“We’ll never know,” Luke said.
“Because it won’t happen?”
“Because if it does, we’ll be blown to smithereens before we know what happened.”
“You really know how to make a fella feel encouraged, Luke—” Dale stopped short and hauled back on the reins. Colonel Lancaster had come to an abrupt halt in front of the wagon team. Garish, flickering light spilled over the cobblestones as a large number of men, many of them carrying torches, surged around a corner up ahead.
“That looks like trouble,” Dale muttered.
Luke was thinking the same thing. He knew mobs made of desperate civilians and deserters had taken to roaming the streets of Richmond. The army was trying to keep things under control, but it was getting more difficult with every passing day as the Yankee siege continued. Already there had been several riots.
And it looked like the two wagons were in the path of another one, as one of the men in the forefront of the mob yelled, “There are some wagons! There might be food in them!”
It was an easy conclusion to jump to. A starving man saw food everywhere.
The man waved his torch forward, and with a full-throated cry sounding like the howl of a wounded animal, the mob surged toward the wagons and riders.
CHAPTER 3
Luke saw Colonel Lancaster look around as if searching for a way out. In the narrow street it would be difficult and time-consuming to turn the wagons around, and there were no alleys nearby down which they could escape.
Fleeing wasn’t going to do any good. As close as the mob was, the starving men would be able to overtake the wagons without much trouble.
“Get ready to fight if you have to, Dale,” Luke said as he pulled the Griswold and Gunnison revolver from his waistband. He stood up and almost called Lancaster “Colonel,” catching himself just in time. He took a breath and shouted, “Mr. Lancaster, get out of the way!”
The army and the Confederate government wanted the bullion shipment kept secret, along with the fact that those with the wagons were soldiers. But the secret would be out if the mob swarmed over the wagons. Although the last thing he wanted was to hurt any of his fellow Southerners, Luke would do whatever was necessary to protect the gold. He hadn’t seen any firearms in the crowd, only torches and makeshift clubs. Figuring it was a small risk, he raised the revolver.
As Lancaster yanked his horse to the side, out of the line of fire, Luke thumbed back the hammer and squeezed the trigger. The Griswold and Gunnison was a .36 caliber weapon modeled after the Colt Navy and not noted for its accuracy. But the range was short, and he sent the pistol ball slamming into the cobblestones just a few feet in front of the mob’s leaders.
They stopped in a hurry.
The other members of the escort lifted rifles or pulled out pistols.
Luke knew hunger could make a man risk a great deal, up to and including his life. He cocked the revolver again and raised the barrel until he was aiming right between the eyes of the man who’d urged the mob into action. He didn’t know if the man was one of the leaders or just someone who’d been moved to shout, but he wanted to be certain the man was aware of the danger he was facing.
“You fellas stay right where you are!” Luke warned them. “We’ll shoot if we have to, make no mistake about that!”
“You can’t kill all of us!” somebody yelled.
Somebody in the back of the crowd, Luke noted. “No, but we can do for half of you. Maybe more than that.”
That estimate was good only if every member of the escort emptied his guns and scored a hit with every shot, which was highly unlikely, but the members of the mob probably wouldn’t bother to do that ciphering.
“And you’ll be the first one to die, mister,” Luke went on, addressing the man he’d aimed at. “Is it worth dying for something you can’t even eat?”
The man looked scared, but he asked, “What is it? What’s in those wagons?”
“Manufacturing equipment,” Luke said. He didn’t know where that answer came from, but it struck him as a good one. “We’re trying to get it out of town while we still can.”
“What sort of equipment?”
Luke bit back a curse. The varmint was awfully curious for somebody who had a gun pointed at him. “Leather goods. Tool and die presses.”
He wasn’t sure that answer even made sense. He didn’t know anything about manufacturing, but recalled hearing that phrase once from a fellow who owned a saddle shop.
