Raiding With Morgan (27 page)

A Yankee sergeant and two guards were assigned to oversee the return of Ty's group to their respective barracks. They slogged up the drying road to Camp Douglas's south gate. After a cursory search by the gate guards, they were turned in to Prisoner's Square.

Ty was shocked at the changes that had occurred during his hospitalization. The yard was teeming with milling Confederate prisoners. The barracks had grown in number, like wild mushrooms, and all seventy-one of them were ninety feet long, including a twenty-foot-long add-on kitchen. Elevated on wooden posts five feet off the ground, each barrack held 165 men. Ty learned from Given Campbell later in the day that the Rebel population of the forty-acre Prisoner's Square had surpassed eleven thousand. A gruesome testimony to stricter Yankee discipline was a “Mule” fifteen feet high and twelve feet long that required a ladder, where before it had been just five feet high.

Larger guard patrols roamed amongst the prisoners. Additional Yankees watched the yard from the guard walk of the stockade. Gas-fired reflector lamps hung from the stockade walls at precise intervals for nighttime illumination of the yard. The dreaded Deadline was still in place, but it appeared the wooden stakes circling the barracks had been moved closer to them. Taking one step beyond the Deadline, day or night, was an open invitation to a Yankee bullet.

To Ty, the brightly painted stores of the sutlers and the new photographic studio squatting on the fringes of that dreary, overrun, desolate panorama seemed as out of place as a jeweled necklace on a rattlesnake. They were striking reminders that even within walled prisons, money separated men into different camps.

Ty's homecoming began on a sour note. A step inside the door of Barrack Ten, he was accosted by a sneering Snag Oden and his bayoneted rifle. “So, that dead bastard Shannon's favorite lad has come home to roost, has he? It will be different now, you young turd. There's no one here to protect the bunch of you from proper Yankee discipline. I'm praying day and night you'll step out of line. When you do, I'll make you pay dearly, bucko.”

With that warning, Snag shoved past Ty for the door. Ty gave way, not wanting to inflame the sergeant's temper unnecessarily.

The next person he encountered in the nearly empty barrack was a smiling Private E.J. Pursley. “Welcome back, Corporal,” the goateed chef said. “Come to the kitchen with me. I have news that will interest you.”

The empty kitchen was stone cold, the stove fire a pile of ashes. E.J. dipped a gourd into a pail of cold water and presented it to Ty. “Everybody that survives the pox is dying for a cold drink. I don't suppose you're any different.”

Ty's answer was to drain the gourd dry in one long series of swallows. ”Oh, my, but that tastes good. Best water I've had since the ambulance hauled me off.”

E.J. refilled the gourd for Ty. They seated themselves at a small table in the corner of the kitchen, the chef's personal spot. Being the chief cook came with a few privileges—you sat there only at E.J.'s invitation.

“Much has happened in your absence,” E.J. began. “Snag was delighted to hear of Lieutenant Shannon's death. He damn near exploded when Sam Bryant and Cally Smith escaped.”

A surprised Ty said, “How'd they manage that? I've never seen tighter security.”

“Those two boys are mighty clever when they've a mind to be. They volunteered to help unload freight wagons delivering supplies to the camp commissary. With a chance at help from two healthy prisoners in the midst of all the sickness, the Yankees accepted. Sam Bryant said Cally has an uncle and a first cousin who lives in Chicago and one of them is a freighter. Well, it was raining hard one evening and the unloading went later than usual, way past dark. The soaked Yankee guards, trusting the gate guards to thoroughly search the outgoing wagons, went for their supper. The way the Yankees figure, the freighters nailed our two bunkmates in either empty pickle or flour barrels and drove them out the gate, slick as salt passing through a goose. Nobody has seen them since.”

E.J.'s devilish smile showed his toothless gums. “Couple of the talkative Yankee guards told us what happened and said you could hear General Orme's tirade clean to downtown Chicago when the guards told him what happened. He'd had a belly of escapes and put the entire camp on bread-and-water rations for three weeks. That didn't keep our boys from having their fun. Remember the story of the Trojans and their wooden horse?”

