by Mikki Sadil
“What I have to say is that I’m a Southerner just like you. I’m from Kentucky, I’ve been on a mission to find some relatives, but they are still missing. I didn’t blow up whatever bridge you’re talking about, and I never saw this man before in my life.”
The Captain laughed. “That’s a good story, even if it’s not true. If he doesn’t know you, how did he know your name and what you looked like? We caught up with you because of his description.”
Ben shrugged, then winced at the pain in his head. “I’ve been here a couple of days, asking questions. Maybe he was someone I was talking to, I don’t know, I’ve talked to a lot of people. I don’t remember them all.”
Captain Tremaine frowned. The young man in front of him was calm, appeared to show no fear or anxiety. If he were the one to blow up the bridge, wouldn’t he show some signs of agitation?
He called for the soldier who had brought Ben in. “Gaines, did you search this man?”
“Yes sir, Captain. He didn’t have nothing on him, not in his saddle bags, either.”
“Was he armed?”
“Yes sir, a pistol in his belt, hadn’t been fired. Neither had his rifle. No other weapons, sir, nothing in his saddle bags like fuses and such.”
The Captain dismissed the soldier, and frowned at Ben. “Well, it seems I have nothing to hold you on. So I guess you can go.”
“Thank you, Captain. What about that guy over there? What are you going to do with him?”
“I suggest that is none of your business. I also suggest you leave now, before I change my mind.”
Ben nodded to him, turned and left the room. As he passed the soldier sitting in the hallway, he asked, “Where is my horse? And the rest of my belongings?”
The soldier jerked his head towards the back of the hallway. “He’s out there in back. Don’t know anything else.”
Outside, Mack stood lightly tied to a hitching rail. His saddle, and Ben’s rifle, pistol, and saddle bags lay in the dirt beside him. There was no one around, no soldiers, no civilians. Ben saddled up and looked through his bags, but nothing was missing. He mounted, but hesitated, wondering about Joe. What’s going on? Joe drinks, but so do Finn and Sam, and I’ve never seen any of them drunk. Why would Joe be the only one drunk, anyway, and the only one caught? He’s never away from Finn and Sam. And if he was so drunk, how could he remember my name and what I…
His thoughts were interrupted by loud talking and shouting coming from the house, and decided he should get going before anything else happened. He quickly turned Mack and trotted out towards the street. It was full now of both Confederates and civilians, some standing in small groups talking, others rushing back and forth across from one side of the street to the other. Plainly, the news had spread to Smith’s Springs and was causing confusion and fear. Ben decided the best thing for him was to disappear as quickly as he could. He pulled the reins to reduce Mack to a walk, and continued down the street, avoiding the people as best he could. As soon as he was out of sight of the town, he urged Mack forward into a gallop towards Fort Henry.
* * *
Christmas, 1862, came and went without much fanfare. The fort’s cook did produce a turkey mid-day meal with all the trimmings: sweet potato casserole, baby carrots and onions cooked in a lemon-ginger sauce, cornbread dressing, and several large pumpkin pies. Even though most of the troops were out fighting somewhere, the meal was devoured by the fifty or so who remained at the fort. There was barely enough left of the three turkeys to make sandwiches for the evening supper. One of the soldiers sat down at the old piano and played Christmas carols while most of them sang, but the few gifts that had made it through the mail had already been opened, and now the lone Christmas tree was bare of anything but the decorations some of the soldiers had made.
Ben thought about Grammy and his parents, and all the past Christmases at home. He wondered how long it would be before he could get home again, even if only for a short visit. Then, in early January, 1863, it seemed like maybe he could accomplish this sooner than he had thought.
He knocked on General MacPhee’s door, and went inside when the gruff voice called, “Enter!”
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
The General was again standing in front of his wall of maps. He had an unlit cigar in his mouth, chewing absently on the end of it. Although he was not smoking it, the chewed-up end spilled an unpleasant odor into the room.
