possession while he was traveling through Confederate-occupied territory.
Mike sighed with frustration. No matter what the danger, he couldn't—he wouldn't —ditch the uniform of which he was so proud. He'd simply have to be more careful. And he'd keep an eye out for Jiri's battalion, wherever it might be stationed between Springfield and RoUa.
As soon as he was well away from the Rebel camp, he left the dusty road and sat in the shade of a tree. There he ate some of the meat and bread Mrs. Ray had packed for him.
When he had finished eating, Mike stretched and looked around. Not far from him, on the other side of the split-rail fence that edged a farmer's property, a young woman was climbing a path leading from a springhouse to the farmhouse and carrying a bucket of water. Sprays of crystal drops splashed over the edge of the bucket as she took a step off balance. Mike licked his lips, imagining the wonderful taste of the sweet chilled water. Just what he needed after eating salty meat on this hot day!
Leaning on the top rail, he called out, "Miss? Could you spare a cup of water?"
The girl stopped and appraised him with unsmiling eyes. He saw then that she was even younger than he first thought. "What are your sympathies—Union or Confederate?" she called back.
Mike tried a pleasant grin. "I'm just asking for a cool drink of water. What difference does it make where my sympathies lie?"
"It matters," she said. "I'd sooner pour this water into the ground than give it to anyone who supported those secessionist bullies who trampled our garden and stole our horses and food!"
With a guilty pang Mike thought of Janie, whose family's stores his own company had taken under the order to forage. "I'm sorry," he said sadly, as much to Janie as to the girl
who stood before him. "I'm not a southern sympathizer, but I won't bother you again."
As he turned and limped toward the road, the girl called, "Wait!" Soon she was beside the fence, a battered tin cup of water cradled in her hands. Unsmiling, she held it out toward Mike.
The sun beat down on his head and shoulders with such force, Mike gladly took the water and gulped it down. "Thanks," he said as he handed back the cup.
"I wish I could offer you food," she said, "but the Rebs have taken everything. Last week a dozen or so broke into our house and demanded that Ma cook them supper. When she tried to explain how little food we had, they began smashing her china." Her eyes reddened as she added, "Her own mother's china. Someday it would have been mine."
"I'm sorry," Mike said. "At least the Union—"
"Union soldiers aren't any better," she said through tightened lips. "When General Lyon first came into Springfield, he sent his bodyguard ahead of him, and they did a thorough job of sacking the town."
Mike was puzzled. "But from what you said earlier, I thought you were against only the Rebs."
"My father's a Union soldier," she answered. Again tears came to her eyes. "But I know Pa would never break into a house and steal things and force the women to cook for him. He'd never do that. He's a good and gentle man."
Mike asked, "Why don't you leave Springfield? Maybe your family could go to a safer place until the war's over."
"This land is all we own," the girl said. "Besides, there's nowhere we could go."
"Don't you have other family—cousins? Aunts and uncles? Grandparents, maybe? Isn't there someone somewhere who could take you in?"
"No," the girl answered. Dangling the cup on one finger, she stepped back from the fence. "I have to get that water into the kitchen. Ma will be wondering where I am."
"Thanks again for the drink," Mike said.
The girl's eyes were dark with sorrow, but her voice was soft and gentle. "Wherever you're off to, may you have a safe journey."
"And may you and your family be safe," Mike answered. Sadly he watched her hoist the heavy bucket before he climbed down to the road and joined the traffic moving into Springfield. With luck he'd find a bam to sleep in for the night and in the morning meet up with someone who'd give him a ride to RoUa and to his company. If Jiri's battalion was still near RoUa, Mike might have a chance of finding him. And then Emily would have something of Todd's that she could always treasure.
Mike thought of how the girl with the water had lost her grandmother's china to a mean, rotten bully. He wouldn't allow the watch meant for Emily to meet the same fate.
Mike was surprised by what he saw in Springfield. Although some of the people who lived there seemed to be going about their business as usual, many of the tidy houses, shaded by trees and bordered by flowers, stood empty; and a number of store windows were boarded up. A smattering of wagons filled with household possessions, their passengers often only women and children, headed in one direction—north from Springfield.
