Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1954 (15 page)

 
          
“You
do look tired and pale this morning,” said the lawyer, studying Barry’s face.
“That’s all to the good. Keep looking like that while I’m reading.”

 
          
Morrison
stood before the reconvened court. In one hand he held the written
defense,
with the other he clutched his broad lapel. His
voice was rich, expressive, and resonant as he read the plea for Barry Mills.

 
 
         
As Barry listened, he knew that he
could never have spoken so well and persuasively in his own behalf. Morrison
described the underground mail service as an activity harmless to the Union’s
war policy, dealing not in deaths of Federal soldiers but in communication
between loved ones kept apart by the lines of battle.

 
          
“No
evidence whatsoever,” Morrison declared ringingly, “has been offered to show
that this boy plotted or carried information to cause the betrayal of Federal
troops into ambush, or the destruction of ships or forts or supplies or any
other military materials. He operated, simply and with compassion, to carry
messages between exiled men and their homes, where their wives and mothers and
families waited and wondered and worried about them. What, gentlemen, is a spy?
Has Barry Mills brought to nothing any slightest plan of the Federal forces,
has he helped any slightest effort of the Confederates? No. I do not need to
point out that nothing of that sort has been shown here.”

 
          
It
was good, thought Barry as he listened, that nobody had told the court about
his ride with Shelby’s false mail. Morrison went on:

           
“As to his presence in Gratiot
Street Prison on the night of November 12, has it been claimed that he did any
violence with the gun he is said to have carried, or to have sought any
military secret? No. He tried to aid a sick comrade. The illness of Absalom
Grimes is a known fact—
indeed,
Absalom Grimes was
transferred at last from Gratiot Street Prison because of the critical nature
of his illness. The United States government is to be blamed for not caring
sooner for this sick, disabled, helpless man. It was the desperate hope of
young Barry Mills that he could do for Absalom Grimes what was not being done
for him by his captors.”

 
          
Morrison
spread his hands in an eloquent gesture of appeal.

 
          
“I
plead with the gentlemen of this honorable court to look into their own hearts,
to see this unfortunate prisoner as an honest and kind-souled boy. Into your
hands I deliver the fate of Barry Mills, with confidence that you will not deny
him the simple justice of acquittal.”

 
          
Morrison
bowed and sat down. General Bowhan’s eyes turned to Captain Loftus.
“Judge-advocate will reply?” he said.

 
 
         
“General, there is no need of
additional time to prepare my remarks,” said Loftus, standing up. “I will be
brief, and the main body of my remarks is included in two of the Articles of
War by which this court must govern itself.”

 
          
He
unfolded a sheet of paper, hastily pencilled over, and began to read.

 
          
“First, to dispose of the argument that the accused has offered no
direct menace to the soldiers or equipment of the United States Army.
This has nothing whatsoever to do with the charge and its specifications.
Evidence has shown that the accused carried letters to and from rebel soldiers,
in arms against the government. Permit me to quote Article 57 of the Articles
of War:

 
          
“ ‘Whosoever shall be convicted of holding
correspondence with, or giving intelligence to, the enemy, either directly or
indirectly, shall suffer death or other such punishment as shall be ordered by
the sentence of a court-martial.’ ”

           
He paused, looking triumphantly at
Morrison and then at Barry. Again he referred to the paper in his hand.

 
          
“As
to the allegedly harmless intrusion of this accused into the Gratiot Street
Prison, it has been demonstrated, nor has the defense sought to deny, that he
wore a cap and overcoat of Federal Army make and design, and appeared to be a
soldier of the Union Army; that he carried a musket, loaded and ready to fire,
and threatened with that musket soldiers of the army in performance of their
duty. Nor has the accused denied that he operated as, and considered himself
as, a citizen and adherent of the Rebellion which styles itself an independent
nation, called the Confederate States of America. I respectfully suggest that
this court accept him at his own valuation, as one belonging to a government
other than the United States.”