“Yes, Ben, I wanted to talk to you. I think I’m going to send you on a final mission from this post, and from there you will once again report to Mistress Fenaway in Lexington. I…”
Ben was so excited when he heard this last that he forgot his manners, and interrupted the General. “Mistress Fenaway? You mean, I’m going home to Kentucky? I…”
The General frowned. “If you would give me a chance, young man, and listen instead of interrupting, you might learn some things. Now, sit down, and shut up.”
Ben sat down in front of the General’s desk, and started to apologize, but one look at his face told him not to say a word.
MacPhee turned back to his map wall, and pointed to several starred points on one map. “Most of this war seems to be turning towards the Southern states, such as Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama.” He stopped and shook his head. “It all seems so pointless…one round the Union wins, the next one the Confederates. Anyway, at this point I think you can be of far more use closer to these other states than here. Right now, my main problem is to continue to train the new recruits, and keep this fort open. We’ve been very fortunate so far in that we’ve never come under attack. I don’t expect that to happen, because we’re not in a strategic place, but you never know what these Rebels are going to do next.” He heaved a big sigh, and turned back to Ben.
“I’m giving you one more assignment to take care of on your way south. I want you to go to the town of Palmyra, in Tennessee. It’s on the Cumberland River, which is a major water transport for our troops and supplies. I understand a Confederate General by the name of Wheeler is encamped there. We want to know what he is up to, and if his troops are planning to disrupt our shipping.”
The General walked over to his desk, and opened a drawer. He withdrew a stack of bills, a map, and an envelope. He handed all of this over to Ben.
“Here’s what you are going to do. The money is for you to buy rifles and pistols, as many as you can carry on horseback. There is a man in Palmyra who stockpiles these weapons, and he sells to whoever has the money. He’s not a patriot for either side. His name is Wiggins, and his place is marked on the map. After you’ve learned all you can, go to him, buy the weapons, and then deliver them, your information, and this letter to the garrison at Dover. Your next mission will be given to you there.”
He shook hands with Ben, and said, “You’ve been a good soldier, Ben, even if not in uniform. The Union thanks you for all you have done. Goodbye and good luck.”
He clapped Ben on the shoulder, and returned to his desk. Ben knew a dismissal when he saw one, and knew better than to say anything. He left the General and went out to the stables to find his horse.
* * *
When Ben reached Palmyra he was exhausted. Days and nights of hard riding, avoiding the many skirmishes and even a couple of heavy battles he ran into along the way, had taken its toll. He was shaken by the many dead soldiers, of both armies, he had seen along the way. At one point, he had been spotted by Rebels and chased through a forest, shots ringing out over his head and on either side of Mack. If Mack had not been such a fast runner, Ben knew he would have been killed that day, but he finally outran his pursuers. Ben also thanked the Lord those particular soldiers were very poor shots.
He pulled Mack to a stop in front of the first saloon he saw, dismounted and tied him up. He dusted himself off, and headed for the saloon. He didn’t know what he needed the most, a decent meal or a good bed to sleep in.
As he walked towards the door, he noticed a number of Confederate horses tied to the long hitching ra
il that stretched for almost the entire block. The interesting thing was that almost all of them had not only rifles in their scabbards, but belts with holsters and pistols slung across the back of the saddles. He looked around and saw signs on the windows of shops all saying No Weapons Allowed That Includes Soldiers.
Hmm, I wonder why they don’t allow weapons? Never saw that before in the other towns.
Once inside the saloon, Ben thought better of his question. There were a few tables occupied by civilian men talking quietly, or playing raucous games of cards. They were loud, but they were friendly. Most of the other tables were full of soldiers, arguing, shouting at each other, and at one table where a seemingly unfriendly game of poker was going on, two soldiers were on their feet swinging drunkenly at each other.
Ben headed for a small open table close to the soldiers. The bar maid came over and asked what he wanted. When he said ham, eggs, biscuits, grits, and coffee, she grinned at him.
