Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1954 (14 page)

 
          
“
It’s
bitter cold,” he said. “Don’t you have an overcoat?”

 
          
Barry
smiled. “The last overcoat I wore—they called me a spy for wearing it.”

 
          
“Take
this one.” Morrison stripped off his own caped, frogged greatcoat and insisted
that Barry put it on. The tails dragged to the very ground, and the sleeves
came down over Barry’s knuckles.

 
          
Over
icy pavements Barry walked, flanked by his guards and followed by the lawyer.
Several passers-by stared curiously. At the house the party entered a
vestibule, and one of the guards knocked at a side door. It was opened by a
waspish-looking little officer with ginger-colored side whiskers.

 
          
“Bring
in the prisoner,” he commanded.

 
          
Barry
walked into a large room. At the rear of it was a long table, at which sat half
a dozen officers, in full dress uniform heavy with insignia and gold braid.
Their bearded faces looked at Barry with solemn attention. To one side, at a
desk, was seated a studious-looking soldier with pens and paper, as clerk. The
two guards dropped back against a side wall, and the ginger-whiskered man beckoned
Barry forward,
then
picked up a paper.

 
          
“I
read from
a
order from the headquarters of the
Department of Missouri, December 20, 1864,” he began. “
⁴
A general
court-martial will assemble at Saint Louis, at 10 o’clock A. M., the 28th
instant, or as soon thereafter as is practicable, for the trial of Barry Mills
and such other prisoners as may be brought before it. A detail of six officers
is assigned, with Brigadier-General Foster L. Bowhan, United States Volunteers,
as president.’ ”

 
          
He
called the roll, and the six officers answered to their names in turn.

 
          
“Captain
Harris L. Loftus, Fourth Indiana Artillery, is appointed judge-advocate of the
court,” announced the ginger-whiskered one, and bowed slightly, as though
responding to his own identification. “This court meets today pursuant to the
above order. All members of the court are present, as is Barry Mills, the
accused.”

 
          
His
dark, close-set eyes prowled over Barry. “Has the accused any objection to any
member of the court? It is his right to challenge any such member, and to state
his reasons.”

 
          
Barry
looked at the grave-faced officers assembled to try him. “I don’t know any of
these gentlemen,” he said, and was happy to find that he spoke quietly and
steadily. “No challenge.”

 
          
“As
judge-advocate, it is my duty to swear the court.”

 
          
When
this had been done, General Bowhan in turn swore Captain Loftus as
judge-advocate, then all sat down.

 
          
“Accused
may introduce his counsel,” said General Bowhan.

 
          
Barry
gestured, and the lawyer moved forward. “Mr. Solomon Morrison, attorney and
counsellor-at- law,” announced Barry.

 
          
“Acceptable,” came the general’s growl.
“Judge-
advocate
will read the charge.”

 
          
Another
paper appeared in Captain Loftus’ wiry hands.

 
          
“Charge,
espionage against the army and government of the United States,” he intoned.

 
          
Barry
listened to the reading. There seemed to be a lot of the accusation, in
many-syllabled language. He gathered that he had operated “with force and arms
against the army and government of the United States,” in carrying written
messages to and from the Confederates, and in “entering secretly and illegally
the Gratiot Street Military Prison.” When Loftus had finished, he faced Barry
again.

 
          
“Barry
Mills,” he said, “you have heard the charge and specifications preferred
against you. How say you, guilty or not guilty?”

           
Barry stood at attention. “Not
guilty,” he replied, and the clerk wrote it down. Mr. Morrison touched Barry’s
elbow and beckoned him to sit at a small table facing the court.

 
          
“Call
first witness,” grumbled General Bowhan’s deep voice, and Captain Loftus called
out, “Buckalew Mills!”

 
          
A
guard opened an inner door. Fat Cousin Buckalew appeared, dressed in a blue
tail coat and a frilled shirt. He grimaced in distaste at Barry, and approached
to stand before the judge-advocate.

 
          
CAPTAIN
Loftus swore Buckalew, and told him to sit in a chair facing the court.

 
          
“Are
you acquainted with this prisoner, Barry Mills?” was the captain’s first
question.

 
          
“He’s
a kinsman of mine,” replied Buckalew, as though deeply ashamed of the fact.

 
          
“When
did you last see him?”

 
          
“April
of 1863.”

 
          
“Tell
the court what occurred then.”

 
          
“He
ran off to help Absalom Grimes, the rebel spy, escape arrest.”

