by Peter Grant
She laughed. “When you put it like that, it does seem fitting, doesn’t it? However, I really don’t want you to do that, Walt. It’s time for me to move on. I should have enough left over from the sale to buy a ticket to St. Louis. I have a friend there who runs a school. She’s promised me a job teaching there, and I can stay with her until I find a place of my own.”
Walt’s eyes lit up. “I’m heading for St. Louis too. I’m taking the riverboat there from Nashville, then crossing Missouri to Kansas City. They’re building up the old Smoky Hill Trail through Kansas to Colorado Territory. I reckon to try my hand out there and see where it takes me. How about this? Let me buy your ticket to St. Louis. That way you can save your money for when you get there. We can travel together next week, if you’d like an escort. In order to keep people from talking, you can say you’re my aunt, and I’ll be your nephew.”
“Why, that’s so kind of you, Walt! I’d hate to be a burden, but if you’re sure this is Yankee gold and not your own money, why, what can a Southern lady do but thank you most sincerely?” She giggled, pink with excitement, and he couldn’t help laughing with her.
“I’ll be glad to help you. Mose will be driving me to Nashville in our wagon. It’s a three-day journey. We’ll collect you here a week from today, and overnight in Smithville and Lebanon on the way. We’ll find a good hotel in Nashville while we shop for our needs and wait for the riverboat. I’ll pay for your rooms, of course—or rather, that Yankee gold will.”
“That sounds wonderful, but I really don’t deserve so much help, or so much of your money.” She looked positively guilty.
He shook his head firmly. “I owe it to you, Rose, and that’s a fact. That fine handwriting you taught us at school stood me in good stead writing out notes and reports and dispatches. Being able to write a neat hand kept me alive as a courier, instead of being put into a line regiment where more people died. This is a way for me to thank you for keeping me from ending up like my brother.”
“I was so sorry to hear about him, Walt—and about your mother.” She was silent for a moment, then she smiled. “I’m glad to know my teaching helped you, and I’m glad to hear you still speak so well. I’ve met a number of soldiers whose speech has relapsed terribly. They used to be well-spoken young men, but now their accent and vocabulary have become quite common.”
He flushed. “You’re right, of course, but don’t judge them too harshly. We all found ourselves living in army camps alongside people of all grades of education, or none. That tended to drag everyone down to the lowest level, instead of raising them to the highest. I was guilty of that, too, until my Company’s commanding officer pulled me up about it. He pointed out that I was obviously an educated man, but if I carried on the way I was going, no one would ever know that. I tried to smarten up, and made a point of trying to read good books to feed my mind—although they were hard to find—and speak better, too. That helped me earn promotion to corporal later that year, and sergeant the year after. There was even talk earlier this year of commissioning me as a lieutenant, but the war ended before that could happen.”
“I’m sure your abilities had a lot more to do with your advancement than your speech.”
He shrugged. “It was probably more the casualties in our ranks.”
She nodded, and her eyes softened. “I’m awfully proud of you, Walt. I’m a Southern woman through and through, and I’ll be forever grateful to you for taking a stand for all of us. I’m really sorry we lost, but you did your best. That’s all anyone could ask. Now you’ve come home, and you’re willing to spend some of that liberated Yankee money to help me make a fresh start. That’s so generous, so kind, I really don’t know how to thank you.”
“You can start by giving me some more of this lemonade. We didn’t get any in the army. I’ve missed it.”
Smiling shyly, she took his glass through to the kitchen.
―――――
A few days later he went to the cave and retrieved his guns and the gold. He spent his last day at home cleaning all the weapons and packing them carefully into a blanket roll and a carpetbag.
“I’ve never seen you take so much trouble over anything before, son,” his father said half-teasingly as he watched him.
“I never had to rely on tools to save my life before the war, Pa. I learned early on that if you look after your guns, they’ll look after you. I used to help our unit armorer when I wasn’t scouting or carrying messages. I learned a lot from him.”
