Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1954 (9 page)

           
“When my pickets captured you today,
they thought you were a Union spy. But then they saw the mail you were
carrying. That convinced them. They never doubted the mail, did they?”

 
          
“That’s
right, Colonel,” agreed Barry.

 
          
“Suppose
they’d been Federals?” pursued
Shelby
. “Suppose that mail had fallen into enemy
hands.”

 
          
“I
hate to think of that, sir,” Barry said. “They’d read every letter to find out
something that would help them against you.”

 
          
“You
don’t want it to happen, but 1 do,” said Colonel Shelby, and smiled as both
father and son gasped. “Wait, I’ll explain what I mean.”

 
          
He
stood over them, his good hand massaging the bandaged one.

 
          
“
Little Rock
’s the fourth state capital we’ve lost in
the western part of the South,” he reminded them.
“
Baton Rouge
in
Louisiana
,
Nashville
in
Tennessee
,
Jackson
in
Mississippi
, and now
Little Rock
, and most of
Arkansas
with it.”

 
          
“They
didn’t come down here after us,” offered Jeff Mills stoutly.

 
          
“Why
should they?” demanded
Shelby
, his eyes glowing palely. “They think they can destroy us whenever they
feel like coming after us. But I’m not going to wait for that!”

 
          
His
bandaged hand lifted in the air. “I’m going to do something,” he said
vehemently. “General Price thinks I’m just a colonel of cavalry, able to lead a
regiment or even a brigade if there’s some superior at hand to give me orders.
Maybe he’s right. But he doesn’t realize that my men—you Missourians—are as
good and brave and hardy cavalry as ever rode. Stuart doesn’t have better in
Virginia, nor Forrest in
Tennessee
. You’ll follow me on a raid.”

 
          
“And
you can bet on that!” cried Jeff Mills, starting to his feet. “We’ll follow you
anywhere!”

 
          
“No
cheering, sergeant. I’m not making a speech —this is a secret discussion. I’ll
lead my raiders northwest, cross the
Arkansas
, say at Ozark. Then, by way of
Huntsville
, strike into western
Missouri
, and from there head for whatever objective
looks best. But,” and his bright eyes turned upon Barry, “for me to cross the
river, the Federals must be somewhere else.”

 
          
“Of
course, sir,” agreed Barry.

 
          
“They’re
waiting to meet just such a raid. But I’ve been thinking, ever since your mail
arrived, about what happened when the pickets saw it. If the Yankees found
out—if they had it in writing—that I’d try at a certain point, what then?”

 
          
“They’d
be ready for you,” said Barry, beginning to smile.

 
          
“Then
you’ll carry a bagful of letters to them.
A bagful of
letters, every one of them carefully written to say that I’ll head for east
Arkansas
.
I
want
those letters to fall into Yankee hands. That will be your job. Then, when they
look for me in the east, I’ll head west and miss them. Can you do it?”

 
          
“I’ll
do it, Colonel Shelby,” announced Barry at once, and his father squeezed his
shoulder approvingly.

 
          
It
was really easier than it had sounded.

 
          
The
next day, the cavalrymen wrote letters, enough to make a big lump inside
Barry’s blanket roll. Jeff Mills added an envelope of his own.

 
          
“Look
at that address, Barry,” he said, showing it.

 
 
         
“Buckalew Mills. Let somebody see that
it reaches him. I’m telling him that if I see him in
Pike
County
after the war, I’ll sure enough melt him
down into candles.”

 
          
While
this regular mail was being prepared,
Shelby
, Edwards, and several other officers made
ready a second bundle. Shelby himself contributed a message addressed to
General Johnston beyond the
Mississippi
, that
spoke of a new attack on
Helena
at the mouth of the
Arkansas
, with five thousand fresh troops from
Texas
. Edwards sweated over a vast and totally
imaginary requisition for pay and supplies for these mythical recruits. Several
officers wrote as though to friends across the Mississippi, telling them to
expect a visit soon; and a number of young ladies in nearby Arkadelphia, sworn
to secrecy, addressed letters to relatives in which they described the
attractions and attentions of many mythical newcomers to the garrison, who
would soon move out to fight and conquer on the shores of the Mississippi.

 
          
These
misleading letters were packed in a pair of saddlebags and entrusted to Jeff Mills,
who commanded an escort for Barry’s adventure. With him rode Pack Bowdry, who
had first challenged Barry, and two other hard-bitten riders named Tyler Floyd
and Will Moorman. The five left camp before dawn of September 19, heading
northeast toward the
Arkansas
.

