“I imagine your services might have been in demand,” Philip asked sharply.
“The good ones commanded a good price. I turned down chases if I couldn’t justify the reward. The contract might be twice the value of the slave plus any bounty. It weren’t no life of leisure, an’ it sure weren’t no genteel work, but them slavers didn’t do no work.”
Stephen looked at Will with a sudden understanding. The wily slave hunter was good at knowing where to look and where to hide himself. Slaves were a fact of life in Mississippi, and one grew to hardly notice them or think anything about them was irregular. One conversed with them, even played with them as children, and saw them walking or driving daily as one went about one’s business. They were harmless creatures going about their days. That one or more had gotten away from the man who’d shepherded him and his companions this far was a feat worthy of some tale.
“Paul, can you go down the road to the constable and let him know we have the two remaining escaped Rebels?” Philip asked. Regarding Will closely, he was curious how someone could carry on as a collector of runaway property with such a cavalier front, as if it was just another vocation.
Paul nodded but gave Philip a “why me” look before sulking out of the kitchen. Philip poured coffee for each man and made sure he still had his carbine in easy reach. The two Rebels did not appear to be of the mind to wrest their freedom from him, but it would not do to take chances.
It was the chivalrous thing to do, one officer to another, to entertain the lieutenant while the authorities were fetched. At least it made a good excuse to study the two men up close. War was something that brought out the best and worst in humanity, much at the same time, and Philip reveled in the association. Will Hunter in particular fascinated him, if not with something of a repulsion.
His tongue loosened, Will regaled them with some of his adventures in tracking runaways and the early days with the 1st Alabama Cavalry. The tales were not exceptionally funny nor engaging, but they filled the time while they waited. For his part, Will was doing what he did best—talking a good game. His mind was elsewhere.
Chapter 22
Pearson Residence, Germantown, Ohio, August 20, 1862
When Paul arrived with the sheriff and two armed troopers, Philip and his guests were ushered into the study, where Charles sized up each man in Rebel uniform and said a few words with the sheriff. Paul, Philip, and the two prisoners followed the troopers to the front porch, where the men were put in irons and led away. Philip tried to protest, hand and ankle irons for men who’d shown no signs of trouble being unseemly to him, but the two troopers were in no mood to be trifled with.
Will and Stephen hobbled along the roadway with little fanfare, the local citizenry paying little attention to the two cuffed prisoners. Will, expecting more pleasant treatment for his rank, was appalled. The two enlisted cavalrymen who were nudging them along looked sourly upon their charges. Will noted the clean crispness of their accouterments and uniforms, guessing they were green volunteers. The camp guards, the men who had escorted them to Camp Chase and now these two mean-looking cusses, were going to be as abusive as they could be. Home guards and new levies were the worst sort to deal with. They had lived otherwise sheltered lives far from the active theaters of war. Anything was liable to happen.
Stephen was looking tired once again; the boy was used up. Will liked him, though he and Fredrick had kept to themselves while Pritchert was drawing attention to himself in his juvenile way.
With two prisoners in tow, the two cavalrymen tried the cavalier’s swagger, thinking themselves on top of the world.
“We takin’ ‘em back to Camp Chase tonight?” one trooper asked the other. With sandy blond hair and a crooked nose, the man was as tall as Will but a bit round around the waist, showing he’d never missed a meal in his life. His cheeks were rosy from days out in the sun and a little freckled.
“Naw, tomorrow,” came the reply from his companion, a taller man with a gait that resembled a bird’s with a to-and-fro motion with his upper torso in each step and a clackity-clack with his footfalls: heel toe, heel toe, heel toe. He brandished his carbine at port arms, using the butt to prod Will along for no reason. He kept a smug half-smile on his lips, obviously enjoying poking a Rebel officer in the back. There was little need to motivate the two prisoners, as their step was lively, but it seemed to give the man a sense of accomplishment.
No more nights outside, Will thought. The sun was down, leaving everything in a darkening state, that time of last light bathing everything in blue. Will and Stephen kept their stride, but it was getting harder to accept the constant nudging—especially whenever they encountered someone coming the opposite way. The trooper especially liked to nudge Will to show off.
The cavalry camp was in a semi-state of preparedness. Their errand over, the troopers saw to their horses along the picket line, and a level of bustle told Will they were indeed preparing to move out in the morning. It was a flash of deja vu that stirred him—the smell of cook fires, horse flesh, leather, feed, and canvas. The smell of char had been omnipresent at Camp Chase, but that was from the cookstoves and not from fires, and the stomping of the horses brought him back to what he loved the most about the cavalry.
Sitting trussed up like a condemned man, Lewis Hopewell sat cross-legged with his hands behind his back and a pole slipped through his arms so that it pressed uncomfortably against his back. He looked at Will and Stephen with hatred. Will felt nothing toward him in return and stared him down. There was not going to be any hint of shame from Will.
