"To ask you a few questions..."
"The captain not here now. You come back." He was just as unshaven and shifty-eyed as the sailor. Craig put on the pressure.
"Do you know what this is?" he said taking out his badge and holding it in front of his face. Yes, by God, he did flinch away!
"You gotta talk the captain—"
"But now I'm talking to you. How many passengers does this scow carry?"
"No passenger... not allowed."
Nothing about the man smelled right. Why was he so upset over some simple questions? Now if they weren't permitted to carry passengers—and they had one... Craig put his badge away, very slowly, and, never taking his eyes from the other man's face, he took out the drawing and unfolded it, held it up.
"Have you seen this man?"
"No—no see!"
"Then why are you looking so frightened, my lad? Guilty secrets?"
Time for a little pressure. He pulled out the revolver and spoke in a low, tense voice.
"You're not in trouble—yet. Take me to him."
"I dunno, got nothin' do wi' me. Ask captain—"
Still looking the terrified sailor right in the eyes, Craig pulled back the hammer of the revolver which clicked loudly into place. The man started at the sound.
"Now, you take me to him" Craig whispered. "And not a word out of you. Just do as I say."
The man was terrified, which Craig greatly appreciated. He looked around in desperation, saw no way out. Then he nodded quickly and pointed to the hatchway. Craig followed him below. There were doors on both sides of the corridor. The sailor pointed to one of them, then draw back as Craig knocked on the door.
"What is it?" The voice spoke from inside.
A voice with a guttural Scotch accent.
"Message for you, meestair from capitano," Craig said—in what he hoped was a Spanish accent. Apparently it was good enough for the man inside. Footsteps came towards the door and the lock rattled. As soon as it opened an inch, Craig kicked it wide.
It was the man!
At the sight of the gun the suspect turned away—turned back an instant later with an open clasp knife.
Craig hated knives. He had once been cut badly arresting a suspect. He had sworn, when he got out of the hospital, that something like this would never happen to him again. Once was enough. It wasn't going to happen a second time. He fired instantly.
A single shot through the man's heart, surely killing him. He crumpled to the floor; Craig kicked the knife from his limp hand. Then prodded the man with his toe, but there was no movement. He smiled. At least this would make up for his earlier lapse of duty. He bent over the corpse, ran his hands swiftly over the body. Something bulky stuck in the back of his trousers. Craig rolled him over roughly, pulled out an oilskin-wrapped package.
"You," he said over his shoulder. "Run to the office. Tell them to send the police."
As the sailor's footsteps receded he carefully unfolded the oilskins to reveal a crumpled envelope. With the blue imprint of the United States Navy on it. Without looking inside it he wrapped it back up again.
There would be no problems about the killing since he had surely fired in self-defense. And if this envelope was what the authorities wanted, why then he would be sitting pretty. He searched the man more thoroughly, and then searched the cabin, while he waited for the police to arrive.
At the opposite end of the Baltimore docks the men of the Irish Brigade were boarding ship. As the men of 69th Regiment climbed the gangways they were heckled by the men in butternut brown who lined the railings of the deck above. These were soldiers from the two Mississippi regiments who had boarded that morning.
"Mighty hot for you boys where you goin'."
"You gonna shed those wool jackets like a snake sheds its skin!"
Rumors were thick on the ground about their planned destination. They were all very sure that they were on the way to Mexico.
Off to one side, watching the soldiers who were burdened by packs and rifles as they labored up the gangways into the ship, were General Meagher and his staff. He fought hard to keep his face as stern as the occasion demanded; this was a most important occasion with the brigade sailing off to war. If he let himself go he knew that he would be smiling like a loony. Because only he, of all those present, knew their final destination. Working with generals Sherman and Lee in planning the invasion had been trying and difficult—but satisfying in every way. Now the planning was all done, the secret orders written. But, oh how he wanted to see the looks on his men's faces when he told them that Ireland was their destination. It took a definite effort not to break into a wide grin. That pleasure would have to wait until they were well out to sea.
