by John Holt
On the bridge that night was Sergeant Cobb and his detail. It was a cold night, and he was bored. He checked his watch. He had another five hours before he would be relieved. Suddenly he heard the sound of horse’s hooves. He looked across the bridge and saw approaching riders.
“You’re out kind of late, sir,” he said, as he stopped Thackery.
Thackery ignored the comment. “Sergeant has anyone past this way in the last few minutes?” he asked.
The Sergeant nodded. “Yes sir, not fifteen minutes since,” he replied. “He said his name was Booth.”
“The very man,” said Setgeant Trelor.
Cobb looked puzzled. “What is it?” he asked. “What has happened?”
“President Lincoln has just been shot,” Thackery replied. “And Booth is the shooter. We need to get after him, and fast.”
“Quick man, let us through,” cried Trelor. “There’s not a moment to lose.”
* * *
Thackery and the Sergeant had been told to make their way to the Lucas Farm, where they would be safe. There they could rest, and get something to eat.
They had been travelling for several hours, but had seen no sign of the farm. The sky was overcast and threatening rain. Then, in the distance the Sergeant saw a large barn, and just beyond there was a small farmhouse. “There, sir,” he cried. “There it is.”
Thackery gave a sigh of relief. They had found the farm, and not a moment too soon. They were cold, they were hungry, and they were both so very tired. Here they would be safe for a while. Here they would find food, and somewhere to rest for the night.
The house was in complete darkness, and there wasn’t a sound. As far as he could see the house appeared to be empty. Leaving the Sergeant to watch the front, Thackery dismounted, and quietly made his way around to the back of the property. He tried the back door. It was locked. All of the windows were tightly shut. Reluctantly he decided that he would have to take a risk, and break a window. He bent down and picked up a large stone, and without further delay he struck the window hard. The glass remained intact. He struck once again. Once more the glass remained intact. He threw the stone to the ground, and started to hunt for another, something with a sharp point.
“There, that will do fine,” he muttered as he saw exactly what he was looking for. Once again he struck the glass. This time it shattered into dozens of pieces, falling noisily to the ground. Thackery ducked down below the window sill, and kept very quiet and waited, not daring to breath. Nothing happened. Nobody came.
He stood up reached through the shattered glass, and turned the catch to open the window. Cautiously he climbed through, into the room beyond. It was a small sitting room of some kind. In the fireplace he could see the still glowing embers from the fire. He then realized that the house was occupied, but the occupants must have gone to bed.
He knew that he had been fortunate so far, but he could not afford to hang around. He had to move, and move quickly. He walked to the door, and quietly opened it slightly. Placing his ear to the door he stood listening. He heard nothing. He opened the door a little further, and peered into the adjacent hallway. Still there was no sound. He walked into the hallway, and turned into the next room. It was the kitchen, and there still sitting on the kitchen table was the remains of what he assumed had been the occupants supper. Without further hesitation Thackery picked up a small joint of ham, and the remains of the bread lying there.
He quickly walked back into the sitting room, and climbed out of the window. As he did so, the Sergeant came from around the corner. “Quick, the barn,” said Thackery pointing.
The two men ran towards the barn, every so often they would look back at the house. It was still in darkness. A few moments later they arrived at the barn. The barn door was shut, but not secured. Sergeant Trelor pushed the door open, and they both entered, carefully closing the door behind. They then made their way to the first floor gallery in the barn, and hid in the straw. They lay down, ate their meal, and within a few moments they both fell into a deep sleep.
They were woken by the sound of people outside. Thackery stood up, and walked over to the small window in the end wall of the barn. He cautiously peered out. It was still quite early, and the sun was only just rising. He checked his fob watch. It had stopped at three twenty. He looked up at the sky, and judged that it was probably about six thirty. He could just see a group of soldiers walking away from the barn towards the house.
He roused the sleeping Sergeant. “It’s time to go, Sergeant. We have visitors, Bluebellies.”