           
General Bowhan rasped his throat.
“As president of this court—must caution witness—answer only as to facts, not
conclusions,” he warned.

 
          
“I’ll
clarify the witness’s remarks, sir,” said Captain Loftus. “Mr. Mills, tell what
happened at the time the accused left you.”

 
          
“Barry
Mills lived and worked on my farm in Pike County,” said Buckalew importantly.
“During the month of April, 1863—about the middle of the month, or a little
past—he and I were in Bowling Green, at the wood yard owned by August Batz. At
that time 1 told Mr. Batz that I had heard that Absalom Grimes was in town—”

 
          
“Wait,”
rapped out General Bowhan again. “Hearsay evidence—can’t be given. Witness must
use proper language.”

 
          
“The
name of Absalom Grimes, the rebel spy, was mentioned,” replied Buckalew,
glaring at Barry. “Did the accused display any reaction?”

 
          
“He
disappeared. I never saw him again until I came into this room.”

 
          
“That’s
all,” said Loftus, and nodded to Barry. Morrison had been writing hurriedly,
and now pushed a scribbled sheet across the table to Barry.

 
 
         
“Make him admit that he stole your
father’s farm,” the lawyer whispered.

 
          
Barry
felt his heart beating fast as he rose and stepped forward. Buckalew’s
fat-cushioned eyes watched him scornfully. Barry looked at a question Mr.
Morrison had written.

 
          
“Cousin
Buck,” he said, “you say that I was working on your farm.
In
other words, on a farm owned by you.
Do you actually own that farm?”

 
          
Buckalew
scowled and licked his Ups.

 
          
“Question
must bear on matter being tried,” cautioned General Bowhan sourly.

 
          
Mr.
Morrison leaned forward, thrusting another paper at Barry. Barry glanced at it,
then
addressed the general.

 
          
“Sir,”
he said, “I’m going to impeach the testimony of this witness. I’ll prove that
he has been guilty of perjury at this trial and of embezzlement elsewhere—that
he’s a liar and a thief, and not a fit person to give testimony.”

 
          
“Now
wait,”
blustered
Buckalew, starting to rise.

 
          
“Sit
down!” roared General Bowhan, so fiercely that Buckalew almost fell back into his
chair. “Witness will answer.”

 
          
“The
farm belongs to me now,” mumbled Buckalew Mills, looking as though the room had
become suddenly warm and close.

 
          
“Is
the farm yours,” persisted Barry, feeling more confident, “or does it belong to
my father, Jefferson Mills?”

 
          
“Jeff
Mills is a rebel,” Buckalew said in the same mumbling tone, and tugged at his
cravat.

 
          
“Witness
will answer,” said General Bowhan, inexorably. “State if farm is his, or
belongs to somebody else.”

 
          
“Jeff
Mills is my cousin, and he’s a soldier of the Rebellion,” said Buckalew,
defiance giving his voice strength. “I figure he isn’t entitled to the farm any
more. His property is forfeited.”

 
          
“Was
the property given to you legally,” demanded Barry, moving a step closer, “or
did you just take it?”

 
          
Buckalew
fell silent. His eyes protruded. He looked like an enormous, sick frog.

 
          
“Answer
my question, Cousin Buck,” insisted Barry. When Buckalew said nothing, Barry
accepted another note from Morrison, read it swiftly, and faced the officers of
the court.

 
          
“I
charge this witness with perjury and embezzlement,” he said triumphantly. “I
say that he is an improper witness, whose word is not to be believed. I
respectfully request that his testimony be disregarded and stricken from the
record.”

 
          
“May
it please the court,” shouted Captain Loftus, himself starting forward, “we’ll
back up his testimony as it concerns the accused running away to join Absalom
Grimes and becoming a spy for the rebels!”

 
          
“Court
will be cleared while matter’s decided,” announced General Bowhan.

 
          
The
two guards marched Barry away into the outer hall, Morrison following. When the
door closed behind them, the lawyer rubbed his hands together in glee.

 
          
“I
can’t do your pleading for you, Barry, but you’ve made a friend on that
court-martial,” he said, smiling. “General Bowhan seems to like you, and he
certainly doesn’t like your fat cousin. Who could?”

 
          
A
call from inside summoned them back. Buckalew had vanished from the witness
chair. General Bowhan’s gray beard bristled, and Captain Loftus looked somewhat
crestfallen.

           
“Testimony of last
witness—disregarded except as corroborated by others,” jerked out the general,
scowling resolutely.
“Next witness.”

