday I’ll get paid for this.”
He licked his lips. “Let’s see here. Captain Hitchcock is looking for any man alive that can beat him at a game of chess. He sits over in the east side river corner of the room.” Beaudry pointed over. “Every day. Can one of you for the love of God beat him? Seriously, so I can stop making this announcement.” He lifted his eyebrows then glanced at the paper again. “Ahh, let’s see. Captain Reynolds and Major Olmsted will be doing their daily riddle contest over near the west end. And Lieutenant Hector is looking for someone to best him at a wrestling match. Be aware. He is quite hairy.”
A once beastly man stood and removed his shirt in one movement, revealing a body covered with coarse black hair. “Give me your best shot.” He pounded his chest with a fist.
“Enticing,” Beaudry said with a twist of his head to the side. The men chuckled and Hector took a seat. The master of prison ceremony flipped his paper over. “Ahh, yes, Colonel Federico Cavada’s Spanish course is full.”
The officers sighed in disappointment.
“What we need Spanish for anyway?” Roberts asked quietly. “I can hardly speak English.”
“Not everyone speaks English.” Wolf had been attending. “You know if you stick with the Army, you never know where we might go. What if you got sent down to Old Mexico? Or Argentina? Cuba? Then what?”
“I suppose I’d shoot them like I shoot Southerners.”
Wolf snorted, “I suppose you would.”
“Suppose you would too.”
“Suppose I would.”
“So what you need to talk like ‘em for then?”
“I dunno. To understand ‘em.”
“Hmm.”
Beaudry continued speaking. “On the war front, Major General Ulysses S. Grant has been named as head of all Union Armies.”
The officers smiled at one another. Backs were clapped. A few of the men shook their heads in dismay and disgust. Everyone had their favorite generals they’d served under.
“He is expected to shatter the Southern Cause by the year’s end.”
This led to a cheer from all the men and a round of applause.
“My brave men, that is all!” Beaudry gave them all a sweeping bow with arms extended, a true entertainer relishing his time in front of a crowd. The officers stood ch
atting excitedly with one another for this was the first time they’d had any true hope since Wolf’s capture.
“You think this Grant is the one?” Roberts asked.
“I dunno. The officers seem to think he’s got a shot.”
“Maybe we’ll be home by Christmas?”
Wolf gripped his friend by the shoulder. “We can only hope.” They clapped hands with one another and hugged.
A rousing rendition of “Yankee Doodle” filled the room from wall to wall, ceiling to floor, every word fortified with battered patriotic spirit. The officers wrapped arms around one another’s shoulders.
Wolf and Roberts sang with the rest. Their merrymaking would only last so long. Eventually Griff and Hank would pound up the stairs and beat them until the prisoners stopped.
Spirits and each other were all the men had, and once their spirits broke, they would soon succumb to the deadly elements and die.
A strong hand squeezed Wolf’s shoulder. He turned to see Beaudry standing there. His uniform was relatively clean, and despite all the filthy men around them, Wolf could swear the man carried no odor, almost as if he had bathed, making him by far the best smelling man in the room.
The officers continued to sing, and the yells and threats of violence traveled from the guards below.
“The snow goose flies north before summer.”
Wolf’s brow creased. “Excuse me? You practicing for Reynolds’s riddles?”
The flamboyant man flapped his arms. “When the weather warms, geese go north. Perhaps even tonight.”
Roberts leaned in next to Wolf and yelled over the din. “Why’s he talking about flying birds?”
Beaudry flashed a smile and Wolf gulped. Van Lew hadn’t lied. She’d meant every word. “I bid you, birdies, Godspeed.” Beaudry gave them a short bow and mingled through the crowd singing along.
“What’s all that flying around talk?”
Wolf wanted to cry, but then again, he wanted to roar like a beast emerging from the depths of a jungle. Freedom rested on the mere midnight toll of the clock. He gave Roberts a wide grin and gripped his shoulders. “Tonight we escape.”
Chapter Two
April 29, 1864
Richmond, Virginia
Seamus MacAllister drank the whiskey like it was the finest of liquors, knowing full well the rancid drink was probably made in the barkeep’s basement despite the bottles expensive label. Either way, he loved the burn of the alcohol down his gullet.
Thumping the glass back on the bar, he flexed a gnarled hand that had been broken more times than he could count. Mostly from punching in another man’s skull.
He was relatively short with broad shoulders and a bald head he kept silky smooth with regular shaves. One of his ears stuck out farther than its mate where it had been almost bitten off by a rabid Irishman over a game of cards. A knife across the belly calmed the wild man down.
Seamus bore no facial hair despite the custom of the time. Instead crisscrossing scars from blades decorated his broad-jawed face and body, tattoos of his countless fights.
Sawdust littered the floor along with the puke from last night’s patrons and spilt liquor and a couple of questionable puddles that were probably piss. The Tavern as the locals called it had no other name. It sat near the row of tobacco warehouses and was popular with sailors and dockworkers alike. It was also frequented by other local working-class folk but not slaves or coloreds.
“Another,” he breathed. His stomach wanted to reverse the alcohol’s current trajectory, but he swallowed, keeping it down.
The barkeep stood expectantly, waiting for payment.
Seamus dipped his hand into his pocket and removed a greenback, slipping it over the counter. “Leave the bottle.”
Snatching the bill, the keep eyed him for a moment. “That’s not enough.”
With a flash of his hand, Seamus snatched his coat, pulling the man closer. “For that?” he gestured with his head.
“For that, it’s double,” the keep said. His mustache fluttered in fear and anger.