The troopers led both of them to an officer’s tent, and one stepped inside. The tall, lanky one looked important, or tried to do so around his fellows, who stared at the new arrivals with curiosity. Will was beyond caring about being the main attraction. The roundish trooper stepped back out and waved Will into the tent, where he was ushered into the presence of a lieutenant sitting at a camp desk with a single candle burning on the far corner, held upright by a pool of hardened wax. Then Will was given an abrupt shock. Seated on a camp stool was Jackson Kearns, whose expression changed from one of mirth to embarrassment upon Will’s entrance.
The new-looking desk was covered in papers and was of the type with legs that folded neatly into a rectangular box with a handle. One side was full of cubbyholes for filing and separating anything important enough to separate. The man behind it looked a little more seasoned, his tailored uniform lacking that certain newness. A cigar smoldered on the desk side, dropping ashes onto the grass that made up the tent floor. A bed and valise were evident in one corner. He had a boyish face and must have been Stephen’s age by Will’s estimation.
Sizing them up, the lieutenant took down their particulars for names and regiments and did not care to do much else. Will kept a steady bead on Jackson and answered Lieutenant Fisher’s questions mechanically. Jackson refused to make eye contact and seemed to be as uncomfortable as Will felt in facing his former commander, now enjoying the fruits of treachery.
Lieutenant Fisher finished his note taking and laid down his pencil. “Your captain here tells me you were the one mistreating your man out there. You’ll soon all be reunited and behind a stockade once more.”
“My captain don’t know from nuthin’!” Will said angrily. “He’s lucky it were just Hopewell an’ not him that I caught.” If he could have, he would have roughed Jackson up right there in the tent. “Hopewell murdered those other two men in cold blood. I suspect the captain didn’t tell you he was probably in on it neither.”
Lieutenant Fisher looked over at Jackson and raised his eyebrows. “This true?”
Jackson looked up suddenly, and a flash of fear washed his features. “Don’t know what Lieutenant Hunter is talking about. I do not know anything about who killed those two men.”
“Get them out of here,” Fisher said. and the tall guard who’d escorted them to the camp led the way out.
“Hopewell says Hunter killed them, Hunter says Hopewell killed t
hem and now implicates you. Who do you say killed them?” Fisher asked Jackson.
“I don’t know; I didn’t see Hopewell commit either crime,” Jackson said and tried to look truthful. “I suspect you have your murderer already, but I didn’t know about the murders until I found Hopewell tied to that tree.” It was better that he hadn’t led the troopers to Will and Stephen. It would give him something plausible to stand on when they were all back in the stockade.
“As you say,” Fisher said and leaned back in his chair. “We’ll head out in the morning, back to Camp Dennison, and send you and the others with a small detachment back to Camp Chase. I’ll forward with you my letter of recommendation to Colonel Moody for leniency for your cooperation.”
Jackson nodded. Hopefully that would be enough.
****
“Well, you going to take these off?” Will asked one of the guards, holding up his wrists with the irons dangling between the short chain connecting both ends. “And these?” he said, looking at the ankle irons.
“No,” replied the tall trooper.
“Am I likely to make a dash for it?”
“Don’t care. Irons stay on.”
“You gonna just watch us here or take us somewhere?”
“Come.” The trooper sighed and led them toward the guard tent, a wall tent set for troop guards on duty and used to house those on punishment. Inside were two troopers sitting on two cots. A guard stood lazily on watch. With no greeting or sign of reply, the man made little indication he’d seen his two new charges. The troopers in the tent poked their heads out to gawk, and Stephen and Will were led to a patch of grass inside a crude cordon of rope marking the area of the temporary stockade. Another man sat on a wooden horse with a sign around his neck that read, “Shirker.” He was suspended three feet from the ground with only the log to straddle, something he’d been doing for hours, and was looking pitiful at that.
“I’m an officer,” Will protested as they were led into the small yard. “I demand treatment according my rank. To start, remove these irons at once! If Captain Kearns can go about unchained and sleep in a tent, I demand that as well!”
“Whut?” the tall trooper sputtered. “You should git whut is accordin’ to your treason.”
“I won’t sleep out in the open.” Will turned on the man, causing him to flinch.
“You refuse?” the trooper parroted.
“I demand to speak with your commanding officer!”
Heaving another sigh, the trooper left the two of them in the yard and strode out with his birdlike motion.
“What you up to?” whispered Stephen.
“Not putting up with this.”
“You know what you’re doin’?” Stephen asked warily. The lieutenant was hard to read, and he didn’t know if the man was merely looking out for himself or was looking for some avenue of escape. For both of them.
Will dropped his voice. “We sleep in the open and they keep an eye on us, we’re going nowhere but back to Chase. We get somewhere out of sight, we get a chance of getting away once more.”
The trooper returned with Lieutenant Fisher leading.
“What’s the matter now?” Fisher demanded.
“As an officer, I demand to know where you plan on beddin’ us. I’ll not permit us to be trussed or kept in these irons.”
“You’re to bed right there.” The Lieutenant pointed to the grassy area outside of the wall tent.
“And them?” Will said, motioning to the troopers in the guard tent.
“What about them?” Fisher knew where this was going.
“They sleep in this tent, an’ we has to sleep in the open? Would you, if tables was turned, allow me to treat you in like manner?”
