by Cathy Gohlke
Before the watch changed we heard Katie Frances approach the guard. “A fine night it is, after all the rain, wouldn’t you say, Private?”
“Yes, ma’am. Good to see them stars again. Good to see you again, Miss O’Leary.”
“I’m just here to give these lads their medicine.” I heard the smile in Katie Frances’s voice. “I’ll see myself in.”
But the guard blocked her. “I’m sorry, Miss O’Leary. I can’t let you do that. These boys are prisoners.”
Katie Frances wasn’t to be outdone. “I realize that, Private darlin’, but they’re also Col. Monroe’s patients, and as long as they are, he prescribes their medicine.”
“I don’t know, ma’am. I’m under strict orders to—”
“As am I, Private—the very strictest orders. Now, if you’d like me to go and wake Col. Monroe, have him rise and dress, though it’s the first he’s taken to his bed in three days, I’ll do so—just so he can march down here and explain to you that I should step up into this wagon and spoon this medicine into these wretched boys’ mouths.” She waited.
“No, no, I don’t think you need to bring Col. Monroe down here.” There was a shuffling of feet. “I can’t see as it will do any harm, nor any good, neither. Go on, then, Miss O’Leary.”
“Thank you, Private, sir.” And Katie Frances O’Leary, the Irish angel nurse and love light of Chap. Goforth’s eyes, stepped up into the wagon. She looked like an angel, lit from the back as she was by the watchfire. She pulled out a bottle and spoon. “No complaining about this, now,” she said loudly. “Tip your head back and take the full drop. There you are, now. That’s it.” She leaned closer and whispered. “Andrew is with the general now.”
“Why?” we both asked.
“Is everything all right in there, Miss O’Leary?” The private lifted the wagon flap.
“Right as rain, Private, darlin’. Thank you very much!” Katie Frances sang. “I’m just astonished these two have not eaten the fine meal that’s been provided them. And you so kind as to do it. Eat up boys! It’s better than you’ll see tomorrow.”
“I don’t reckon we’ll see a meal tomorrow.” Wooster pushed the plate away.
“Now don’t be saying such!” Katie Frances fussed loudly. “You never know what the good Lord intends.” Then she whispered, “Eat up and sleep all you can. Andrew’s doing his best with the general. If it isn’t enough we’ll be back for you before morning.”
“Away of escape?” Wooster pressed closer.
“Away of escape,” she whispered and stepped down.
Fourteen
It was still dark when the guards dragged us from the wagon. For all our worry we must have fallen asleep. I don’t even remember them calling our names. Wooster and I stumbled sleepily to the ground. The first blast of cold wind brought me to. My first thought was, This is it—this is the end.
“General’s orders to see you fellas. Step smart.” It was Sgt. Sam Pete.
“Sgt. Pete!” Wooster’s hopes rose.
“Step smart, boy. The chaplain’s been in an hour, done all he can.” Wooster’s one leg went weak. Sgt. Pete caught him just in time. “Stand tall, Wooster boy. Face up. You’re a soldier.” It took no more for Wooster to buck up. He put me to shame, seeing him take hold like that.
The guard at the general’s tent saluted Sgt. Pete, raised the tent flap, and stepped aside.
The general sat, writing, in the pool of lantern light at his table. We stood, waited, wondered if he had signed our execution orders. At last he looked up, took us in, frowned.
“Sergeant, you are dismissed.”
“Yes, sir!” Sgt. Pete cut a sharp salute, turned on his heel, and was gone. Shadows from the lantern danced crazily against the tent walls, blasted by the wind. The general still sat in full uniform. He’d never been to bed.
“You two have caused quite a stir in camp.” He sounded tired. He lifted his chin, and his tone turned severe. “Maj. McCain has charged you with desertion, Wooster Gibbons. And you,” he said as he looked to me, “with spying for the enemy.” He paused, taking our measure. “I must say, neither of you look quite what I was expecting… though Maj. McCain did caution that I not be taken in by you.” He frowned again.
