by Andy Kutler
“Major,” Custer said, glancing over as he rinsed the razor in a bowl of water. He toweled off his face and offered Ethan a hand. “Good of you to come.”
Ethan shook hands. The man may have been fatigued—they all were after the relentless fighting in Pennsylvania—but his eyes were very much alive and restive.
“My pleasure, General. How may I be of service?”
Custer slipped into his blouse and worked the buttons. “I needed to apologize to you in person.”
“Sir?”
“You were at Gettysburg?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“As was I. A few miles east of town. Difficult business. We captured a Reb officer there, a West Pointer and a colonel now. He commanded the First Virginia Cavalry in the field against us that day. You know of the First?”
“Everyone does, Sir. They’ve been a burr under our saddle since Bull Run.”
“Indeed. This colonel claims you as a friend. Said you served together before the war.”
Ethan searched his memory for a dragoon officer who might have joined the Confederates. “Rutledge?”
Custer shook his head and reached for a slip of paper on his desk. “Here it is. Garrity, Calvin Garrity. Ring a bell?”
Ethan wrinkled his nose. “Very much so. But Cal Garrity is dead. Killed in New Mexico before the war.”
“Looked very much alive to me. Unless someone is using his name.”
It couldn’t be…
Yet his heartbeat quickened.
“Do you recall what this man looked like, Sir?”
“Only that he was a big man, had to be six-three, maybe six-four. Nasty scarring on the side of his face. Took a ball in the arm as I recall, a bad one. Probably another amputation for the surgeons. He asked that I pass you this note. And for that I apologize. It must have been lost in the frenzy that day, and my aide de camp just recently found it with some old papers.”
He handed the note to Ethan, who noticed the smear of dried blood.
Ethan Royston. U.S. Cavalry. Cal Garrity. Emily in Richmond, possibly Shen. Valley. Cobbler awaiting your arrival.
“Oh my lord,” he whispered. Ethan looked up at Custer. “Do you know what happened to him?”
“No idea, Major. But you can speak to the Provost Marshal, find out where the Gettysburg prisoners were sent. It’s a start.”
“Yes, Sir,” Ethan gave him an enthusiastic salute. “Thank you, Sir.”
Custer returned the salute, grinning. “I hope you find your man, Major.”
Ethan had charged out of the tent with swirling emotions and questions.
How could Cal be alive?
His mind went back four years. Travers returning to the column, emotional, unusual for him, seeming so certain of what he saw. Cal and the other man killed and mutilated.
Custer said the man he captured would likely lose an arm. Ethan quickly pushed that thought aside, the image unthinkable. He needed to find Cal but there was nothing he could do from here in Virginia. After much thought Ethan came to the conclusion that there was only one man who could help him, and who would do so unconditionally.
Nathan Gaylord.
And the general had come through, finding a needle in a stack of needles. In this case, Cal, in a shit-hole prison in rainy New Jersey.
Ethan could not simply abandon his regiment, however. Gaylord had counseled him to wait, arguing there would need to be considerable maneuvering to secure Cal’s release. While Ethan waited, Gaylord called in every chit he had left in Washington.
And now, with his furlough and Cal’s release order in hand, Ethan had his opportunity. What he had not anticipated was what awaited him in New Jersey. As he stood before the warden’s desk, Ethan was aware of two truths. Cal was somewhere on these grounds. And this vile oaf was his only obstacle.
Pressler belched loudly, confirming Ethan’s last thought.
“The rest for your men is very deserved, I’m sure,” Pressler replied, the words perfunctory, no meaning behind them. “Well, what can I do for you here at Camp Holt?”
“Orders from Washington, Colonel. You’re holding a man here, a Confederate colonel named Garrity. He is to be released from here to my custody.”
Ethan reached into his blouse and unfolded a document, placing it in front of the warden.
“Release him, you say?” Pressler looked almost amused.
“On conditional parole, Sir. He is to provide his word to return home and not take up arms against the Union.”
