by Tony Masero
Zack pushed Van Olen ahead of him into the opened brick wall behind the old stoves.
“Go on, James. Get down there, this pack of fools will soon call attention to us if we don’t get a move on.”
With a nervous glance over his shoulder, Van Olen obeyed and disappeared into the darkness of the hole.
“You next,” Zack said to Gaspar, as he tried to hold back the press.
“Wait!” said Gaspar loudly in the direction of the crowd. “Listen, I hear footsteps. Damn! We are betrayed, the guards are coming.”
His words ripped through the heaving mass of men and as one the crowd desperately turned and as a body made to rush back to safety. The panicked men raced and stumbled, many of them falling underfoot as they sought to escape the prospect of a weeks solitary confinement in a dungeon cell.
“There,” said Gaspar, with an evil gleam in his eye as they were finally left alone. “That worked pretty damned well, didn’t it?”
“What?” asked Zack. “You heard no guards?”
“Not a one,” answered Gaspar, easing himself through the hole in the brick wall. “But it certainly cleared the way for us, didn’t it?”
With a chuckle at his deceit, Zack followed Gaspar swiftly down into the cellar where James awaited them. If was pitch black inside and they stumbled and felt their way by touch along the crumbling walls to the opening. The floor was alive with rivers of rats hidden amongst the straw and the insidious creatures squealed in protest as they were trodden underfoot.
“You first,” said James, holding Zack’s sleeve and pulling him forward.
“Very well,” said Zack. “Follow close behind.”
The three wormed their way along the tunnel and Zack felt the breeze of fresh air blowing down towards them from the opened end. He stilled the others behind as he cautiously peered out.
“Post three!” he heard a sentry report from above. “All’s well.”
As silently as they could the three made their way over to an overgrown pathway and Zack drew them to him.
“Watch,” he said. “As the sentry turns his back on us we must walk out together as boldly as if we belonged here. If we meet any Rebs along the way, do not forget to salute.”
It was a bitterly cold night and the warmth encouraged by their tension soon dissipated from their starved frames under the worn uniforms. As casually as they could manage they walked the path along the riverside and away from the prison. Zack kept his arm around James’ shoulder, partly to encourage him and also to give the appearance of comrades on their way back to their billet.
By ten o’clock they had reached the city’s outer fortifications without any mishaps. They found the guards there idle and not particularly vigilant and it was comparatively easy for them to climb over one of the big guns and run off into the countryside.
By dawn they were eight miles from the city and exhausted by both tension and starvation they decided to lie up during the day.
Chapter Three
Late in the afternoon they heard the bay of bloodhounds and knew they had to move on.
They had reached the edge of marshlands and the bitter cold continued to bite, it froze the pools of swamp water and coated the earth in a crisp frost. Where not frozen the soft spongy ground gave way underfoot and they were soon walking with soaked legs up to the knee. Huddling down in what little was left of their tattered uniforms; they made it deep into the marsh as night descended.
“My God!” complained James through chattering teeth. “I am so cold.”
“Here,” said Zack. “Let us rest a moment and have a morsel of food.”
They had with them whatever corn bread they had manage to put aside from their issue at the prison and a poor portion was divided amongst them.
“If we are to keep running we’ll have to get something more substantial soon,” advised Gaspar.
“With luck we shall meet a party of our own men.”
“Yes,” shivered James. “Hot coffee and bacon. Oh, what I would give for that.”
Zack held up his hand suddenly. “Hush! What is that?”
They heard it then coming to them on the breeze, it was the shuffle and blowing of horses. Carefully they made their way towards the sounds until they saw the light of fires.
“Rebel cavalry!” whispered Zack, as he made out the gray uniforms amongst a row of tents.
“Lie still,” warned Gaspar. “They will have pickets out.”