As it grew dark, Mike passed a trim two-story house whose front door hung open. He walked up the steps and entered, calling loudly, but no one answered.
He closed the door and looked around. There were a few candles still in their holders, and most of the furniture was in place, but the house looked bare, as though the people who had lived in it had stripped it of photographs and family treasures and loving memories, carrying them away as they fied.
Mike walked through all the rooms, upstairs and down,
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just to make sure he was alone in the house. Relaxing as he felt more secure, he closed the heavy window drapes, lit the candles, and ate more of the food Mrs. Ray had given him. When he finished eating, Mike wrapped up the remainder, knowing it would be scant fare for tomorrow's journey, and replaced it in his knapsack, which he leaned against a small table that stood under a window.
Mike reminded himself that upstairs he could have his choice of comfortable beds. He lit a candle and made his way up the stairs and into the largest bedroom, in which earlier he'd spotted a huge tester bed with a thick feather mattress. Snuffing out the candle, he threw himself into the bed facedown and sighed with pleasure.
He awoke to the sound of glass smashing against a wall, and a man's angry shout, "Somebody took away all the valuables!"
Another man belched loudly and laughed. "You've got more than you can carry already. Are you going to take 'em into battle with you?"
Soldiers? Mike tiptoed to the top of the stairs, looked down, and saw a whole group of Rebs—four? Five? And they were all very drunk.
One soldier gave a nasty chuckle and said, "Angle's foimd a good place to peddle what he collects. Treat him right, and maybe he'll share what he knows with you."
Another belch, another mumble—Mike couldn't make it out—before the soldier said, "All I want now is a soft bed."
A long shadow leapt up the stairs, and Mike jumped back. As quietly as he could, he raised the bedroom window in search of an escape route.
What good luck! Branches of a large tree swept against the roof of the house. Mike swimg his legs over the window-sill and balanced easily on the roof as he lowered the window. As candlelight suddenly flooded the doorway of the bedroom, Mike flattened himself to the side of the casement and peered cautiously through the window. A squat, bulky
man stumbled to the dresser, barely managing to place his candle on it before he fell across the bed.
Right where I was sleeping! Mike thought with a shiver.
Mike followed the nearest and sturdiest branch to the trunk of the tree and climbed halfway to the ground before a horrible thought struck him: My knapsack! It's in the parlor!
He reached the last branch and dropped silently to the ground, grinding his teeth as pain seared his leg. Stopping only to try to rub the pain away, Mike crept cautiously to the nearest parlor window. If he remembered correctly, his knapsack was directly under this window.
Slowly, Mike raised the sash barely an inch—just high enough to reach in with one finger. He pushed the drapes apart, creating a peephole. Mike examined the room, inch by inch, finally reassuring himself that the room was empty.
Mike shoved again at the wooden window frame. Good! The sash slid u
p silently and easily. Pausing only for another careful look around, Mike hoisted himself onto the window-sill and pushed the table below to one side.
As the table legs squeaked across the polished fioor, Mike froze, listening, waiting, but the house remained silent. He dropped noiselessly to the fioor and scooped up his knapsack with a sigh of relief, slipping his arms into the straps.
Mike grasped the window frame, ready to jump outside, when a deep voice behind him growled, "Stay where you are, and turn around!"
His heart hammering, Mike turned and saw a Confederate soldier pointing a musket in his direction. Mike shouted, "Don't shoot! The silver's hidden in the attic!"
Later, Mike thought about the expressions of surprise and greed that swept over the Reb's face, but at the moment he had time only to think of his escape. He leapt up and dove headfirst through the open window, as musket fire splintered the window frame next to his head.
Scrambling like a four-footed animal, Mike reached the protection of a high hedge that bordered the yard. No one followed him. No one even came to the window. He grinned as he thought of the rowdy drunken procession of soldiers climbing to the attic, searching and searching for something that wasn't there. Judging from the look of the house, any silver owned by the people who had fled from Springfield had gone with them.
