Seven Out of Hell

by George G. Gilman

  Cursing Seward’s obtuseness, the rest of the horsemen streamed after him up a grassy slope featured with clumps of trees and weather-smoothed rocks. At the crest they halted and looked down in amazement at a shallow valley containing a sight with which all were familiar.

  “It’s a goddamn army camp!” Douglas said in a hushed whisper.

  “And how,” Bell put in.

  Hedges’ slitted eyes raked across the moonlit vista below, realizing it was more than a mere camp. For this was only half of it, with rigidly straight lines of tents, a timber headquarters building and a drill area. But on the other side of a road which bisected the valley the land was host to an ordnance and supply depot. Crowded close together were rows of artillery pieces, wagons, powder magazines, small arms and ammunition stores, feed barns, a corral crowded with horses and - in one corner - a wire mesh stockade. As the Union troopers looked on, a line of slaves was being urged through the open gate of the stockade. Other Negroes continued to work under armed guard in various sections of the depot.

  “Your decision, Captain,” Forrest said lightly.

  “An easy one,” Hedges replied, using his good leg to urge the horse forward, “I ain’t got no choice.”

  “You’ll do the talkin’?” the sergeant called after him.

  Hedges looked back over his shoulder. “We got chased out of Tennessee by the Yankees,” he answered. “Anyone wants to know the details, you just tagged along after me.” He forced a grin. “I’m the only one among us knows his ass from his elbow.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Scott muttered and ducked under a back-handed cuff from Forrest before the troopers moved off in the wake of the Captain.

  Only the stockade and the corral was fenced in, but sentries were posted at intervals around the perimeter of the camp and its adjacent depot. Two infantry privates flanked the heavily rutted road where it passed between the end of the first row of tents and a cluster of 4^-inch caliber brass cannon. They offered no overt threat with their carbines.

  Hedges halted his horse and pointed to his blood-soaked pants leg. “Got me a bad one, soldier,” he said. “Can I get it fixed here?”

  One of the sentries nodded. “Sure enough. Hospital tent’s down beyond the command post.”

  “Obliged,” Hedges replied. “Didn’t know about this place.”

  The second sentry spat. “Weren’t here two weeks ago, sarge. Rosecrans’s pushed Bragg back to Chattanooga and Bragg’s screaming for reinforcement and supplies to keep the Yankees crossing the Tennessee. Don’t reckon no bum leg’s gonna keep you outta the fight.”

  “Hear it’ll be over by Christmas,” Hedges said as he moved on down the road.

  Both sentries spat now, considering the familiar remark unworthy of further response. Hedges waited until they were out of earshot, riding between a row of single storey magazines and the tents of a cavalry regiment. Flickering camp fires augmented the moonlight but none of the Confederate soldiers moving about their evening chores gave the newcomers a second glance.

  “Look and remember,” Hedges muttered to the troopers. “All this stuff gets moved up to Bragg, Old Rosy won’t stand a chance.”

  “What are we supposed to do about it?” Rhett complained.

  “Like the Captain says,” Forrest hissed. “Look and remember.”

  “But—”

  “I didn’t say anything about yakking,” Hedges rasped as they went in front of the headquarters’ building with its pole flying the thirteen starred Rebel flag. “There’s a war on, Rhett. Careless talk costs lives.”

  They halted outside a large tent marked HOSPITAL.

  *****

  THE escaped hostages reached the railroad in the cold grey light of a new dawn and sat on the ties between the rails. After awhile the strain of their ordeal at the mountain encampment and the exhausting walk down from the high peaks overtook even the strongest of them and they slept.

  Even Edge, a man whose experience of life left him immune to suffering and who had taken his rest in the prison cabin, closed his eyes against the first rays of the sun and allowed his mind and body to submit to the encroachment of sleep.

  The humming of the rails woke him first and he was at the side of the stream, splashing icy water on to his stubbled face when the approach of the train roused the others. It was an east-bound freight and as it reached the top of the grade and entered the ravine the engineer was preparing to open the throttle and make good time through the mountains and down on to the central plain of Nevada.

