Wreaths of Glory

by Johnny D. Boggs

  “Quantrill,” Alistair said softly.

  “His name has been bandied around some.”

  For the first time, Alistair noticed Beans Kimbrough’s dress. Boots with spurs. Blue trousers, a calico shirt, vest, and hat. Yet around his waist two revolvers were belted, with another stuck in the waistband. The trousers were wool, blue, part of a Federal uniform. So was the darker vest, which had two holes to the right of the center brass buttons.

  “I’d say you’ve found Quantrill already,” Alistair said.

  Beans smiled. “You’re a bright boy. He didn’t start out as leader of our army, but, yeah, he’s worked his way up to captain. We heard what had happened to y’all. Ol’ Charley Hart sent me here, see if you had a mind to join up with us. We’ll make ’em Yankees pay. Kansans in particular.”

  Almost immediately, Tommy Cobb said: “I’m game.”

  Alistair glanced at his sister, at Lucy Cobb, then at the filth he called home. Yankees had posted a reward for him. Criminy, he was already outlawed. That parole he’d been given meant nothing. Yet still he looked at Cally.

  “If I go,” he said, “like as not it’ll make things hot on y’all.”

  “Make it hot on them,” she said.

  Chapter Six

  Make it hot on them. All these months later, Cally’s words still rang in Alistair’s thoughts.

  Down the winding road just south of Sni-A-Bar Township he walked. Three men on horseback behind him, not speaking, keeping their revolvers aimed at his back. March remained downright cold, and he wanted to stick his hands underneath the greatcoat, maybe inside his woolen trousers pockets, but the rawhide strips binding his wrists prevented that.

  Make it hot? Alistair reckoned he had done that. Well, maybe he hadn’t contributed much to the cause, but Quantrill and “the boys”—as they were being called by Southern supporters in Missouri—sure had.

  * * * * *

  Just a couple days after joining up with Quantrill, Alistair had gotten to see the elephant, as the saying went, when the Rebels ambushed a Yankee patrol at Manassas Gap. He had fired a few shots, though he didn’t hit anyone, and most of the Yankees surrendered real quickly once the shooting had commenced. Quantrill’s soldiers, called irregulars by Rebel military, and a lot worse by Kansans and Federals, had relieved those bluecoats of their hardware and ammunition. Since winter was coming on, they’d taken their greatcoats, too. Alistair still wore the one he’d liberated. They’d also picked out the best horses, and a few boys had taken watches and coins. When it was all over, Quantrill had lined up the Yankees—maybe a dozen or more—and said: “I’m paroling you swine. Go back to your homes. You’re done with this war. But if I meet you in battle again, you shall never see another sunrise.”

  Later, the boys wouldn’t be so charitable. Nor would jayhawkers and redlegs, if they had ever known mercy.

  In fact, the first man Alistair had seen killed by the partisans hadn’t been a bluecoat at all, but a Confederate deserter. Alistair had already forgotten the name of that rapscallion who had been stealing mules from Union families around Independence, which was well and good. The deserter had stolen some pretty fine horses, too, along with deeds, banknotes, even a couple of mortgages. Yet he wasn’t too bright a criminal, and when he had taken a pot shot at Quantrill along the Little Blue, his thieving days ended.

  Bill Anderson had thrown a rope over a tree limp, letting Oll Shepherd tighten a noose around the fellow’s neck. The man started a speech, but the boys soon grew bored, as it was cold by then, so Arch Clements had lashed the mule’s rear with a quirt, ending that speech in midsentence.

  “Boys,” Quantrill had said as the wind blew the corpse this way and that, “it is time that we disband. Winter is coming along, and you have not seen your families in months. Go to them, but sleep with one eye open and a revolver under your pillow. Yankees will give us no rest. Be resourceful, be diligent, be smart. We will gather in the spring. Alistair. Corn Cobb.”

  By that time, everyone had started calling Tommy “Corn Cobb”.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Quantrill had handed a carpetbag to Alistair. “You will see these items find their way into the rightful owners.”

  “Capt’n, ’em notes and truck was taken offen Yankee lovers.” George Todd never ceased complaining. Alistair had never cared much for that rowdy ex-mason.