“Parole,” repeated Pressler, icily this time. He placed the order in his desk drawer, not even bothering to glance at it. He closed the drawer with a flourish of finality.
Ethan felt the dread washing over him. “I am to personally escort Garrity back to Virginia.”
“Does the Army not have better use of your time, Colonel?”
Ethan bit his tongue, feeling the heat rising to the back of his neck. He wanted to toss this rear echelon dullard through the window but knew that would get him nowhere. “I have twenty-four more days of furlough, Colonel.”
“What is this Garrity to you?”
“A personal friend. We served together in the West before the war.”
“I see. He was one of us, then. And so now he is a traitor?”
Ethan bristled. “That is not a word I would choose. This man graduated from West Point and served his country with distinction.”
“Until he turned against it.”
Ethan could see the futility in further reasoning with this man. He glanced at Kelsey, a signal.
Kelsey left the room and returned a moment later with another man in tow. The man was spindly and hollow-cheeked and walked with a noticeable limp. His uniform blouse hung loosely over his shoulders.
“And who are you, sir?” demanded Pressler.
The man tried to stand at attention. “Major John J. McKitrick,” he answered, “New York Seventh Artillery.”
Pressler turned to Ethan. “And why is this man here, Colonel Royston?”
“If you had read the order, you would have seen he is the front end of a prisoner exchange.”
Pressler guffawed, but it was a humorless laugh. “You cannot be serious.”
Ethan struggled to maintain his composure. “Major McKitrick was released by his captors near Harpers Ferry, on the promise of the release of a Southern officer of commensurate rank. That order I provided you was signed by Colonel Emmitt Day with the War Department in Washington. It directs the release of Colonel Garrity in exchange for Major McKitrick’s release. If you would read—”
“And you thought it was necessary to bring the major here? To New Jersey?”
“He is in route to his home in Ithaca and I thought his presence here might be of use.”
“You’re not the first to try and exchange a prisoner here, Colonel. In case you haven’t heard, it is against policy to exchange prisoners any longer. Washington wants to bleed out Lee’s army, not return their most competent men to replenish their officer ranks.”
“Clearly Washington is making an exception here for Garrity. Colonel Day’s order—”
“Colonel Day, whoever he is, is not in my chain of command, and I question his authority to issue this sort of order in the first place.”
Ethan tensed, on the verge of exploding. He turned to the two men beside him and kept his voice as even as he could. “Sergeant, will you and the major step into the hall and close the door for a moment?” He gave McKitrick an apologetic look. The major nodded, his scowl betraying his own disgust with what he was hearing.
The door closed and Ethan turned back to Pressler. “Can I at least assume the colonel is being well treated?”
The rain was even heavier now, and the warden pointed a finger in the air, giving Ethan a mocking smile. “A bit louder?”
“I said, can I assume that Colonel Garrity is being well treated?”
Pressler folded his hands on his belly. “I have been asked this very question by a General Gaylord in Washingto
n, whom I would venture you know. He has contacted me many times about this Garrity. Sends me a cable nearly once a month, that one. My answer to you is the same it is to him. I don’t discriminate within these walls. I’ve got fifteen-year-old boys in here, a handful of majors and colonels, and everything in between. I had a general once, until he was exchanged before that practice was rightfully abandoned. They’re all the same in my eyes, Royston. Treasonous, bastard Rebels that can all rot in hell for all I care. As far as I am concerned, most of those men should be hanging from the gallows, not consuming vital food stores that should go to our fighting men. Now that will be all, Colonel. You may go.”
Ethan closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath.
“I said you may go.”
Ethan mumbled a few words.
“Speak up man, it is deafening in here.”
“I said, what would you know of our fighting men, you miserable, lead-footed son of a bitch.”
“How dare—”
“Fighting men,” mocked Ethan. His outstretched arm swept across the room. “Quite a defensive position you’ve established here, Colonel.”
“Get out of my office this instant. Corporal!”
The young orderly quickly appeared in the doorway, having heard the shouting match. “Sir?” he asked, barely audible. The rain was a relentless drumbeat now, the noise reverberating across the large office.
