I Have Seen Him in the Watchfires Page 6

  “Now!” a voice called back to us. We were up and running again. The deep voice shoved at my back, jerked my ropes.

  “Can you swim?” the voice shouted in my ear. I nodded, best I could. He tugged at the ropes behind me. I fell to my knees.

  “This is only so you’ll make it to the boat. But I’m roping your wrist to mine. If you run off, I’ll jerk you back and drown you. Understand?”

  Lightning flashed again. Men all around us plunged into the swamp grass. A light blinked across the water. Up and running yet again, still sliding, falling, scrambling through the high grass and mud. We hit the frigid river, running, swimming-pulling at the water. The crack of a rifle sped past our heads, then another. A cry. I kept swimming, pulled back every few feet for being tied to the deep voice. My limbs numbed in the cold. Breath came in gasps. And then we reached a boat, groped its sides. Strong arms pulled us over, shoved us to the floor, threw a tarpaulin over our bodies.

  “How many?” A new voice.

  “Ten.”

  “We lost one,” the deep voice gasped. Then louder, “Pull!”

  Oars slapped the water. The boat pulled away, fighting the blustering wind and rain. Two more shots rang from the shore, then a third.

  I tried to count the minutes, tried to figure which direction we were headed—to the New Jersey shore, or the closer Delaware shore, maybe downriver. I couldn’t tell.

  The boat rolled and tossed. The stink of vomit overpowered the odor of the men around me. I tried to think of something, anything else. If I vomited into the gag, I’d drown. I tried to pull it loose, but the deep voice jerked my hands away, nearly breaking my fingers. I didn’t try again.

  It seemed an age before the oarsmen shook us. “Out with you! Our man’s waiting on the shore with yours. Run toward the house lanterns. They’ll find you. Keep low. No noise.”

  We scrambled from the boat then, a pack running through shallow water toward shore lights. The deep voice and I fell behind, trying to keep in step, keep from stumbling, falling.

  “This way!” a new voice called from the shore. “Quiet! Stick close.” Where had I heard that voice before?

  “Good lads! You made it!” A second voice, an Irish brogue, pulled us ashore. “Grab hold this rope and follow along. No noise. We can’t risk a light. Stick to the shadows.”

  The rain had not let up, and the lightning flashed. That’s when I realized we were all dressed alike, all in Confederate uniforms. We tripped on stones along the shore before we reached mud, then grass. At last my shoes, the only thing on me that hadn’t been stolen or swapped, slapped the cobblestone street.

  “Quiet!” The word came down the line. “You’ve got to walk quiet!” Every man obeyed. I thought to make noise, try to rouse someone, bring the sheriff, or maybe some Federal troops on shore. What were my chances to get away? In a Confederate uniform? In the pounding storm? I’d be shot. I groaned inside. And I despised Cousin Albert, dying or not.

  We wound through street after street, back alley after back alley. It seemed we walked in circles. Finally we stopped, bumping into one another. I heard a door open. “There’s steps,” the voice whispered, the voice I couldn’t place. “Follow down.” We stood in the cold and dank of what smelled like a cellar before the last man closed the door above us. The wind and the rain stopped, but so did the air. I wanted to yank that rag from my mouth. I put my hands out and touched stone walls—cold, and slick, slimed on either side, some kind of tunnel.

  “Keep your hands down, or I’ll knot them up again!” the deep voice growled in my ear. I took up the rope, just as it pulled ahead. One whack on the head and I kept low. The tunnel cut a sharp right. We climbed a short ladder. This time the walls opened up, and, cold as it was, breathing came easier.

  “We’re here, lads,” the Irish brogue took up again. “Everybody strip.”

  “What?” the cry went down the line.

  “We’ve got new clothes for you,” the familiar voice soothed, “and a hot meal and a warm bed. But you’ve got to get out of those wet and lousy clothes. We’ve got to burn those uniforms straightaway. Federals will be combing the shore by morning. We don’t want them finding a thing. And you’ve got to scrub the vermin away before my wife will let you set foot in her house. I’ll take you two at a time to the stable. She’s got razors and hot baths for you there.” And then I knew. I knew where I’d heard the voice before.

  A match struck stone and touched a lantern wick on the wall. The face of Mr. Maynard sprang to life.