“Ever thought of setting up shop as a gunsmith?”
“I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know enough. I’m familiar with all the weapons we used, and some other guns, but there are a lot more out there. If I want to be a proper gunsmith I’ll have to learn how to make a gun from scratch. That’s a tall order. Gunsmiths usually serve an apprenticeship for several years.”
“At least you know enough to be useful. That’s more than some self-styled gunsmiths I’ve known!”
“Do you know any shops around here that might be open to trading guns?”
“There’s a place in Nashville run by a man named Josiah Fitch. When I needed my shotgun repaired, Jim Webber suggested I take it to him. He did a good job for a fair price. You can tell him I sent you, and use Jim’s name too if you want.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks, Pa. By the way, are you still using Grandpa’s muzzle-loader?”
“Yes, I am. It’s still good enough for deer.”
“Would you like this Spencer cavalry carbine? It holds seven rounds, and shoots accurately out to a hundred and fifty yards. It hits hard.”
“Why, sure, son, but only if you don’t need it for your trading. Can you spare it?”
Walt grinned. “Of course I can. I took all my guns from the Yankees, or traded for them with other fellers who took them from the Yankees, so it’s not like I paid cash for them.” I guess you could say I paid for them in hot lead, he added silently to himself. He handed the rifle to his father, along with two boxes of cartridges. “I’d get more ammunition soon, if I were you. These have been bounced around on horseback for months, in all sorts of wind and weather. I don’t know whether they’re all still reliable.”
“I’ll get some next time I’m in town. Thank you, son.”
“Don’t tell Katie’s Jim where you got it. I’m not supposed to have brought any weapons back from the war.”
Walt turned his attention to the Green River knife he’d taken from the youngest bushwhacker. It had been sharpened so often that it had been ground down to only about half its original width. The tip had been broken off at some point, and the stub of the blade re-shaped. It was now only about four inches long, with a five-inch home-made wooden handle attached to the tang with screws instead of the original rivets.
“Looks like that’s been ground down to a nub,” his father observed as he watched Walt unscrew the handle and throw away the pieces.
“It can still be useful. I met a fellow in Mosby’s Rangers who had what he called a hide-out knife. It looked something like this. He took off the handle, cut down the tang and wrapped it in twine. He made a sheath for it in the back of his belt, so it couldn’t be seen at all. He was taken prisoner by the Yankees one time, and used it to help him escape. It struck me as a good idea.”
His father made a face. “I hope you never need it that way.”
“It can be used for a lot of things, not just war.” Walt reached for a sheet of sandpaper and began removing dirt and rust from the naked tang of the blade. “In Nashville I’ll order a belt with an inside sheath to hold this. It might come in handy someday. You never can tell.”
“No,” his father said slowly. “I suppose you never can.”
―――――
They were up with the dawn the following morning. Walt loaded his baggage into the rear of the wagon while Mose waited on the seat, holding back the team. At last he turned to his father.
“I’ll write, Pa, I promise. Now that we’ll be using a civilian Post
Office instead of the field postal service, maybe we might even get our letters through once in a while.”
“I’d like that, son. As soon as you let us have an address, we’ll write back to you.”
They embraced, then Walt hugged his sister. “Be happy, Katie. I hope my horses serve you as well here on the farm as they did me. Look after them for me.”
“We will—but oh! We’re going to miss you, Walt! Do write, and come home and visit sometime!”
“I’ll try. We’ll see.” He hugged her again, and whispered in her ear, “When I’m gone, take Pa with you and look under the pillow on my bed. All right?”
She nodded and murmured, “All right. What’s there, Walt?”
“You’ll see.” He released her, and said more loudly, “Tell that Jim of yours to treat you right, or there’ll be a reckoning.”
He winked to take the sting out of his words, shared one more heartfelt embrace with his father, then swung up onto the wagon seat beside the driver. “All right, Mose. Let’s go get Mrs. Eliot.”