“See the colonel out. Now.”
Ethan leaned over the desk, his back to the orderly. “Ever fire a Spencer repeating rifle, Colonel?”
Pressler wrinkled his forehead, could barely hear Ethan’s words above the racket over their heads. “What?”
“The Spencer. Cavalry has had them since late sixty-three. Damn fine weapon. Accurate to nearly a quarter mile, or, with some practice, up to a half mile.”
Ethan dropped his voice almost to a whisper and leaned in toward Pressler’s ear, the man’s foul scent overpowering. “And I’ve had a lot of practice, you fat prick. I’ve got more than three weeks of leave, Colonel, and a damn fine weapon. That’s a long time, isn’t it? Lots of days, lots of nights.”
Pressler glanced at his corporal. “Are you threatening me?” he bellowed, in as clear and unmistakable voice as he could muster.
The orderly stepped closer, straining to hear Ethan’s words, but Ethan kept his voice soft. “Oh, it’s not a threat, it’s a promise. And I promise you further, I’ve killed many a man in this war, all better men than you. You can stop looking at your boy there, he can’t hear me. Tell your superiors, your governor, or the provost for that matter. The word of a decorated line commander, or the word of a fat jailer? I don’t give two shits what kind of connections you have. Whatever happens to me, I promise I will kill you first. A bullet in your head, if you’re lucky. You’ve got one hour to have Colonel Garrity at the front gate. I’ll be waiting for him. And he better be able to stand on his own two feet or I’ll come back here and stuff the rest of that chicken up your ass. One hour. Nod your head if you understand me.”
Pressler swallowed hard, his face twisted in a mix of fear and rage.
“I said, nod your head.”
Pressler complied, slowly bobbing his head up and down.
Ethan brought himself to attention. “I’ll take my leave now, Colonel,” he said, somewhat loudly. “Most grateful you have agreed to release Colonel Garrity to my custody. Good day, Sir.”
Ethan turned, marching out of Pressler’s office, leaving the warden fuming, his cheeks turning purple as he slammed his fist on the plate of chicken.
***
“Drink this,” said the old guard, holding out a canteen.
Cal accepted it, swallowing the freshest water he had drunk in months. The guard began cutting an apple into small pieces, handing them to Cal one at a time. “Your lucky day, son. You’re getting out.”
“Is it finally over?”
The guard—they knew him as Rufus—whooped in laughter. “Not hardly. Bobby Lee doesn’t seem inclined to give up. Nope, just you today, Colonel.”
Cal couldn’t understand it. The Union Army had stopped prisoner exchanges early in the war. Maybe it was his missing arm. But there were men here with far more serious disabilities than his, and besides, Pressler didn’t have a humane bone in his body. He finished the apple and grasped the outstretched hand of old Rufus, rising to his feet.
The two men made their way across the prison yard, stepping around the sick and wounded who littered the grounds. Cal didn’t bother with any farewells as he was certain this was someone’s misunderstanding. At least he got an entire apple out of it. Best meal he’d had in weeks.
“You want to pick up your personal things, Colonel?”
Cal chuckled. “Just have my valet pack them with my other baggage. Make sure everything is tied securely in the carriage. Wouldn’t want those cases of Claret to get smashed to pieces.”
Rufus burst out laughing and slapped his knee. “That’s a damn fine Limey accent, Colonel.”
“Ah Rufus, I can’t leave. I’d miss your good humor.”
The old guard clapped him on his good shoulder as they neared the main gate. They stopped as two guards slid the main bar through the iron brackets.
Cal looked at Rufus. “What is this?”
“Weren’t no joke, Colonel. You gettin’ out. There’s a high-ranking officer on the other side waiting for you.”
Gaylord. He didn’t know how, but General Gaylord had secured his release.