 
          
To
Barry, his companions seemed even more casual than Captain Absalom Grimes. They
knew the low, marshy country as well as they knew the palms of their own horny
hands, and they rode along its willow-bordered streams and between its brush-
crowned knolls with all the confidence in the world. That night they slept in a
pine thicket, taking turns at guard; and at dawn Barry heard that a scouting
force of twenty Union cavalry had passed so near that the man on watch had
heard the jingling of their sabers and bits.

 
          
By
sundown of the next day they approached the river. Now Barry found his
companions grown cautious. Tyler Floyd moved ahead on foot in the fading light.
To one side of the trail crept Bowdry, to the other, Moorman. When they were in
sight of the water, Floyd came silently back.

 
          
“Good
ford yonder,” he remarked.

 
          
“Which
means a Yankee picket post on the far side,” rejoined Jeff Mills.
“So far, so good.”

           
Now Will Moorman stole away
upstream, while the others watched the ford. Time passed—half an hour, an hour.
It was dusk, and stars had begun to wink out, when Moorman came back, dripping
and triumphant.

 
          
“There’s
another trail hits the river above,” he reported. “I reckon it’s an old boat
landing. Water’s fast and deep, but it can be swum. How come I know that? I
swam it, friends, and there ain’t any reception committee waiting on the other
bank.”

 
          
“That’s
where you cross, then, Barry,” directed Jeff Mills. “Head for that
landing,
and wait till you hear shots. We’ll entertain the
boys at the ford. Wait till you hear a racket, then cross over. Understand?”

 
          
“Yes, sir.
Goodbye.”

 
          
Father
and son gripped hands, and Barry rode away along the trail Moorman had found.

 
          
At
the brink of the river he waited, looking out over the water. A hush hung
around him, like heavy curtains. Then, down river, there was a shot and a wild,
shrill yell. It was answered by a spatter of gunfire. Fighting had broken out
at the ford.

 
          
Gathering
up his reins, Barry kicked the sides of his horse, and it leaped forward into
the water with a mighty splash. Snorting and blowing, it began to swim with
him. The damp, chill
Arkansas
River
flowed over
Barry’s legs. Then his mount was climbing sturdily up the dark bank beyond, and
he headed into a trail that showed like a cave in the deep, thick woods.

 
          
Some
sixty yards beyond, he paused where the trail opened into a road. There he
listened. The shots had died away, but somewhere near resounded hoofs, many and
hurried. Quickly Barry dismounted and caught his horse by the nose to smother
any betraying whinny. Into view rode cavalry, two by two, and he heard a high,
excited voice issuing orders. This was a reserve unit, heading toward the sound
of firing at the ford.

 
          
They
went bounding by. Barry counted the files— fourteen in all, twenty-eight men.
As the last cleared the head of the trail in which he waited, he swung back
into his own saddle, rode out and sped in the opposite direction. Almost at
once a yell rose behind him. He had been seen.

 
          
“Halt!
Halt!”
came
a stern bellow. “Catch that man, some of
you!”

 
          
Four
or five of the cavalrymen turned and pursued.

           
Barry reined slightly to keep his
horse from distancing the pursuers. At that moment the moon thrust itself above
the trees, and he saw the road, white and straight, with black bars of shadow
across it from branches and trunks. He galloped over a resounding wooden
bridge,
then
flashed past a fire where men sat up and
yelled at him.

 
          
He
snatched a backward glance over his shoulder. One of the riders had pulled
ahead of the others, a black flying shape in the moonlight. There was a flash
of fire, a loud report, and a bullet rattled in the twigs beside Barry as he
raced.

 
          
“After
him
!” roared a voice. “He’s a rebel!”

 
          
A
crossroads whipped into sight, with three parked cannon and two great fires
shedding light. Now, perhaps, was the time. Barry dragged loose the soggy
saddlebags, hoisted them high above his head, and flung them behind him into
the road.

 
          
“There!”
yelled the commanding voice behind him. “He dropped something! Grab it, you
men!” Some of the riders stopped to get the saddlebags, but two kept after
Barry. Now he loosened his hand on the bridle, gave it a shake. His mount
increased its speed, and flew forward between more darkening trees. The
hoof-drumming sounded less loud behind him. He was gaining.

 
          
Half a mile, through the mottled moonlight and shadow of the road.
Half a mile more.
The galloping and the shouting began
to grow faint. They could never catch him now.

 
          
He
smiled to himself. The ruse had worked.