“Yassuh. Giddap there!”
Walt waved to his father and sister, then turned to look ahead as the team clip-clopped down the road. He smiled to himself, thinking of his father’s and sister’s reactions when they found the ten double eagles he’d left beneath his pillow, along with letters for each of them. He hoped his gift would help to make up, in some small measure, for his renewed absence.
The wagon began to round a bend. Walt glanced back, and watched his childhood home pass out of sight behind the trees. He knew he was cutting himself off from his past by leaving it, and his family, behind. So be it, he thought sadly. It wasn’t the same when I came back as it was when I left. Guess the war changed me more than I thought. I’ll put down new roots somewhere else… but not yet. Not yet.
The hired hack drew up outside a storefront labeled, in gold script on the glass window, “Josiah Fitch, Esq. Guns”.
“This is the place, sir,” the driver said, turning to Walt as he sat in the rear of the open buggy.
“Thankee. Wait here while I get my things, if you don’t mind.” He handed him a couple of greenbacks.
“Yessir!”
A bell rang as Walt opened the door, and a man sitting at a workbench behind the counter looked up as he removed a loupe from his eye. He looked to be in his early thirties, and was dressed in a white shirt over gray trousers beneath a craftsman’s apron.
“Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of assistance?”
Walt put down his burdens and offered his hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fitch. I’m Walter Ames, from Sparta. My brother-in-law-to-be, Lt. Jim Webber, allows you’re a good man to do business with. Also, my father, Edward Ames, brought his shotgun here for repair one time, and told me you drove a fair bargain.”
Fitch shook his hand firmly. “Your father is a fine gentleman, Mr. Ames. I’ve heard the lieutenant speak of his bride-to-be, but I didn’t know she had a brother.”
“I’ve been away. The war, you know.”
“I see. Were you in Lt. Webber’s unit?”
“No, a different regiment.” Walt grinned inwardly. Better not tell him just how different, he decided. It still wasn’t clear whether paroled Confederate soldiers were permitted to bear arms after they got home. Policies varied from district to district. “I’ve got a few rifles and revolvers here that I don’t need. I want to buy weapons that’ll be more suitable for the western frontier. I’d like to trade these against the others, and pay the balance.”
“So you’re bound for the west? I’ll be glad to assist you. I don’t guarantee the lowest prices, but they’ll be reasonable, and I’ll give fair value for whatever I take in trade from you.”
“Fair enough.” Walt undid the ties fastening the blanket roll and spread it out to expose the guns inside. “I’ve got three carbines, two Sharps and a Burnside.” He indicated the carpetbag. “In the bag there’s an Army Colt, a Navy Colt, a Lemat, and a Smith & Wesson Model 2, the .32 caliber.”
“The Sharps are in high demand; the Burnside less so. All the revolvers are popular models, the Colts in particular. May I?”
“Please do.”
The gunsmith spent ten minutes examining each firearm closely, opening the action, checking the chambers and bore for corrosion, and testing the lockup of the mechanism. At last he set down the Burnside carbine. “These have been well cared for, Mr. Ames. Your handiwork?”
“Yes. I learned how to look after them from our unit armorer. If they came to me in good condition, I kept them that way.”
“You were fortunate in your instructor. I see many firearms whose owners failed to clean them properly, leading to corrosion and pitting from blackpowder salts. What do you want to buy?”
“It’s a long list. First off, I want three of the Remington New Model Army & Navy .44 revolvers, the 1863 model with the safety notches cut in the cylinder, plus a spare cylinder for each of them.”
Fitch frowned. “I have one, but two more may be hard to source in a hurry if you’re leaving soon. I may have to recommend you to someone else to buy them.”
“I’ll let you source them for me, Mr. Fitch, even from a competitor if necessary, in order to keep things simple. I’ll even accept a lightly used example if necessary. My time here is limited, so I’ll trust you to do the best you can for me.”