It took four men to pull open the heavy gate. As the stout timbers noisily turned on their hinges, Cal gazed through the widening aperture, seeing for the first time in months the ground from which he had entered this place. The prison sat just a few hundred yards from the nearby village, connected by a single dirt highway that cut through rolling pastures full of grazing cows. The gate was fully open now, the guards waiting for him to pass through. He looked past them, noticing for the first time three figures standing across the road, their horses feeding on the abundant forage nearby.
He looked back one last time. Rufus gave him a short wave. “Don’t get yourself killed, sonny.”
That was as much emotion as he would get out of the old man. Cal gave him a broad smile and tipped his hat.
With some effort, he lifted his hole-ridden boot from the heavy mud—he had traded Dr. Schroeder’s shoes to Rufus for quinine long ago—and took his first steps away from captivity. The rain had finally lifted, and bright sunlight peeked through the small holes in the brim of his tattered hat.
An officer, the healthier looking one, approached Cal, stopping just a few feet away. The man was in a blue greatcoat, weathered and faded, the epaulets of a lieutenant colonel on his shoulders. A leather satchel was draped over his shoulder. He had a thick beard and mustache that hid most of his face. Yet there was something familiar, both in his gait and his build.
The man drew himself up as square as he could. “Colonel,” he said, saluting with a slight smirk. “I understand you know where a man can find a good peach cobbler.”
Cal recognized the voice at the first syllable and his legs nearly buckled. He didn’t return the salute, just stared at the other man, blinking through the tears that clouded his eyes. The officer finally dropped his arm, seeing the emotion in his old friend.
Finally, Cal shook his head slowly. “My God, Ethan. What are you doing here?”
“Getting your bacon out of this godforsaken place.”
Cal wiped his eyes, still in disbelief. “Sorry,” he said, embarrassed.
Ethan chuckled and stepped forward. “Don’t be. I had a few moments myself when I heard you were alive.” He looked at Cal’s empty sleeve, pinned to his side. “You all right?”
Cal shrugged. “It took some getting used to. Not sure what Em will say when she sees it. And my knitting has gone all to hell.”
Ethan grinned.
The other two men approached. The gaunt-looking officer was unfamiliar but Cal immediately recognized the man with the strip
es on the sleeve of his coat. “I know you. Mister…”
The man gave him a friendly nod. “That’s quite a memory, Sir. It’s Kelsey. Sergeant Kelsey now.”
“Of course. You were Ethan’s new scout. I see you stayed in. Not a particularly wise choice.”
“No, Sir.”
Ethan gestured to the other man. “This is Major McKitrick. Your General Ewell released him, with the specific request that he be exchanged for you. General Gaylord attempted to arrange it, but Pressler wouldn’t agree.”
“Ah, you met our overlord here. And as I’m sure you’ve seen for yourself, a despicable man. So how did you pull this off?”
“It is a long story.” Ethan turned to Kelsey. “Take the major back to the train depot, make sure he finds his way to New York.”
He turned to McKitrick. “My heartfelt apologies for running you all the way to New Jersey, Major.”
McKitrick held up a hand. “No apologies necessary. I rather enjoyed this. And I am happy to see the colonel’s release. That would have been on my conscience.”
They exchanged handshakes and the two men departed, leaving Ethan and Cal alone.
Ethan grinned again, extending his hand, which Cal took firmly. “It’s good to see you Cal. I imagine you have a story for me.”
“Quite a few actually. How much time do we have?”
“Why, you have someplace to go? We have as much time as we need. I’m on a little break from the war.” He patted the satchel resting on his hip. “I have some clothes for you and some new shoes.”
“Those would be most welcome.”
“We’ll get you a decent meal and something to drink. Then we have some paperwork to take care of, including your pledge to become a flag-waving, Union-loving patriot again.”
“I am at your service, Colonel. Where can I change?”
Ethan wrinkled his nose. “Same place you can take a bath. You stink, Cal.”
***
An hour later, the two men sat at a table in the village’s only drinking establishment, a plate licked clean of venison stew sitting in front of Cal. The layer of filth covering him had been scrubbed clean leaving his skin pink and rough, and a barber’s razor had been put to good use. He wondered if anyone in his old regiment would recognize him now.