“What? You don’t want to throw in a beer or two with that? You must not have ate in a while, young mister.”
“That’s right, I haven’t had much to eat, but no thanks, I’ll pass on the beer. Say, do you know of a place where I can get a room? Haven’t slept much in a while, either.”
“Sure, there’s a small place at the end of the street. Turn right at the corner, and it’s across from that corner.”
While the bar maid was gone, Ben leaned his head against the wall, and pretended to sleep. Instead, he was listening to some soldiers talk.
“… scuttlebutt has it we’re going after the river, so’s we…”
“What the hell does that mean, going after the river?”
“If you’d keep your trap shut long enough, Sims, I’d tell you. It means General Wheeler is going to take a position along the Cumberland River so’s we can take care of the Union ships and wheelers going up and down. We get rid of them ships, we control the river.”
“Yeah, that’s all to the well and good, but when is he going to order us out? All we done for most a month is sit on our butts here.”
Before Ben could hear the response, the bar maid was back with his breakfast. He was famished, so for a few minutes he concentrated on eating. He heard the soldiers near him arguing about something, but all he could get from their words was that they would be moving down the river in a couple of days to start their attack on the Union ships. Since he wasn’t hearing anything new, he decided to go find out about a room, and sleep for a while.
* * *
The mid-afternoon sun was shrouded in clouds when Ben emerged from the small hotel. It had turned cold, and the heavy fur-lined coat he wore felt good. He went around to the stable in back of the hotel, and found Finn standing by Mack. The two men with him Ben had never seen before, and he was startled to see they were both in Confederate uniform.
Finn grinned at him, and stuck out his hand. “Hey, Ben. When I saw you at the saloon, I figured you’d wind up here.”
Ben shook hands and looked over at the other two men. “I didn’t see you at the saloon, Finn. I didn’t know you were going to be here. Who are these guys?”
“This one is Donny and that one is Matt. They’re brothers, and no, before you ask, they’re not Confederates. The uniforms are stolen, but they’re good enough to get them through the Rebs around here.”
Ben frowned. “Wait minute. You two are spies in uniform? That’s dangerous for all of us, Finn. They get caught, they’re hung without a hearing. If we’re anywhere around, the same will happen to us.”
“Oh, don’t be such a worrywart, Ben. We’ve been here a week, and everything’s fine.”
Ben shrugged. “Whatever you say.” He finished tacking up Mack, swung up into the saddle, and looked down at Finn. “Whatever you say, Finn, but it doesn’t apply to me. I’m not working with you. I’m only here for a day or two, so stay out of my way. You do whatever you are supposed to do, just don’t get near me. As far as I’m concerned, we’re strangers.”
He squeezed his legs against Mack’s sides, and rode away, leaving the three men staring after him.
* * *
By the next day, Ben had learned that this General Wheeler had a very large force with him, all well-trained in the artillery they had, and they were moving to a position along the river where they could cause serious damage to any ships coming down the Cumberland. It was time to find this Wiggins person.
Wiggins lived in a run-down cabin out in the woods, not too far from the end of Palmyra’s main street. When Ben reached the cabin, the front door was closed but barely hanging on to its hinges. Ben knocked. No sounds from inside. He knocked again, and called out Wiggins’ name. Nothing. He sighed impatiently, and turned to go, only to come face to face with a shotgun pointed at his chest. The man behind the shotgun stood inches above Ben, and outweighed him by probably a hundred pounds. Add to that shaggy grey hair hanging to his shoulders, a large nose obviously broken at least once, and bushy eyebrows almost meeting together in a perpetual frown.
“Well? What do you want? Why you banging on me front door?” His voice was coarse and harsh. “What’s yer name?”
“My name is Ben, and I was sent here by General MacPhee. I have money to buy any weapons you might have for sale.”
“Huh. MacPhee, you say. Alright, go on in but I still got my gun pointed at you. Don’t try nothing smart.”