The gunsmith nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate your trust. If I may ask, why the Remington revolvers? Many people prefer the grip shape and slightly lighter weight of the Colt Army model.”
“I do too, but the Colt’s got three shortcomings. First, you’ve got to lower the hammer on an empty chamber to carry it safely—the pins between each chamber simply don’t hold it securely enough. That means it’s a five-shooter unless you have enough warning to load the sixth chamber, and that doesn’t often happen before danger strikes. With the Remington you can load all six chambers, then lower the hammer into a safety notch between them. Second, the Colt mechanism binds up particularly badly if a spent percussion cap falls into the action. I had the opportunity to try one of the Remingtons last year, and found it wasn’t affected as much by that problem. Finally, the Colt has an open frame. If you have to whomp someone over the head with the barrel, you might bend it. The Remington has a top strap, which makes it much stronger.”
Fitch smothered a smile. “I daresay it is. You appear to have far more extensive experience with weapons than my average client. If I may ask another question, why three revolvers?”
“Spares are always useful. I may be a long way from a gunsmith out West. Also, I may need to arm a companion in an emergency.” He didn’t explain his real reason; that he’d habitually ridden with three revolvers for most of the past two years. There had been one or two times when he’d shot all three dry, and wished he’d had a fourth.
“That’s true. Next?”
“I need a repeating rifle. I used a Spencer cavalry carbine during the war, and liked it, but a couple of times I came across Henry rifles that held more than twice as many rounds.” He didn’t bother to explain that they’d been in the hands of his foes, and had made life miserable for him and his comrades. “I’d like one of them.”
“I have one, but I must warn you that it’s a particularly fine example, and therefore more expensive than usual.” He took down a rifle from a rack. “It has a twenty-four-inch octagonal barrel and a specially selected, highly figured walnut stock. It’s forty-two dollars.”
Walt mentally winced at the price as he accepted the rifle, looked it over, worked the lever action, and sighted down the barrel. “Yes, that’s costly, particularly when you consider the Henry’s shortcomings. The powder charge is too light for use at longer ranges, and the slot in the loading tube for the follower can get clogged with dirt very easily. Still, in a close-range fight where you’ve got to put out a lot of lead in a hurry, you can’t beat having sixteen rounds on tap. I’ll take it. I want a lot of shells for it, too. I’ve got to learn how it shoots, and that means burning p
owder. There’s no other way to get to know a rifle. I also want to take plenty of ammunition with me.”
“I can accommodate you, even if I have to buy more from elsewhere. Will three hundred rounds be sufficient?”
“Yes, I think so. Next, I’m heading first for the plains, then the mountains. I’m told rifle shots out there are sometimes taken at longer ranges than we’re used to here in the East. I want something that can reach out a goodly distance with accuracy, and still be powerful enough to take down a buffalo or bear. What do you recommend?”
“I have the very thing.” Fitch took a long, heavy, gleaming rifle from a rack, and passed it over the counter. “This is a Sharps New Model 1859 military rifle, formerly owned by a member of the Second Regiment of Berdan’s Sharpshooters. It fires a linen cartridge holding a .52 caliber 350 grain lead bullet over 64 grains of powder. It has a thirty-inch heavy barrel, a double set trigger and sights graduated to a thousand yards. The Sharpshooter who sold it to me claimed he’d made shots at three to four hundred yards without difficulty, and once at over six hundred yards. It’s in excellent condition overall.”
Walt inspected it closely. For a former service rifle it had been very well, even lovingly, maintained. “Looks like just what I need. How much?”
“It’s costly—sixty-five dollars. These rifles are hard to come by. Not many were made of the special Berdan Sharpshooter model, and very few have come onto the civilian market, so they carry a premium.”
“I can understand that. I’ll take it. Let me have a hundred cartridges for it as well. Finally, I want something small and easily concealed. I was thinking of something like Henry Deringer’s single-shot pistols. I see you have a few on display.”