Seamus licked his lips. “You mean for this shit you’re cutting with water out back? We talkin’ about the same thing?”
The keep’s eyes enlarged, and his voice shook. “The prices went up. The war.”
A typical and pathetic alibi that every shop owner wore like a badge of honor. The war. It was an opportunity to overcharge and underserve every resident of the city, something that irritated a working man like Seamus, but his work offered him a certain leverage. Seamus tongued his lower lip. “Listen here, Mr. Harris, we been turnin’ a blind eye to the crates you bring in at night. You know, the ones you ain’t paying taxes on on account of the war. The ones no one is supposed to know about.”
The keep’s cheeks quivered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Seamus released the keep and used his other hand to slam his face into the bar top. He was rewarded with a nice little crunch. A drunk in the corner looked up, hiccuped, and laid a greasy head back on his table. Seamus’s partner grinned in amusement.
“My nose,” Harris cried.
A heavy arm kept Harris’s face pinned on the bar, and he pushed down even harder. He could practically hear the grinding of cartilage and bone. “I didn’t hear you. What’d you say?”
“I done it.”
Seamus let him up. “I don’t care how you get by, but let’s not overcharge me and the Uglies.”
Harris held his nose and nodded, trying to wipe away the blood. His eyes darted to a man hovering near the door.
The hulking patron stepped closer to Seamus. He knew the man already. His name was Richard Westingbrook, but everyone called him Little Dick. The problem with Little Dick was his dick probably was little, but his body was huge, weighing at least 260 pounds. He dwarfed Seamus and served as muscle for Harris when especially inebriated patrons needed to be tossed from the establishment. He was a stupid son of a bitch but a big one.
Seamus didn’t bother to even glance at the big man. “Don’t touch me, Little Dick.”
There was a second of hesitation before a heavy paw landed on Seamus’s shoulder. “You should leave. Stay out of Mr. Harris’s business.” Dick’s hand squeezed tighter as a warning.
Little Dick’s appearance should have surprised him, but it hadn’t. Seamus didn’t acknowledge the man. Dick’s fingertips dug deeper. Never let a man know you’re about to tussle with him. Only gives him a chance to fight back. With a drop of his shoulder, Seamus deflected Little Dick away and kicked him in the stomach. The big man doubled over like a book being snapped closed.
Seamus’s partner, Jimmy English, leapt to his feet, tugging his top hat that was stuffed with wool low over his ears, acting as a layer of protection in a street fight. His chair went crashing to the ground, his hand touching the hilt of one of his six daggers. Seamus waved him off and Jimmy took a flanking step to the side.
“I told you to stand down, Dick,” Seamus said.
Clutching his stomach, a knife appeared in Dick’s hand. It was a wicked looking Bowie knife, big enough to put an adequate-sized hole in a man.
Seamus had been stabbed, cut, and sliced so many times in his life he’d lost count. Probably upwards of thirty. Whenever a man wielded a knife in your direction, if you didn’t run, odds were you’d get cut. A stupid man never considered a run. He’d seen all manner of men die in a puddle of their own blood, some with even superficial wounds to the arms and legs. They just bled too much until they were dry. When men played with knives, everyone always ended up a bloody mess.
“Put the knife away,” Seamus commanded. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Fuck you, Yank,” Little Dick thundered.
Little Dick should have known better. He knew that Seamus and Jimmy were members of the notorious street gang, the Plug Uglies, a gang specifically recruited from Baltimore by Confederate General Winder who was in charge of martial law in Richmond, to help weed out and round up Northern sympathizers.
&nb
sp; While north of Washington, D.C., Maryland was what the newspapers were calling a border state, a state that fell between the warring factions of the North and South. She gave units to both Union and Confederate armies, but she was a Southern belle through and through. No doubt where Maryland’s loyalties lay.
Draft riots had been put down by Federal troops. Martial law ruled a town that was just too close to the Federal capital to allow anything different.
Seamus and his boys had been given a handsome bonus to incite those riots and an even handsomer bonus to come down and act as “detectives” for General Winder. Given some of his boys had a better knack of it than others, some had been shipped back home. Those that stayed were paid handsomely and given free reign as de facto secret police. Little Dick knew better. Mr. Harris knew better, yet here they stood with Little Dick waving around his Bowie knife like a battle axe.
Another thing that Little Dick didn’t realize was that his heavy and wide Bowie was basically a butcher’s knife. Great for the wilderness, a multi-use tool of a frontiersman. It was supposedly designed for knife fighting, but in the streets, in particular in a bar room, big knives were about as practical as a cane sword. Difficult to wield effectively even for the skilled. A knife didn’t need power; it only needed to reach out and say hello.
“I don’t have time for you today. Put the knife away.”
“You shouldn’t push on Mr. Harris like you do. The people here are tired of you pushing them around.” The big man bounded forward. His attack was as predictable as he was big. Overarching, incredible force probably won the brute dozens of fights against smaller, drunken opponents. Hell, Little Dick was still alive in a short-lived profession, so his aggression had served him in all his fights. But not this fight.
Seamus looked past the fact he would be cut. The situation was beyond that. Then it began. Dick brandished his knife overhead in his direction. Bastard trying to cut me in half snapped in his mind, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it.
Seamus stepped into the man’s swing using both his hands to deflect the blow. He then ducked under his arm, twisting his hand in a flash, penetrating through the man’s jacket through his shirt and into the flesh of his belly. As he slipped by, he hooked his four-inch bladed knife again through the man’s gut. Kicking out the back of Little Dick’s knee, the man crashed to the floor, sending airborne a cloud of dust.
Northern Blood Page 2