  Seven

  You men help yourselves to apples in the bins while waiting your turn.” Mr. Maynard didn’t see me, didn’t know I was there, among the men.

  The deep voice ordered the other men to move ahead. “I’ll tend our insurance policy,” he whispered and pushed me down against a cellar wall, roping my feet and tying my hands behind my back again. I saw the outline of his face for the first time. He was about Cousin Albert’s height, a similar build. I might be able to take him on if I could get loose—if we were alone, now, before good food and sleep got his strength back.

  “This way, men.” Two men followed Mr. Maynard up a cellar ladder. “Oh.” Mr. Maynard turned back. “Which of you is McCain?”

  “I’m McCain.” The deep voice stood, grew suddenly respectful. This was the man Cousin Albert meant for me to give his Testament.

  Two of the prisoners moved to stand between McCain and me. I couldn’t see Mr. Maynard’s face.

  “There’s a boy I sent with bread for the prisoners—bread with money and our address baked inside. He’s not returned. Do you know what happened to him?”

  “We’ll have to talk about that,” McCain said. “Why do you ask me?”

  “Your man that came for us was wearing the boy’s clothes. He said I’d have to ask you what became of him. Said the boy loaned him his clothes so he could come out disguised as a visitor. He said the boy stayed on Pea Patch for the night, as a favor to Col. Mitchell’s men. I don’t know as I believe that.” Mr. Maynard’s footsteps started down the ladder. “He’s a good boy, McCain. You wouldn’t be here but for him. There’d best be no harm come to him.”

  “No harm’s come to him, sir.” McCain stepped toward him. “We’ll have a talk later, in private.”

  Mr. Maynard hesitated. “All right, then.” Footsteps disappeared up the ladder. The door closed behind him.

  McCain’s foul breath spat against my face. “Leaving you on Pea Patch was my first choice. Killing you now would be my second. For some reason you’ve got good friends, and that makes you very, very lucky. But if it wasn’t for you, Col. Mitchell would be alive and here with us now. So your skin doesn’t mean very much to me. You remember that. Anytime you think of making a commotion or slowing us down, you remember that.” He pulled back. “Keep this Yank out of my sight.”

  I turned my head and closed my eyes. Cousin Albert was dead. I leaned my throbbing head against the wall, trying to take that in, to make sense of all that had happened. The cold and damp crept into my bones, made my muscles ache. Voices roused me again.

  “We can’t take him with us! We’ll have to watch him every second. That, by itself, will give us away.”

  “Well, we can’t very well leave him behind, now, can we?” the Irish brogue pitched in. “He’ll get past this soft old couple in no time, and the Federals will be on us as well as them!”

  “I’d like to lynch the lit—”

  “You know you can’t do that, Sarge. His safety was the colonel’s dying wish. You saw it in his own writing. He’s his flesh and blood. You can’t get past that! Not a man here would stand for it. We’ll have to split up.”

  “We’d have to split up anyway. Ten men can’t travel together without rousing suspicion,” a new voice said.

  “Let him go with me,” a younger voice spoke up.

  “With you? How far would the two of you get?”

  “I think we’d do all right. Two boys—alone. Nobody’d know I’m a Reb.” It was the
one-legged boy with his trouser leg pinned to his hip, the prison boy who’d asked me to thank the lady for the bread.

  “He might have something there, Sarge.”

  “If he squeals you’ll never see your home or mother again, Gibbons. You know that, don’t you? That boy didn’t help us out of the goodness of his heart. He’ll be madder than a hornet, out for revenge. The rest of you men split up and go first. Gibbons and I’ll wait a day and go together.”

  “He won’t squeal.”

  McCain laughed. “And what makes you think that? What makes you think he won’t leave you in some ditch to rot, crippled and alone, while he runs off and calls the law on all of us?”

  “He wouldn’t have brought us bread.” I could barely hear the boy’s answer.

  “What?”

  He spoke up. “He wouldn’t have brought us bread if he had no mercy, sir. He didn’t have to do that.” No one answered. “I trust him. Col. Mitchell trusted him. And who would believe I’m a dangerous, escaped prisoner?”

  “Forget it, Gibbons. I—”

  The door at the top of the ladder opened. “Next!” Mr. Maynard’s voice called down.

  “Wilson—take Gibbons up,” McCain ordered.

  “Right! Climb up, my friend.”

