“Keep rememberin’ that, Hay Foot, and the cap’n’ll get us out of these damned woods alive,” the Bucktail suggested.
“I know me left foot from me right better ’n yerself, Straw Foot.”
“If you both don’t shut up, neither of you’ll have any feet to worry about ’cause they’re goin’ to be shot off,” someone told them, looking over his shoulder, then giving a reassuring pat to the pocket-sized Bible he carried in his jacket. A ragged hole torn through the middle of it from a bullet that had lodged in the New Testament instead of his heart bore silent witness to his continued faith.
“Probably end up gittin’ shot by an ol’ backwoodsman who don’t even know there’s a war goin’ on, jus’ out shootin’ squirrels and drinkin’ corn whiskey, and sees this here feller with the deer tail stuck on his cap, and mistakin’ him fer a buck’s ass ’cause he’s so ugly, or even a scrawny tom turkey if his eyesight wasn’t good, wings him with his fowling piece.”
“Seem to recall you joined up carryin’ an old flintlock musket yourself.”
“Right you are, but got me a Spencer repeatin’ rifle now. Only have to load it once a week, dependin’ that is on how many rebs I bring down.”
“D’ye know,” the Irishman said, pulling the sleeve of his heavy wool overcoat free of a bramble, “I bet these woods are full of blackberries come summertime, sweet and juicy, and this creek here, the trout would be that fat and fine, they would. Used to dream about layin’ meself down in sweet bluegrass and ridin’ easy a soft-skinned saucy lass when I was workin’ the rails.”
“The only thing risin’ is goin’ to be flowers over yer bleached bones come spring, navvy, and the only grinnin’ will be on your skeleton head, all the fat rotted away, if you don’t hold your tongue.”
“Better that than goin’ back to the coalfields like you, boyo. Ye Welshmen never learn, not like the Irish, now. Hear tell there ain’t no place on a coal miner’s body that damned soot don’t get in.”
“Hey, an eight hooter, listen to that,” the Bucktail said, stilling as the whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo—whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo-ah sounded from the branches of a big sycamore overhead.
“Better be careful, lad, ’cause that means he might be out huntin’ skunk this time of year. This is when skunks come out to mate.”
“Lucky devils!”
“Hell, from the smell of ye, bet the skunk comes courtin’, and he won’t have any trouble findin’ ye,” someone said with a low hoot of laughter.
“Well, pardon me, but I didn’t have time for my ablutions this mornin’, seein’ how my valet let me oversleep and I hardly had time for more than a bite or two of my apple dumplings and sausages, and the fool didn’t press my trousers worth a damn.”
“Just as well he didn’t, I think we’re squattin’ beneath where that owl’s been roostin’ anyways,” someone murmured with distaste, wiping his hand on the side of his muddy trousers.
“Reckon there’s one thing these Virginians know how to do, and that’s smoke ham. Best I’ve ever eaten. ’Twas especially sweet when we stole it right out from under the nose of Jeb Stuart himself. Remember that day with all of us sneakin’ ’round Fredricksburg, didn’t know who was wearin’ blue and who was wearin’ gray? In one of the first skirmishes I was in, up ’round Falling Waters, before I joined up with you lads, nearly rode back into Richmond with Stuart himself. He was still wearin’ his ol’ blue army uniform. Hell, I thought he was one of us, after all, they say he was a West Point man same as half the reb officers. Heard later he captured fifty or more prisoners when they threw down their weapons ’cause he rode right up to them without them firin’ a shot, thinkin’ he was their commander. Heard tell now he’s taken to wearin’ a tasseled yellow sash and a foot-long ostrich feather stuck in his hat, and when he rides into battle his scarlet-lined cape billows out behind him and makes the enemy madder ’n bulls bein’ baited. Makes a fine target. Should’ve kept wearin’ his ol’ blue and kept everyone more confused than they already are.”
“That’s one way of smokin’ out the enemy. Oughta try that kind of switch more often.”
“McGuire here, now he knows how to smoke a ham. Blew up a depot full of salt beef and pork barrels last week.”
“How was I to know that’s what was in them. Faith, I only wish you hadn’t run away so fast like you was buckshot. We could’ve had quite a feast that mornin’.”
“Yeah, ham stuck full of rusty nails instead of clove buds.”