“Well, you don’t have me,” Fisher replied, unconvinced.
“They is laws fer civilized warfare, and officers is accorded treatment befitting they rank. Is you demandin’ that I sleep on the ground?”
“For pity’s sake!” Lieutenant Fisher cried. He had to admit the situation was embarrassing. The guard tent, so named for its position as a field stockade to be used as a place of punishment, was instead being used by two privates who had all the comforts of home and did not appear under any duress for their punishment.
“Roust them out,” Fisher conceded after a moment’s indecision.
“Sir?” the tall trooper asked, incredulous.
“Just do it!” Fisher snapped.
“You two, grab your blankets and out,” the tall trooper ordered. The lieutenant stood by looking whipped and angry.
Will smiled and winked at Stephen.
“And him too.” Will motioned to Stephen.
“What?” The lieutenant blanched.
“My batman, my man here. He to see to my needs, what’s proper for an officer.”
Fuming, Fisher shouted, “You have no needs to attend to!”
“Do you want yer superiors to hear how shabbily you treated a fellow officer?”
Fisher mouthed a few choice words he didn’t care to share openly in front of his men and stormed away, leaving the tall trooper agape. The two men under guard stood with blankets rolled, wondering if they were indeed losing their shelter. Will and Stephen stood still, hoping they’d scored a victory. The tall trooper, after more agonized moments of wondering what to do, shook his head and motioned the two out of the tent. He stood passively as Stephen and Will accommodated themselves to a cot each and looked as happy as they could.
“You wasn’t serious about seeing to your needs, were you, sir?” Stephen whispered.
“Yes, I were, Private. But seein’ as what I needed was a cot and shelter, I think I kin do without your service for the time being.” Will smiled.
“Sir,” Stephen said.
“Now, let’s get some shut-eye an’ see how vigilant these troopers is when it’s the dead hour.”
As Will and Stephen relaxed on the cots, Lewis was brought hobbling into the guard house area and retrussed outside the tent for the night. The flaps to the wall tent were thrown open so that the movements of the two occupants could easily be scrutinized as the camp entered into a nighttime state of inactivity save for the rotation of camp guards.
It was heavenly laying on the cot, no sticks or rocks to poke the back, no body parts to fall asleep, no dirt to cover yourself for concealment—just a peaceful camp to lull you. Stephen was soon deeply asleep.
Hours later, Will woke as if he’d not been asleep—like he’d only just shut his eyes, as he’d intended to do. The accidental sleep had cost him nothing. The camp was quiet save for the snoring coming from the two hapless troopers outside. The horses on the picket line stomped or snuffled occasionally, but there was little else to indicate that anything was paying attention. The stockade guard was nowhere to be seen, and though he and Stephen still had their hands bound with irons, there appeared to be little to prevent them from quietly walking away. He had not expected to find Jackson sitting pretty and cooperating with the enemy, not that he was surprised he would decide to turn himself in. He’d half-expected it. If the camp was quiet enough, he might just slip away or … or he could slip into Jackson’s tent and do him in. He could slip out and do Hopewell in too, but Hopewell was going to face what he’d done, as long as these cavalryman had a lick of sense in them. One thing at a time, he thought.
Will slowly swung his feet off of the cot and marveled at the comfort these new troopers were enjoying. Cots, new equipment, and healthy-looking mounts were spoiling these green troopers. He’d slept on the ground like his enlisted troopers and used captured equipment, and they rode tired old horses or anything they could purchase on their own.
There followed crisp footfalls on the grassy field alerting Will that all was not so quiet after all. Someone was awake and pacing a beat that took him near enough to the guard tent to make moving about risky. Then the sound tapered off. Someone isn’t where they’re supposed to be, Will thought.
The early morning air was cool, requiring the need of a bla
nket when out. The dense haze of a humid morning hung low to the ground, leaving one to imagine a great fire was burning and covering all with its murkiness. Will stole a glance around the corner of the tent flap. One trooper, the one he guessed was walking a beat, disappeared behind a row of tents. Another, leaning lazily against a tree with his carbine carelessly propped against it, was sound asleep. Will watched him for some minutes to see if he really was unconscious to the world. The bill of his forage cap obscured his eyes, but the man was surely asleep in a standing position aided by the tree. Snores and snuffles could be heard from the other tents. This was the chance. He was only going to get one more chance of making it to Cincinnati, and even this was going to be a long shot. His desire to escape wrestled with his desire for revenge. If he left now, he might never get a chance to get his hands on Kearns again. He looked over at Stephen, who was dead to the world. This was his last chance to get out of Ohio too.
“Stephen,” Will whispered. “Stephen.”
Stephen mumbled something and turned over.
“Stephen,” Will repeated. “Wake up, it’s time to get out of here.”
Stephen groaned and muttered what sounded like a question but then lay still. Will lightly stepped back into the dark of the tent and nudged him. Stephen shook violently and waved an arm as if warding off something unseen. He scratched his nose. Will kicked the cot, and Stephen sat up flailing and uttering a cry.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 62