They lay there unable to move for fear of being discovered until a weak dawn enabled them to see their way and crawl around the enemy encampment. They struggled on through the freezing day finding a route through rough brush and briars that ripped their torn clothing even more. By the time nightfall arrived, weak and exhausted they were struggling through patches of water frozen in places into chunks. They came to a large area of sheet ice that shone with a pale bluish light under the night sky. Gaspar stepped out ahead of the others on the glassy surface and turned to call them on.
“We must be near the Chickahominy,” he called. “Come on, it’s sound underfoot here. At last we can….”
The ice suddenly gave way under him and his large body vanished under the surface in a brief instant followed by a plume of black water that surged up from where he had stood. The other two stumbled over to the bank nearest to the slopping water that flopped over the edge of the cracked ice.
“Gaspar!” James called, but there was no answer.
Then a pair of hands burst up through the opening and flailed around. Zack and James reached out, desperate to grip the flailing fingers. Gaspar’s hands found the edge of the broken ice but the piece gave way and the section fell back into the hole along with the hands still gripping it.
The two were reaching out near the edge of the frozen shelf and under them ominous cracks began to appear accompanied by the snap of disintegrating ice.
“Dammit!” cursed Zack. “We’ll be under ourselves if we go out any further.”
“Gaspar!” called James again. “Try again. Come on.”
Once more the pair of hands lunged upwards from the depths and for a brief instant the two saw the blackness of a soaked head of hair streaming water burst up but just as quickly it went down again.
“Hell!” said Zack. “It must be deep there. He’s fallen into some kind of hollow.”
They heard a drumming then, a hollow sound echoing along the underbelly of the ice as Gaspar beat from below trying to break his way out.
“He can’t find the opening in the dark, he’s drifting away” said Zack. “Quick, crack on the surface he might hear us and make his way over.”
James found a brittle fallen branch covered with frost and began to beat at the surface of the resistant ice but the rotten wood flew apart in his hands. Zack thumped with his bunched fists, desperately keeping up a tattoo of sound.
When they finally stopped there was nothing. No sound except a distant owl hooting in the distance and the slop of disturbed water.
“He’s gone,” said Zack disconsolately.
James slumped down on his haunches. “Goddamn!” he cursed. “GODDAMN!”
Zack sucked his fists where they had been frosted as he beat at the ice. He clenched his frozen fingers and flexed them.
“We’d better keep on,” he said. “Or we’ll end up like that ice there if we stay here.”
“After all our adventures,” spat James disgustedly. “To be drowned in a damned bog. It ain’t fair, it just ain’t fair.”
“Things rarely are,” Zack observed philosophically.
“Where was he from, do you know? Gaspar, that’s an unusual name.”
“I’m not sure,” answered Zack as they moved off. “His folks were originally from Latvia or somewhere like that, I think.”
James looked back over his shoulder at the shining sheet of ice fast disappearing behind them into the shadows. “Well, Godspeed, Gaspar, wherever you came from.”
Still disconsolate and disturbed by the loss of their friend
they found a copse of pine trees and went in deep and risked a fire. With the small box of matches they had brought with them it took three of their precious matches until the small blaze was going.
They huddled as close as they could to the meager flames, sitting hunched and glad of the comfort of the light if nothing else, eventually they both fell into an exhausted asleep.
Zack awoke to find the fire out and in the gray dawn light he could see that his pants were burnt to the knees as he had kept them so close to the flames. In his drugged sleep he had not noticed the burning and only the dampness of the cloth had saved him from worse damage.
He was stiff and he saw that his shoulder was rimed with frost and it lined James’ lock of fair hair where he lay still asleep. Zack scratched at the beard starting to darken his chin and nudged James with his boot.
“Come on, boy. Time to go,” he mumbled through frosted and cracked lips.
“Is there any bread left?” asked James. “I could eat my own hand I’m so damned hungry.”
Zack delved in his pocket and pulled out a hard crust. “Here,” he said, proffering the bread.
“What about you?” asked James.
“I’m not hungry any more. You go ahead.”