“I took some hardtack off a dead reb. Foulest tastin’ stuff I ever ate. A piece of sheet iron would’ve had more taste. Figured he died from eatin’ it and not from my bullet.”
“Speakin’ of sweet things to be dreamin’ about. I’d turn traitor for some roast goose with apple stuffin’, plump noodles, and sauerbraten.”
“You ain’t Dutch, thought you’d want stew,” someone reminded the Irishman.
“No, but the widow who used to cook me supper was. Never quite got to finish me sauerbraten, but she always gave me some of them tasty crullers to take with me when I left the next mornin’. Called them tangled britches, she did, laughin’ as she tried to straighten mine out of knots, but then she was an eager wench. A fine, lusty woman, she was. Buried two husbands in three years.”
“Lucky you volunteered. You’ve a better chance of survivin’ facin’ a twelve-pounder, McGuire.”
“Well, I’d turn the whole lot of you in just for some griddle cakes,” said one of the younger soldiers with a sigh, the memory of his mother’s griddle cakes still strong in his mind, not having met anyone like the Dutch woman.
“Wonder where the cap’n is. It’s startin’ to drizzle. Might even snow before dawn. It’s goin’ to be a cold night. Reckon this creek will ice up,” one of the men grumbled, rubbing his stiff hands together.
Hunkered down on the bottom of a creek bed, the men waited, listening nervously to the rumble in the distance, the cloud of vaporized breath from their mounts creating an eerie fog around them.
“How you reckon the cap’n knows this land so good?”
“Don’t know, but I ain’t questionin’ nothin’. Been ridin’ with the cap’n fer three years now. Ain’t many lucky enough to still be around to claim that, and ’specially after all the action we seen. Figure by now I know Virginia as well as any man born and bred right here, even General Robert E. Lee himself.”
“’Ceptin’ fer makin’ sure that yer gun is shootin’ clean, an’ he’s real mean about that, the cap’n don’t care if yer boots ain’t blacked, or ye’re missin’ buttons, an’ yer hair ain’t been trimmed in a month of Sundays, or even that ye ain’t got no extra pair of drawers. He’s more concerned about how ye packed yer cartridges than how ye packed yer knapsack.”
“Figures that ain’t important if ye ain’t alive.”
“Yep, best thing that happened to me was gettin’ transferred into the cap’n’s outfit. He’s never left a man behind yet to die or to be buried deep in an unmarked grave, forgotten by his kin.”
“Well, he didn’t pick you ’cause of yer good looks.”
“Best sharpshooter here, that’s why,” the man boasted proudly.
“You got the fastest mouth here, and that’s the truth too.”
“It’ll be Henderson this time that gets sent out.”
“Me?” a small, slender-built young man squeaked, his boyish voice hardly having had time to change before he’d volunteered to do a man’s fighting.
“Yep, my horse threw a shoe this mornin’. And next to my mare, and, of course, the cap’n’s mount, you got the fastest horse here. If he gets the information he wants about this troop movement, then he’ll be sendin’ back a courier to Headquarters. Better get yourself ready, son. Only hope we can get out of here before the fightin’ starts. Usually does when we’re around, and we end up sittin’ right in the middle. Figure one of these days our luck ain’t goin’ to hold and we’re goin’ to get caught without no way of escapin’ the rebs tightenin’ a noose around
our necks.”
“What the hell was that?” someone demanded, his hands tightening around the butt of his rifle.
“Jus’ McGuire, lettin’ out a little hot air from the other end this time,” someone groaned.
“Well, now, would ye rather I blew up like a balloon and floated out over the enemy lines, then?”
“Would ease some of the sufferin’ in our lives.”
“Figure that’s the best way of doin’ some reconnoiterin’, way up high in the clouds where no bullets can reach you,” a voice sounded wistfully from the muddy bank.
“Think ol’ Thaddeus Lowe has missed out on a real good man here for his Balloon Corps by not signin’ up McGuire. Don’t need no fancy gas generators with him around.”
“Remember when we come face-to-face with two regiments of mounted infantry? Jus’ mindin’ our own business after settin’ them charges, waitin’ fer the bridge to blow sky-high, when up they ride bold as brass and grayer than a grave digger’s face on a stormy night.”
