The night had been spent in agony as the troopers refused to untie him even for sleep, instead letting him strain against the ropes for sport.
His stomach growled, and the shakiness in his limbs was disconcerting. Hunched over and staring at the ground, he only wished to die.
Philip stood before Lewis, anger displayed on his brow. He’d expected that they would have kept him on a tight rope, but this was beyond what they could do to a prisoner.
“Lieutenant Fisher, order your men to release him,” Philip said tersely.
Lewis looked up, regarding the Union men through wary eyes. Several times a noncommissioned officer had wandered by ordering the same thing, only to have the ropes tied tighter after he was spelled to go to the sink.
“Not on your life!” Fisher snapped. “He’s not going to do it to me a second time.”
“I order you to do it!” Philip shot back. Punishing a private or stripping a corporal of his stripes was one thing, but trussing a prisoner of war was something else. Philip regarded the lieutenant fiercely.
“You have no …”
Already in a disagreeable mood, Philip found that the constant questioning of his authority wore thin. “Damnit, man! Unless you want me to report to Adjutant General Hill about your lack of decorum, you will release the man!” Philip slapped his thigh for emphasis.
Fisher snapped a salute but could not contain the petulant look in his eyes as he did so. Refusing to utter the command, he motioned to one of the guards with his hand and stormed away.
“Use the leg irons on him instead,” Philip ordered and stood to, watching and waiting for compliance. The guards were moving as if in molasses just for cheek. Philip stood with his arms folded and huffed in irritation.
Now held fast with leg irons and nursing sore limbs, Lewis kept his eyes down. Philip ordered him fed and given water. Lewis looked as if he’d not eaten in a fortnight, and he devoured the hardtack thrown at their feet as if it was the only bread he was ever going to get again.
“Corporal of the guard!” Philip shouted.
“Sir,” Corporal Hardin said as he trotted up to Philip.
“Can you get me some coffee?” Philip asked, masking his growing impatience with the whole lot.
“Sir,” Hardin said and trotted off. It was the role of the guard mount that the element chosen for standing camp guard have a noncommissioned officer constantly roving from post to post to see to the guard mount’s needs and anything else happening about the camp. An officer of the day would be on duty whose job it was to see that the guard element was doing its duty and to see to the changing of the element and pass on orders. The hapless lieutenant was doing double duty in this respect as the only officer with the troop.
Philip leaned down and watched Lewis eat.
“You should be okay; I don’t suspect they will truss you up again,” Philip said.
Lewis continued attacking the hardtack and didn’t acknowledge Philip’s presence.
“You’ll be lucky to get back to Camp Dennison alive; you’d better make the good confession soon.”
Lewis chewed absently, staring a hole in the ground by Philip’s feet, a slow cud-like motion animating his jaw.
“Even if you didn’t kill those men, you’re likely to hang all the same, as no one will testify to the fact other than you.”
Philip paused and wondered what he was doing here. He was awful at this. He didn’t have much of relevance to say or even do at this point, and the conversation was bordering on inane. What do you say to the condemned?
The coffee arrived, and Philip drew a few sips before offering the cup to Lewis. With shaking arms, Lewis tried to grip the handle, but he couldn’t keep from dribbling liquid over the sides. It was impossible to keep the cup steady, and he took several tries before he was able to taste any. After some minutes of savoring, he returned the cup.
“Why’d you kill those men?” Philip asked. “I’m of the mind the lieutenant is telling the truth. Convince me I’m wrong.”
Lewis kept working his jaw up and down, slowly, and staring at the ground.
“You still say the lieutenant did it?”
Lewis looked up. He was either tired of the game or unable to hide it, but something in his eyes told Philip he had been right.
“I dun’ care if they hang me; I won’t go back to the stockade,” Lewis croaked, his voice crackling and dry, his swollen jaw barely moving.
“You ought to care, but I suppose if they are going to hang you for what you did, then you need to make peace with that,” Philip replied.
“Ain’t no peace, not in this worl’.”
“Then I suppose I’m not talking about this world.”
The condemned man, condemned perhaps more by his own thoughts than by anything that had been proved, sat with a weariness in his eyes—something that spoke of profound readiness to leave it all behind.
“Your Rebel friend Will says you murdered one of your party by his own witnessing and another some time before you were captured. You can’t claim any forgiveness until you’ve come to see that what you did was even wrong.”
“I did,” Lewis replied softly. He sat stoop-shouldered upon the grass with his hands in his lap like two encumbrances that had taken their final toll upon his strength.
“Why?”
“In my way.”
“Your friends say you attacked one of them before you were tied to that tree. Why take the risk if you were just trying to get away?”
“Couldn’t get away until they were dead,” Lewis replied. A finality to his statement sent chills down Philip’s spine.
“Killing them was supposed to help you get away?”
Lewis shrugged his shoulders. “Couldn’t have hurt.”
“You know killing is wrong, right?”
Lewis shrugged again.
“You know it is wrong, right?” Philip repeated. There was a slight nod of the head from the man in acknowledgment.
“Dun’ murder a hog,” came the laconic reply.
Philip drew back. “Are you equating your friends with beasts?”