All along the Atlantic seaboard the ships were getting up steam and setting sail. The slower ships were already on their way to their rendezvous off the Florida coast, having left the day before. From the Gulf ports, transports laden with Southern troops were also on their way. The largest single invasion force the world had ever seen was at sea, prepared to take the war to the enemy.
Further to the south, the fleet of ironclads had coaled for the last time in South America and had put to sea. Their course was southerly and out of sight of land. They stayed on this heading until midnight when their secret orders had been opened. The scene aboard the USS Avenger was being repeated on every ship. The captain, with his first mate at his elbow, carefully slit the envelope and took out the thin sheaf of papers and unfolded them. He read halfway down the first page and his jaw dropped.
"Well I'll be damned. We're not going round the Horn after all."
"What then, Captain?"
"Why we are crossing the Atlantic to rendezvous with the rest of the invasion fleet."
"Invasion where, sir?" the officer pleaded.
"We are going to invade Ireland—that's where! We are going to get in there and land before the British even have a clue. God, but I would love to see their faces when they find out what we have done!"
"May I tell the crew?"
"By all means. No way that they can tell anyone else now."
After a stunned silence there were shouts of joy and many a rebel yell.
The watch below was woken by the cries, reacted with fear.
"What's happened?"
"Have we been hit?"
The door opened and a sailor poked his head in and shouted.
"It's Ireland we're invading, boys—Mexico was just a ruse! We're going to hit the Brits right in their back yard!"
The ships heeled as their wheels were swung over, their wakes cutting curved arcs in the water as they turned towards the east.
But in Jackson, Mississippi, there was little thought of the distant war between other nations. Here were the victims of the generations-old race war that still divided this nation. The three men on the church porch were still dazed by the suddenness of events. They had carried the dead man off the road and stretched him out on the bare splintered boards of the porch.
"I don't understand. How did this happen?" Reverend Lomax asked.
"They dragged me from ma' bed," Bradford said. "Gonna lynch me 'cause I wouldn't chop cotton. Got a noose, den the shooting..."
"I heard them arrive," L.D. Lewis said. "They weren't keeping it quiet. Guess they wanted the whole countryside to know what they were doing. Putting the Negroes back where they belonged. Right at the bottom of the heap. If they were just shouting, maybe burning a cross, I wouldn't have done anything. But they were going to hang this man right in front of the church. Then burn the church and the Freedmen's Bureau down. When I shouted a warning they just started shooting. All I could do was fire back. Emptied my magazine. They must have thought from all those bullets flying by that there was a whole platoon in here. They hightailed out of here. It's one thing to attack the helpless hiding behind a hood—another thing altogether to stand up to rifle fire. Now we've got to do something about this mess. You're sure about who this nightrider is what got killed?"
&nbs
p; "That's him all right. That is Mr. Jefferson Davis. The one who was president of the Confederacy. Maybe we ought to take him into the church, not leave him lying out here."
L.D. was not impressed as he picked the dead man up under the arms and dragged him inside. Then he went back to the street and found the white hood; lifted the corpse's head and pulled it on. "That was the way we found him, that's the way that it's going to be. Now he is just one more of the dead, rightly enough. And so will we be if we don't move fast. Is there a swamp, maybe a river close by?"
"Creek about a half-mile that way, runs into the Pearl River."
"Do you know the way there, Bradford? Can you find it in the dark?"
"Shore enough can," the man mumbled, still stunned by the night's events.
"Good. Then you and I are going to go there, dump this gun and all the ammunition in the deepest spot. You got much family here, Bradford?"
"There's just me and my daddy since..."
"I'm sorry, but he'll just have to get on without you for a good while. That's better than your being hung. The reverend will make your good-byes for you. Later, maybe, you can send for him."
"Ah don't catch yuh meanin'..."
