“Oh, no. I trust you … so long as you promise to come tomorrow at two o’clock.”
“I promise.”
AT THE AMERICAN Hotel, the minister was in the dining room with four young men.
George could see them shoveling food and talking. Whoever they were, he did not need their scrutiny. So, despite the words “baked ham” scrawled on the chalkboard outside the dining room, he and his empty stomach headed up the stairs.
Not long after, there was a knock on his door.
It was the minister himself. “May I come in?”
George opened the door.
The minister glanced up the hallway and down, then they were alone together in the room. He looked George over, looked across the room to where the satchel lay. “Forgive me, but I’m curious as to your occupation.”
“You first,” said George, retreating to Maine monosyllables.
“I’m Bennett Young, a Bible student stopped for a time to discuss the Word with the good ladies of St. Albans.” He offered his hand.
George took it and looked down at Young’s boots—knee-high, shiny leather, made for holding a horse in line rather than a congregation.
“I like to ride,” said Young,
“A horseman of the Apocalypse?”
Young ignored the joke. “You know my name.
What’s yours?”
“Joshua Burns of Portland, Maine. I’m in timber.”
“How did you come by the limp, if I may ask?”
“Loggin’ is dangerous work. Axes are sharp.”
“The halfwit girl said you’re from the Twentieth Maine. She said you hurt your foot in a battle.”
“If she’s a halfwit, she might be wrong.”
“I hope your intentions toward her are honorable, sir.”
And that was a remark no man should brook without offense. George opened the door. “Our conversation is over.”
“My apologies,” said Young, “but I would be remiss—as a man of God—if I did not protect the weaker—and weaker-minded—among us.”
“Is that why townsfolk stare at me? They fear for the honor of a halfwit girl?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Bennett Young stepped into the hallway. “Good evening. Perhaps we can dine together some time and discuss Revelations.”
“You don’t talk like you’re from here,” said George.
“Nor do you.”
“We sound different in Maine.”
“As we do in Maryland,” said Young. “The western hills. Good Union folks there. Not slaveholders.”
George Amory did not believe a word of it. So he resolved to sleep with one eye open and his gun in his lap.
HE READ A Tale of Two Cities until his chin dropped finally onto his chest.
The church bell awoke him. Bong … Bong … Two in the morning. His lamp had sputtered out. The room was lit faintly by a streetlight. He cracked the window to let in a bit of air. He made sure the door was locked, slipped the Navy Colt under his pillow, got into bed….
Just after dawn, the cocking of a pistol awoke him, followed by the press of metal against his face and a whisper in his ear: “Say a word and you’re dead.”
It was one of the young men from the train. His hair was combed, his Vandyke trimmed, his shirt clean. He could have been dressed for church.
George raised his head, and the pistol slammed down. When he came to, it was full daylight. His head was throbbing. And two figures were sitting in the room.
He tried to speak, but a gag was choking him. He tried to move, but he was trussed to the bed. One of the men was Bennett Young, sitting so close that George could smell the polish on the leather boots.
“Never leave a window open next to a balcony. Makes it easy for nimble fellows to climb in. Now”— Young held up George’s revolver—”we’re all carryin’ these in our satchels.”
George spoke into the gag. I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Young gave the other one a nod, and a knife was pressed against George’s neck. Then Young said, “Make a noise and it will be your last. Understand?”
George nodded, and the pressure around his mouth was released.
“Why are you carryin’ a Navy six?” demanded Young. “The Yankee officer’s sidearm?”
“I was a Yankee officer.”
“What were you doin’ on Bank Street last night, speakin’ to the mother of the halfwit girl?”
The one with the knife whispered, “She sure is pretty for a halfwit.”
Bennett Young glanced at him, as if annoyed to be interrupted, then he looked back at George. “What were you doin’ up there?”
“Visiting Dawson Caldwell.”
“Caldwell’s a man with strong opinions,” said Young. “I’ve heard he’s crossed into Canada to talk with C. C. Clay.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said George.
“Did Caldwell tell you somethin’? Somethin’ I should know?”
“I told you. I’m a timberman … come to do business with a landowner.”
“I could have Teavis here strop a knife on your leg. Would that bring a new story? Like, you’re a Yankee agent from Canada who thinks he’s onto somethin’?”
George shook his head.
Bennett Young sat back. “I believe him, Teavis. We know somethin’s goin’ on with Caldwell and Clay. I’d telegraph Clay direct, but we agreed, once we crossed the border, no communicatin’. We can’t raise suspicion before we make our move.”
“My knife needs stroppin’ just the same.” Teavis thumbed the blade.
“We’re soldiers, not murderers. After three o’clock, there’s nothin’ this Yankee officer knows that can hurt us.” Bennett Young replaced the gag and left.
Three o’clock. What was happening at three o’clock? How could he get loose and stop it? George put his head back on the pillow and stared up at the cracked ceiling.
A face appeared above him, the breath sour. “My name is Squire Turner Teavis. Rode with Morgan in Ohio, till we got ourselves captured. Bennett and me and some others, we escaped from a prison camp outside Chicago and made it to Canada.”
So that was it. They were raiders.