“Kill hogs for a purpose; kill them for a purpose.”
By this time a small crowd was gathering behind Philip as troopers wandered over to listen in. Murmurs broke out now and again as the spectators reacted.
“Kill the bastard,” a voice behind Philip said.
“The lieutenant should’ve been my first one,” Lewis said with an evil glint to his eyes. They sparkled with renewed energy, and Philip saw a slight turn of his lips into a grin.
“Hang ‘im!” several voices agreed in turn.
“That there lieutenant were the one what brought it all. Let him join me at the gallows,” Lewis said in a crisp tone.
“They haven’t found him yet,” Philip replied.
“That because he the devil, the devil hisself, like me.” Lewis smirked.
Philip was becoming alarmed at the turn. The man was not himself—but there might be some truth to what he was babbling. Several others tittered in the background. The devil was a familiar topic of sermon and conversation alike, but not in this fashion.
“How’d you know it were I what killed them?” Lewis lifted his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “How’d you know but what he tell’d ya?”
Philip turned on Lewis. “But you said you killed them both.”
“That I did.” Despite his puffy face and bruised eye sockets, Lewis looked remarkably smug.
“So how can you blame the lieutenant?”
“Him what made me,” Lewis replied. “Made me kill them both. Would have killed Murdoch too, had I a chance.”
Philip was amazed at the coldness emanating from the man. He was either possessed or just very much touched in the head. The blows he’d taken could have been too much. One saw it occasionally with men who’d been grazed by a minié ball and knocked flat by the blow to the head. Confusion and incoherent babbling were common as a man was left to wander around in the rear of a battle
line until he either collapsed or was led away. A few weeks roaming the forests of Ohio with little food might also do the trick. Whatever it was, it was uncanny. Part of him wanted to walk away still.
“I tell you, you’ve only so many more chances to make this right before they carry sentence out. I would be remiss to let you go without making one last plea. Make the confession and square yourself with God.”
“Let’s hang him; right now.” The call went out from the crowd observing the eerie confessions of the prisoner.
Lewis regarded Philip coolly but said nothing.
There was anger in the troopers, and the crowd was growing larger by the moment as more calls went out to find a rope and a tree.
Philip stood and turned on the men. Not only did he see anger and weariness in their eyes, but also fear. They had probably never seen anyone recount with glee the murder of anyone.
“You men, disperse,” Philip ordered.
No one budged.
From behind the crowd of faces, perhaps four men deep, forming a ring around Philip and the prisoners, came another call for a hanging. The two guards standing with arms at port seemed undecided whether they should be guarding the prisoner or aiding in his demise.
“Corporal of the guard!” Philip shouted.
“Out of the way, Parson!” someone called.
The crowd surged toward Philip and Lewis. The men in front blundered into Philip and almost knocked him to the ground as more yells and jeers sounded out.
“Corporal of the guard!” Philip shouted again. “You men,” he said, turning to the guard nearest him, “you are to protect this man; those are your orders!” He could see the conflict in the guard closest to him. Shouts for him to step aside increased in ferocity as the whole troop crowded inward.
The guard hesitated and started to lower his carbine. Philip saw in his eyes that he had no intention of enforcing any order that might threaten his pards or prevent them from having their revenge.
“Private, stand to!” Philip shouted at the man.
The private flinched again and took another look at the troopers shoving their way toward the prisoner. The other man on duty was starting to force the others back with the butt end of his carbine.
“Out of the way, Preacher!” someone yelled.
None of the crowd was armed. Carbines, pistols, and sabers were tucked away in tents, being a nuisance to carry around when not on duty. The camp guards held their carbines and pistols at the ready.
Civilians were starting to wander into the camp to see what was going on, and traffic along the road was coming to a halt. Philip backed into the little corral they had made for the prisoners and inched toward the guard with the faltering eyes. Lewis was backing away as the troopers became more daring and crowded against the ropes.
Philip was unarmed; his own carbine was with his saddle at the house. No matter how authoritarian he sounded, the troopers ignored him.
“Give me your carbine!” Philip demanded of the guard closest to him.
“Don’t do it, Joe!” a man yelled.
The trooper looked from Philip to the crowd of his pards and then back to Philip and then to the prisoner.
“Trooper, give me your carbine!” Philip demanded once more. “You don’t want to be the one to quit your post, do you?”
The other guard was holding his own and hadn’t gotten to the point of threatening any of the surging cavalrymen directly.
“Give me your carbine!”
“Joe, let us by!”
The men had sense enough to know that the two men guarding the prisoner were under orders, and the appeal to give in was strong. The corporal of the guard was nowhere to be seen. Neither was the lieutenant, though he could not have failed to hear the ruckus.
“You are not relieved of your guard; I do want your carbine,” Philip said, this time in a more measured tone.
“We’ll thrash you later, Joe!” someone called.
The man named Joe hesitated and then handed Philip the carbine with a wild and scared look in his eyes.
“Draw your sidearm and stand your post,” Philip commanded. Philip put himself between the two guards and brandished the carbine triumphantly. Lewis ceased crawling backwards as the crowd hushed into a dull murmur and ceased their pushing forward.
