A Dangerous Promise

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  "Where are you off to?" Mike asked.

  "Springfield, to Sterling Price's outfit."

  Good, Mike thought. Now he knew where he could find Jiri.

  Corey grinned, as though he could tell what Mike was thinking. "When I next see Marta," he said, "I'll tell her you haven't changed a bit and are still as aggrivatin' as any little red-topped bantam rooster."

  Mike managed to smile in return. "Good luck, Corey."

  Funny, Mike thought as Corey left. He had just wished good luck to a Confederate soldier who'd soon be in combat against Mike's own army. Well, it was no crazier than Federal sympathizers owning slaves, or generals countermanding each other's orders, or fathers and sons on opposite sides. Mike shut his eyes, recalling the two men, young and old, who lay dead in each other's arms, father in blue and son in gray.

  His head hurt, and his eyes were too heavy to open again. He burrowed into the pillow and once again escaped into sleep.

  Mike wrote to all his family, but he didn't describe the battle. He wrote simply that he'd been wounded, that Mrs. Ray and her family were taking good care of him, and that he'd soon be rejoining his company. They could write to him at his army address.

  The last of the Confederate troops had left the area, so Mike didn't worry that he might be discovered and taken prisoner. What bothered him was that there was no way to get word to his own company that he was alive.

  Over the next few weeks Mike didn't lack for visitors. Even at night he had company. The Ray boys piled into the other beds in Mike's room, and John Wesley slept on a pallet on the floor. The room was filled with the gentle snores and whistles of heavy sleepers. All was peaceful until Mike shouted through his nightmares, waking the other boys,

  who grumbled in frustration. Mike never told them that the memories of battle that haunted him by day were even worse than those in his dreams. What had become of Harley and Billy and Sergeant Gridley? Mike was afraid to find out.

  Some of the younger Ray children were steady visitors to Mike's room, and each of them described their fright on that horrible August day.

  Olivia shook her head until her dark brown curls bounced. "Wesley and Livonia and me were herdin' our horses in the valley south of the spring house when, all of a sudden, up rode a Confederate soldier, scarin' us half to death."

  John Wesley interrupted. "He yelled to us to get out of there and said, There's gonna be fightin' hke hell in less than ten minutes.'"

  Livonia gasped and murmured, "Ma said you weren't to say that word ever again, Wesley."

  Looking smug, John Wesley answered, "I'm just telling Mike exactly what the soldier said, that's all."

  "Well, be quiet because it's my turn now," Livonia announced. "Everybody—even Aunt Rhoda and Wiley and their children and Mr. Short, the postman who works for Pa —all of us hid in the cellar for hours and hours with nothin' to eat but a pan of biscuits Ma scooped up when she ran through the kitchen."

  "There was fightin' all around us!" Olivia said. "We had to stay in the cellar until the battle was over."

  "Not all of us," John Wesley broke in. "Ma and Aunt Rhoda went outside to tend the wounded when they heard the soldiers being brought to the house."

  "Then as soon as the fightin' was over and Federal prisoners were taken. Pa was made to help escort the prisoners to Springfield," Olivia said. "He had to walk there and back —over twenty-five miles each way—because the Confederates stole all our horses."

  "One of the Rebs stole my friend's pocket watch," Mike

  muttered. He told the children the story, fighting to keep his voice steady as he spoke of Todd.

  "Now Emily will never have her brother's watch," Livonia said sadly.

  "It's not right!" Olivia added.

  But John Wesley quizzically raised one eyebrow and lowered his voice. "If I was you, Mike, I'd go find that polecat Jiri Logan and sneak in his tent after it got dark and snatch the watch back."

  Mike nodded. He could see himself slinking noiselessly like a dark shadow to the place where Jiri slept, searching for the watch, finding it easily, and slipping it into his own pocket. Why not? Hadn't Da himself insisted that nothing was impossible to accomplish if you put your mind to it? And then . . . if he had a knife or a gun . . .

  He gasped, shaken at his strong desire to kill Jiri. It was like running to the edge of a precipice, Mike thought. He had come so close to planning Jiri's murder. ... To kill an enemy during battle would be one thing, but to take a life in revenge would be nothing more than murder. Did he really hate enough to murder?

