Due North to Freedom

by Terence O'Grady

  Chapter Fourteen: Due North to Freedom

  Securing a wagon turned out to be an easy task. As Mr. Smith predicted, several abandoned wagons cluttered the streets around the dock. Many were badly damaged or were missing wheels, but Mr. Smith managed to find a small one in tolerable working order. The wagon had clearly been used by a sutler, its sides still emblazoned with florid lettering indicating that “Samuel J. Kleinhausen, Esq.” had once been its proud owner. Ryan and Joseph helped Mr. Smith to quickly drag the wagon from the exposed street to a nearby warehouse. Although it was not yet dark, it was cold and drizzly and both the street and the warehouse had been empty of prying eyes. So the first step of the plan went smoothly.

  Finding a horse was another matter. Mr. Smith had checked every one of the livery stables in the dock area. Most were now empty. One or two sheltered a few horses but they were carefully guarded, evidence of the fact that horseflesh had become as valuable as gold in the last few months. In the end, he had to go to a farm lying just within the city limits to find a lowly nag that had been ignored by the foraging soldiers. There was some question whether the horse would actually be able to pull the wagon, but Mr. Smith, Joseph and Ryan finally concluded that the horse was stronger than it looked and, since the wagon was a fairly small one, it would be probably be able to do the job.

  It had taken a couple of hours to scrounge up some empty barrels and crates to place on the wagon so that it would appear that the sutler’s wagon had some goods to sell. Some old tobacco and small bags of coffee were found in the surrounding warehouses. A close inspection would reveal that both the tobacco and the coffee were spoiled, but Mr. Smith didn’t intend to let anyone get that close to his “goods for sale.” Mr. Smith also managed to find half a bottle of scotch that he figured would come in handy if he had to bribe any of the Confederate soldiers they encountered.

  It was almost 9:00 before everything was in place. Mr. Smith, Joseph and Ryan sat in the wagon, making their final plans.

  “Remember, Ryan,” Mr. Smith said, “talk as little as possible. Just keep telling anybody who asks that we’re going out to the Confederate lines to sell our goods. Keep it simple.”

  “Yes sir,” replied Ryan solemnly. “But they’re going to be able to tell that I’m not really the owner of the wagon.”

  “Of course they are,” said Mr. Smith, “but it doesn’t matter. You’re working for Mr. Kleinhausen. You can say you’re his nephew, and he’s become ill, so he asked you if you’d do the run for him.”

  “How do I explain you?” asked Ryan, gesturing toward Mr. Smith.

  Mr. Smith smiled. “That’s just as simple. You say that I’m a family servant, here to help you sell the goods. Joseph is going to be hiding in that big barrel back there and he’ll keep quiet. So don’t worry about him. But whatever happens, we can’t let anyone take a look in that barrel.”

  Ryan nodded. “All right. I’m pretty sure I know what to do. I guess we should get going.”

  “Right,” said Mr. Joseph, nodding and smiling. “The sooner we get going, the sooner that Joseph and I can make it to freedom.”

  As Matthew headed back to the house, the three hitched the horse to the wagon and climbed in. They proceeded at a slow pace away from the docks and then through the back streets of Richmond. While the horse snorted and tossed his head uncomfortably at first, he eventually settled down and seemed to have no trouble pulling the small wagon.

  The evening was rainy and unusually chilly and there were few people on the streets. None of the passers-by took much notice of the old sutler wagon creaking its way down the street, eventually hooking up to Williamsburg Road. Within ten minutes they had arrived at the first picket line of Confederate soldiers. Far from the front, the dozen or so soldiers manning the barricade took relatively little interest in the wagon.

  “Whatchya’ got there?” bellowed one private, gesturing toward the contents of the wagon with his gun.

  Ryan pulled the reins back and the horse stopped quickly, happy for a rest. “Just a few supplies for the soldiers at the front. A little tobacco, some coffee,” replied Ryan, doing his best to sound casual.

  “How about giving some credit to a hard-workin’ soldier,” grunted a second soldier, tearing off some chewing tobacco with his teeth. “The tobaccy we got here is barely worth chewin’ on.”

  Ryan hesitated slightly. “Well, sir,” he said slowly, “I’m not sure that ours is much better, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

  “Well now,” said the second man, moving toward the back of the wagon, “Why don’t I just do a little investigatin’ and find that out for myself.”

  “No sir!” cried Ryan quickly. “I mean…well you see, Mr. Kleinhausen told me I was to take these supplies all the way to the front line. He said they’d been spoken for already. So I’m afraid I can’t…”

  “The deuce take it!” roared the man. “I reckon my money’s good enough for any man!”

  “The trouble is,” chuckled the first private, “that you ain’t got no money—neither good nor bad.”