“Col. Monroe and Chap. Goforth have both been to see me, each with something of a different story on your behalf.” The general leaned back in his chair. “Now, I’d like to hear your story—one at a time.”
Wooster and I looked at each other, then both started talking at once, running over each other with our words. The general held up his hand. “Let’s start with you, Pvt. Gibbons.” He motioned Wooster forward.
I stood back while Wooster hobbled a step ahead and spilled his story, starting with the 26th North Carolina’s charge on Little Round Top at Gettysburg, part of Pickett’s Brigade. “Twenty feet before the wall they shot me down. Two days I laid there, my leg wound festering in the heat. The flies was—were—terrible. So many others needed tending worse—just laid there, dying.”
Wooster told about the capture of the 26th, or what was left of it, about the grueling trip in the July heat to Fort Delaware, the first leg by train, then the march overland. He told how Col. Albert Mitchell disguised himself as a private, stayed with his men, bolstered them, planned escapes, kept the men going while they watched their friends and brothers die, first from wounds, then from disease, and finally from lack of hope.
Wooster struggled to keep his voice steady. Even the general looked away. Wooster told about the day I identified Col. Mitchell as my cousin, how the Union guards dragged him off—they didn’t know where—how the men of the 26th wanted to kill me for such a thing. I swallowed, better understanding what theyd lost that day.
The general seemed about to step in, but Wooster rushed on. “It was Robert brought us bread and soup from Mrs. Maynard—a rebel lady living in Delaware City. She baked money into the loaves, and slips of paper with her address. Only Robert didn’t know about that.”
What else hadn’t I known?
“We used the money to bribe the guards the night of the escape. Sgt. McCain had it all planned out. He figured to take Robert down in a commotion and switch Robert’s clothes with one of our men and him walk out like he was Robert. Those guards never looked too close to see who was coming and going. It all happened fast. We knocked Robert out to keep him quiet.” Wooster glanced at me, uneasy.
“But that’s when Sgt. McCain found Col. Mitchell’s orders in the Testament Robert carried—escape plans coded between the lines of the Bible. Only we’d already sent our man out.
“Sgt. McCain wanted Robert dead. He blamed Robert for Col. Mitchell’s dying and would have let him drown during the escape if the rest would’ve stood for it.” Wooster shifted on his crutch. “But we wouldn’t. Col. Mitchell’s orders was clear in that Testament. He said Robert was his blood kin and that the men of the 26th were to extend him every courtesy, to see to his safety and guard him with their life if need be.
“Col Mitchell had the consumption, sir. He had it long already, and any man from the 26th can vouch for that. His death wasn’t Robert’s doing.” Wooster shifted on his crutch.
“Sgt. McCain told us he’d gone back to the cellar but that Robert was gone—escaped. He said we couldn’t trust him, that he might bring the Federals to the Maynards’ door. He told us to move out, and fast.” Wooster looked at me. “We believed him.”
Wooster drew a breath. “But Sgt. McCain had left Robert tied and gagged in the cellar. He kept Mr. Maynard from going down there by going himself for any little thing the Maynards needed—acting helpful and grateful. The Maynards are old. They appreciated the help. It was a cellar they don’t use much anymore.”
I didn’t remember any of it.
“Where were the other men during this time?” The general kept his eyes pinned on Wooster.
“They took off late that first night. Sgt. McCain said we dared not wait, that we should all split up in groups of two or three, make
our way south, toward home, hook up with a new regiment soon as we could. Sgt. McCain and I were to be the last, to follow a couple days later.”
“You didn’t go with McCain?”
Wooster’s face flamed, despite the cold. “He said I’d slow him down, make it too easy for us to be spotted and picked up as escaped prisoners. But he said not to worry—he’d find a way, and we’d work it out together. He left three days later, took Robert’s horse before daylight, before we knew.”
“Still you waited. Why?” The general was patient. I wished he’d let Wooster sit down.
Wooster colored again. “There wasn’t much choice at first, sir. The Maynards were willing to hide me as long as they could, and help me find a way home. But when Mr. Maynard found Robert, near dead and boiling with typhus, I had to stay. It was Col. Mitchell’s orders.”