The Sergeant yawned, and stretched.
“Sergeant, we need to go, now.”
They had to get away, far away, and fast. If they could just get back to that abandoned mine, their share of the gold was still there, buried close to the river bank. They could recover the gold and then make their way south, to Mexico perhaps. Or maybe they could get to Charleston, and pick up a ship to South America.
Silently the two men descended the loft ladder, and walked over to the main door. Thackery opened it slightly and looked out through the small slit. There was no sign of the soldiers. He opened the door, and stepped out of the barn. Carefully watching the house the two men led their horses to the corner of the barn, and turned down the side away from the house.
“Stop,” a voice called from behind him. They stopped and raised their hands. Thackery started to turn slowly. Suddenly the voice called out once again. “Jacob? Is that you?”
Thackery turned to face the voice. “Miles?” he said with surprise. “Miles it’s you.” He started to lower his hands, and move towards his friend.
“Stop, don’t move,” Miles called out. “Stay where you are.”
Thackery stopped and looked at the gun that Miles was holding, pointed straight at him. He looked up at his friend’s face. He wouldn’t shoot me, he thought. That was what he had always thought. He won’t shoot. He started to move slowly towards Miles.
“Stop, I said,” Miles called out. “I’ll shoot if I have to.”
Thackery stopped. “Miles you don’t mean that. You couldn’t shoot me.”
Miles lowered the gun slightly. He was right, he thought. I couldn’t shoot, how could I?
“Jacob,” he said. “It was you? I mean back at the theatre.” Thackery relaxed and started to smile. He said nothing but merely nodded. “It was you who ran into me, and sent me crashing into the wall.” Thackery stopped smiling, unsure. “I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye,” Miles continued. “I couldn’t be sure, not then. But it was you wasn’t it?”
Thackery looked at his friend, and nodded his head again. “Yes,” he said. “It was me. I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you too much.” Then quite suddenly Miles’ face hardened. He raised the gun once again. He shook his head. “No Jacob,” he cried. “You were with them, the assassins. They killed Lincoln. I can’t let you go Jacob.” He hesitated a few moments, and shook his head again. “I’m sorry, but you were part of it. I have to take you in.”
Jacob shook his head. “Miles we are old friends. Don’t you remember the times we had together?” He slowly started moving forward once again, his hands held out in front of him. “Remember the creek, the fishing, and the cat-fish. They were good times weren’t they?”
“Jacob those days have gone, they are over,” replied Miles a tear rolling down his cheek. “We are no longer those two young boys who played truant from school, and went to the creek.”
“I wish we could have those times again, Miles,” Jacob said simply.
Miles shook his head. “Maybe I do as well, but we can’t,” he replied. Jacob sighed and started to move forward once again. “Please Jacob, Stop,” Miles pleaded. “I’ll shoot if I have to, make no mistake.”
Thackery continued moving forward. “Do you remember the time that I fell in the creek, and you had to pull me out?” Still Thackery moved forward. “Come on Miles, put the gun down. What would my mother say if she were still alive and saw you holdi
ng a gun on me?”
“What do you mean if she were still alive?” Miles asked.
Jacob looked down. “She is dead, Miles,” he replied. “So is my father. They were killed by union soldiers.”
“When?” asked Miles.
Jacob looked up and shook his head. “Some months ago,” he replied. “I don’t know exactly.”
Miles shook his head. “That’s absolute nonsense, Jacob. Why would they kill your parents?” he replied. “It doesn’t make any sense. They are not dead Jacob. They are getting older certainly, but they are still very much alive.”
Jacob sadly shook his head. “They are dead, Miles,” he said. “I know that they are dead. Jarvis told me.”
“Jarvis,” repeated Miles. “Do you mean General Thomas Jarvis?”
Thackery nodded. “He said that a rogue band of soldiers did it. They got drunk and …”
“No,” Miles called out, as another piece of a puzzle fell into place. “I tell you they aren’t dead.”
