Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1954 (12 page)

 
          
IT
WAS no problem at all to find the off-duty lodgings of Sergeant Mike Welsh.
Mrs. Deborah Wilson, to whom Barry reported when he reached
Saint Louis
, made immediate inquiries and found that
the sergeant kept a room at a boarding house on
Ninth Street
, not far from the prison. It was after
sundown on November 11, a night of clammy-cold mist that spoke drearily of
approaching winter, when Barry appeared at the door of the house. He knocked,
and asked the landlady to call Sergeant Welsh to the door.

           
A few moments later, a great rock of
a man appeared in the hallway, with his coat off and his huge thumbs hooked in
his suspenders. “Looking for me?” he boomed out.

 
          
“Sergeant
Welsh, I’ll begin by putting my life in your hands,” said Barry, with quiet
earnestness. “I want to talk to you about somebody who’s a friend to both of
us.”

 
          
“Eh?
What’s all this about?”

 
          
“Absalom
Grimes,” whispered Barry.

 
          
Welsh’s
moustache bristled. His big face turned blank,
then
knitted in a scowl. He surveyed Barry from head to foot.

 
          
“Come
in,” he said. “We’ll talk in my room. But let me warn you right now that I’m a
soldier even when I’m off duty.”

 
          
When
they had entered the room and closed the door, Sergeant Welsh gazed
penetratingly at Barry. “Who are you?” he demanded.

 
          
“I’m
Captain Grimes’ partner in the mail service,” replied Barry.

 
          
“Look
here,” grumbled Welsh, “I’m a soldier of the
Union
, sworn to serve my country. You’re talking
yourself into trouble.”

 
 
         
“Will it serve your country if Captain
Grimes dies of sickness and cold in the hospital at Gratiot Street Prison?”

 
          
A
deep sigh stirred Welsh’s thick chest. “He’s in bad shape, and that’s the
truth,” he said. “I’ve done what I can for him, what any decent man should do
for another.” He scrutinized Barry with slitted eyes. “Now, what are you up to,
coming to me like this? What’s your name?”

 
          
“Barry
Mills.”

 
          
“I’ve
heard that name,” said Welsh, nodding slowly. “Somebody from
Pike
County
said that Barry Mills was helping Ab
Grimes—”

 
          
“Probably my cousin Buckalew.
He wants to be sure he can
keep the farm he stole from my father and me. But first of all, Sergeant Welsh,
let me show you that I’m what I claim to be.”

 
          
From
his pockets Barry produced several documents: his old pass, signed by General
Johnston; a note from
Shelby
, complimenting him on his successful part in starting the raid a year
before; and a copy of an order from Price’s headquarters, announcing the
distribution of Confederate mail from
Missouri
.

           
“Those prove I’m telling the truth
about myself,” said Barry, as the sergeant pored over them. “You could drag me
off to prison now, with that evidence against me.”

 
          
Welsh
raised his eyes from the papers. “All right, but I still don’t understand why
you brought me all this.”

 
          
“Because
I’m worrying about the same man you’re worrying about.
Absalom
Grimes.
Does he have to die there?” pleaded Barry. “Wouldn’t he get well
if his friends could have
him
and take care of him?”

 
          
“What
do you expect me to do?” demanded Welsh. “Turn traitor? Smuggle Grimes out of
there? They’d shoot me against a blank wall for that, and you know it.”

 
          
“No,
you can’t do anything like that,” said Barry. “But tell me—suppose you were in
my place. How would you go about it?”

 
          
Welsh
rose and moved, slowly and ponderously, a few steps. He was like a great beast
pacing from one side of a cage to the other.

 
          
“You
expect me to ‘advise’ you, eh?”

 
          
“Sergeant
Welsh, if you weren’t friendly to Captain Grimes and to me, you’d have made me
a prisoner the instant I said what I was up to. You know I’ll try to rescue my
partner—”

 
          
“I
don’t know any such thing!” interrupted Welsh, so roughly that Barry broke off
with his mouth half open. Welsh came close with a great stride, towering over
Barry where he sat.

 
          
“So
far as I know, you don’t care if Ab Grimes escapes or not,” he said harshly.
“We’re just a couple of chance-met folks, and we’re sitting here, quiet and
comfortable, talking over the idea of how some crazy fool might try to get into
Gratiot Street’s hospital ward on the top floor.”

 
          
He
sank back into his own chair, and grinned in a secret, friendly way.

 
          
“Gratiot
Street Prison used to be the McDowell Medical College,” he said, as chatty as
somebody’s favorite uncle. “It’s of stone, thick enough to dam back the
Mississippi, and every window’s barred with iron, and every door is guarded,
night and day.” “You make it sound right snug and tight,” observed Barry.

 
          
“Here
on the Ninth Street side is the back of the prison,” went on Welsh. “There’s an
alley running from the main building to the street, and that alley’s fenced in
with stout boards spiked together. A door opens at the Ninth Street end, and
it’s guarded, too. It locks from the outside, and the sentry has the key.”