 
          
Again
he paused, and then read aloud:

 
          
“Article 101, Section 2: ‘Be it further
enacted, That in time of war, all persons not citizens of, or owing allegiance
to, the United States of America, who shall be found lurking as spies in or
about the fortifications or encampments of the armies of the United States, or
any of them, shall suffer death, according to the law and usage of nations, by
sentence of a general court-martial.’ ”

           
Abruptly Captain Loftus sat down.

           
“Court will be cleared,” came
General Bowhan’s gruff pronouncement, “for private deliberation— evidence and
plea.”

 
          
The
guards marched Barry into the hall. Morrison accompanied him, and clapped his
shoulder encouragingly. Barry felt his heart pounding so that his ears and
temples throbbed, but his hands and feet felt numb, as though he had stood for
hours in the icy street.

 
          
Barely
five minutes passed before he
was summoned
back, to
stand between his two guards and face the row of uniformed officers. General
Bowhan stood up.

 
          
“Having
maturely considered—evidence adduced,” he ground out, more harshly staccato
than ever, “court finds accused, Barry Mills, as follows:

 
          
“First specification—guilty.
Second
specification —guilty.
And guilty as charged.”

 
          
The
hard lips tightened in the gray beard.

 
          
“And
court sentences said Barry Mills—hanged by neck until dead—some time during
week of 12th March, 1865.”

 
          
Again
silence. Barry looked at General Bowhan, who seemed to be biting those hard,
bearded lips.

           
The general met Barry’s gaze. His
grizzled brows drew together.

 
          
“Further business—before this court?
If not— court will
adjourn
—sine die”

 
          
A
guard tapped Barry on the arm. “Come on, bub,” he said.
“Back
to the jail-house.”

 
          
BACK
in his cell, Barry sat down on the bed. The air felt chilly, and he turned up
his collar.

 
          
Now
that the trial was over, the sentence passed, he felt calm and even relaxed. It
was the same feeling that had possessed him in one peril after another, ever
since he had fled from Bowling Green twenty months before.

 
          
Someone
came to the bars and looked at him. It was Schultz, the orderly. Schultz’s eyes
were round and sad.

           
“I heard all about it, young ’un,”
he said. “I—you —say, listen, how do you feel?”

 
          
“I
feel hungry,” replied Barry, and smiled to comfort Schultz. “I skimped my
breakfast today. Is there anything left to eat?”

 
          
“A
little while back, the cook was frying up some corn meal mush, and we got some
bacon gravy.”

 
          
Barry
smacked his lips. “That sounds good. Do you think—
”

 
          
“Yes, sure.
I’ll go fetch you some.”

 
          
He
went away to bring a plate of sliced fried mush, with gravy poured over it, and
a mug of coffee. Barry ate eagerly, feeling better all the time. As he scooped
the last morsel from the dish, Schultz returned.

 
          
“You
got a visitor,” he said.

 
          
“Hello
in there, you rebel postman,” spoke up another voice, and Barry looked past
Schultz at Captain Latimer. “Open up this door for me, orderly. I have
permission to talk with this prisoner.”

 
          
Schultz
produced a key. It grated in the lock, and Latimer entered.

 
          
He
sat down on the bed, and brought a paper from inside his tunic. “You showed
plenty of courage at that trial,” he added. “I feel proud to know you.”

 
          
“Thank
you, Captain,” said Barry. “I suppose you’ve heard that I have about two and a
half months left to live?”

 
          
“Oh,
that date with the rope will be postponed,” said Latimer confidently. “They’ll
have to send your case to be reviewed by the commander of the department and
then by the Secretary of War, since it’s a death sentence. Maybe you won’t hang
at all.” “General Bowhan made it sound pretty definite.” “Didn’t your friend
Grimes get sentenced to hang?” reminded the captain. “And didn’t he get away
and go free? Of course, he was all through causing trouble. If the Secretary of
War thought you were through causing trouble, too, you might go free, just the
way Grimes did.”