  “You go on, sir. I’d just as soon wait a bit,” the boy answered.

  “I’ll not have you letting him go, Gibbons,” McCain threatened.

  “I won’t, sir. I swear it. I’ll just wait beside him and see what I think about us traveling together.”

  McCain seemed satisfied. “Well, I’m going. I’m ready to pitch these rags.”

  The door closed. That left the Irish brogue, who was wearing my clothes, and Gibbons, the one-legged boy who trusted me. I feigned sleep.

  “And what will you do if he leaves you for dead somewhere, meboy-o?”

  “I’ll pray that God will make a way of escape, just like this time.”

  “You’re too trustin’ for your own good. It’ll be the undoin’ of you.”

  “Hello?” Mrs. Maynard’s voice came from the top of the ladder. “Anyone still down there?”

  “A couple of us, ma’am,” the brogue answered.

  “Can one of you give me a hand?”

  “Right away!” He was on his feet in a second and up the stairs.

  “Are you awake?” Gibbons whispered.

  I opened my eyes.

  “Lean forward.” He pulled the rags loose from my mouth. I let out a heave that made my chest ache.

  “Thanks. Thanks.” I choked. “Can you get this package out of my coat? It’s weighing hard on me.”

  Gibbons pulled the pouch from my jacket. “I’m sorry for what’s happened to you. But I’m grateful for all you did to get us out.”

  “I didn’t get you out. I was tricked.” He didn’t answer. “Is Cousin Albert—Col. Mitchell—really dead?”

  Gibbons nodded. “Word came through the barracks during mess. He died this afternoon—yesterday now. The guards told us. I’m sorry.”

  I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t settle how I felt about any of it.

  “It wasn’t your fault, no matter what Sgt. McCain says. Colonel had consumption, had it long already.”

  Still I couldn’t answer.

  “I’ll do all I can to help you out of this fix. But I’ve got to be able to trust you. My name is Wooster Gibbons—Pvt. Gibbons.” I stared at him a time, not sure I should trust him.

  “Robert Glover.” The words came out of my mouth, and he nodded. “Did you mean what you said about us running together?” I’d have agreed to anything to get away from McCain.

  Wooster nodded, then half grinned. “But I’m not likely to do much running. We’d have to travel south like you’re my brother, or something—helping me out.” He dipped his head. “But I’ll have to get Sgt. McCain to agree. He might. He’s not likely to want me slowing him down.”

  “Untie me?” I’d find a way to run once I was loose.

  Wooster hedged. “If I do that Sgt. McCain won’t trust us together. I’ll do my best to talk him into untying you. If he doesn’t, I’ll make sure the man and lady upstairs knows you’re down here—soon as I can get time alone with either one of them. I swear it.”

  The upstairs door opened.

  “Duck your head. Pretend you’re sleeping,” Wooster whispered.

  “Right, Gibbons. It’s your turn. How’s our prisoner?” the brogue called down the stairs.

  “Still sleeping,” Wooster answered, knotting my gag in place, but looser this time.

  “Good. We’ll leave him till later.” The brogue reached the bottom of the ladder. “Climb up, then. You’re going to love this hot bath, me boy-o. Tis a bit o’ heaven.” There was some shuffling. The brogue leaned down, and Wooster leaned into his back. He hoisted Wooster and disappeared up the ladder, as if he carried nothing. The door closed behind them.

  “A way of escape. A way of escape,” I prayed. They were Wooster’s words, but I needed them now. “I don’t know what else to pray for. I can’t believe Cousin Albert did this—or that he’s dead.” And then I thought of Emily, and Ma. How would I get to them?

  What about Mr. Heath? He didn’t even know where I was. I wished I’d told him where I was, who I was stopping with. And then I could have kicked myself. I’d told him I was leaving straight for Ashland, not to worry if I was gone long. He’d have no reason to send someone looking for me, not now. By the time he did it might be too late. I’d be gone south with these prisoners or, if McCain had his way, left for dead somewhere. I had to trust that the Maynards would find me, help me.

  I don’t know how many hours passed. I heard footsteps above me, doors opened and closed. The chill and damp of the cellar set deeper in my bones. I twisted and pulled, trying to pry the ropes from my wrists, but it was no use. I just pulled the knots tighter, dug the ropes deeper into raw skin.