He figured the stubborn man would want to take a look at the contents of the crate, but before that could happen, somebody else called out, “You don’t have any food?”
“Just our own provisions for the trip,” Luke answered, putting some sympathy in his voice. “And we’re going to be on mighty short rations just like everybody else.”
“We might as well let ’em go,” another man grumbled. “Can’t eat a bunch of damn machinery.”
“They’ve got horses,” yet another man said.
“I’ll be damned if I’m far enough gone that I’ll eat horse meat! Let ’em pass!”
After that bit of discourse, the crowd seemed to be of two minds. Some agreed they ought to let the travelers go, while others were so angered by the fate that had befallen them they wanted to hurt somebody, anybody, for any excuse. It was a delicate balance, and Luke knew it could tip at any second to the side of violence.
He glanced at his companions. They looked tense and ready to fight, but were scared, too. Only fools would not be scared in the face of an angry mob. Luke hoped none of them panicked and got trigger-happy. All it would take was one shot to set off an orgy of killing.
Finally, the man in the lead stepped aside and swung the blazing brand. “All right, go on and get out of here.” He raised his voice to the others in the mob. “Get out of the way! Let them pass!”
The men crowded to the sides of the street. As the wagons and riders passed between them it was uncomfortably like running a gauntlet. As the lead wagon rolled by the man with the torch, Luke told him, “You made a wise decision, friend. Good luck to you.”
“You’re the lucky ones,” the man said with bitterness in his voice. “You’re getting out of Richmond. Maybe the Yankees will catch you and kill you, but even if they do, it’ll be quick. The ones left behind here will be a long time dying.”
As he reloaded the expended chamber, Luke had a feeling the man’s grim prediction was correct.
The gold escorts didn’t encounter any more trouble as they made their way to the city’s edge, but Luke knew they were far from being out of danger yet. The Yankees patrolled heavily around Richmond to keep the city’s inhabitants bottled up while the artillery bombardment continued.
Colonel Lancaster dropped back alongside the lead wagon and said to Luke, “I appreciate your help with that mob back there, Jensen, but don’t forget that I’m in command here. The way you took charge bordered on insubordination.”
Well, then, you should’ve come up with some way to get us out of that mess, Luke thought, instead of sitting there looking scared and confused. He kept that opinion to himself, of course. “That’s not the way I meant it, Colonel. I was just trying anything to keep those fellas from swarming over us.”
“I understand,” Lancaster said with a nod. “Just remember in the future that you look to me for your orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel rode ahead again, and Dale said quietly, “If we’d waited for him to figure out what to do, we’d all be dead now.”
“More than likely,” Luke agreed. “The colonel’s a good commander out in the field, but I’m not sure he’s really cut out for a job like this.”
“That’s why I’m glad you’re with us, Luke. You can think on your feet about as well as anybody I ever saw.”
Luke took that compliment in silence. He had never thought of himself as any sort of strategist or tactician. He was just a fellow who wanted to stay alive and was willing to do almost anything to accomplish t
hat goal.
Their route took them north out of the city, which was opposite from where they wanted to go, but Luke understood why. The heaviest concentration of Yankee forces was south of Richmond. The scouts had to take the wagons north, then circle far to the west, well behind Union lines, and make a fast dash southward. It was the long way around, but a direct route just wasn’t possible.
Lancaster called a halt. “I want to be out of the city by dawn. The farther away we can get, the better.”
“How will we dodge those Yankee patrols?” Stratton asked.
“We’ll have to do some good scouting.” The colonel nodded toward Luke. “That’s why I want one of you men to give Jensen the horse you’re riding. I want a mount for Duquesne, too.”
“We’ve done plenty of scoutin’, Colonel,” Richards protested. “You can send a couple of us.”
Lancaster shook his head. “Jensen and Duquesne have served under my command. I know what they can do. You other men were recommended to me, but I haven’t seen you in action yet. Now, dismount, a couple of you.”