 
          
“I’m
not causing trouble here,” said Barry, “except that they have to feed me. I’m a
fairly hearty eater, that’s all.”

 
          
Latimer’s
broad grin showed all his white teeth. “Remember back in Memphis? I told you
that you ought to be on our side. Well, it’s not too late, even now.”

           
“What are you driving at?” demanded
Barry. Latimer unfolded the paper and looked at it. “I have a list of names
here,” he said.
“Got ’em at the provost marshal’s office.
I’d like to know if any name here means anything to you.” Again he studied the
paper. “Ever hear of Bob Louden?”

 
          
“I’ll
answer no such questions, Captain Latimer,” Barry told him sharply. “You and I
played this question-and-answer game once before. I feel the same way now that
I did then.”

 
          
“Did
you ever meet Bart and Sam Bowen, who own the river steamer
Graham
?”

 
          
“If
I had, I wouldn’t tell you so.”

 
          
“How
about Mrs. Deborah Wilson, here in Saint Louis?” went on
Latimer.
“How about Jennie Rudisell and Emma Selby, in Memphis?”

 
          
“You’re
mentioning the names,” said Barry. “I’m not. I have nothing to say.”

 
          
Latimer
gazed at him for a long, thoughtful moment. “Captain Byrne downstairs told me
it would be like this,” he complained at last. “Look, Barry, I’ll go away for a
while. I’ll leave this list on your bed. And here’s a pencil. Maybe you’d like
to look it over. You might see a name there that reminds you of somebody. Why
not make a crossmark opposite any name like that?”

 
          
He
rose, and Schultz let him out.

 
          
Barry
took the list. It included more than forty names. At least fifteen of them were
names he knew, men and women who had helped Absalom Grimes in the underground
mail service. When he had read it through, he tore it across, then across
again,
and finally into small shreds. These he threw out
between the bars of his door. Then he lay down on his bed. He had been unable to
sleep soundly the night before, but now he dozed off and did not waken until he
heard the rattle of the key and the opening of the door.

 
          
Schultz
was letting Captain Latimer in again. “Where’s that list I gave you?” asked
Latimer.

 
          
“I
tore it up. Here’s your pencil.”

 
          
A grin from the captain.
“Come on, you’re to go with me.
Somebody wants to talk to you.”

 
          
Captain
Latimer led him out along the corridor, down the stairs and up the street.
Behind them walked an armed soldier. The captain’s unwounded hand rode in his
overcoat pocket, and Barry guessed that it held a pistol. They went to the
house where the court-martial had taken place, and up a flight of stairs
inside. Latimer knocked at a door above.

 
          
“Come
in,” came a surly growl, and the captain opened the door. Inside, at a desk,
sat General Bowhan.

 
          
“Sit
down,” rumbled the general. “Here, Mills— beside my desk.
Captain—over
there.”
To the guard he said, “Wait outside.”

 
          
Barry
took the chair indicated and looked silently from the captain to the general.

 
          
“He
wouldn’t tell me anything, sir,” said Latimer to General Bowhan.

 
          
“No?”
said Bowhan, scowling. “Well—I’ll tell him something. Mills—your cousin—what’s
his name? I’ve ordered him investigated. Acted guilty in court—I think he did
what you said, stole that farm. If so—have to account for money—get off the
place.”

 
          
He
stopped frowning and looked expectantly at Barry.

 
          
“My
father may come back unhurt from this war, General,” said Barry. “He’ll be
grateful.”

 
          
“Hoped
you’d be grateful, too,” jerked out the general. “Hoped you’d come back
unhurt—by helping us.”

 
          
“You
don’t expect me to do that,” said Barry. “I won’t save my neck by selling out
any of my friends. I’ve been convicted and sentenced—let that
be
the end of it.”