"You and I are leaving here now—and you are not going to come back. You are a dead man in this town the second that you are spotted. We are going to get rid of this gun and the ammunition, and then we are going to keep on going. When I came in on the train I saw a marshaling yard just outside of the city—place where there are lots of tracks and trains. Can you find it in the dark?"
"Shore can."
"Then let's go. Now it's up to you, reverend, to report this to the police. Here is what you want to know happened. You heard firing near your church, woke up, got your gun and came to see what was happening. Everyone was gone. But you found the dead man lying in the road. That's close enough to the truth to jibe with your conscience. You won't be lying—just leaving out some things in order to save Bradford's life. Then, after seeing the dead man, you went inside where you wrote a note saying there had been a killing. Went to the nearest house, woke them up, sent a boy running with it into town. Isn't that what you would do?"
"Yes, that is what I would do. But..."
"No buts. That's all you know and that is all you are going to say. But give us at least a half an hour's lead before you send the note. I want us on a freight train—and as far away from here as we can get—by the time the sun comes up. I'm sorry about what has happened. I didn't mean it to end this way. I came here to protect you folk and I'm afraid that I got you into worse trouble than you ever was before. For that I am truly sorry. But I would rather this nightrider was dead, whoever he is, rather than Bradford here. Now—let's go."
Their running footsteps faded in the darkness. Lomax gave a deep, shuddering sigh. There was big, big trouble coming. He prayed that this would be the end of the killing. He dropped to his knees and prayed out loud as though the sound of his voice might make that wish come true.
His watch was back in the house, so he couldn't be sure of the time. When at least a half an hour had gone by he walked down the dirt road to the Broderick house, and knocked on the door until someone called out.
"Who there?"
"It's me, Reverend Lomax. Open the door will you, Franklin?"
He wrote a note for the sheriff while he told Broderick what had happened. He did not tell him who the nightrider had been. This was bad enough. Their teenage son went running with the note.
"Go to bed," Lomax said. "And get some sleep. It is going to be busy enough around here pretty soon."
He walked slowly back to the church, immersed in thought. No good would come of this night's work—and he was worried for the people of his congregation. As he came close he saw that the church door was open. He was sure that he had closed it. As he walked across the porch L.D. Lewis stepped out. Still carrying the rifle.
"Don't worry for Bradford," he said. "I got him onto a train and he is well gone by now. I told him to get to the next big town and to contact the Freedmen's Bureau. Tell them everything that happened here tonight. They'll take care of him, surely enough."
"But you—you came back!"
"Sure enough did, didn't I?" He laughed a bit as he said it. "No one ever said that I was too bright. But I couldn't let you carry the can. Also—I didn't feel right about asking you to lie. I have the rifle and all. I'll give it to the sheriff."
"They'll kill you!"
"Maybe not. This is supposed to be a country of law. So let us just wait and see how that law works."
It was a long wait. It was well after dawn and the sheriff still had not come.
"Seems that they don't care much around here when their people get shot," L.D. said.
"Oh, dear God," Reverend Lomax said. "That is my fault. In the note, I just said that I was woken up by the sound of gunfire near the church, then found a man shot dead. I never did say that he was white."
"Just as well—they would probably bring a lynch party. Any chance of some coffee while we're waiting?"
"Yes, of course. I am being most inhospitable."
The two women who worked in the Freedmen's Bureau came at eight. The reverend told them what had happened and sent them home. Sheriff Bubba Boyce did not come until after nine. L.D. had taken a chair from the office and was sitting on the porch.
"Who you, boy?" the sheriff asked, scowling down at him and his bluejacket.
"I am Sergeant L.D. Lewis, 29th Connecticut. I work now with the Freedmen's Bureau."
"I hear that you'all had some shooting here last night. Where's Lomax at?" He puffed as he climbed off his horse. His large belly bulged over his gun belt.
Lomax heard the voices and came out of the church.