  The second man turned angrily to face him. “Say, what do you mean? I got plenty of money. Most of it I won off of you, playin’ cards the other night.”

  “You won nothin’ off me,” countered the first man, his smile becoming a snarl. “Why I have half a mind to…”

  “And that’s exactly your problem, Private Simpson,” bellowed a sergeant, coming to investigate the noise, “you’ve got half a mind and you don’t always use what you’ve got.”

  The first soldier wanted to answer back but bit his lip hard instead. The second gave a short, snorting laugh and stepped back from the wagon as the sergeant walked right up to Ryan.

  “This here your wagon, boy?”

  “No sir, it’s my uncle’s,” answered Ryan. “He told me to take it up to the front lines and see what I could sell.”

  “A little late for that, isn’t it?” asked the sergeant, his gaze sweeping over the contents of the wagon.

  “Yes sir, it is,” Ryan responded, “but you see, sir, he wanted me to get there tonight so that I’d be the first wagon there in the morning. You know, sir…maybe I could sell some coffee that way.”

  “Coffee?” said the sergeant, his eyebrows lifting. “Well, if you’ve got some real coffee there…now that would be something else.”

  “To tell you the truth, sir, my uncle tells me that the coffee ain’t much. He told me I should sell it cheap,” Ryan shot back quickly.

  “Oh, so it’s that kind of coffee,” the sergeant said knowingly. “Well, I’ll tell you this much, sonny. They already got quite a bit of the home-brewed stuff up at the front. They expect you sutlers to have something better.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s all I’ve got to sell.”

  “Yeah, well…I guess it’s all right. But keep an eye peeled. Some of those Yankees might be sniffin’ around here with a small patrol. And you’ve always got to look out for spies.”

  “Yes sir, I will, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Ryan, grabbing the reins and quickly getting the horse moving again.

  The wagon moved on for about twenty minutes before the three of them encountered more soldiers, this time a group of three—probably couriers—headed back into Richmond. The three riders slowed down long enough to look over the wagon and its passengers and then, without a word, galloped away toward Richmond.

  “That’s just what we want from you soldier boys,” chuckled Mr. Smith. “Give us a little sniff and then be on your way. I think we’ve doing a good job of looking downright harmless, boys. Let’s hope our luck holds out.”

  Almost half an hour later, the wagon pulled up to another barricade, this time manned by almost a dozen pickets. A large campfire and several rows of tents stood about a hundred yards off to their right, a thick woods on their left.

  “Halt and state your business!” demanded a voice.

  Responding as boldly as he could, Ryan said, “We’re sutlers, looking for the soldier�
��s camp.”

  “Well, sonny boy, it looks like you’ve found it,” said the soldier. “You go any farther on this road and you’re in the Yankee’s lap.”

  Two more soldiers walked up to the wagon. “What do we got here?” said the first. “Got anything good to sell?”

  Ryan hesitated. “Well, we got a little tobacco and some coffee.” He remembered that most of their barrels were empty and they only had a couple of packets of spoiled tobacco. He hoped the soldier wasn’t really serious about buying anything and eyed the man nervously as he wandered to the back of the wagon. “There’s nothing back there,” Ryan snapped, “only empty barrels.”

  “Why’d you bother to come way out here if you’ve got nothin’ to sell?” whined the first soldier.

  The other soldier spoke up. “Say, doesn’t that wagon belong to old Kleinhausen? Sure got his name on it.”

  Ryan had expected this. “This is Mr. Kleinhausen’s wagon all right. I’m his nephew and he asked me to drive it out here to see if we could pick up a little business.”

  “Why couldn’t he come himself?” asked the second soldier warily.

  “He’s been ill,” replied Ryan. “That’s why I’ve come in his place.” Nodding in the direction of Mr. Smith, he added, “This man here is a family servant. He’s here to help me.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you the truth,” the first soldier said, smiling broadly, “if you’re a nephew of old Kleinhausen, there ain’t going to be anyone more surprised about that than Kleinhausen himself, seein’ as he’s always claimed that he has no family in these parts. I guess we’ll just have to ask the man himself about it, since he’s sitting right over there by the fire. Hey, Kleinhausen! There’s something over here you might be interested in.”

  A few second later, a portly, red-faced man came puffing up to the wagon, accompanied by a sergeant.

  “Kleinhausen! Now there’s the man of the hour!” bellowed the first soldier, a broad smile on his face. “I’ll bet you didn’t know you had any kin around here.”

  Kleinhausen scanned the wagon quickly, put his hands on his hips and glowered. “Who the heck are you, kid? And what are you doing with my wagon?”

  Ryan panicked briefly, his eyes darting to Mr. Smith, who shook his head slightly. “Well…I guess I just thought it would be okay for me to borrow it…nobody was using it.”