  But he did a double-take towards the knot of people at the side of the track and jerked at the brake lever. Edge ambled across to join the others as the big locomotive ground to a halt beside them.

  “Holy cow!” the engineer gasped. “You the folks taken off by the Chinamen?”

  “You hear about that?” Edge drawled.

  “You bet we heard,” the fireman shot back in high excitement. “Telegraph ain’t stopped humming with the news.”

  “Seems no one was humming to come out and rescue us,” a man complained bitterly.

  Neither crewman was provoked by the comment. The engineer shrugged. “Them Chinamen must have taken fifty people off the trains. Ain’t a one of ’em bin seen again. Just too much mountain to search. How’d you get loose?”

  “It’s a long story,” Beth said with a sigh.

  “With music,” Edge put in. “About how she was almost made in the mountains.”

  The woman and Alvin glared at him hatefully.

  “Bound for Chicago by way of Salt Lake City, Cheyenne and Omaha,” the engineer announced. “Can’t offer you no Pullman comfort, but you can help yourself to oranges in the first boxcar.”

  Edge nodded and started off along the side of the train. The others trailed him and hoisted themselves up through the open door of a car. One end was stacked with orange crates, the scent of the fruit cloying the air. As soon as the last man had hauled himself aboard, the engineer sounded a blast on the whistle and the train jerked forward.

  Initially, Edge was the only one to feel hunger, and satisfy it by breaking open a crate and eating a half dozen oranges. But as the train’s speed increased and the steady clicking of the wheels against the track injected a sense of security into the others, they, too, accepted the engineer’s invitation. Suddenly ravenous, they gorged themselves on the fruit.

  Nobody talked and when an hour had passed, the weather getting warmer with the downhill rush of the train, most slipped into a secure sleep. Edge was sitting at the open door, his feet swinging freely in the slipstream, his mind impassively considering the loss of his stake.

  “Mr. Edge,” Alvin said, close behind him.

  The half-breed turned and studied the pale faces of the boy and the woman crouched at his side. “You want something?”

  Alvin cleared his throat. “I know about Beth’s past. Everybody in Redwood City knows she was a dancehall girl and...” He glanced at Beth.

  “And a whore,” she said for him, her eyes holding Edge’s gaze levelly.

  Alvin pumped his head. “Right. But that don’t make no difference to me. It does to my father, which is why we had to run off...”

  Again his voice trailed away. Edge clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “You askin’ me somethin’, Alvin?” he asked. “You want me to be best man at your weddin’?”

  “You ain’t even a…” Beth hissed, but held back as Alvin laid a restraining hand on her arm.

  “It’s just that I’d like you to stop insulting Beth, Mr. Edge.” His facial muscles were tight, pulling his pale skin taut over his cheekbones. “I told you I’m not much with a gun. But if you keep saying—”

  “Hold it, Alvin,” Edge cut in. His eyes narrowed and his lips curled back. “I got the message. Back it up with a threat and...”

  “Oh, my God. Look what they did?”

  Beth’s voice was hoarse with shock and her face was twisted by horror a moment before she turned away and began to vomit the oran
ges she had eaten.

  Edge and Alvin looked out through the open doorway. The train was swaying around a curve in the foothills and they could see across to the far side of an expanse of low brush where the railroad cut into a stand of pines. A body was strung upside down by a rope, bowing a low branch with its weight. At first it seemed to be cloaked in a skin tight garment, coal black and outlining every rise and plane, leaving no doubt the body was female. But as the train whistle shrilled, a million flies swarmed angrily away from their meal, revealing the body as a mere pulpy red mass, like moist clay shaped into human form. In some places the ravenous mouths of the insects had eaten the flesh down to the bone.

  Far off, on the crest of a hill, a line of men and two women clad in robes and coolie hats, looks down at the passing train.

  “It must be the girl who set us free,” Alvin croaked as the train plunged into the wood, leaving the horrific scene behind. “They skinned her alive.”

  “Yeah,” Edge agreed softly. “It’s always the woman that flays.”

  Chapter Eight

  THE scattered remnants of Confederate units fleeing from the scene of pitched battles with advancing Union troops were not uncommon occurrences in the areas immediately behind the war zones.