“Yeah, lucky for us the bridge blew just then, catchin’ them by surprise and we had a chance to ride while they were still calmin’ down their horses and tryin’ to figure out where we’d skedaddled to, not knowin’ like we did that there was another hollow with a real nice dry creek bed just beyond the road that we could race up unseen. ’Course, since we’d blown the bridge, there wasn’t no way for them to get across that river real quick even if they had seen us. Smart the cap’n is, ’cause he’d already scouted ahead and knew where we could ford it and we were across and scootin’ into the hills before them rebs could give the cry.”
“Reckon the cap’n’s got another bridge fer us to blow?”
“If he don’t then I’ve been carryin’ around this pack of black powder for nothin’. Don’t like sittin’ on top of it.”
“Good thing fer us ye’re carryin’ it and not McGuire, ye know how tetchy that powder can get, one spark and varrooom!” someone said, ribald laughter following the comment, but the jesting did little to relieve the tension, for they all knew the danger. No one had forgotten the charge that had exploded prematurely and blown off the arm of the man setting it. He’d died before they could get him back to camp.
“Hope the lieutenant don’t trip over his own big feet again like he done last time, his pistol firin’ wild like it did, shouldn’t’ a had it cocked. Nearly got us all killed that day, warnin’ that picket on duty. Still nursin’ that raw spot on my backside where his shot grazed me, and it wasn’t from the reb’s gun, either. Hell, the lieutenant’s s’posed to be on our side, ain’t he?”
“Well, let’s just hope his spectacles don’t fog up like they did the last time he was out scoutin’ with the cap’n. He can’t even see his own two feet in front of him without them specs.”
“Figure the best way of savin’ ourselves, is fer each of us to git a pair jus’ like his and carry ’round in our pockets jus’ in case he loses his like he did las’ week. Had the camp in an uproar till we found them, an’ they was pushed up on top of his head the whole time.”
“Always bent over double makin’ them little drawings of his. Can’t make head nor tail of them, myself, but the cap’n says they’re worth more ’n gold. Heard the cap’n wasn’t too pleased at first, havin’ the lieutenant along, seein’ how he ain’t a very good fightin’ man, an’ you remember, he could hardly even sit a horse. Reckon he’d always ridden around in a carriage?”
“Hasn’t fallen off in over a year now,” someone added.
“Yeah, but he still can’t shoot straight. I was outside the cap’n’s quarters the day the colonel told the cap’n that since we was goin’ behind lines, deep into enemy territory, that we might as well have someone along to map it, so when the rest of the army comes chargin’ in they don’t end up bogged down in a swamp or with their backs up against a steep river gorge. Fought him hard, he did, the cap’n, sayin’ how he didn’t have no time fer some feller who couldn’t ride and shoot and get the hell out when the bullets come flyin’. Said he was a raider, not a sucklin’ nurse fer some babe.”
“Figure the little mapmaker is doin’ all right. Bein’ so quiet, and soft-spoken, and gentlemanly, not like some I could mention, he ain’t never given away our position, ’ceptin’ fer that one time, and after that the cap’n told him to keep his pistol in his holster in future or he’d take it away from him. Don’t think he’s ever had it out or fired it since.”
“We can all rest easy.”
“Yeah, well let’s hope nothin’ happens to them,” someone said, squirting tobacco juice across the creek with a fine aim, a brown stain appearing on a large flat rock, “’cause I don’t know how we’d get back out of here without the cap’n, and the lieutenant’s the only one with a compass. Don’t forget that.”
The lieutenant in question was following his captain’s steps unerringly, carefully placing each foot squarely down in the exact footprints where his captain had stepped only moments before, and so quickly that there hadn’t even been time for the prints to fill with the rain now falling heavily.
The captain’s dark figure moved without hesitation, as if he’d skirted this meadow before, in a more peaceful time, weaving in and out of the trees along the perimeter, only pausing once to survey the field, which bore traces of battle, before ducking beneath the brushwood and disappearing into the dense woods that sloped toward the narrow road below.
Lieutenant Chatham pulled his low-crowned kepi down lower over his eyes as he peered up at the sky. Cursing the inclement weather beneath his fogging breath as he shivered down deeper into his caped overcoat, he nearly bumped into the captain, who had stopped suddenly and crouched down low, never making a sound.