 
          
NOVEMBER
had come—crisp and cool in
Saint Louis
, but increasingly balmy on the
Mississippi River
as the steamer
latan
chugged and splashed downstream. Towns glided past:
Cape Girardeau
on the
Missouri
side,
Cairo
at the mouth of the
Ohio
, the little river hamlets of
Arkansas
and
Tennessee
. At last the
latan
came to the wharf at
Memphis
.

 
          
Captain
Wesley Parker, tall hat in hand, bowed two young ladies down the
gangplank—tall, dark Lucy Glascock and her plumper sister Betty, from
Hannibal
. He seemed not to notice when an
inconspicuously neat youth, carried on the
latan’s
passenger list as George Jones, followed them down, weighted with two big
valises, and headed for Frank Keaton’s boat-building shop.

 
          
“Hello,”
said Frank Keaton just inside the door.
“Upstairs, as usual.”

 
          
Up
the stairs Barry toiled with his
burden,
and into the
room where he had lodged before. The first thing he saw was the face of Absalom
Grimes, a welcoming gleam of teeth in the short, brown beard.

 
          
“Another
successful passage, Barry,” he applauded. “And you come loaded to the guards
with mail, I see. Did the ladies come with you?”

 
          
“They’re
on their way to the Rudisell home,” replied Barry.
“Miss Lucy
and Miss Betty.
I didn’t talk with them aboard the
latan,
but I gather they’re right eager for you to join them.”

 
          
“And
I’m as eager as they are,” nodded Grimes, grinning still more broadly. “Sit
down, Barry. I don’t want you standing up when you hear what I have to say.”

 
          
Barry
took a chair and looked expectantly at his friend. Grimes thrust his hands into
his trousers pockets and pursed his lips.

 
          
“Miss
Lucy and I are getting married,” he announced.

 
          
“Getting
married!” cried Barry, bounding out of the chair as though it had suddenly
become red hot.

 
          
“Good
strong echoes we have in this room,” said Grimes. “Yes, we all head for
Hernando tomorrow— November 6—and there’s a Confederate chaplain waiting there
with his book. I’m going to settle down, as much as possible in these times,
and be a quiet married man.”

 
          
“How
about the mail running?” demanded Barry, and Grimes’ happy look
faded.

 
          
“I’ve
been ordered out of it. General Johnston himself says that too many Union
people know me. You and Bob Louden will keep the mail moving.
You two, with the ladies of the grapevine.
Don’t you think
you can?”

 
          
“I
know I can,” said Barry, tingling joyously, “but I didn’t realize anyone else
did. Well, Captain, congratulations. The mail service won’t be the same without
you.”

 
          
“And
I won’t be the same without the mail service,” Grimes confessed. “I’m to be a
major in the quartermaster department, as soon as we get this last mail down to
the troops in
Alabama
. By the way, I’m giving you a special assignment—best man at my
wedding.”

 
          
“I’m
honored,” said Barry.
“But what about these valises of mine?
They’re full of letters.”

 
          
“We’ll
take them over to my room at the Seay House,” replied Grimes, reaching for one
of the bags. “Remember now, I’m registered as Brady Anderson, and I’m supposed
to be a farmer. Don’t jump when you see my roommate—the town’s crowded and
guests are doubling in the rooms. They put me in with a Federal captain.

 
          
“Not
really?”

 
          
“Yes.
Who’ll suspect me if I’m staying in the same room with a respectable Yankee
officer? He’s really a fine chap, you’ll like him. Captain Latimer. Come on,
I’ll introduce you to him.”

 
          
The
Seay House was only a short distance from the river, a big wooden building with
double doors and a lobby full of soldiers and citizens, all smoking, jabbering
and milling. Upstairs to the second floor Grimes led the way and opened the
door of a room.

 
 
         
“Hello there,
Anderson
,” said a pleasant baritone voice.

 
          
Barry,
entering after Grimes, saw a lean, youngish man in shirt sleeves, shaving
before a mirror on the wall between two beds.

 
          
“Meet
George Jones,” said Grimes. “He helped me bring my extra luggage. George, this
is Captain Latimer. He and I have to be good friends, living in the same room
like this.”

 
          
Latimer
shook Barry’s hand in friendly fashion and resumed his shaving. Grimes stowed
the bags of mail under his bed.

 
          
“Want
to wait here, George?” he asked Barry. “I must go out, and there might be a
message coming for me. You could take it.”

 
          
“Glad
to, Mr. Anderson,” said Barry.

 
          
Grimes
left. His feet moved swiftly in the corridor —plainly he was eager to reach the
Rudisell home, where his sweetheart waited. Captain Latimer finished shaving
and wiped his face with a towel.