  My mind drifted to Granny Struthers, and her salve for rope burns, the salve I couldn’t imagine needing because I’d never had rope burns. I’d give anything to be sitting in Granny’s cabin now, watching her strip leaves from herbs or mix remedies or sing the old chants she’d learned from her Cherokee husband. And then I was there, floating over her cabin, staring into her fire, sleeping in her loft, breathing her cures, listening to William Henry urge, “Hold on. Hold on, now,” all the while crows picked at my eyes, my arms, my feet.

  I woke with a start, tried to steady my heart, my breath, but couldn’t stop the shakes. I didn’t remember ever being so cold, sweating so hard.

  The lantern burned itself out, the dark complete. Faintly, a rooster crowed. Daylight must have come, but I couldn’t see it in the cellar. Thirst set in, then hunger.

  I figured Wooster had lied to me, or they wouldn’t let him come. I called into the rag, hoping the Maynards would come. But no sound came out. My throat was swollen, nearly shut, and raw sore. I inched my way across the floor, rocked side to side till I knocked a crock off the barrel, sent it crashing to the floor, prayed they’d hear it. But nobody came.

  Hours passed. Sleep pulled at me again. I fought it, but it pulled, and pulled, and then I wanted only to sink into it, to slide away, to dream of something else. But all my dreams flared into nightmares—running, chasing, guns blasting past my head, bayonets flashing in the sun, and more crows pecking at my eyes. The horrors kept on and on, spaced only by dark, slime-covered tunnels that ran on without end.

  “Robert! Robert!” a woman’s worried voice pulled me up, up. “Can you hear me, son?” It was Mrs. Maynard.

  “I’m not your son,” I mumbled.

  She started to laugh, then cry. “No, you’re not. But thank God you’re awake.” I couldn’t pry my eyes open. “Wooster! Wooster, he’s awake!” she shouted.

  I heard the thump, thump of Wooster’s crutch on the floor. A body bumped mine. I fell through air when the bed ropes sagged. “Hallelujah! We figured you were a goner!” It was Wooster’s voice but stronger than I’d heard befor
e. “You’ve been out two weeks! It’s about time we got a look at your ugly face!”

  I forced my eyes open. It was like a homecoming. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in Wooster’s room at our boarding house, Robert.” Mrs. Maynard pulled a quilt to my neck. “You’ve been down with a fever. Wooster’s not left your side these two weeks.”

  And then I remembered. I forced my eyes open. “McCain?”

  “Don’t you worry. That horrid man is gone, and none too soon! Only I’m sorry to say he stole your Mr. Heath’s horse. We had no idea what a scoundrel he was!

  “Thank the Lord Wooster begged us to check the cellar, just to make sure Sgt. McCain hadn’t lied about you running off. We just couldn’t believe you’d have run off without your horse. It made no sense—but we never knew you’d been locked in that cellar.

  “We’re so very sorry we got you into this, Robert. I hope you can believe that. I hope you will believe it.”

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to think about it.

  “That’s it. You sleep on. It’s just what you need. We’ll talk later.”

  But we didn’t. My dreams came and went, light and shadow. Voices flew in and out of my head. Fevers raged and died and raged again. The only thing that stayed the same was Wooster’s voice and the far-off sound of a bird I couldn’t name, inside and outside my dreams. There were days I’d wake, and the air around me seemed still, the height and heat of summer. Then nights would pass, and I’d hear William Henry calling my name, sometimes a deep-down sadness in his voice, sometimes urging me to stand up and take hold. I’d hear Granny Struthers, “Go on, now. Work’s not done.”

  And Emily, “Robert? Robert, are you coming?”

  Sometimes the sun baked and pricked my face, but I couldn’t open my eyes, couldn’t turn my head, even when I felt the flies land on my cheek, walk against my nose.

  Later I stared up into branches, all the russets and golds and scarlets of autumn flitting past in patches. I knew I rode flat, laid out in a wagon bed. I heard the cracking of whips, shouting of orders, and the honking and braying of mules, hundreds of mules, the smell beyond reckoning. Something in my mind recalled the mule training camp at Perryville. I figured I was not five miles from home, from Laurelea. I imagined Aunt Sassy’s worried face looking down on me, her bronze hand cooling my brow, a cool vinegar rag mopping my face. Content, knowing I was going home, I slept.