The lieutenant seized the opportunity to pull off his metal-rimmed spectacles, quickly cleaning and polishing the round little lenses with his fine linen handkerchief as he glanced around at the blurred, inhospitable world that surrounded him. Putting back on his spectacles, he peeped owlishly at the woods now brought back into sharp focus, but no less frightening to his timid soul. His gaze, however, had not missed the distance to the river, or its width and probable depth and speed of current, or the ridge rising to the east, his mind instantly memorizing every detail; the degree of slope, the spacing of large trees, the ease with which heavily laden wagons and cannon might surmount it.
Dropping down on his hands and knees in a most undignified position for a member of the Chatham family of Boston, he followed the captain through the tangled underbrush, feeling the sting of scratches from thorny branches slapping his face. The full beard he wore provided some protection, but it did little to mask his youthfulness. He breathed a sigh of relief as he knelt beside the captain, who had now trained a spyglass on the long gray column trooping past on the road below. It was strange, but he never felt afraid when in the captain’s company. Even though the captain’s course always led them behind enemy lines, and, sometimes, right into the enemy’s camp, he had complete faith and trust in the man, as did all of the men who followed him.
He’d learned just last week that the captain had a rank of brevet colonel, but everyone still thought of him as the captain.
After all, his nom de guerre was Captain Dagger.
Unlike his Confederate counterpart John Mosby, who with his Rangers were the best band of guerrilla fighters in Virginia, no one seemed to know Captain Dagger’s real name. Probably better that way, Lieutenant Chatham thought, for retribution against the captain’s family would be difficult to accomplish. And he suspected the captain’s family lived in these parts, or somewhere along the frontier, or in Texas, or even the territories. Some misinformed people, many frightened by the rumors that spread like wildfire through the civilian populace, were beginning to believe Captain Dagger was another Quantrill, the murdering bushwhacker who raided and looted along the Kansas-Missouri border. It would be far safer for all concerned if Captain Dagger’s identity remained a mystery. Lieutenant Chatham shook his head in disgust, for the captain had
never pillaged during one of his raids, although some of the men jokingly claimed they struck too fast to loot. Like lightning striking a tree, leaving nothing more than smoke curling into the sky to show they’d been there, the lieutenant thought proudly. Nor had they ever murdered innocent civilians, or harmed them in any way. The captain had warned each of them that he’d rip the genitals off any man found guilty of such an offense, then string him up and use him for target practice. Cruel punishment indeed, the lieutenant thought nervously. And just as well that had never been one of Captain Dagger’s actions reported and printed in glaring headlines in Confederate papers. But every daring raid, every blown-up munitions depot, every derailed train, every crime and heinous act, from rape, murder, and mayhem, committed against the Confederacy seemed to be blamed on Captain Dagger and his Bloodriders.
Lieutenant Chatham couldn’t help but smile. His mother and father up in Boston thought he was with the Second Massachusetts, a regiment that could count a good many Harvard men in its ranks, and that he was serving in the engineering corps. Instead, he was one of the notorious Bloodriders. Men to be feared, the mild-mannered Lieutenant Chatham chuckled, wondering what the taunting upperclassmen at Harvard would have thought could they have seen their studious, bespectacled classmate now. Little had he known taking degrees in geology and engineering at the university would earn him a place in Captain Dagger’s select company of men.
And since he rode with Captain Dagger, he knew that only the most daring of those offenses attributed to the Bloodriders were true, and they happened to be the escapades with the least casualties suffered, on both sides. But in a war, people needed their fears and hatreds to burn hot and not smoulder away into cooling ashes if they were to keep fighting, to keep their cause strong and united, and believing Captain Dagger little better than a bloodthirsty outlaw served the purpose far better than discovering that he was a conscientious man fighting for the cause he believed in. If people only knew what a fine man Captain Dagger was, he thought worriedly. Although he was indeed a man to be feared, and he was a ruthless, dangerous opponent, he wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer, the admiring lieutenant thought, and if he lived to see the end of this rebellion against the Union, and if he lived to return home to Boston, then he would write and publish his memoirs about his experiences during the war. He had every raid and scouting mission documented. He would set the record straight concerning Captain Dagger. Memoirs of a Daredevil Bloodrider. The Daring Escapades of Captain Dagger’s Bloodriders, yes, he liked the sound of that title, he thought, hunching down in his coat as he felt a trickle of cold rain sneak beneath his collar.
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