 
          
“How
old are you, Jones?” he asked. “Eighteen?”

 
          
“Seventeen.”

 
          
“I’ve
a brother that age, and he’s already burning to get into a blue uniform.”

           
“I don’t hold with this war,” Barry
said, making himself speak carelessly.

 
          
“Neither
do
I
,” announced the captain frankly. “If nobody else
held with it, there wouldn’t be any war.”

 
          
“You
don’t want to fight the rebels?” asked Barry.

 
          
“I
don’t want to fight anybody. I do my duty, but I don’t have to enjoy it. The
end of the fighting will suit me fine.”

 
          
He
buttoned up a neat tunic, and around his sinewy waist he buckled a belt from
which dangled a shiny saber and a revolver holster.

 
          
“Ready
to report for duty,” he said. “I’ve been transferred to cavalry. That means
lively times ahead, I reckon. How do I look, Jones?”

 
          
“Very
soldierly, sir,” Barry assured him.

 
          
There
was a knock at the door. Latimer opened it.

 
          
“Some
visitors downstairs for Mr. Anderson,” said a clerk.
“Two
ladies.”

 
          
“He’s
just gone out,” replied Latimer. “Ladies, you say? Are they young? Pretty?
Maybe I’ll do.”

 
          
“I’ll
see what they want, Captain,” offered Barry, and rose to follow the clerk out
and down.

 
          
As
he had guessed, the visitors were Lucy and Betty Glascock. When he told them
that Grimes had gone to meet them at the Rudisell home, they asked Barry to
walk back with them.

 
          
“It
isn’t far,” said Lucy Glascock, as they left the hotel. “No more than a block
or so. We take the next turn—”

 
          
She
broke off, with a gasp. Three men had turned the corner and came walking toward
them along the brick pavement. Two of these were in the uniform of Federal
officers, with sabers and pistols. The third, walking between them, was Absalom
Grimes.

 
          
“Don’t
make a sign,” whispered Barry at once. “Don’t act as though you know him.
Walk straight past.”

 
          
As
he approached the trio, Barry saw Grimes glance at him, briefly but meaningly,
and slide a hand inside his coat.

 
          
On
sudden inspiration, Barry made as though to step to the outside of the walk.
Then he let himself bump hard into the officer on that side of Grimes. As he
bounced away from the impact, he shoved between Grimes and the guard. At that
instant, Grimes’ hand met his and then Barry moved clear of them with something
held close in his grasp.

 
          
“You
young ruffian!” roared a voice after him.

           
“I’ve a mind to arrest you for
disorderly conduct!”

 
          
“Why
don’t you watch where you’re going?” Barry shouted back in simulated fury, but
he moved swiftly away and around the corner.

 
          
In
an instant Betty and Lucy Glascock had come up on either side of him.

 
          
“What—”
began Lucy
fearfully.

 
          
“Captain
Grimes smuggled something to me,” said Barry, and held it out.

 
          
It
was a notebook. He opened it. The pages showed lists of names and addresses.

 
          
“Our
friends in the grapevine,” said Betty Glascock, looking over Barry’s shoulder.
“If it fell into Yankee hands, they’d all be caught.” Her eyes were wide and
frightened.

 
          
Along
the street from the direction of the Rudisell home hurried another young woman.

 
          
“Here
comes
Jennie Rudisell,” said Lucy. “She sees us, and
is motioning for us to come and meet her.”

 
          
They
hurried to join Jennie Rudisell in the center of the block. Her face was white
and scared.

 
          
“Captain
Grimes has been taken to the provost marshal,” she stammered.

           
“We saw him just now,” said Barry.
“What happened?”

 
          
“He
was waiting for you at our house, Lucy. Those two officers came to the door.
They were looking for somebody named Keener, a spy or deserter—I don’t know
which. One of them asked Captain Grimes, very politely, if he had any objection
to going with them to Colonel Bradley’s headquarters. He’s the provost
marshal.”

 
          
“What
will happen to Absalom there?” demanded Lucy shakily.

 
          
“Ab
will get away,” said Jennie Rudisell confidently. “He’s been caught, put in
prison, tried and condemned. And he always escaped.”

 
          
“Here,”
said Barry, thrusting the notebook into Lucy’s hand. “Take this and put it in a
safe place. I’m going after him.”

 
          
“But
if—”

 
          
“I’ll
say at the office that I want to complain about being jostled on the street,”
he went on. “Somebody has to go and find out what’s happening.”

 
          
“Try
it,” urged Jennie Rudisell. “You others come to the house with me. Barry, we’ll
wait there.”