“You see this?” Teavis fingered his lapel and the square of gray cloth pinned to the brown fabric. “A bit of Confederate uniform. Today, we’re bringin’ the war to a town full of smug Vermont Yankees.”
George tried to ask a question: How many?
“We got men here, more filterin’ in on the trains. We know most of them. But Clay said he might send more. So we watch. Every one of us carries a leather satchel or a side valise with a Navy Colt. And every man got this”—Teavis pulled out a bottle of clear liquid—”Greek fire. Liquid phosphorus. Throw it and—boom!”
Teavis sat and propped his feet on the bed. “Now, I’m takin’ a nap. I got a lot to do today. Twitch around tryin’ to get loose, and you might wake me up and I’m liable to geld you right in the bed.” Then he slid his hat down over his face and slept.
Nine chimes, ten, eleven.
Three hours, and George Amory lay there, trussed, cramped, trying to think his way out of this predicament.
The sun came out and flooded the room. Then the clouds rolled back, and the drizzle came down.
When Teavis awoke, George asked through the gag for water, and Teavis said no. George asked if he could take a piss, and Teavis said, “Go ahead,” but George held it. George asked if his mouth could be untied, if his legs could be loosened, if his hands could be released so that he could scratch his nose. No. No. And no.
As the clock struck twelve, Teavis stood and put the knife to George’s neck. “It’s eatin’ time. If I hear any noise, I’ll come up and cut off your Yankee nose.”
And George was alone. For an hour, he tried to get loose, but quietly, as he valued his nose. Left leg …right leg …left hand … right hand…. Finally, he gave up and stared at the ceiling and let his mind spin.
It was plain that while Bennett Young might
have known of Caldwell’s loyalties, Caldwell was like everybody else in town—ignorant of what was coming. Did Young know about the document in the Franklin County Bank? It sounded as if Caldwell and Clay had had separate dealings, and Clay was trying to get word to Young so that when Young made his move, he would know what was in the bank.
If George could get loose, perhaps he could get to the bank first.
At about two thirty, Bennett Young came back. He was wearing a gray suit with a shirt of butternut and a red neck cloth—almost a Confederate uniform. Teavis was with him.
“What you want to do with him?” asked Teavis.
“Leave him,” said Young.
“If we put Greek fire to the hotel, he won’t get out,” said Teavis.
“The fortunes of war. Isn’t that so, Lieutenant Burns?” Young patted George’s shoulder, one soldier to another. “Anything else to tell me?”
George shook his head.
“Then good luck to you, sir.”
EXCEPT FOR THE footfalls of the Confederates going downstairs, the hotel was quiet.
And there seemed to be little noise outside. Most towns went quiet on the day after market day, and many of the men of St. Albans had gone to meetings in Burlington that morning. It was the perfect day to stage a raid.
After a time, George heard Young’s voice in the street: “I hereby take possession of this town in the name of the Confederate States of America!”
This was followed by rebel yells … the sounds of men running … a gunshot … horses galloping … more rebel yells … shattering glass … screams in the street….
Then the door swung open. There stood Annie Mills, in a blue gingham dress and a gray apron.
“I knew it,” she said. “I knew you didn’t not come ‘cause you didn’t like me.”
He swung his head. Get over here and untie me.
“I was comin’ to yell at you,” she said, “but Mr. Young come out of the hotel and looked at me and said ‘Best get out of the way, girl’ … This is a tight knot.”
He felt her hands trembling against the sides of his face. But she got the gag off.
“How many?” he said.
“I was worried.” She leaned forward and kissed him. Then she stepped back. “We spent all mornin’ cookin’ fried chicken.”
“How many? How many men are with Bennett Young?”
She started untying one of his feet. “The wrists. Do the wrists first. And how many men?”
“Twenty, maybe? Mr. Young, he shouted about takin’ the town, then in a soft voice he told the men, ‘You know what to do.’ “
“What? What are they doing?”
“Four went to the St. Albans Bank, and four went to the First National, and four went to the Franklin County Bank. Then Mr. Young, he told four to go down Lake Street and keep people from comin’ up from the rail yards. And—”
“That’s sixteen,” said George.
“The rest are out in the street, shootin’, yellin’ … I don’t like yellin’.”
The right wrist came loose.
“Now the legs,” he said. “Untie my legs!”
“Don’t you yell at me, either. I cooked all mornin’ and you never came.”
“I’m sorry.” George untied his own left wrist.
“I hate gettin’ yelled at.” She untied the left leg. “And they’re throwin’ bottles of fire. I’m not goin’ out there again, and if you yell at me again, I’ll tie you up again.”
Finally free, he sprang to the window.
Down in the street, two mounted men were swinging pistols, herding people onto the town green, where two others kept them under guard.
George dressed quickly, threw on his hat, then his duster.
Right below the window, one of the other rebels was speaking politely to an old man: “The town’s closed, sir. Please go over to the green.”
“Closed?” said the old man. “Closed? You can’t close a town.”
Annie peered out over George’s shoulder. “Why, that’s Mr. Huntington.” And she reached out the window, “Hello—”
George put his hand to her mouth and shook his head. No. No noise.