Jacob was puzzled, he paused unsure. “How do you know Miles? How are you so sure?”
“Simple Jacob,” he replied. “I get letters from my father. He talks about them, and you, all the time. The last letter I received was written about three weeks ago and they were very much alive then.”
Jacob said nothing. He looked down at the ground, and then simply turned and started to walk away. “Jacob stop where you are,” yelled Miles. He continued walking.
“Halt,” Miles repeated. “Or I shoot.”
Once again Thackery ignored the command. Miles raised his gun, and nervously took aim. His hand was shaking as he squeezed the trigger and fired. The bullet hit Thackery in the left shoulder.
Thackery stumbled, and fell against the barn wall. He was shaking and breathing hard. He looked at his arm, as the blood ran down his sleeve and dripped on to the ground. Then he looked at his friend. Miles was crying as he raised his revolver ready to take another shot.
“Run Jacob,” he suddenly cried out, as he lowered his revolver. “Run. Get away.”
Thackery quickly turned, and started to run towards where the Sergeant waited with their horses. Not much further he thought. Another twenty-five, or thirty yards and he would be there.
Over to his right he could see more Union soldiers arriving. One trooper took his gun from the holster, and carefully took aim. The shot hit the barn wall just to Thackery’s left. Thackery quickened his pace, only another ten yards and he would reach the rear of the building where the horses were waiting.
“Run sir, quickly,” the Sergeant calls out.
Thackery quickly mounted his horse, and rode out from the back of the barn, the Sergeant a yard or two behind. They had not gone far when a shot rang out from the left side. The Sergeant groaned and fell to the ground, blood staining his upper chest. Thackery looked back in horror as the Sergeant fell. He quickly dismounted and started to run towards the man lying on the ground.
“Get away, sir,” the Sergeant yelled. “Leave me.”
Thackery continued moving forward. There were more shots fired, and the Sergeant was hit once again. He slumped forward. Thackery knew that he was dead. For almost four years he had relied on the Sergeant. Now he was gone. At that moment he knew that it had all been pointless, all for nothing. Sure Lincoln was dead. But nothing had changed. In a way Lincoln was not dead, he had merely been replaced by someone else, someone similar. Nothing had changed. Nothing except that now he was a wanted man, and he could never go home again.
Two more shots rang out. He re-mounted and rode away.
* * *
Chapter Thirty-Two
April 1865 – Under Arrest
There was a light breeze stirring the trees. Although the rain had stopped it was still cold. The sky was overcast, blotting out the full moon. An owl hooted then settled down for the night. Over by the brook a frog croaked. The only other sound was that of horses as they approached the house, behind them an open wagon.
Six riders emerged out of the shadows. The leader raised his right hand, and the group halted. He looked at his fob watch. It was just after two o’clock. There was another four hours before sunrise. The cloud suddenly parted and the moonlight lit up the area. The six men were dressed in blue uniforms. All were officers of the Union Army. The leader dismounted and walked forward. The others followed.
There was the house no more than fifty yards away. It was in complete darkness. The men spread out and slowly approached the building. There was no sound, except for the wind. As they reached the house the leader unbuttoned his holster and took out his revolver. He looked round at his men and simply nodded. Two of his men stepped forward and began hammering on the door.
“Open up,” they yelled. “Open up in the name of President Andrew Johnson.”
The leader raised his hand and the hammering stopped. He listened for a few moments, and then nodded once again. The hammering re-commenced.
“Open up, Thackery,” the leader screamed. “We know you’re in there.”
Suddenly a light appeared at an upstairs window. Then there was another, and another. Soon the whole of the upstairs was illuminated, the flickering candles casting dark shadows at the windows.
The leader nodded once again. Then there was more hammering on the door, and more yelling.
“I’m coming,” a voice called out. “I’m coming.”
Then a flickering light appeared at a ground floor window. The door began to open. As it did so the men moved forward, and pushed their way in.
“Aaron Thackery?” the leader asked the man standing in the hallway.