  “Listen, kid,” demanded Kleinhausen, “that’s my backup wagon and whether I use it or not is my business. You’ve got no right to ‘borrow’ anything from me, understand?”

  “Yes sir,” said Ryan quietly, “but…”

  “But nothing!” interrupted Kleinhausen. “Sergeant, I want these people taken into custody immediately.”

  “Now Mr. Kleinhausen,” said the sergeant gently, “let’s just take it easy. The boy shouldn’t have taken your wagon, but I have no authority to arrest him.”

  “Well, send back to Richmond for the detectives,” blustered Kleinhausen. “They’ll take care of him. And how about the black man? He looks like a spy to me.”

  Just then, another soldier at the back of the wagon took the lid off of the largest barrel, and tipped it over, sprawling Joseph on to the floor of the wagon. “Looks like we got another one back here,” he said, grabbing Joseph around the collar.

  “See?” demanded Kleinhausen. “They’re spies. I told you so.”

  The sergeant shook his head slowly. “Look Kleinhausen, I agree that there might be something fishy going on. So here’s what I can do. I’ve got to ride back to Richmond now to get orders anyway. I’ll take the boy with me and hand him over to the detectives when I get there. We’ll hold the two blacks here until the major has had a chance to question them.”

  All right,” Kleinhausen sneered, “but make sure that this boy gets what’s coming to him.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Kleinhausen,” replied the sergeant. “I can assure you that justice will be done. You two men,” he said, gesturing toward the other two soldiers, “place the two blacks into my tent for the time being and try to locate the major. The boy will go with me.”

  Joseph and Mr. Smith climbed off the wagon slowly and the two soldiers herded them into a nearby tent. Ryan mounted on the back of the sergeant’s horse, a look of complete misery on his face, and the two of them galloped off down the road.

  Minutes later, Joseph and Mr. Smith sat uncomfortably inside the sergeant’s small tent.

  “Well, at least they were too lazy to tie us up,” sighed Mr. Smith.

  “What are they going to do, Pa? Are they going to throw us in prison? Are they going to shoot us?” asked Joseph, fighting back tears.

  “Neither one, Joseph, because we’re going to get out of here,” replied his father calmly. “The back of this tent is only a few feet from the edge of the woods. We’ll bide our time for a while since they’ll probably have one of those soldiers look in on us. Right after they do, we’re going to pull out those two stakes at the back of the tent to get it nice and loose. And then we’re going to crawl out of here as quiet as a mouse. Once we get into the woods, they’ll never find us. They probably won’t even know we’re gone for a while.”

  “Do you think we’ll make it?” asked Joseph, his voice still trembling a little.

  “Sure we will,” said his father. “You just sit tight for a while.”

  About ten minutes later, one of the guards opened the front flap of the tent and peeked in the tent. “You boys are in real trouble now,” he sneered. “The major’s going to be here any minute, and he’ll make you sorry you stole that wagon.” The guard snickered unpleasantly as he closed the flap and walked off.

  “Okay, Joseph, we’ve got to move fast,” whispered Mr. Smith. “See those stakes near the back of the tent? See if you can get the left one loose. I’ll work on the right one. We’re lucky it rained earlier. The ground ought to be soft.”

  Joseph and his father tugged at the canvas and tried to get a grip on the thick, six-inch pegs that held the back of the tent tautly to the ground. After about three minutes, Mr. Smith was able to loosen the right stake, clutching it through the canvas. With one huge tug, the stake broke free from the ground and the backside of the tent billowed slightly. “There. The other one should be easier now.” Mr. Smith quickly joined Joseph and the second stake was rapidly yanked free from the soft ground.

  Mr. Smith pulled at the bottom of the tent, managing to clear a space of several inches. He peered under the canvas quickly. “No one in sight. We have to move fast now. Stay low to the ground and get to the woods as quickly as you can. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Joseph wiggled furiously under the canvas until he was completely through. Staying flat on the ground, he peered into the darkness, trying to get his bearings. He saw that the woods were no more than fifteen feet away. He got to his knees and started to crawl toward the trees. In a moment, his father was in back of him, urging him on.

  Suddenly a soldier walked past the back of the tent. “Hey! What are you doing? Get back in there!” yelled the guard, walking quickly toward Joseph and Mr. Smith, both still sprawled on the ground. But seconds later the night erupted with gunfire. “Yankees! It’s a raid!” came a voice from behind them. The guard stopped in his tracks, threw an angry scowl at Mr. Smith and Joseph, and then ran quickly toward the sound of the gunfire.

  “This is our chance!” cried Mr. Smith. “Make a run for it!”

  Joseph and Mr. Smith made it to the woods in seconds. “Which way?” gasped Joseph breathlessly.

  “Due north, Joseph,” Mr. Smith said eagerly. “We’re heading for freedom!”