Mike ducked through the hedge and into the yard behind the house to the next street, limping and stumbling in an imeven jog-trot until he was out of the town itself and into the rural countryside.
At most of the darkened farmhouses dogs barked a warning, and Mike plodded on; but finally he arrived at a house with a bam not too far from the road, where only silence greeted him. Ready at any sign of danger to turn tail and run or flatten himself in the tall grass, Mike cautiously climbed over the split-rail fence and walked through the pasture toward the bam.
The small bam door opened easily, and Mike—breathing in the familiar pungent odors of animal sweat, urine, and hay—felt his way along the stalls to a ladder. As horses snuffled and snorted and a few chickens sleepily scolded whoever had interrupted their sleep, Mike spoke to them soothingly and softly. He climbed to a loft and lay in the loose hay, tucking his knapsack under his head as his pillow.
It surprised him that this farm's livestock had been undisturbed. Most of the countryside where the armies had marched had been foraged. Pillaged. Plundered. Looted. There were many names for stealing someone's property, but whatever the reasons behind the thefts, Mike hated them as much as he hated unwelcome memories of his days as a copper thief.
The next morning, Mike awoke to bright sunlight. He stretched and yawned noisily before he realized there were sounds below him in the bam. Startled, he sat up, fully alert as a woman's voice called out, "Who's up there? Speak up, or I'll yell for my husband, who'll bring his gun!"
Mike's heart raced as he slipped his arms into the straps on his knapsack and rolled to the edge of the loft. Grasping the top of the ladder for support, he leaned out so the woman could see him. "It's just me, ma'am. My name's Mike Kelly. I'm traveling through and needed a bed for the night."
The woman looked like many of the other farm women Mike had seen lately: faded print dress, hair pulled back into a bun, weathered skin dried into early wrinkles, and cal-lused hands with stubby fingernails. But this woman was gripping a pitchfork, and there was fear in her eyes.
"Come down careful-Uke," she said, and Mike hurried to obey.
He stood in front of her, brushing hay from his clothes and smiling in friendship, thankful when the fear left her eyes and she leaned the pitchfork against the nearest stall.
"You're only a boy," she said.
"Yes, ma'am," Mike answered.
"Where's your family?"
"Spread out," he said. "Some in and near St. Joseph, some in Kansas."
"Is that where you're off to now? St. Joseph?"
Mike was tired of trying to dodge the truth. Even with a sore leg, he knew he could outrun this woman if need be, so he told her honestly, "I was wounded in the battle at Wilson's Creek, but I'm healed enough now to join my company. I think they're up near RoUa."
Her eyes widened with surprise. "You're too young to be a soldier."
"I'm a musician," Mike said proudly. "A drummer."
She shook her head in exasperation and repeated, "Too
young. Much too young." Suddenly her eyes narrowed. "You're Confederate, aren't you?"
Mike took a deep breath. "No, ma'am," he said. "Union Army."
Fear returned to the woman's face, and she quickly glanced at the open bam doors. Dropping her voice, she said, "Get out of here quickly. My husband's got a vendetta against Union sympathizers. If he—"
The pattern of sunlight shifted as a large figure entered the doorway. "What's this, Essie? Who've you got there?"
"Just a boy, Henry," Essie answered firmly, although Mike could see her hands tremble. "Name's Mike Kelly, and he's goin' through to join family. He needed a place to sleep and picked our bam."
As Henry strode toward him, Mike felt as if he'd landed in the path of a giant locomotive. It was all he could do to keep from turning to run, but he knew this man would be too much for him.
Henry, his skin a mottled red and pufly with extra weight, loomed over Mike, taking plenty of time to study him. "He's just a boy," he finally said.
"That's what I told you," Essie mumbled.
"You got any hard cash, boy?" Henry boomed out.
Mike shook his head. "Not even a cent."
"Whatcha got in your knapsack?"