“No, my name is Thomas Lane,” the man replied. “What is it that you want?”
“I am Captain Edward Warren. I have a warrant to search this house,” the Captain replied as he made for the staircase, followed by his men.
“I am Aaron Thackery,” said a voice at the top of the stairs. “What do you want Captain?”
“Aaron Thackery,” the Captain yelled, stepping forward. “We have a warrant for your arrest. You are to come with us now. Get dressed,” he ordered.
“My arrest? There must be some mistake,” said Thackery puzzled. “What is the charge?”
The Captain quickly went up the stairs, and pushed past Thackery into the room. “Where about is your son Jacob Thackery?” he asked.
“My son,” said Thackery, even more puzzled. “He was captured some months ago. I imagine he is in a prison camp somewhere, I don’t know.”
The Captain shook his head, and started to walk around the room. “He’s not in prison, he is on the run,” he said quite simply.
“What is it?” asked Emily. “What are they saying about Jacob?”
Thackery walked over to where she was standing and put his arm around her. “They say he is on the run,” Aaron replied. He then looked at the Captain for a few moments. Then he looked at the other men. “What is this all about?” he asked. “I don’t understand.”
The men ignored him. They were too busy searching through the wardrobes, clothes being taken out and thrown roughly to the floor. Drawers being removed, the contents emptied. Chairs were being ripped open.
“What are you actually looking for?” he asked. Still there was no reply.
“If you would just say then, maybe I could help.” Still there was no reply.
Suddenly the leader pushed forward once again. “Get dressed.” Thackery protested once again, but to no avail. “Get dressed, I said,” the Captain repeated. He picked up some clothes lying on a chair, and threw them at Thackery. “Put them on …. Now.”
Aaron looked at Emily, and shook his head. He dressed quickly and was dragged out on to the landing. “What is going on?” he demanded to know.
Two troopers moved towards him. One raised his rifle and hit him hard. He fell to the floor, blood flowing from a deep gash at the side of his head. Emily screamed and ran forward. The second trooper pushed her away, and she fell against the wall. The troopers then began to drag Thacke
ry down the stairs. He turned and tried to go back to help her. He was struck once again.
As he was taken from the house he could smell acrid smoke. His eyes began to water and he started to cough, as the smoke filled the air. He was pushed into a carriage, and quickly driven away into the darkness.
As they drove away he looked back toward the house. He could see the smoke rising through the trees. Then he saw the flames as the orchard caught fire. The flames quickly spread to the stable block, and the barn, before heading towards the house. A few moments later the wagon turned towards the town and the house was no longer visible.
All that he could see was a bright red glow in the sky. All that he could hear was the crackle of burning wood.
* * *
Aaron Thackery was taken to a military prison where he was kept in solitary confinement. Day after day, week after week, he was asked the same questions over and over.
“What did he know about the plot?”
“What part did he play?”
“What role had his son played?”
“What did he know about the others who were involved?”
“Where were they hiding?”
“What did he know about the gold?”
“Nothing,” he had replied. He knew nothing. What plot? What others? What gold? He told them time and time again that he knew nothing. They did not believe him. He was beaten and tortured. He still knew nothing. What could he tell them? He did not know anything. Why would they not believe him? He begged and pleaded with his captors, but to no avail. There were never any explanations given as to what it was all about. No indications as to why the information was required.
His health began to suffer. The weeks became months, and in all of that time he received no word from home. If indeed his home was still there. The last he had seen of it were the flames as they spread from one building to another. And what of Emily, he wondered? Had she been arrested too? Was she still alive?
* * *
It was during the third month of his incarceration that Emily fell ill. At first it was just a slight cough, a minor irritation in her throat. Gradually it becme worse, and she was coughing constantly. She had difficulty breathing. Then the bleeding started, first from her mouth, and then from her nose. Shortly afterwards the fever started, and then excessive sweating. Although not a heavy woman, she began to lose weight.