  "No," Mike whispered.

  "No?" John Wesley looked surprised. "You aren't going after your friend's watch?"

  "The watch, yes," Mike answered. "I am."

  "Then why did you say no?"

  "Never mind, John Wesley. The point is, I am going after the watch."

  John Wesley's eyes grew wide with excitement, but Olivia announced, "That's a stupid idea. It's far too dangerous."

  Livonia hopped from her perch on the end of the bed, a self-righteous look on her face. "I'm gonna tell Ma." She ran from the room.

  Olivia ran after her.

  Mike wasn't worried. Mrs. Ray would put the story down

  as a childish fancy. After all, he walked with a limp. He'd grown pale and had lost weight. He looked a long stretch from being able to take on a man as full of good health and energy as Jiri Logan. But Mike knew that with careful planning he could work out a way. In the meantime, he'd help Mr. Ray sort the mail in the post office he'd set up in a front room.

  The few people who came to the house from neighboring farms assumed that Mike—who dressed in hand-me-downs from Mrs. Ray's older boys—was a recuperating Confederate soldier, and for Mike's protection and their own, the Rays allowed them to think so. The visitors were full of information—both true and exaggerated—about conflicts throughout the State of Missouri and the comings and goings of the Union and Confederate armies.

  Mike was especially interested in the news from John Greene, one of the Rays' neighbors on Wire Road. It was he who reported that Confederate generals McCuUoch and Pearce had returned to Fort Smith, Arkansas, while General Sterling Price had resumed his command over the Missouri State Guard and marched his men north to Lexington, a town high on the bluffs overlooking the Missouri River. He was poised for attack.

  On August 30, Greene scowled as he announced, "That Federal fool, Major General John Fremont, proclaimed martial law, ordered an automatic death sentence for guerrilla fighters, and stated that all slaves owned by Confederates in Missouri are now free."

  Mike looked toward the kitchen where Aunt Rhoda was stirring a batch of biscuits for supper. She had paused for just a moment. Had she heard the news she was free?

  "I wonder, what is that going to mean for Missouri?" Mr. Ray asked.

  "It'll mean exactly nothing." Greene's scowl turned to a chuckle. "Speakin' rash won't do Fremont any good with

  the President. Do you think he wants to lose all those slaveholders to the Confederate side?"

  On September 20, Greene crowed, "Fremont had enough good sense to pull the army out of Springfield and back to RoUa."

  "Who holds Springfield now?" Mr. Ray asked.

  "General Sterling Price," Greene answered proudly. "Price's army overcame the Union garrison. How about that? Another Confederate victory!"

  Mike shuddered as he remembered how Harley compared the moves on a chessboard with the moves of armies at war. War wasn't a game. It was pure horror. He'd testify to that at any time, any place.

  Mike had been a guest of the Rays for over a month and a half when he decided he couldn't stay a moment longer. Although his leg still ached and he walked with a limp, he couldn't remain inactive while the war raged on. Mike told Mr. and Mrs. Ray it was time he went back to his outfit.

  "Oh, Mike, another few weeks ..." Mrs. Ray pleaded.

  "Mike's well on the mend," Mr. Ray countered. "If he feels it's time to go, then we'll do what we can to help him r
each RoUa." His forehead puckered. "I wish I had a horse to give you, Mike."

  "I know the Rebs took all your horses," Mike said.

  Mr. Ray sighed. "Who knows when they may return and take the two I bought last week?" For a moment his eyes darkened, but he quickly continued, "One of our near neighbors, Marcus Peebles, is driving a wagonload of com to market in Springfield tomorrow. He can give you a lift that far, and if you avoid whatever Confederates are camped outside of Springfield, you might be lucky enough to get a ride from someone going on to Rolla."

  Mike could hardly contain himself as John Wesley, acting as messenger, rode one of the horses to Marcus Peebles's house. To Mike's dehght, Mr. Peebles sent back word

  for Mike to meet him at six the next morning in front of the Ray house on the Wire Road, which they'd follow into Springfield.

  Mrs. Ray brought Mike his uniform, washed, mended, and folded, the jaunty forage cap resting on top. "For when you're finally back with your company," she said.