There was some angry muttering, but Richards and Casey swung down from their saddles.
“Keep your eyes open, Dale,” Luke said to his friend.
“You bet I will,” Dale promised.
Taking his rifle with him, Luke hopped down from the wagon seat. Richards handed him his reins and climbed up to take his place.
Once Luke and Remy were mounted, Lancaster told them, “Follow this road we’re on and see if the way is clear up ahead to the bridge about a mile from here. If it is, one of you come back and tell us, and we’ll come ahead.”
“What if the Yankees have blown up the bridge, Colonel?” Luke asked.
“Then we’ll have to find another way,” Lancaster replied as if that were the most obvious thing in the world, and Luke supposed it was.
Crossing the river was probably going to be the most difficult part of getting out of Richmond, Luke thought. If the Yankees really wanted to keep the citizens and the Confederate government trapped in the city, the first thing they should have done was destroy all the bridges.
But that would make it more difficult for them to get in and out of the city from the north once Richmond had fallen, so maybe one or two bridges were still standing. In normal times, the small road the Confederates were on was little used and might be overlooked, along with its bridge spanning the river.
Those were anything but normal times, however.
Luke and Remy moved forward, leaving the buildings on the edge of town behind. Trees crowded in on the road from both sides as they rode northward. Although the sky behind them was bright with the orange glow of fires and the flashes of exploding shells from the Yankee barrage, the darkness grew thicker the farther they went. Luke eyed the trees warily. A Yankee cavalry patrol could be hidden in there, and he wouldn’t see them until they opened fire.
But he might be able to hear them. He kept his ears open, listening for hoofbeats, the jingle of bit chains, or coughs, and he watched his horse’s ears. If the animal smelled other horses, it would prick its ears in the direction of the scent.
Nothing. Only the slow thud of hoofbeats from his and Remy’s mounts.
“We’re fortunate,” the Cajun whispered. “I don’t think anybody’s out there right now.”
“Yeah,” Luke breathed, “but I wouldn’t count us lucky until we see whether the bridge is there.”
The road was fairly straight, with only a few curves in it. They had just ridden around one when a large structure loomed in front of them about two hundred yards away. Luke recognized it as the covered bridge that crossed the James River.
“That’s it,” Remy said. “It’s still there.”
Luke grinned in the darkness. “Yeah.” His eyes searched the shadows around the bridge, looking for any sign of movement. “Seems to be deserted, too. But we’d better take a closer look before one of us goes back and tells the colonel the path is clear.”
“Absolutely.” Remy heeled his horse into a slightly faster gait. “Let’s go.”
Luke started to call out to his friend and tell him to slow down, but Remy was right, they didn’t really have any time to waste. As Colonel Lancaster had said, the farther away from Richmond they were by morning, the better. Luke rode after Remy.
They were about fifty feet away from the bridge when a sheet of orange muzzle flame split the night.
CHAPTER 4
Luke’s only warning was a sudden toss of his horse’s head a split second before the shots rang out, giving him just enough time to duck.
It was a good thing he did. As it passed over his head, he heard the sinister hum of a minié ball.
He pulled the revolver from his waistband—he had five rounds ready—and cocked the gun as he brought it up, turning the cylinder from the empty chamber on which the hammer had rested.
As several men on horseback burst out of the trees just short of the bridge, Luke thumbed off a couple rounds. Even though he couldn’t see their uniforms, he knew they had to be Yankee cavalrymen.
More shots blasted as muzzle flames continued to tear orange gashes in the darkness. He pulled hard on the reins to whirl his horse around and flee, but saw something that made him stop short.
A match had flared into life on the bridge. He could think of only one reason why somebody would be striking a lucifer out there.
To light the fuse attached to a keg of blasting powder.
The Yankees hadn’t destroyed the bridge yet, but only because they were just getting around to it.
“Cover me, Remy!” Luke yelled, and he did something the Yankees wouldn’t have expected in a million years. If he’d had time to think about it, likely he wouldn’t have done it.