Ben grinned at him, and walked in the door. The inside of the small cabin displayed the personality of the man: it contained a small wooden table with two chairs, a piece of furniture which might once have been a sofa, but was so old, dirty, and sagging it was hard to tell. Another chair was just as dirty, with stuffing of some kind leaking from a tear in the bottom cushion. He looked around, and saw that what passed for a kitchen was half-hidden behind a curtain, with only the edges of an old wood stove showing. The place smelled of sour food, burned grease, and something that Ben figured he’d prefer not knowing.
He turned around to face Wiggins, who still had his shotgun in hand, but was no longer pointed at Ben. “Mister Wiggins, I was sent to buy some weapons. Whatever you have for sale.”
Ben pulled out the money the General had given him. “I need to buy as many weapons as you have. Rifles, pistols, and ammunition. At least, as much as I can carry on my horse.”
“Huh. Well, I got no rifles right now. Some pistols and ammo is all. I’ll get what I have, and a sack to put on yer hoss’s back.”
He left the room, and came back almost immediately. He held a sack out to Ben. “Them pistols are five dollar apiece, there’s eight of ‘em. The ammo costs ten dollar a box, and there’s ten of ‘em. The sack ain’t nothing.”
Ben stifled a grin, and said, “So how much do I owe you?”
Wiggins frowned again. “I give you the stuff, you figure it out.”
Ben was sure the old man wouldn’t know how to add, so he probably got stiffed every time he sold weapons. He wasn’t going to this time, however.
Ben said, “Okay, pistols are five dollars each and you have eight of them, so that’s forty dollars. You have ten boxes of ammo at ten dollars each, so that’s one hundred dollars. One hundred and forty dollars for everything.” He counted out the money, and handed it to Wiggins.
“Thanks, Mister Wiggins. I’ll be going now.”
He picked up the sack, and walked out. Wiggins remained silent, and when Ben looked back over his shoulder, he was carefully putting each bill that Ben had handed him on the wooden table.
Ben grinned to himself, and slung the bag behind the saddle. He fastened it with the lariat ties attached to the saddle, mounted, and rode off. Since he had to go back through town, he looked for Confederate soldiers along the way, wanting to stay clear of them if he could. As he passed the saloon, he saw several horses tied up, again with the soldiers’ weapons in their belts and slung across each saddle.
He slowed Mack down, and looked around. There weren’t too many people on the street, and those who were seemed to be preoccupied with w
hatever business they were attending to. He tied Mack loosely to the hitching rail next to one of the Confederate horses, and dismounted. Casually, he walked over to the first horse. He stopped and looked around. No one was paying any attention to him. He quickly slipped the pistol out of the soldier’s holster, and put it in a pocket of the heavy jacket he wore. By the time he mounted Mack and again headed out of town, he had added six more pistols to his cache.
As soon as he reached the forest outside of Palmyra, he took Mack off the road and into the woods where he couldn’t be seen. Once he had transferred the pistols from his jacket to the bag with the rest of them, he drew in a big sigh of relief, and headed back to the road and to Fort Donelson at Dover.
* * *
Because of espionage reports about the movements of the Confederate General Wheeler, the Union forces did not continue sending supply ships down the Cumberland River. As a result, Wheeler was forced to attack Fort Donelson with his cavalry division in early February, 1863. However, the Union fort rendered resistance Wheeler was not expecting, and he had to retreat after sustaining severe losses of both men and horses. It was a definite win for the Federal forces.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Return of the Freedom Thief
December, 1864
Ben approached the gate slowly, by now barely able to walk. He was shaking with the cold, and his clothes were nothing but tatters, barely holding together to resemble pants and a shirt. His boots were gone, his feet covered only by well-worn knee socks with so many holes in them one wondered how they stayed on his feet. His jacket was torn, all buttons gone so he was unable to keep it closed. The December wind went through what was left and chilled him to the bone. His shoulder wound that had never been treated ached with a vengeance, so badly that sometimes the pain threw him to the ground, moaning