“That is real civil of you Zack.”
James crammed the small morsel into his mouth and it was gone in a second.
They wandered on, one behind the other in silence, each keeping to their own thoughts. Stumbling they left the copse of pine and pressed through some thick evergreen brush to suddenly find themselves on the edge of a road. It was still dark enough not to make out detail and Zack knelt to touch the rutted surface.
“Where does it go, do you think?” asked James.
Zack chewed at his flaking lip and shrugged, “I don’t know. It’s well used. Maybe back to Richmond.”
“Hell! You don’t think we’ve walked in a circle, do you?”
“No, we’re still on track and heading southeast towards Williamsburg,” answered Zack. “I’ve been keeping my eye on the North Star, we’re heading right.”
They had heard rumors at Libby that many of their own Union troops were at Williamsburg and most of the escapees were determine to head in that direction.
There was the snap of a broken twig and both of them started at the sound.
“Halt! Stand and present yourself!” Came the sudden cry and they both looked up to see a solitary Confederate standing in the gloom. He was dressed in threadbare forage cap and cape, and approached them with his Enfield rifle held up, the bayonet fixed and glittering menacingly.
“Aw! We got lost,” Zack said disarmingly, thinking quickly. “Been wandering around in that wood for hours.”
“Where you from? Which regiment?” asked the guard peering dimly at them in the gloom and suspiciously eying them up and down. Luckily their shabby uniforms were smeared with dirt, the blue hidden under filth in the shadowy dawn light.
“We’re with the 1st Tennessee,” answered Zack thinking fast and picking a regiment from the air.
“The 1st! They’re nowhere near here. Who the hell are you?”
As he came closer, Zack nudged James to move away from him.
“Stop there!” the soldier snapped, cocking the rifle. “You’re some of those damned escapees, ain’t you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, we’re with the 1st but were separated from our patrol in this damned bog.”
The soldier moved slowly, a step forward at a time, his rifle waving from side to side to cover each of them. “You raise your hands high. I want to see you ain’t holding anything. I reckon you’re either deserters or escaped Federals and I’m bound to take you in.”
“There’s nothing here,” said Zack, opening his hands.
“You’re damned Yankees,” spat the guard. “Blasted blue bellies, I see you clear now.”
James lunged at the man, in his weakened state it was not much of a leap and the Rebel lent forward and pinned James easily on the end of his bayonet.
As he did so, Zack moved. He pile-drove into the soldier, punching him solidly in the face and bringing a smear of blood from the man’s nose. The soldier recovered and tried to bring his rifle around but it was caught in James’ coat and did not come. Zack hit him again but the man would not go down. Zack clasped the rifle barrel and wrenched it up before the Rebel could fire it into James. The two struggled, each fighting to gain control of the Enfield.
Zack forgot his weakened state and fought with an energy founded in desperation, he stared into the soldier’s bloody face and suddenly thrust him backwards. The Rebel stepped away as he was forced back and stumbled over a frosted and exposed tree root by the side of the road. His worn boots slipped and he tumbled over backwards. Zack pulled hard and gained the rifle as the man fell, he spun it quickly over in his hands and spear-like, he thrust it down. Bringing his full weight to bear, he drove the bayonet deep into the soldier’s chest, feeling the sharp tip spear through the clothing and flesh underneath. The Rebel writhed, staring up at Zack and clutching at the rifle barrel and the blade now buried deep in his body. He opened his mouth to speak but only a trickle of blood spat from his lips.
Zack thought later that he must have struck lucky and hit some vital organ for the soldier died almost instantly. Blood bubbled in a splatter as he coughed and with a single long sigh the eyes glazed over and the head turned away and lay still.
Zack turned quickly to James. “How are you? Are you hurt bad?” he asked.
James was peeling aside his jacket and looking at the wound in his side. “He got me alright,” James said. “Saved by my coat mostly but he’s dug a hole in there.”