At Ty's nod, E.J. said, “If any Yankee hadn't heard that story, Billy Burke made sure they did through the rumor mill. It didn't take but a short while for the news of the barrel escape to spread amongst the Yankees and the barracks. Now, every time the Yankee patrols are out and about, our boys chant, ‘Trojan horse, Trojan horse' behind their backs. The guards look like dogs biting at their own tails until they quit trying to catch the prisoners heckling them. The problem is, they're mad enough to bite an anchor chain in half and forgive nothing. Spitting on the barracks floor might earn you a ride on the ‘Mule.' ”

Unaware of any escape plans on the part of his messmates, Ty asked, “How long had Cally been planning his escape?”

“For weeks, according to Sam. He gave up trying to bribe the guards and sought outside help.”

“Did Lieutenant Shannon know about it?”

E.J. spat into the stove's ash bucket. “He certainly did. Cally and Sam begged him to break out with them, but he turned them down.”

Intrigued that Shawn Shannon had refused to consider a plausible escape plan that included the local Confederate assistance he'd stressed was necessary, Ty inquired, “Did he say why?”

A twinge of embarrassment tightened E.J.'s mouth. “Yep, he told them he couldn't rightly leave me and Billy behind, not with Snag and Mouse prancing about hungry for an opportunity to bayonet us or have us thrown in the dungeon.”

“That fits Shawn Shannon like a glove,” Ty said. “He thought of his men first. He was a fine officer and a better friend.”

“Yes, he was,” agreed E.J. “But he's gone and the guards were afraid of him. They aren't afraid of us, which means we better keep a sharp eye out for each other. I don't want to give the cussed Yankees any excuse to bury any more of us. A rabid dog deserves better than that.”

E.J. stood and hitched his rope-belted trousers a notch higher beneath his apron. With hands on his hips, he said, “It won't be the same without Cally and Sam. Those boys figured out how to enjoy themselves, instead of moping about, cursing the war, the Yankees, Jeff Davis, and President Lincoln for not exchanging us. My grandmother, the Lord God rest her soul, said that you make your own bed in this old world. You can laugh more than you cry, if you've a mind to. Seemed to her, strong folks with an honest purpose in life never had much trouble smiling and laughing at the drop of a hat. It might be helpful for us to remember what she preached.”

Turning to the stove, E.J. said, “Now, let's light a fire and start the supper bread baking.”

Given E.J.'s New Orleans house of joy and Texas frontier background, Ty had never imagined E.J. Pursley having a grandmother who saw through the foibles and difficulties of everyday life and could cleverly state in a few words what the great philosophers he had read in his grandfather's library spent countless words trying to do: spell out what it took for a person to be happy.

 

The bloated population of Prisoner's Square made it impossible for the Yankee command to assign more than six to eight prisoners from each barrack to daily work details. A free man for a few days, Ty converted a portion of his money in the commissary fund to sutler checks, purchased paper, pencil, and stamps, and penned a letter to Dana Bainbridge the very next morning.

He didn't waste words on flowery sentiments. He wrote that he prayed she was in good health, thought of her constantly, dreamed about her beauty and her laugh, and looked forward to the day when he could finally hold her in his arms. Whether she answered his letters or not, he vowed, in closing, that he would write to her as often as possible and love her forever.

He made no mention of his unsettled future. His plan to travel to Texas with Shawn Shannon had gone up in smoke with the lieutenant's passing. He had to hope in the meantime that a new prospect would emerge that would give him his chance at financial success and an opportunity to win Dana's hand. The blunt truth was he had to trust to himself and the good Lord as his father and Shawn Shannon had.

In a second letter, this one to Boone Jordan, he thanked the livery owner a second time for the greatcoat and the twenty dollars of greenbacks. He related the smallpox death of his father's best friend and his own bout with the disease. He assured Mr. Jordan he had recovered completely and awaited his eventual release from captivity. Ty beseeched him once more to continue watching for mail forwarded to him from Ohio.

Mailing letters had become an arduous chore during Ty's stretch in the hospital. By newly implemented camp regulations, the sender personally stood in long lines at the post office until his turn came and a Yankee censor read his letter, crossed out any unacceptable passages, and either rejected it or dropped it in the outgoing mail. The decision of the censors was final. Appeals were forbidden.

Ty fought to keep his spirits high when he saw his censor was a grizzled Yankee sergeant who most certainly had drunk sour milk for breakfast. He accepted Ty's letters with a shrug and no more interest than a fly for a swatter.