The general waited, considering Wooster. “And how did you get to this field hospital?”
“People helped us, moved us from one house to another, always a little south.” It sounded for all the world like a sort of reverse Underground Railroad, and I remembered the rumbling wagon, the talk of the driver. “Robert was still pretty sick, but I knew from Mrs. Maynard that he wanted to get South, not far from where I live in North Carolina, to find his ma. So I figured to tell folks we’re brothers—the same as I’d planned with Sgt. McCain back in the cellar, when I thought we’d be taking Robert with us. Only now I’d say we were both wounded from Gettysburg, going home. And it worked. Folks helped us. But we needed medicine. So we stopped here, because of the doctors. I never figured I’d see Sgt.—Major McCain again.”
The general sat back in his chair. After a time he motioned Wooster to a camp stool. “Sit down, Private.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“And you—” he looked at his papers, then looked back at me. “Robert Glover—are you enlisted in either the Confederate or Union armies, or have you ever been?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you ever borne arms against the Confederacy or tried to harm a Confederate soldier?”
“No, sir.”
“How old are you, young man?”
“Eighteen in July, sir.”
“Do you have anything to add to this man’s statement?”
I thought hard. I didn’t want to die, but I needed to live with myself. “I didn’t mean to help those men escape. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known. I only went to Fort Delaware because my cousin wrote, asking me to see about her father, Col. Mitchell,” I said. Wooster shot me a pleading look.
“I see. And you think that statement will help your case?” The general raised his eyebrows.
“No, sir. But it’s the truth.”
The general nodded. “I knew Col. Mitchell. He was a gentleman, even among officers.” He sighed. “Fortunately for you, Glover, you are not bearing arms for the Union. Otherwise I’d have little choice. Unfortunately for you both, you have no proof of your story, other than Col. Monroe’s report that you arrived here in a state of semiconsciousness and that this private has lost a leg.” He looked at Wooster and back to me.
“Chap. Goforth tells me he has known you and your family for some time, Glover. He believes your story.” The general stood up. “Unfortunately, it is your word against the word of a decorated Confederate officer.” He shook his head. “If you had a witness, the letter you mentioned from Col. Mitchell’s daughter, this Testament—anything that might corroborate your story… as it is—”
“The Testament?” Wooster’s head shot up. “I have the Testament, sir—with Col. Mitchell’s orders. They’re in code. It got a little wet, but I have it.”
“You have it?” I was surprised.
“Explain yourself, Private.” The general didn’t believe it.
“I kept it. Sgt. McCain stuffed the Testament with the plans inside Robert’s shirt back at the fort before we escaped. He said it was our insurance policy that he’d cooperate—if the plans were found on him he’d be hanged—as a traitor to the Union. He wrapped the Testament in an oilskin he got off the guard we bribed, so it wouldn’t get wet, so it could be read.”
I remembered the weight of a package on my chest. Wooster looked to the general, then back to me.
“Remember when I took your gag off in the cellar that night? I took the oilskin out of your shirt. You said it weighed heavy on you. I didn’t want to leave it on the floor. It didn’t seem right to leave a Bible sitting on the cellar floor like that.” He looked back to the general.
“And you still have it, Pvt. Gibbons?” The general waited.
“Yes, sir.” Wooster stood. “It’s in my bedroll, sir.”
“And where is your bedroll, Private?”
Wooster thought a minute. “In Sgt. Sam Pete’s supply wagon, sir. In the front corner, near the barrel of apples.”
The general raised his eyebrows. “I hope to God you’re right, Private.”
Fifteen
We heard that when the guard roused Sgt. Pete from a sound sleep to rummage through his supply wagon for Wooster’s bedroll he was fit to be tied and let it be known in language that would’ve put a waterman to shame. But once he realized the oilskin bundle inside might somehow help Wooster, even save him, Sgt. Pete couldn’t tear the wagon bed apart fast enough.
The general took his time reading the code penned between the lines of the Testament. I marveled that Cousin Albert had been strong enough to write at all.