  “We do not wage war on civilians, Mister Todd,” Quantrill had snapped.

  * * * * *

  By the time Alistair had secured the grip behind his cantle, most of the men had ridden off. The boys knew better than stick around in one place for too long. They’d hit a patrol, then vanish in the thickets and hills, gathering later at some place the Yankees didn’t know.

  Beans Kimbrough had eased his roan mare closer to Tommy and Alistair.

  “You goin’ home?” Tommy had asked Beans.

  “What home?” Beans had bitterly replied.

  The rope slipped, and the corpse dropped a couple of inches.

  “You really aim on takin’ ’em things back to their owners?” Beans had asked.

  “If I can find them,” Alistair had said.

  “What for?”

  “It’s what Capt’n Quantrill said,” Tommy had shot back.

  Beans had sprayed tobacco juice onto the hanged man’s pants. “Yeah. After he went through ’em himself. Warrant he picked the cream of the crop for his own wallet.”

  “You’re a big, lyin’ dog!” Tommy had snapped, but, before Beans could get his dander up, Alistair had intervened.

  “You might as well spend winter with us, Beans,” he’d said. “I allow Cally would like to see you again.”

  At that Beans had grinned, although Alistair had no idea if his sister had even considered Beans Kimbrough.

  Cally had, of course, stitched the wool shirt Alistair now wore under his greatcoat. Coarse wool, it was, not fancy, dark brown with tan trim, and plenty of pockets to hold extra cylinders for the revolvers he usually carried. Beans had one of those shirts, too, only Cally had taken time to embroider red roses and pink hearts on his pockets. So, it turned out, his sister had considered Beans Kimbrough, after all.

  * * * * *

  “Hold up there!”

  The sharp command ended Alistair’s memories, abruptly returning him to Sni-A-Bar and the three horsemen behind him. He stopped, hearing the clopping of hoofs on the far side of the hill to the north. They waited in a depression, the road shadowed by leafless trees that seemed thicker than stone walls. The wind moaned through those rattling limbs, and Alistair shivered when riders topped the hill. The Yankee leader raised his right arm, and the men behind him stopped. Another bluebelly said something, and the men kicked their mounts and eased down the slope, stopping a few feet in front of Alistair.

  “What you got there?” a gray-bearded sergeant asked.

  “Bushwhacker,” came the reply behind Alistair. “Caught him down near Lone Jack. Figured to leave him at the jail at Blue Springs.”

  Another man, wearing a Hardee hat with a yellow ostrich plume stuck in the pinned-up side, spit, and fingered out the dip of snuff, wiping his hands on his greatcoat. Alistair glanced at him, then dropped his head, lifting his hands to pull his slouch hat down low. He felt himself shaking.

  “Didn’t you hear about General Halleck’s orders?”

  “Must’ve slipped by us, Capt’n.”

  Peering beneath the brim of his hat, Alistair saw the red leggings. He counted. Six … Seven … Eight … Nine … Ten. Ten men.

  The captain was speaking, and Alistair felt his temper rising with each syllable. The redleg’s nose was crooked, and he’d grown a ragged beard, but appeared to have recovered from the whipping Alistair had given him at the McBrides’ farm back in October.

  “Bushwhackers ain’t soldiers,” the captain was saying, “and ain’t to be
treated like soldiers. With honor.” He snorted, wiped his nose. “You’re supposed to hang them for what they is. Murderers and thieves. Not to mention cowards committing treason.”

  “Hell’s fire, that suits us right down to the ground, Capt’n,” a man behind Alistair said. “You got a rope? I see a tree with a solid branch right over yonder.”

  “You mind sayin’ what outfit you’re with?” It was the sergeant. Suspicious cuss, unlike the captain.

  “Seventh Kansas Cavalry,” one rider answered.

  “Jennison’s bunch?” the sergeant asked.

  The man laughed. “Not hardly. We ride for Senator Lane. A real fightin’ man.”

  “Oh.” Alistair had to glance up, and despite the situation, found himself grinning at the sergeant, who bit his lip to keep from saying something. The Yank’s ears were turning red, and the other riders looked angry, too. These men were redlegs. Probably friends of Doc Jennison.