As he read, Ty was certain the sergeant's hazel eyes grew warm and longing. The sergeant snuffed out his smoldering cigar in a bucket of sand beside his desk, studied the Ohio address on Ty's envelope, and said, “You truly love this Northern gal, don't you, Reb?”

Not entirely certain of the sergeant's sincerity, Ty gambled that he wasn't being kidded. “Yes, sir, I intend to marry her when I'm free.”

The sergeant grinned. “Felt that way about my Martha in the beginning. Still feel that way after twenty years in the same buggy together. Be grand to see her again.”

Without bothering to read Ty's letter to Boone Jordan, the Yankee sergeant sealed both envelopes, checked that the postage was correct, dropped them in his basket of approved mail, extended his hand, and said, “Best of luck pursuing her, lad.”

Ty shook the proffered hand. “Thank you, sir.”

“Stand in my line the next time,” the sergeant advised. “I'll put your mail straight through.”

Boots scarcely touching the ground, a delighted Ty ambled back to his barrack. Knowing his mail would not be subjected to harsh censoring relieved his mind of any fear that the rumor about the Yankees keeping sweetheart letters for themselves to enjoy was a threat to his attempts to reach Dana.

His world appeared a tad brighter until he blundered into a deadly duel just inside Barrack Ten's front door. He slid sideways and flattened himself against the wall, separating himself from two knife-wielding Rebels. A lean string bean of a soldier, with full beard, narrow shoulders, and pigeon-toed feet, kept circling to keep his opponent—smallish, mild-mannered, affable Billy Burke—in front of him.

Ty realized his messmate was in serious trouble. The tall jasper's arms were half again as long as Billy's and his strategy was readily apparent. Slashing back and forth with his razor-sharp weapon, the shuffling string bean was forcing Billy to retreat into the corner of the room, where the attacker would have the advantage and slash Billy to ribbons.

The many Rebel onlookers watched with an amused indifference. Ty looked for Ebb White and Given Campbell. They weren't in the room and no one else was inclined to intervene and prevent the spilling of his friend's blood. That left it up to Ty and he didn't hesitate, trusting to survival instincts honed during the hot ride across Indiana and Ohio when he was expecting the slam of an enemy bullet into his chest any second.

As the string bean, eyes locked on Billy, passed in front of Ty again, Ty stuck his leg out and tripped him, speeding his fall with a hearty shove. Billy's opponent landed on his side with a rapping thud, banging his head on the floor and losing both his knife and his wind. Ty stepped over him and swept up the long blade.

A voice near the door shouted, “Somebody snitched. The guards are coming.”

Without breaking stride, Ty confronted Billy, his naturally deep tone stern and ringing with authority. “Give me your knife, Private. Now.”

Billy Burke instantly obeyed an order from a superior officer by reversing his knife and presenting it to Ty, handle first. Ty heard the guards demanding that the onlookers move aside and let them through. He calmly walked in the opposite direction, with the crowd parting and closing behind him. The Rebels wanted no part of the knife fight and had cared less if someone was killed, but aiding the guards was leaping beyond the pale.

Once in E.J.'s empty kitchen, Ty closed the door behind him and deposited the knives in a pantry drawer with the chef's other cutting utensils. He then stood facing the door, ready if the tall jasper and any of his friends wanted to seek him out. The guards, frustrated they couldn't locate and punish the participants in a reported knife fight, yelled for the Rebels to line up for a search of their bodies and their bunks. Such a spontaneous search for no reason that morning had let Ty know he needn't inquire about the greatcoat he'd left in Ebb White's safekeeping. Boone Jordan's gift had been warming a Union backside for days whenever the weather was cold.

The shouting and bullying by the guards in the barrack continued. Ty recalled Given Campbell's assessment of the blue bellies' current attitude yesterday afternoon: “Ty, I didn't think it could happen, but our situation is worse than ever. You'll notice that there will be absolute silence after lights-out. Those bastards hear one word inside the barrack and they're likely to shoot through the wall. During the day, you can't walk around the yard. Unless you have a letter to mail or a written pass, you must stay in the street in front of your barrack. The guards and round-the-clock patrols delight in handing out severe punishment for the slightest offense, even if you've never heard of the rule you've supposedly broken. To protect ourselves, we say, ‘Hisst! Hisst!' when we're talking if a guard comes near us, trying to overhear the conversation.