  The surgeon and the young duty officer listened to Hedges’ false explanation without suspicion and asked few questions. Their urgent tasks involved the future defense of Chattanooga and past campaigns were of no consequence. Thus, little time was lost in beginning treatment for Hedges and quartering the troopers in a pup tent adjacent to the hospital.

  An ether rag plunged Hedges into a deep sleep while the surgeon cleansed his wound of infection and a strong dose of morphine kept him heavily sedated throughout the night. But Forrest allowed the troopers no rest and, in truth, the men would have been reluctant to sleep, despite their fatigue. For a deep-seated fear lurked within each of them. They were sharing quarters with upwards of three thousand Johnnie Rebs and the troopers had only their stolen uniforms to guard their deception. Although it was purely geography that had led them to fight on the Union side, they had fought for too long against the Confederates, and suffered too much at their hand, to be able to feel at ease in their present position.

  So, following Forrest’s instructions, the troopers split into pairs and strolled around the depot section of the camp, taking a mental note of any detail they considered of value in planning its destruction.

  Nobody questioned their actions. A number of other, genuine, Rebel soldiers - infantry, cavalry and artillery - were seeking to relieve the boredom of camp life with evening strolls. And there were no signs warning of restricted areas: just stenciled notices on the powder magazines and ammunition stores ordering no smoking in the vicinity.

  By the time taps was sounded, the six were back in the privacy of their tent. Lamps were doused and fires died throughout the camp. Only one light flickered: from a candle under a blanket covering the heads of the six troopers crouching in their tent.

  Silently, Forrest flattened an area of earth and used a stolen knife to inscribe the area of the depot. Then he carved symbols in several sections, indicating the siting of the various supplies and stores. He passed the knife on to Bell, who added a duplicate set of symbols. And so it went on until Rhett, the last man in the group, had finished making his marks.

  Forrest studied the map in the dirt for almost five minutes, committing it to memory and planning a strategy Finally, he grunted, licked his thumb and forefinger and pinched out the candle flame. He tossed the blanket aside.

  “Captain, niggers, guns, powder,” he whispered. “Let’s go.”

  He pushed his head out through the tent flap and grimaced at the bright moonlight. But it served his purpose in that he could see clearly between the rows of tents and discern no movement - except for the ambling gait of one of the sentries far out on the perimeter. He snaked out and got up into a crouch to scuttle across an area of open ground to the side of the hospital tent. The others imitated his action.

  At one end of the hospital there was a canvas porch entrance, but the troopers did not attempt to reach it They sprawled out full length on the grass and wriggled in under the slack of the side wall. Inside, they stayed down for long moments, listening to the heavy breathing of drugged men. The ward contained a score of cots, twelve of which were occupied by patients. A medic dozed at a paper-littered trestle table beside the flapped entrance.

  As Forrest got to his feet and moved stealthily down the aisle between the cots, the others split up to examine the sleeping patients. Seward raised his hand to indicate he had located Hedges and all the men froze, looking towards the sergeant. Forrest halted behind the medic and drew his knife. Suddenly he closed in, clamped his left hand over the man’s mouth and used his right to drive the blade deep into the back of the medic. He died with a sigh and was allowed to rest gently across the table top.

  Forrest pointed to Bell and Scott, then to a litter resting against the tent wall. Moving like ghosts in the darkness, the designated men lifted the litter and moved down the aisle to Hedges’ cot. Within moments the gently snoring Captain had been transferred to the litter and was being carried towards the flap.

  Again, Forrest took the lead, peering out of the tent across the quiet camp before slipping outside with the men at his heels. They stayed on their feet this time, but crouched as they ran across the grass to the substantial shadow of the headquarters building. Here, they removed their boots and tied the laces together so the footwear could be slung around their necks.

  The road was a dangerously wide strip providing no cover in the silver blueness of the moonlight. They knew there were two sentries at the southern end and had to assume another pair of guards had been posted at the opposite side of the camp. Across it, the looming black shapes of heavy equipment and supply stores were a tempting invitation to the safety of cover.