At last the general looked up. He sat and stared. We waited, not knowing what his silence meant. Finally, he spoke. “Do you know the Scriptures, Glover?” It was a question I didn’t expect.
“Yes, sir. Some, sir.”
“And how is that? You go to church?” The general waited.
“Yes, sir. And, my family—we kept an evening read, sir.”
The general nodded. He laid the Testament down, open to the pages Cousin Albert had encoded. He spoke quietly, without looking up, and I wasn’t sure but that he spoke to himself. “Do you know the Scripture, There is no greater gift…’”
Wooster’s head shot up, and he finished, “Than a man lay down his life for his friends.”
The general looked at Wooster and half smiled, a tired smile. “Yes. You understand that, Pvt. Gibbons. Col. Mitchell understood it very well, very well indeed.”
Then, just as day broke, the brigadier general scratched his pen across paper, signing our pardons and Wooster’s discharge.
“As soon as the hospital is in a position to do so, I’ll have Col. Monroe see that you boys are on your way to Salem.” He drummed his fingers across his table, then looked up. “If the camp is, indeed, visited by Union troops, as Col. Monroe expects, all of this may change. In the meantime I believe you could both do with some breakfast, and I, some sleep.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you.” Wooster and I could barely look at each other inside the general’s tent, and once outside, couldn’t stop looking at each other—wondering if we were real, if the day was real, slapping each other’s backs for the relief of it all.
Word spread through the camp like smallpox. In no time Maj. McCain was on the rampage, demanding to see the general. We could hear the lieutenant stationed outside the general’s quarters ordering McCain away. We heard Sgt. Pete explaining that the general had just gone to bed, half soothing Maj. McCain, half smirking, suggesting that Maj. McCain might like to rest himself, that the general was certain to be speaking with him sooner—and longer—than the major might like.
Wooster and I’d gone looking for Chap. Goforth and Katie Frances when McCain found us. We didn’t hear him coming. He pushed from behind, jerked Wooster off the ground, slamming both of us into a supply wagon. “I don’t know how you weaseled out of that, you lying little scoundrel. But enjoy your reprieve. You won’t always have the general, or Col. Monroe, or that chaplain to hide behind.” He spat in my face. “Either of you.”
“Maj. McCain.” It was Chap. Goforth, standing in the lane. “The general wil
l see you now.” McCain dropped Wooster. I steadied him with my shoulder. I’d have gone after McCain then, but Chap. Goforth pushed me back. “You have other battles to fight. Leave this one to the general.”
“I thought the general was sleeping.”
“He is.” The chaplain smiled. “I’m sure Maj. McCain will learn that soon enough. It just looked as though you needed a little time.” Then he turned serious. “You have your papers?” I nodded.
“Pardon and discharge!” Wooster straightened his collar, adjusted his crutch. “I’m going home just as soon as there’s a way—free and clear.”
Chap. Goforth smiled. “Thank God. There is a way. Or there will be, as soon as the colonel authorizes it. Follow me.” He wouldn’t tell us where he was going, but there was a spring in his step—one I hadn’t seen since we’d met in camp. We passed the supply wagons, the hospital tents, even the latrine ditches.
“Where are we going?” I panted, trying to keep up with him.
“Just follow me!” Chaplain’s voice nearly sang. “There’s an old friend of yours here, Robert.” He led us past the makeshift pen for mules and to the line of horses, all taking their feed, then stopped abruptly. We nearly bumped into him. “Do you remember when you and Jeremiah ran North that Christmas Eve?”
Nearly five years ago. I nodded. “I’m not likely to forget.”
“Do you remember I told you that I’d arranged for the conductor at Mount Pleasant to find you, that I knew you two had hidden in the bell tower?”
“Yes, but—”
Chap. Goforth shook his head. “Just listen. I ran slaves from safe house to safe house. My network covered three counties. I knew all the conductors in the area.”
“You stole slaves?” Wooster’s mouth nearly fell open, hearing such for the first time. Then he turned to me. “And you stole slaves?”
Chap. Goforth reached for Wooster’s arm. “We’re trusting you, Wooster. Don’t let us down.”