Down below, old Mr. Huntington sniffed the air. “You’re drunk, mister.”
“If you don’t do what I say,” shouted the rebel, “I’ll shoot you.”
“Oh, no, you won’t,” came the old man’s voice. “I guess you won’t shoot me.”
George heard the bang of a big Navy Colt and the sound of a body falling.
Annie screamed.
George told her to be quiet or he’d gag her.
Her eyes widened, and she brought her hand to her mouth.
“Now, dear,” he said more gently, “can you read?”
“Well … yeah … I can even read chapter books.”
He snatch a book from the table. “Here’s one, all about the best of times and the worst of times. Like now. Sit here and read it and whatever’s goin’ on down there, you won’t notice. It’ll take you away, like a … a magic carpet.”
He led her to the chair in the corner. Then something occurred to him. He slipped the book from her hands and tore out a page: Ex Libris, George Amory. Then he kissed her, on the lips. “Don’t make a sound, and I’ll come back to kiss you again real soon. But if you come out in the street and get in the way, I’ll be awful mad.”
He reached up and removed a pin from her hair. And her smile caused his insides to wither. She drew a deep breath, as if she expected to be seduced and hoped for it to happen. Instead, he fingered the light material of her apron, pulled out his knife, and cut off a piece. Using the hairpin, he fixed the gray cloth to the lapel of his duster.
Her smile faded. Her brow lowered. “Why … you’re one of them.”
“I’m going to fool them … make them think I’m one of them. So … just read the book. And I’ll be back to rescue you.” He locked the door behind him.
THE CLERK HAD disappeared from the lobby. Two of the Bible ladies were watching out the window. Another was reading the Twenty-third Psalm, while in the street, Bennett Young was reining his horse in front of the hotel.
“You son of a bitch!” Old Man Huntington was back on his feet. “You shot me.”
“Get across the street,” said Young, “or we’ll shoot you again.”
Someone shouted from a store. “What’s all the noise? What are you celebratin’?”
“I’ll show you!” Young fired his gun, and a door slammed.
One of the ladies whispered to George, “Sir, what are we to do?”
George brought his finger to his lips. The lady nodded and turned again to the window.
Bennett Young was shouting, “You there! Caldwell! Dawson Caldwell!”
George saw Caldwell running across Main Street.
Young galloped after him. “Caldwell! You have something for me?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Caldwell kept running.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot,” said Young.
Caldwell pulled a pistol from his pocket, spun about, and Bennett Young fired.
“Good God,” Caldwell staggered and looked down at the blood spreading across his shirt. He raised a hand to touch it as if he did not believe it was his, then he dropped to his knees in the middle of the street, and after a moment, he fell facedown.
George cursed. He had hoped to use Caldwell, but … He heard someone behind him. It was the clerk, rushing toward the door with a pistol in his hand.
George grabbed a walking stick from the umbrella stand and with a deft swing sent the clerk sprawling across the carpet into the spittoon.
One of the ladies cried the clerk’s name and scurried over to him. “You’ve killed him, sir.”
“Stunned him. Saved him from himself.” Then George grabbed the clerk’s pistol—a little Colt Wells Fargo—and went out the back.
HE MOVED DOWN the alley behind the hotel, leaped a fence, and came up beside the Franklin County Bank.
He crouc
hed behind a stack of cordwood piled at the side door and peered in the window: Two Confederates were stuffing bills into the satchels.
“Is this it?” demanded one of them.
“That’s all the greenbacks.”
“All right, then,” said the big one to the tellers. “Into the vault with you.”
“You can’t do that!” said a teller in a green eye-shade.
“You Vermont Yankees are too damned stubborn. Do what you’re told.” The big rebel kicked the teller in the stomach and sent him flying into the vault. Then he pushed the other one in and slammed the door.
Out on the street, Bennett Young was galloping back and forth, like a good officer, controlling the battle. He shouted into the bank. “You boys done?”
“Done and comin’!”
Young pulled a bottle of Greek fire from his coat and flung it against the bank. It shattered, hissed, sizzled, and went out.
From the looks of things, their efforts to burn the town weren’t working. But if their plan was to sow terror in sleepy New England, they were doing a fine job.
Now there was gunfire from across the street. Young wheeled his horse and went galloping toward it. Meanwhile, the robbers came out of the Franklin County Bank, shooting their pistols into the air and giving out with rebel yells. They leaped onto two horses tethered out front and galloped after Young.
George took his chance. He slipped into the bank by the side door, and went up to the vault. “Hey! Hey in there! We’re burning the bank. But we’ll let you out if you find one thing.”
“What?” came a voice from within.
“Dawson Caldwell’s safety desposit box.”
There was a moment or two of silence, then, “It’s here.”
“Tell me the combination.”
“You promise you’ll let us out?”
“Not without the combination.”
“All right,” came the muffled voice. “Turn twice, counterclockwise, past zero. Now, three right….” And so forth until the tumblers clicked.
George pulled open the safe and poked the gun inside. “Hand me the box first.”
“What’s to say that you’ll let us out after we give it to you?” demanded the teller.
“My word … as a Confederate officer.”
The Lost Constitution Page 32