 
          
“I
told you he’d say that, sir,” groaned Captain Latimer.

 
          
“Take
him away,” Bowhan grumbled.

 
          
On
the way back to the prison, Latimer shook his head at Barry, like a
schoolmaster at a disobedient pupil.

 
          
“I
don’t want you to hang,” he said. “Neither does General Bowhan. But you—”

 
          
“I
won’t be a traitor, Captain. Put yourself in my place.”

 
          
Latimer
was silent.

 
          
Time went
slowly but calmly in his
narrow cell. He spent his time there, except for the daily exercise periods
under the eyes of guards. Schultz played several checker games with him daily,
and Barry acquired skill enough to beat the orderly most of the time.

 
          
New
Year’s Day came and went. Mid-January brought the news that the Federals had
stormed Fort Fisher on the North Carolina coast and had moved on to capture
Wilmington, the Confederacy’s last open port. Meanwhile, Sherman was heading
north from ruined Georgia into South Carolina, while Grant hammered powerfully
at Lee’s defenses in Virginia. Upon the Confederacy’s gaunt, hungry flanks the
overwhelming Union forces were closing in for the final blow.

 
          
It
was on Saint
Valentine’s day
that Captain Latimer
appeared again. Barry was at checkers with Schultz, reaching through the bars
to the board. Latimer studied the game thoughtfully.

 
          
“Move
there,” he said to Schultz, pointing. “Then you’ll get two of his men.”

 
          
“Right!”
Schultz made the move, and happily scooped up two
of Barry’s pieces from the board. “He’s playing right into my hands.”

 
          
“Am
I?” Barry moved in turn, jumping three of Schultz’s checkers and landing in the
king row.

           
“Stop helping me, Captain,” begged
Schultz woefully.
“Help Barry!”

 
          
“I’m
going to, but not in a checker game.” Latimer pushed a folded letter in between
the bars. “Look at that, son.”

 
          
It
was an order, signed by Secretary of War Stanton, delaying the date of Barry’s
execution to April 16.

 
          
“Isn’t
that a pleasant valentine?” urged Latimer.

 
          
“Just
mildly,” replied Barry. “The death sentence still stands.”

 
          
Schultz
put the checkers into their box. “I concede this game,” he said, and carried
box, board and stool away up the corridor.

 
          
Latimer
leaned against the bars, flexing his wounded hand.

 
          
“Barry,”
he said earnestly, “you have more than two months now. If you do the least
thing to show you’ll help us, you’ll get a chance. I swear that, and General
Bowhan swears it.”

 
          
The
lean, dark face was eager, wistful. Barry smiled and shook his head.

 
          
“But
it’s your last chance,” Latimer fairly pleaded. “Look at it this way. General
Bowhan and I both come from
Illinois
. I was bom in Springfield—when I was a boy
I knew Abraham Lincoln. We might even appeal to the President—”

 
          
“Thanks,
but I’ll betray nobody.” Barry rose from his stool. “I feel just the way I did
on the day they sentenced me. That’s my final word, Captain Latimer, except
that I’m very grateful to you.”

 
          
Barry
saw no more of Captain Latimer for weeks. He made himself relax in his cell,
slept well of nights, enjoyed his food.

 
          
Schultz
provided him with newspapers. In early March, Barry read that the Confederates
in the Shenandoah Valley had been defeated. The first of April saw the battle
of Five Forks, and Lee began to retreat from Richmond. On the evening of April
9, the corridors of Gratiot Street Prison rang with excited shouts and cheers.
Schultz told Barry that a telegram had come, to say that Lee had surrendered to
Grant.

 
          
“You’re
just about the only rebel left fighting,” said Schultz. “Let me send for
Captain Latimer— please. Barry, you don’t have any reason left to be so
mule-eared about this.”

 
          
“I
won’t talk,” said Barry. “If I talked my own head out of the noose, I’d talk a
lot of other heads in. So forget it.”