 
          
It
was Karl Batz. He smiled shyly at Barry, took the oath, and sat down.

 
          
“Sergeant,”
said the judge-advocate, “are you acquainted with the accused?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir, I’ve known him for years.”

 
          
“When did you see him last?”

 
          
“About
six weeks ago,” said Karl.
“The middle of November.”

 
          
“And before that?”

 
          
“April of last year.”

 
          
“Tell
the court about it.”

 
          
Karl
described Barry’s flight from the wood yard and his later appearance in the
buggy with Absalom Grimes, when Grimes had halted Karl’s pursuit at pistol
point. He then told of recognizing Barry on the stairway at Gratiot Street
Prison. Barry conferred in a whisper with Morrison, and rose to say that he
would not cross-examine. Karl Batz was dismissed from the stand just before
noon.

 
          
Barry
went with his guards to a kitchen behind the house, where they ate a meal of beef,
bread and coffee. At one o’clock the court-martial began a new session, and
Captain Loftus called the name of Captain Latimer.

 
          
That
officer looked older than when he had encountered Barry in Memphis, and his
left arm hung in a sling of dark silk, as though wounded. He testified that he
had found Confederate mail in Absalom Grimes’ valise, and that Barry had
captured him and tied him up to keep him from turning it over to the provost
marshal. He described how Barry left with the mail.

 
          
“Did
the accused admit that he was an agent of the rebels?” inquired Captain Loftus.

 
          
“Admit
is hardly the word,” said Latimer. “He was proud of it.”

 
          
“Your
witness,” said the judge-advocate to Barry, and Morrison pushed across more
scribbled questions.

 
          
Barry
took time to study them, then rose and looked at Captain Latimer.

 
          
“Captain,
you told the court that I said I was a spy of the Confederacy.”

 
          
“Not
directly, no. You showed it by what you said and did.”

           
“The way you tell it, there was lots
of talk in that hotel room,” said Barry. “Didn’t you try to threaten and
frighten me? Wasn’t your treatment of a sort that would stampede anybody into
reaching for a gun and getting away the best he could? Threats, talk about the
South losing the war, the danger of being hanged—”

 
          
“I
object!” interrupted Captain Loftus. “That is a highly improper question!”

 
          
Suddenly
he stopped and looked at Latimer, who was grinning.

 
          
“I
withdraw the objection,” said Loftus, more quietly. “Captain Latimer may
answer.”

 
          
“Gladly,”
said Latimer. “No, George Jones or Barry Mills or whoever you are, I didn’t
have any notion that I was frightening you.”

 
          
Barry
glanced at Morrison, who shrugged. “That’s all,” said Barry and sat down.

 
          
Next
came
the prison guards who had captured and disarmed
Barry. They swore to Barry’s wearing a blue army overcoat and cap. They were
followed by Captain Byrne, who supported this testimony, and said that the
musket taken from Barry was loaded.

 
          
“Captain
Byrne,” said Barry, when his turn came to cross-examine, “did you take the coat
and cap from me?”

 
          
“I
did.”

 
          
“What
did I wear underneath?”

 
          
The
captain studied him narrowly. “I can’t say exactly, but I think it was the same
suit you’re wearing now.”

 
          
“In
other words, I wasn’t in Federal uniform?”

 
          
“You
wore an army cap and coat,” replied Byrne. “When you had those on, you looked
to be in uniform.”

 
          
Morrison
passed Barry one of his written messages. Barry glanced at it. Then he asked,
“Aren’t you aware that Confederate soldiers often put on captured Federal
clothes for lack of proper uniforms of their own?”

 
          
“I
can’t say as to that,” said Byrne again. “You’ll have to ask some rebel about
such things.”

 
          
Barry
sat down again.

 
          
“No
more witnesses for the prosecution,” announced Captain Loftus.

 
          
Barry
conferred again with Morrison, and rose. “I will offer no defense witnesses,”
he said to the court, “and request time to prepare my written statement of
defense.”

 
          
“Court
adjourns—ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” decreed General Bowhan.

 
          
Very
little sleep came to Barry that night, and for breakfast next morning he could
take only hot coffee. Morrison was waiting for him again as he was marched from
the prison.

 
          
“I’ve
written out your defense statement,” he told Barry, offering a sheaf of
foolscap. “You’ve made a good impression so far. How would you like to read
it?”

 
          
Barry
shook his head. “I’d rather you did,” he replied. “You know what’s written
there, and how to present it. Just now all I want to do is
sit
still and let somebody else talk.”