“Any man who crosses the rope will be shot,” Philip stated. He brought the carbine to his shoulder, aiming it at the ground. “You two,” Philip addressed the two guards, “you will protect this man with your lives. You understand the meaning of your orders?”
The crowd of stony-faced men regarded Philip with hate. One by one, men began to peel off and attend to other duties about the camp. To Philip’s relief, the crowd melted away, leaving the two guards and Philip standing alone in the guardhouse.
The corporal of the guard appeared, looking worried.
“Where the devil were you, Hardin?” Philip demanded.
“Orders,” was all Hardin could say as he looked bewildered at the two guards.
“What? Out with it, Corporal Hardin. Whose orders?”
Corporal Hardin looked at the ground and mumbled, “Lieutenant Fisher’s.”
Philip took two quick steps toward the corporal, who shrank back.
“You, stay right here,” Philip hissed and stormed out of the pen and through the camp. He still had the trooper’s carbine. The camp was quiet again, but little clumps of men stood about whispering and staring at Philip as he passed by. No one dared to stop him.
Philip burst into the lieutenant’s tent and closed the flap behind him.
“What do you want?” Fisher exclaimed, startled at the intrusion.
“I’ll have your commission for this. You were going to let your command lynch that man, weren’t you? You’re lucky that at least the two guards had sense to obey orders, whether you wanted them to or not!”
“Get out of my tent!” Fisher cried. His own weapons sat at arm’s length, draped over the post of his cot.
Philip took a deep breath and pointed a trembling finger at the lieutenant. “You are going to surrender yourself to me, and I … I am going to escort you to the town jail. You, sir, are unfit for command.”
Disbelief washed over Fisher’s face.
“You have no …”
“I assume that authority right now as the ranking officer in this camp. You had a mutiny on your hands, and you did nothing about it, even encouraged it.” Philip tried to calm himself down with another deep breath. “Now, up!”
Lieutenant Fisher stared stonily at Philip but didn’t budge, indecision animating his eyes.
“Don’t make me call the corporal of the guard in here,” Philip said evenly. For emphasis, he raised the carbine in a sweeping motion.
Slowly, deliberately, the man stood and grabbed his hat, straightening himself.
Outside the tent another crowd had gathered, and as the two men exited, a hush fell. Humiliated, the lieutenant tried to look dignified as he walked in front of Philip. Calling the corporal of the guard, Philip ordered that Fisher and Lewis be brought out of the camp in the custody of the two guards.
Philip moved the little detail out onto the road, passing several civilians who’d stopped what they were doing to watch the little scene play out. Just yesterday he had been ready to leave Germantown with an apprehensive excitement to be beginning his new role and making contact with his new regiment. He wanted to be on with the journey, but was this just more distraction? He could have just walked away and let them lynch Hopewell. He was in for a pound now. The lieutenant of cavalry was derelict in his duty, but what business was it of Philip’s? It was now his neck on the line for this murdering, fugitive Rebel.
Don’t think this is what Father had in mind, he told himself as he walked behind the lieutenant.
The town jail was a small affair of block house design, with room for only a few inmates at any one time. A fieldstone exterior and thick walls gave the appearance of security, but inmates were seldom kept for long. Germantown
was not a place that necessarily needed a jail. Lewis would be safer and more secure in the jail than with the cavalrymen, but the lieutenant was another matter. There was little Philip could legally do to keep him in the jail, and it would be up to his chain of command to decide what to do with him, but bringing him here was the only thing Philip could think of doing to get him away from his men.
An hour later, Philip stood on the steps of the post office holding several telegrams, reading them over and over in disbelief. The 7th Ohio Cavalry was to saddle up and report back to Camp Dennison. Lieutenant Fisher had been relieved of his command and placed under arrest. It was the last statement that gave him pause: the lieutenant was to surrender his command to the ranking officer in charge of the troop. Lewis was to be escorted from the town jail back to Camp Dennison. No other officer was coming to fetch the troop. The ranking officer in charge was Philip.
Chapter 25
Camp of the 7th Ohio Cavalry, Germantown, Ohio, August 22, 1862
Sergeant Millidge was of no mind to trifle with anyone. The affront of losing his mount and his equipment had been enough to send him into a dark frame of mind; now it was worse. They’d almost had him, the Rebel. They’d almost had him hanging from a tree. That meddling preacher had laid low that outcome. Leading Lieutenant Fisher away was the last straw.
“You knowed what could happen?” Corporal Hardin asked in disbelief.
“Are you going to stand for the lieutenant bein’ arrested?” Millidge exploded in a torrent of invective at Hardin and anyone else nearby.
“Obeyin’ orders is one thing,” Hardin continued, looking a little like a boy waiting to be smacked for being petulant, “but mutiny will get us all a rope.”
“Not if that preacher is handled,” Millidge snapped. “We go down to the jail an’ demand they release Lieutenant Fisher, an’ we take care of the preacher. We all need to do it together.” Millidge looked around at the eyes of the men gathered around him. The camp had returned to normalcy in appearance, but the sergeants loyal to Fisher were quietly talking to the men about what to do.
The Shiloh Series: Books 1-3 Page 67