  Realizing that the captain was studying him, Alistair quickly dropped his head and focused on his boots.

  “Wait a minute.” It was the redleg captain’s voice. Alistair heard the creaking of leather, the blowing of a horse, then footfalls. He felt chilled, not from the cold, but from the presence of this redleg scoundrel, who roughly jerked up Alistair’s head, knocking off his hat.

  Recognition was instant. “You!” the louse said.

  He appeared to be missing a few more teeth. That pleased Alistair greatly.

  “You filthy little …”

  Alistair drove his fists into the redleg’s stomach, heard the air whoosh out of the Kansan’s lungs, and, as the captain doubled over, again Alistair brought up his knee, feeling the jaw break. By then Alistair was pulling free of the loosely wrapped rawhide, reaching inside the greatcoat, gripping one of his Navy Colts.

  The three riders behind him had already reacted. Cole Younger got off the first shot. Frank James the second. Beans Kimbrough’s voice rose above the din. “Let’s start the ball, you bluecoat bastards!”

  Alistair’s ears rang as the Colt bucked in his hand. Horses screamed, bucked, bolted. Revolvers cracked behind Alistair, and balls whistled over his head. He could already smell gunpowder, and blood. More guns crackled in a deafening cannonade, for, by now, George Todd’s patrol had appeared on the southern hill.

  Four of the redlegs turned tail, galloping up the northern hill. Alistair wasted a shot after one of them, before realizing a more pressing concern. A bullet tugged at his greatcoat. He ducked, aimed, but the freckled face belonging to a kid probably younger than Alistair exploded in crimson. Someone else had killed that redleg. Alistair turned away from the dead kid, realized his Colt was already empty, and he shifted it to his left hand, pulling another revolver with his right.

  At that moment, the top of the northern hill filled with other riders.

  “Give them hell!” Quantrill yelled, and the dozen partisans disappeared in grayish white smoke.

  Ten seconds later, it was all over. The ringing left his ears. Even the wind had stopped. A gunshot popped.

  No, it wasn’t over. Dill McCoy and Chris Kennard were walking by redlegs, sending balls in the heads of the dying and the already dead. Cole Younger put two Yankee horses out of their misery.

  At his feet, the redleg captain moaned. Alistair looked at him, holstering his two Colts, and reached down, jerking the captain to his feet.

  “Strip the dead of the uniforms!” Quantrill yelled out. “We can use them. Any wounded amongst my loyal troops?”

  “Nary a scratch, Capt’n!”

  “Excellent. Most ex—” He stopped, nudged Black Bess forward, and swung out of the saddle, handing the reins to Frank James. Excitedly he rushed to Alistair and the redleg captain.

  “Alistair?” Quantrill said.

  “The boy done well,” Cole Younger said.

  “Better than well,” Frank James added. “He did great.” Frank lifted his voice: “‘But be not afraid of greatness. Some men are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em.’”

  That was just like Frank James. Always quoting Shakespeare, if not Scripture.

  “What have we here?” Quantrill asked, his brow knotting as he glared at the battered face of the redleg captain.

  The prisoner tried to talk, but the broken jaw refused to cooperate. All he could do was blubber.

  “I am Captain Quantrill,” Quantrill told the Kansan.

  “He might …”—Alistair licked his lips—“tell us something about the Yanks, Captain.”

  “He can’t tell us nothin’,” Beans Kimbrough said. “Alistair practically knocked his jaw off.”

  “P-p-please,” the redleg croaked.

  “Hey.” It was Tommy Cobb. He stepped over a corpse, and stood to Alistair’s right, studying the mangled face of the officer. “This is the capt’n from the McBride farm. The son-of-a-bitch!” Tommy pulled his Navy, thumbed back the hammer, shoved the barrel into the redleg’s gut.

  “No! Please …” Broken jaw or not, everyone heard that. The captain tried to back away, but Cole Younger grabbed one arm, and Beans Kimbrough the other.

  The redleg wet his britches.

  “Let’s see how good he talks with lead in his gut,” Tommy Cobb said.

  “No.” Quantrill spoke firmly. “Holster your revolver, Mister Cobb.”

  “But …”

  When Quantrill’s eyes flamed, Tommy immediately lowered the hammer, and slid the Navy into a holster.