“You got a cloth to put over it?”
“I’ll do it. You’d best get rid of that blasted rebel though before his friends come calling, there must be more of them about.”
As Zack pulled the dead sentry off into the bushes, James wadded a handkerchief and stuffed in over his wound. Zack went through the guard’s knapsack and found a quarter round of cheese and some bread. He took the sack, ammunition pouch and canteen and lifted the Enfield to carry with him.
The two started out again, they were nervous and tired but felt better for their successful brush with the enemy. They were armed now and had a small portion of food enabling them to carry on with at least some sustenance. In such a mixture of elation and exhaustion they stumbled around a bend in the road and came across a troop of cavalry just rising from their beds to one side of the track.
Tents were set and breakfast cook-fires just started and the men standing around them looked up as the two ragged men came into sight. For an instant nobody moved, Zack and James as surprised as the cavalry. Then a trooper cried out, “Look here! Enemy!”
As Zack and James sprung into action and dived towards the roadside brush a volley of shots rang out and a cloud of white smoke burst from the cavalrymen’s carbines filling the brisk morning air and winging lead balls on their way towards the escapees. The shot clipped leaves and burst into tree bark as the two ran fast deep in amongst the bushes.
Zack knelt and fired the guard’s rifle blindly through the undergrowth, hoping to deter any followers. He could hear their wild cries of alarm and jerked his head to urge James on as he reloaded. A second burst of firing swathed through the undergrowth above his head and he swung around as he heard James utter a soft cry of pain. He saw his companion was flailing wildly, clutching at his left sleeve as he continued to run on.
Angrily, Zack pushed his way back through the bushes until he could see the camp clearly again. Men were running everywhere, some of them shouting orders whilst others hurried to saddle their ponies. The first mounted was a colonel with a slouch hat and a fancy black feathered plume jutting from the hatband. He looked a dressy sort of fellow, with curlicue gold braid up his sleeves. His saber was out and he was yelling a cry as he urged his pony across the road preparing to take off after the runaways.
Zack lined up the Enfield, determined to offer some s
etback to their followers. He reckoned if he could down the officer the others might be a little retrospective about chasing behind so boldly. He pulled the trigger and the officer twisted sideways in the saddle, his saber flying from his hand and his head wobbling dizzily, the plumed hat slid from the back of his head and dropped to the ground. As his fresh pony continued to trot along the road, the officer tumbled from the saddle and fell heavily. Cries of concern came from the rest of the troops and men dashed over towards the fallen officer. More shots came Zack’s way but he was already running into the wood away from the road and following fast after James.
Leaping and bounding, he swung this way and that through the dense brush, expecting a volley of rifle fire to find him at any moment. Surprisingly, none came and as he ran on Zack surmised that the cavalry were occupied with their fallen leader. He quickly overtook James who was weaving erratically along a narrow track in front. There was blood running down from both his sleeve and wounded side and Zack quickly caught up and helped him along with a supportive arm around the waist.
“Are we safe?” James gasped after they had run on in this way for twenty minutes. “I don’t think I can go much further.”
“Stop here, I’ll take a look at that arm.”
It proved to be no more than a graze that had torn the jacket sleeve apart but taken a slice out of the arm in passing.
“You’re lucky,” said Zack, binding his neckerchief around the wound. “It feels worse than it is.”
“Hurts like hell,” James groaned.
“Damned bad luck,” Zack sympathized. “Stuck with a bayonet and then winged in the space of one half hour.”
“What do we do now?”
“If we can, we find somewhere so you can rest up. I guess the idea of finding real doctoring is probably out of the question unless we both want to end up back at Libby.”
“You should leave me. I’ll go back and surrender to those cavalry boys; they’ll have a doctor nearby. You’ll stand a better chance alone.”
Zack pulled a wry face. “Don’t think it, James. I’m not giving up on you like that. We’re both in this together. Don’t worry, pal. I’ll get you back.”