  “Like jack rabbits or snakes?” Seward whispered.

  Forrest peered along the road in both directions and could see nothing that moved. He knew that the posted sentries should be looking out at the surrounding hills: but he had been in the army long enough to realize that few soldiers could be relied upon to carry out their duties to the letter. For the hundredth time since he had instituted this mission he cursed the fact that it was not he on the litter, with Hedges calling the shots.

  “We move together, in a group,” he rasped softly. “Slow and easy to keep down the noise. They spot us, run like hell.” He pointed and showed a mirthless grin. “Like the man said, that way’s north.”

  “What then?” Rhett asked nervously.

  “Then, for Christ’s sake, you do your own thinking,” Forrest snarled in low key.

  He saw in their gaunt faces that the troopers were no longer neutral. In a situation as tight as this, the sergeant was a bad second best to the sleeping Captain. But Forrest’s menacing expression warned against argument and all the men, except the litter bearers, drew their Colts. Their rifles had been left behind in the tent, considered unnecessary encumbrances at this stage.

  They stepped out into the soft moonlight, which seemed suddenly brighter and harsher. Forrest took the lead, followed by Bell and Scott with the litter. Seward and Rhett flanked one side, Douglas the other. Their stockinged feet padded silently on the packed down dirt. They looked to neither left nor right and when Forrest stepped into cover, the other scuttled after him.

  Forrest grinned his satisfaction. “How about that?” he muttered.

  “You’ll make general in no time,” Rhett breathed.

  Only Scott heard him.

  They were grouped between an ammunition store and a row of supply wagons. Each had some recollection of the map inscribed in the dirt and had some idea of his bearings. But, yet again, no one dared to move until Forrest took the initiative, heading along the line of wagons, then turning between two of them and following the rear fence of the corral. Several horses snorted, sensing the men’s presence, but there was no panic
among the animals.

  The litter was transferred to Seward and Rhett and the group crouched low as the men moved through a cluster of field guns with evil barrels snouting skywards. Next, they went between two lines of timber buildings that could have contained anything - food, maybe, or small arms. The wire-mesh fence at the side of the stockade took on a dull sheen in the moonlight. Forrest raised a hand to call a halt and the men crouched down.

  The stockade was about a hundred yards square with a row of low bunkhouses along one side. A bad smell rose from a series of open latrines behind the buildings. The gates were guarded by two men armed with carbines who were bored with their duty. All the slaves were inside the bunkhouses, awesomely aware that to move through the doorways after taps was a crime punishable by death. So the guards squatted on their haunches, shooting craps for match sticks.

  “Boots,” Forrest hissed, and the troopers stooped to put on their footwear. “Billy.”

  The youngster stood up, licked his lips and moved out into the open with the sergeant. Forrest spoke softly to him as they approached the stockade gate. The guards heard their footfalls and sprang to their feet, wary of an officer. But when they saw the lack of insignia, they relaxed.

  “We ain’t due off for another hour,” the younger guard said.

  Both men had left their carbines on the ground. Neither wore sidearm’s.

  “You’re through right now,” Forrest rasped, and he and Seward drew their revolvers simultaneously. “Turn around.”

  The younger man seemed about to protest, but as Seward pointed the Colt at his eye, he spun around. His companion did likewise. The two troopers stepped up close to the guards and swung their revolvers. As the men crumbled from the blows to the sides of their heads, the troopers caught them and lowered them silently to the ground. Forrest crouched and his knife swung twice. Bloody wounds opened up in both men’s chests, left of centre. Seward shot the two bolts on the gate, opened it a crack and slid inside. Forrest went through after him.

  There were no fastenings on the doors of the bunk-houses. Both men entered the same building and grimaced as they met the stink of close-packed humanity. Memories of Andersonville flooded their minds, but they pushed all extraneous thoughts from them. Each still had his revolver drawn and raked the interior with it as he allowed his eyes to distend to the darkness. Within moments the double rows of cots took shape and they became aware of at least fifty pairs of eyes watching them fearfully. The stench in the hot, difficult-to-breathe air grew stronger as the slaves sweated their fear.