The uniform again! "Just a few clothes," Mike said. For an instant his knees wobbled, and he grabbed the ladder for support.
Essie stepped forward and put a steadying arm around Mike, who limped as she guided him toward the door. "Henry, it's plain to see Mike Kelly is hungry. And he's hurt. Look at the way he's limping. I'll feed him breakfast before we send him on his way."
Henry didn't give up. "What happened to your leg, boy?"
"I feU," Mike said.
"Cut it open, huh?" For some reason Henry chuckled.
"Well, if Essie's soft-hearted enough to want to feed you, then I won't object." He scowled at Essie. "No meat, though. The sausage we keep for ourselves."
Essie didn't answer, but once she had led Mike inside the kitchen, she began to pan-fry a couple of slices of pork sausage.
Settled into a rush-back chair at the kitchen table, Mike blurted out, "Aren't you afraid to cook the sausage? Won't it make him angry?"
Essie gripped the spatula, and her lips became stretched and tight before she answered. "Henry's my husband, and for the most part I've always done what he said because I had no cause not to. But I can't go along with the way he's hurting neighbors and former friends who are Union sympathizers—reporting them to the Confederates, riding with those military bushwackers to bum their bams and houses . . . stealing, hating—" Her voice broke. She turned away, cracking two eggs and dropping the contents into the sausage grease.
"Does your husband own slaves?" Mike asked.
Essie turned and looked at him, indignation on her face. "Not a one!" she said. "And neither do a lot of the folks who are against the Union. They stand on the principle that government shouldn't have a say-so in people's private Uves.
"To my way of thinking, the slavery issue is just an excuse to allow some people to do hateful things and feel righteous about it. I know that's all it is for Henry." A tear ran down her cheek. "It's turned some of our friends against us. It's turned me against my own husband."
Mike didn't know what to say. He wanted to cheer the kind woman up, so he said, "Maybe the war will be over soon, and things will get better."
"Things will never get better," Essie said in a dull, tired voice. She reached for a plate on which she'd sliced some bread and added the sausage and eggs.
Mike didn't try to make conversation. He ate ravenously.
After washing up at the pump outside, he thanked Essie again and Umped back to the roa
d to RoUa, where he was lucky enough to pick up a ride with a farmer who was going as far as Lebanon. Mike finished the food Mrs. Ray had packed for him and spent the night sleeping under a tree.
For the next two days he walked, sometimes riding short distances, and gradually he came closer to RoUa. Although he was headed for his company and anxious to learn the fate of some of his friends, he couldn't get Jiri's evil grin out of his mind. So along the way, if the opportunity presented itself, he asked passersby, "Is there a Confederate encampment nearby?"
A few people assured him that last they'd heard, a small group of Confederate cavalry on an exploratory mission was up ahead, camped in a clearing some twenty miles or so east of RoUa.
"Stay on this road and you can't miss 'em," an elderly man told Mike. He winked. "Gonna join up?"
"I'm too young," Mike said, and stepped back into the road, wanting to get away from the man and his questions.
But the man shouted after him, "If n I was yoimg and healthy, I'd be off to join up, too. Got to beat those Yankees who come down here tryin' to tell us what to do."
Mike knew better than to answer the way he'd like to. He just plodded along the road, hoping to pick up a ride with another wagon driver.
As he drew closer and closer to RoUa, a spark tingled through Mike's body. With any luck, he'd soon catch up to Jiri. And no matter how brutal and ruthless Jiri was, Mike would have to outwit him. He was determined to get Todd's pocket watch and take it back to Emily Blakely. He'd promised.
In this hilly, forested countryside, Mike found few farms, but late that night he came upon a roadside tavern with a half-dozen horses tethered outside. Mike's nose, quivering at the fragrance of roasted meat, led him straight through the smoky, noisy room to the tavern keeper.
"I'll clean up for you," Mike said, "if you'll give me something to eat."
The man wiped his hands on a dirty apron tied around his bulging middle and stared sternly down at Mike. "Folks who come here pay for their food and drink."
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