  Mike rolled the clothes so that they could be tied into a makeshift pack. John Wesley brought him a waterproof knapsack to put them in, along with the change of drawers and socks that his ma had put on the bed. The next morning the whole Ray family was up to give Mike a good send-off.

  Mike was embarrassed by the hugs from the girls, but he wrapped his arms tightly around Mrs. Ray. "I'll always be in debt to you. You saved my life," he said.

  "Safe journey to you, Mike," Mrs. Ray whispered, tears in her eyes. "I pray you'll soon return home safely to your family."

  Mike hugged Aimt Rhoda, who gave him an encouraging smile. "You listen to Mrs. Ray, Mike. Soon as your three months are up, you get along home. The army's no place for a growing boy."

  "Mike," John Wesley whispered eagerly, pulling him aside, "what are you gonna do about your friend's watch? If Jiri Logan's camped near Springfield, will you try to get the watch away from him?"

  "I don't know yet how I'll manage it," Mike answered, clenching his fists in determination, "but Jiri isn't going to end up with that watch. Emily Blakely is!"

  As Mike climbed up to the seat of Marcus Peebles's wagon, he fought back the fear that sat in his stomach like a ball of lead. Jiri Logan was tall and wiry and strong. What chance in the world would Mike have to keep his dangerous promise?

  Mike soon found that Mr. Peebles wasn't a talkative man. To be sure, he had much to grumble about: both of the armies, which were trampling down fields that meant a family's livelihood; "Old Ape," who had caused all the problems with his presidential busybodying; and the miserable September heat. Otherwise, Mr. Peebles rode in silence, definitely not going out of his way to enliven the trip.

  But as they approached Springfield, with the Confederate camp ahead of them, Mike tensed, gripping the edge of the wooden seat.

  Mr. Peebles studied Mike from the comer of his eye. "That eager to get back to duty? ... Or are you?"

  "What do you mean?" Mike asked.

  "Heard you were a drummer for the Confederates. Isn't that right?"

  Mike tried to sound calm. "I think my division's moved on north. I'll ride with you into town."

  89

  "Won't know for sure, less'n you stop at the camp and ask," Mr. Peebles said.

  "I can ask in town."

  Mr. Peebles studied Mike through narrowed eyes. "You ain't a deserter, are you?"

  "No!" Mike snapped.

  "Don't take my head off. It's a fair question. 'Specially for someone who seems bent on avoidin' the Confederate camp."

  Mike bit his lip as he desperately tried to think of what to do.

  As they approached the road to the camp, where a traffic of Confederate soldiers, sutlers, and camp visitors were moving in and out of the gate, Mr. Peebles tugged at the reins, stopping his wagon. Two soldiers crossed the road in front of the wagon, and Mr. Peebles called out, "Boy here wants to rejoin his division! Where does he go to find out where they're located?"

  "Whose division is he looking for?" the shorter, stockier soldier asked, as both of them examined Mike with a look of surprise.

  With as much bounce and energy as his aching leg would allow him, Mike snatched up his knapsack and jumped from the wagon seat. Luck was with him—the badges they wore were the same as the one on Corey's uniform. Mike smiled and called out, "Well now, men, judging from the fine look and fit of the both of you, this must be the Missouri State Guard."

  Both soldiers laughed, and Mike began walking with them toward the gate, turning just once to wave his thanks to Mr. Peebles. Satisfied, Mr. Peebles clucked to his horses, flipped the reins, and took off down the road toward Springfield.

  "Are you telling us the Guard's stooped to hiring children?" one of the men teased Mike.

  Mike grinned. "That fellow driving the wagon needs ei-

  ther his eyes or his head examined. Imagine his thinking I'm a Confederate soldier—a lad who's not yet reached his thirteenth year!"

  The soldiers chuckled, but one of them asked, "If you're not with the Guard, then what business do you have here at camp?"

  Mike was prepared for the question. "I've got a good friend with the Guard, Corey Blair, and before I'm off and away to who knows where, I'd hke to say good-bye to him. Do either of you know Corey?"

  The taller man nodded. "I know him, but I'm not sure he's here in Springfield. Scouting details were sent east and north. Corey may have gone with either of them."