He charged straight at them.
Luke leaned forward over his horse’s neck as he sent the animal lunging toward the cavalrymen. The revolver in his hand roared twice more. He saw one of the troopers topple loosely from the saddle. A glance over his shoulder told Luke his friend had taken cover in the trees at the side of the road and opened up with his revolver. Remy was firing, too.
The Yankees were confused. Instead of fleeing, as they had expected, the two Confederates were putting up a fight. The patrol’s charge had broken up, and the horses were milling around in the road.
Luke’s horse thundered between a couple Yankees. One of the cavalrymen drew a saber. Silvery moonlight winked off the blade as it started to slash toward Luke. He still had one round in the revolver. Tipping up the barrel, he triggered the gun.
The .36 caliber slug caught the saber-wielding cavalryman in the throat. A fountain of blood, black in the moonlight, sprayed from him as he went backward out of his saddle. Luke flashed past, unharmed.
With no time to reload the revolver, he jammed it back in his waistband. Up ahead, sparks flew in the darkness as the lit fuse burned toward a small keg filled with blasting powder. It would be enough to destroy the bridge. Even if the explosion didn’t blow the bridge in two, the fire it was bound to start would finish the job.
The fuse lighter stood in the middle of the bridge, vaguely illuminated by the sputtering glow. Confused by the unexpected fight of the Confederates, he took too long to decide whether to flee or stay. Luke was already on the bridge, his horse’s hooves ringing on the planks and echoing from the arched cover.
The Yankee lifted a rifle and fired. The ball whipped past Luke’s head.
Luke kicked his feet free of the stirrups and left the saddle in a diving tackle that sent him crashing into the enemy soldier. The collision’s impact drove the man backward off his feet.
Luke landed hard, too, knocking the breath out of him. He gasped for air as he scrambled to his knees. The powder keg was about ten feet from him, sitting against the wall on the left-hand side of the bridge. The fuse had only a few inches left to burn.
The Yankee wasn’t interested in fighting anymore. He just wanted to get the hell out of there before the powder went off and he was blown
to bits. Leaping to his feet, he raced for the north end of the bridge.
Luke threw himself at the keg, snatched it up, and plucked the fuse from it as he rolled over. As he came up again, he flung the keg after the fleeing Yankee.
It landed beside the man and bounced past him. He screamed in sheer terror and stumbled, falling and hitting the ground right at the end of the bridge. He rolled over a couple times and came to a stop with the keg resting on its side a few feet away from him.
Luke heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats and looked back to see the cavalry patrol had regrouped. They charged toward him. Their revolvers roared as they opened fire.
Luke lunged toward the closest decorative opening in the cover of the bridge as bullets sizzled through the air right behind his back. Down at the far end of the bridge, the Yankee who’d lit the fuse screeched, “Stop shooting! Hold your—”
It was all he got out before one of the wild slugs aimed at Luke struck the powder keg. Luke saw the fierce burst of flames from the explosion out of the corner of his eye as he dived through the opening in the bridge cover.
There wouldn’t be enough left of that luckless Yankee to bury.
Luke had problems of his own. He was plunging through empty air toward the black surface of the James River.
He barely had time to drag a breath into his lungs before he struck the chilly water and went under. The river closed over him. He kept sinking for a moment before he was able to right himself.
He wasn’t the best swimmer in the world, but he stroked his arms and kicked his feet, fighting his way back to the surface until his head broke out of the water.
While he tried to stay afloat, gun thunder pealed and echoed along the bridge. The Yankees weren’t shooting at him, Luke realized. A separate fight was going on under the arched cover. Muzzle flashes were visible through the openings in the walls.
Since nobody seemed to be trying to kill him at the moment, he struggled toward the northern bank, which was closer. By the time he got there, the shooting had stopped and a couple horsemen emerged from under the cover near the site of the blast.
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