"Where at is the body?" the sheriff asked.
"Inside. I did not want to leave it in the street."
"Fair enough. Do you know who it is?"
Before the reverend could answer, L.D. broke in.
"Hard to know who it was, sheriff, seeing he was wearing a hood."
The sheriff looked baffled. "Nigger in a hood—" His eyes narrowed as realization hit. He stamped into the church and bent over the body, reached down and pulled the hood off.
"Well I'll be double God-damned!"
He was back an instant later, loosening his gun in its holster as he shouted.
"Do you know who is dead in there on the floor? That is no other than Mr. Jefferson Davis himself, that's who it is! Now what in hell happened here last night?"
"I heard shooting—" Lomax said, but L.D. stopped him with a raised hand.
"I'll tell the sheriff, reverend, since I was here in the church at the time. It was after midnight when I heard the horses. Six mounted men stopped outside, all of them wearing hoods just like the other one in there. They were leading another horse with a Negro in the saddle. He was tied up. They said they were going to hang him and burn the church. They started to, and that's when I called out for them to stop. That's when they began shooting at me. I fired back in self-defense. That one fell off his horse. Another rider was injured, but he left with the others. The Negro ran away. I had never seen him before. That's the way it happened, sheriff."
Sheriff Boyce's hand was still on his revolver, his voice was empty of any warmth. "Where's the gun at, boy?"
"Inside. Shall I get it?"
"No. Just point it out to me."
He let L.D. go first. Followed him inside to the back room. L.D. pointed and Boyce grabbed up the rifle. Checked that there was a cartridge in the breech, then pointed it at L.D. "You're coming with me. To jail."
L.D. turned to Lomax and said, "Would you mind coming with us, reverend? After we get to jail I would appreciate it if you would send a telegram to the Freedmen's Bureau, telling them what happened here."
They walked side by side down the dusty street. The sheriff followed on his horse, the rifle pointed down at them.
THE SECRET REVEALED
The seaport was ringed with defenses. D
on Ambrosio O'Higgins knew that because in the past weeks he had laboriously worked his way completely around Salina Cruz. When he, and his Indian guide, Ignacio, had probed the gun positions and rifle pits to the north of the fishing village they had found no chink in the armor, no weak spot that might be attacked. In desperation they had gone to an Indian fishing village on the Pacific shore and had paid Yankee silver for one of the dugouts. Then, on a dark night, they had rowed out to sea to clear the harbor mouth, risking disaster as they rode the big Pacific rollers. They had made a successful landing on the shore south of the port, and a nocturnal investigation of the defenses proved them to be equal—if not superior—to the defenses north of the seaport. Exhausted and depressed O'Higgins made his way back to their starting point. They were pulling the dugout ashore when Ignacio touched his finger to O'Higgins's lips and pulled him down quietly into the shelter of the jungle undergrowth. His whispered voice was barely audible.
"Enemy under the trees. I smell them."
The British were getting bolder now that they were secure behind their impregnable positions, and were beginning to send out patrols at night.
"Gurkhas?" O'Higgins breathed the question. He and his Indians had great respect for the little men from Nepal who were as good as—or even better than—they were in the jungle.
"No. The others. Not the blancos."
They must be Sepoys, or from another native Indian regiment.
"What should we do?"
"Follow me. We will then go around them, ahead of them—ambush them when they come back down the trail." They both had breech-loading, repeating rifles. Twenty shots fired from the darkness would kill the first men and send the rest panicking back into the jungle. They had done it before.
Ignacio was at home in the jungle. He led the way down unseen trails, occasionally taking O'Higgins's hand to place it on a branch he had pulled aside so they could pass.
"Good here," he finally said, levering a cartridge into the breech of his gun. He rested it on the forked crotch of a tree, the thick trunk sheltering his body. "They come soon from there." The wave of his hand unseen in the night.
Stars And Stripes In Peril Page 22