  “We are not to be treated like prisoners of war,” Frank James said.

  The redleg sobbed.

  “Tit for tat,” Quantrill said, and turned to Alistair.

  Alistair felt hot, numb, saw every eye on him. Even the dead Yankees seemed to stare at him.

  “Muster him out, Mister Durant.” Quantrill spoke evenly, smoothly.

  “Sir?” Alistair’s hands felt clammy.

  Those usually calm eyes of William Quantrill hardened. “You remember this piece of Kansas filth, don’t you, Durant?” Alistair couldn’t look away from Quantrill. He heard the redleg stutter, beg, start to pray, yet Alistair could not turn from Quantrill.

  “This is the man who made you an outlaw. And for what? Defending your sister, Mister Cobb’s sister, the one you are sweet on. Do you not remember that night? Have you forgotten this man’s outrage? His poltroonish behavior? He would have left the barn you had just raised at the McBrides in ashes. Would have rendered them homeless. He would have ravaged your sister. And Lucy Cobb as well! He is vermin. And he would have lynched you here, without trial, without anything. A man like this has no honor. Look at him!”

  Alistair made himself stare into the terrified face.

  “You’ve seen this fiend’s handiwork all across our noble state. Abandoned farms. Smoldering ruins. Trampled crops. He has butchered our men. He has plundered homes of citizens true to the South. Kill him.”

  Tears flowed down the redleg’s face, blood dripping from his mouth into the filthy beard.

  “Kill him now!”

  Suddenly the face changed, draining of what little color remained, and the prisoner sucked in a short breath. His eyes registered shock, yet almost instantly began to fog over with coming death.

  “Now … twist.” Quantrill raised his fisted right hand, turning the wrist sharply.

  Alistair looked down. He didn’t remember unsheathing the Bowie knife, now stuck to the hilt into the redleg’s belly.

  “Twist!” Quantrill roared.

  Alistair obeyed.

  More blood spilled down the captain’s busted jaw. Cole Younger and Beans Kimbrough jerked back the redleg, who fell onto his back, the eyes rapidly losing their life until they no longer saw the gray clouds.

  “Good lad.” Quantrill spoke in a fatherly whisper. “Good lad.” Even softer. Quantrill put his arm ar
ound Alistair’s shoulder. “That’s a good soldier.” He squeezed, but quickly broke away. “We must ride.” His voice now boomed. “Mister Anderson reports a larger Yankee patrol on the road from Independence. Let us not tarry. Divide into threes, and meet at Crows Creek three days hence.”

  Alistair wiped the blade on the dead man’s pants. That would have to do, he figured. For now. He’d give the blade a proper cleaning back in camp. As far as cleansing his soul, however …

  “How was it?” Beans Kimbrough asked.

  Alistair looked into Beans’ green eyes. He felt cold, hollow, but said: “It was damned easy.”

  Beans laughed. “Next one,” he said, “will be even easier.”

  Chapter Seven

  Seemed like they’d been running forever.

  Shortly after regrouping in Cass County, Quantrill had read Halleck’s edict, with little emotion, just stating the facts as the Yank general saw things. Bushwhackers weren’t soldiers at all, but criminals. Federal troops had the authority to dispatch them immediately. Summary justice. No trial necessary. Hang them or shoot them, just make sure they’re dead.

  Calmly Quantrill had folded the letter, and announced: “I accept this challenge. But every man must make his own choice. Stay with me and fight, or go home to your families and farms. I hold nothing against anyone who desires to leave.”

  Next, he had unsheathed a saber and drawn a line—“Just like Travis done at the Alamo!” young Dill McCoy had exclaimed.—and Alistair had followed the others across that line. Fifteen had left, but most of them would return soon. Yankees and Yankee lovers were making things mighty hard on anyone who’d once ridden with the partisan Rebs.

  Sometimes, though, Alistair wished that he had left. And not returned.

  Rain fell in hard, icy sheets, and the boys were already soaked, freezing as they clawed their way to the Jordan Lowe farmhouse. Most of their horses were gone, captured or killed by bluecoats, and they seemed to have been walking since Little Sni Creek. Maybe longer.