 
          
“I
understand,” said Barry.

 
          
“If
somebody could get in there, in spite of the gate and the sentry,” pursued
Welsh, “he’d walk up the alley, between two wings of stone building, to a back
door.
Another guard there, of course.
Twice as watchful by night as by day.
Those are orders.”
“Suppose this fellow we’re talking about got past the sentry at the back door,
too?” prompted Barry.

 
          
“His
real trouble would start. This sneaker-in would be on the main floor of the prison,
and he’d have the headquarters office and the guard room and so on all around
him. If he got to the stairs, he might reach the second floor where they keep
prisoners in cells. And if he managed to get to the third floor, he’d be
looking in at the door of the hospital ward, where Ab Grimes is lying on a cot.”

 
          
“You
make it sound impossible,” ventured Barry. “Sure, it’s impossible,” agreed
Welsh at once. “Because that sneaker-in fellow would be wearing civilian
clothes, wouldn’t he? The soldiers would spot him, and he’d be nabbed as a
suspicious character before he took three steps.”

 
          
“I’m
afraid so,” agreed Barry.

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” said Welsh, and rose again. “Anybody ransacking around that prison
dressed like a citizen would be under arrest before he could say catfish. Now
I’m going to have to say goodbye, because I must get back to duty.”

 
          
“To
the prison?” asked Barry.

 
          
“Yes,
and that’s another thing,” said Welsh weightily. “I’d be doubly apt to watch
out for some young daredevil about your size and appearance, who might try to
drift past those sentries. In fact, that is one of my special jobs, as sergeant
of the guard. If anybody did such a thing as we’re talking about, and I let him
do it, I might be court-martialed for neglecting my duty.”

 
          
Barry
rose and moved slowly to the door. He felt failure descending around him like
the mist that cloaked the streets outside. But a big hand fell on his shoulder.

 
          
“The
only thing the fellow
could do would
be to get there
on the night I’m off duty,” said Welsh in his ear. “It so happens that I don’t
go to the prison tomorrow night—that’s Saturday, November 12.”

           
“Goodbye, sergeant,” said Barry.

 
          
“Goodbye.
Excuse me for not coming out to the street with you.”

 
          
Barry
hastened back to Mrs. Wilson’s, and at once went into conference with that
resourceful lady.

 
          
“Don’t
start telling me how you learned all this information about Gratiot Street
Prison,” she cautioned him. “Whoever told you had no business doing so, and the
least we can do is forget all about him. But take this piece of paper and
sketch a map of the way to the hospital ward as he described it to you.”

 
          
Barry
picked up a pen and did so. When he had finished, he looked at the map and
thought again.

           
“Everything I heard was in the form
of a warning about how hard it would be for anybody to get into that prison,
and how easy it would be for him to be caught. A man in citizen’s clothes would
be arrested immediately.”

 
          
“Your
friend meant you must go there in a Federal uniform,” said his hostess.
“Where’s Joe?”

           
Mrs. Wilson’s trusted servant
appeared at her call.

           
“Go down into the cellar and open
the closet you know is there,” she directed. “Bring up the cap and overcoat.”

 
          
Joe
departed, and returned with a blue overcoat and a Union army cap. Barry tried
them on. They were a fairly good fit, and covered his civilian suit.

 
          
“There,”
said Mrs. Wilson, surveying him. “Once you’re inside, you might pass for one of
the prison guards. But getting you inside—”

 
          
“Wait,”
said Barry. “There are sentinels at every door, including the one in the alley
fence on Ninth Street. Those guards must be relieved regularly.” “Why, yes,”
replied Mrs. Wilson. “I’ve seen the guard changed—every two hours, beginning at
high noon, they switch men at all outer points.”

 
          
“High noon,” repeated Barry, “and every two hours after that.
In other words, a change of guards takes place at midnight. That’s a good,
quiet, sleepy hour.”

 
          
He
walked to a tall mirror and stood at attention, surveying himself in the blue
coat and cap.

 
          
“If
I had a musket,” he said, “I’d look like somebody going on guard. I could take
the place of the man at the alley gate.”

           
“Joe,” said Mrs. Wilson, “there’s a
musket down in that closet, and a bayonet, too.”

 
          
Barry
looked at his hostess in amazement, and she laughed at his stunned expression.

 
          
“Can
you guess how I happen to have all these things in my house?” she asked him.
“They were brought by Absalom Grimes himself, the last time he escaped from
prison. He stole the clothes and musket more than two years ago—and you’ll be
wearing them back.”

 
          
When
Joe brought in the musket, Barry examined it. There was a charge still in the
barrel. He strapped the belt with the bayonet around his waist, and adjusted
the cap.

 
          
“You
look quite military,” pronounced Mrs. Wilson.

 
          
“Thanks,”
Barry grinned. He began to take off his disguise. “Let me have some more paper,
please,” he requested.