  "Jiri Logan, as well?"

  The soldier glanced at Mike sharply. "My advice is for you to have as little to do with Jiri Logan as possible."

  The other man smiled. "Pay no mind to whatever this sour-face tells you. His gambling losses have clouded his mind."

  "Logan cheated!"

  "It was only your word against his."

  "Logan's too blamed clever. I couldn't prove what he'd done."

  "Then why get in a card game with him? You might as well throw your pay in the ditch."

  As the soldiers argued, Mike thought about the choices before him. There seemed to be thousands of Rebs in the camp. What chance would he have if one of them found him out? But Jiri Logan might be right here under his nose. For Todd's sake, Mike had to get into that camp and retrieve the watch.

  Security at the gate was lax, and no one challenged Mike as he limped into the encampment. He kept his eyes open. If Corey or Jiri spotted him, he was as good as dead. Trying not to let his voice betray his pounding heart, Mike began to

  ask a few of the soldiers if they knew where he might find Logan.

  Most soldiers just shrugged, but one finally directed him to the last row of tents near the north side of the encampment. "Fifth one down, I think, although I doubt he'd be there this time of day."

  All the better, Mike thought. Jiri wasn't likely to have the watch, or any other belongings he'd stolen, on his person. They'd be hidden away—maybe in a blanket roll.

  The tent area wasn't as busy as the rest of the camp. Mike was alone as he limped down the last row to the fifth tent. Holding his breath, he stopped and listened. There were no sounds coming from inside the tent. Cautiously, he lifted a comer of the fiap that served as a door and peered inside.

  Good! It was empty!

  Mike slipped from the bright sunshine into the tent, where he saw neat piles of bedrolls and equipment—enough for at least four men.

  The watch could well be in one of these knapsacks, Mike thought, bending toward the knapsack on his right. But before he could begin his search, strong arms circled him and roughly jerked him off his feet. Gasping, he sailed through the air and fell with a plop onto the hard-packed dirt outside the tent. Dizzy from pain, Mike grabbed his sore leg and fought the tears that blurred his vision.

  Fists at his waist, a red-faced sergeant glared down at Mike and growled, "You're up to no good, I can tell. What are you after in my tent, boy?"

  Mike flinched and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "I thought it was Jiri Logan's tent. I'm looking for him."

  "Why?"

 
"Why? Well, uh—to say hello," Mike stammered. "I heard he was here."

  "You heard wrong. His battalion left the camp last week for Rolla." The sergeant squinted as he studied Mike from

  head to toe. Finally, he said, "Turn out the contents of your knapsack."

  His knapsack! The sergeant would discover Mike's Union Army uniform, and he'd be thought a spy. Spies were hanged.

  Mike shivered as a chill passed through him. What if he never saw his family again—not even to say good-bye? His resolve to be brave couldn't stop the tears from flooding his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. "I'm not a thief," he insisted.

  The sergeant cleared his throat and awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "S-stop that bawling," he said uncomfortably. "Are you a man, or aren't you?"

  Well, Mike thought. His tears seemed to be coming in handy. He allowed a few more sobs to escape. "You can see I'm not a man," he said. "I'm not yet thirteen."

  As Mike continued to snuffle, the sergeant's gaze shifted nervously from side to side. "No more of that!" he ordered. "Anyone who heard and saw you would think I'd been giving you a beating."

  Mike wailed and raised his hands protectively over his head. "Don't hit me!" he cried.

  The sergeant took a step back. "Get out of here, you young rapscalhon!" he demanded. "Start running now, and don't stop until you reach Springfield! Do you hear me?"

  "Yes, sir!" Mike scrambled to his feet and clutched his knapsack tightly, hobbling as fast as he could until he knew the sergeant could no longer see him. After a quick stop to catch his breath and rub his painful leg, Mike passed the sentries at the gate and headed once again for Springfield.

  That escape had been much too close. Suppose the uniform had been discovered? As he limped along, Mike went over and over what had happened. He'd taken too much of a chance, entering the tent in broad daylight. He wouldn't make a serious mistake like that again. He also knew that it would be a lot safer not to have a Union Army uniform in his