Only the Gallant (23 page)

“Hell, I don’t know you at all,” Bon said. He tugged at the eight-foot-long chain tethering him to the wheel. “Maybe you’re here for absolution. Well, I’m fresh out.”

“I did not come here looking for forgiveness. I just came to ask if there was anything you needed.”

Bon snorted in disgust and held up his shackled wrists. The dull iron links rattled each time he moved. “It isn’t right a man be kept like this.”

“First, I need your word that you won’t try to escape.”

Bon looked away. A simple lie would buy him his freedom. But the price was too high. His word was his bond and he intended to do everything in his power to escape … except dishonor himself. He stood and stretched to his full height. Jesse McQueen was not overawed. He’d been cutting big men down to size most of his life.

“I promise to try to escape every chance I get,” Bon said. “And if I can break your skull in the process, so much the better.”

Jesse hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and nodded. “Then keep your chains, Bon Tyrone.” He offered a salute. “Good night.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when a ripple of gunfire sounded from the woods north of the plantation. The encampment immediately came to life. Men scrambled out of their blankets and grabbed for their muskets. Officers bolted from the uncomfortable confines of their tents and hurried off in the direction of their commands.

Close at hand, Major Harlin, the chief surgeon, and two of his subordinates stumbled from the hospital tent where the officers had been enjoying a clandestine bottle of brandy.

“My God, are we attacked?” Harlin shouted. He was a corpulent man with ruddy cheeks, a bushy gray beard, and thick eyebrows, arched in indignation. He spied Jesse and hurried over to him. “Is it General Johnston and the Confederate Army?”

“I doubt it. The firing has already stopped.” Jesse remained near the ambulances. They were close to the drive that led to headquarters. Something had alerted the pickets. Jesse wondered what had caused them to open fire. An answer wasn’t long in coming. Three Union soldiers came riding at a gallop through the camp. As one of their number continued on toward the plantation house, the other two men angled off the drive and rode right up to the hospital tent. A lean young private leaped down from his mount and hurried around to catch his companion as the soldier slumped to the side and slid out of the saddle. One of the surgeons and an orderly hurried to help him. They took the wounded man inside the hospital. Major Harlin called the other young soldier.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked.

“Private Washburn, sir, L. James Washburn.” He appeared quite rattled and had all the look of a youth who had never been in combat.

“What happened?”

“Joe’s been wounded; the big man, the forager that’s been riding with the Missourians, the one everybody said was part Cherokee—”

“Stark!” Jesse blurted out.

“Yes, sir, that’s it, Sergeant Stark. Him and that colored and two others tried to ride around us.” Washburn wiped a forearm across his brow and then he realized he had blood on his shirt, though the stain had been left there by his friend. “Joe and me and Corporal Cutter, he went on ahead to make his report, we hollered for them to hold up. Weren’t nobody supposed to leave camp and we told ’em.” Washburn stopped and gulped air before continuing. “Joe Baker, he’s my friend. We grew up together in Illinois. Anyway, he tried to stop them. Walked right up to Sergeant Stark and blocked his horse. And asked to see the sergeant’s orders.” Again Washburn paused to catch his breath as he rattled off his tale. “Stark shot him. And then, that big one with the Colt rifle, he commenced to shooting and me and Corporal Cutter dove behind an ol’ hickory tree. We shot back but I don’t think we hit nothing. And they rode off like, just like that. Sure was in a powerful hurry.” Washburn excused himself and hurried back to the hospital tent as the rasp of a bone saw and the animalistic howl of a wounded man filled the night and put dread in the hearts of every soldier within earshot.

Major Harlin shoved his hands in his unbuttoned coat. His breath was thick with brandy. However, to his credit, he seemed clear-eyed and steady.

“What an unusual occurrence. Three soldiers and that colored man Cicero shooting their way out of camp. Bad … very bad. I wonder where they’ve gone.”

“I know,” Bon said behind them. He was standing near the campfire, the chain shackling him to the wagon wheel pulled taut. Anger and defiance had left him. He was helpless and desperately worried—and had every right to be. “They’ve gone to Dunsinane.”

“Why?” Jesse asked, walking back to his prisoner.

“Cicero was born at Dunsinane. He knew of the gold my father came by long ago, a chest of Spanish gold. Cicero all but came right out and told me he was going after it and said he had help.”

“Spanish gold would catch Doc Stark’s attention right enough,” Jesse conceded. Now he, too, was beginning to worry.

“I used every last coin to outfit my troop. There isn’t a glimmer of it left,” Bon continued. “When your deserters realize it, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“And Ophelia’s all alone.” Jesse’s blood ran cold. Stark was as unpredictable as a tornado and just as savage.

Major Harlin was obviously confused by their interchange. “I can’t fathom what you’re so concerned about, Captain McQueen. But I do know one thing: Grant has ordered that no one leave the camp. And he isn’t the kind to change his mind.” The surgeon shrugged. “I’d report this bit of news to headquarters, nonetheless.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll get right on it,” Jesse told the officer. Another scream of agony erupted from the hospital tent.

“Damn butchers,” Harlin muttered, and trotted across the clearing, past the ambulances, and disappeared into the tent.

The orderlies had returned to their campfire, oblivious of everything but the chickens they were roasting over the flames. Jesse turned and caught Bon by the arm and led him around the ambulance. The length of chain permitted him to reach the shadows. He raised his prisoner’s wrists and fumbled with the shackles, fitting an iron key in the lock. A quick turn and the black metal bracelets clattered to the ground.

“What are you up to?” Bon said.

“You think we can find some horses and sneak out of here without getting shot?” Jesse said.

“Hell, Jesse. I’ve been riding through Yankee lines for nigh on two years.” The Gray Fox grinned. “Nothing to it.”

F
OR THE SECOND TIME
that night General Grant had been awakened by gunshots and he was furious. His nerves were on edge. It didn’t matter that his reports indicated there were no significant Confederate forces in the immediate vicinity. Every time the pickets opened fire the general came stumbling out of bed with his pistol in his hand and panic in his heart, fearing that somehow he’d made a miscalculation, that his plans were flawed and he was on the verge of losing his entire force to the Confederates.

“Relax, Ulysses,” Sherman told him. Sherman had been awakened by the same gunfire, but he was more perturbed than worried. He peered from the entrance to the tent. “Here comes Major Abbot now. He’ll verify what’s happened.”

Grant wore a sweat-stained undershirt and his army-issue trousers. His suspenders hung loose and flapped against his thighs as he began to pace before his camp table. He filled a shot glass with whiskey and tossed it down. The liquid burned a path to his gut. The spreading warmth calmed him. Sherman frowned.

“Don’t be a mother hen, Cump,” Grant said. “One drink won’t harm me, and besides, the reporters are nowhere around to write of my dissolution in their damn newspapers.”

Sherman chuckled and said, “You have a point, my friend.” He yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. The tent flap was swept aside and Major Peter Abbot reluctantly entered. He’d rather have been whipped naked through the streets of Richmond than face General Grant’s stern, unyielding gaze.

“You sent for me, General?” he lamely inquired.

“Yes, Major. I’ve heard some disturbing news. Perhaps you can shed some light on the matter. It will help me … sleep.” Grant emphasized the last word in a solemn tone of voice. “I’ve had precious little of it so far.”

“Yes, sir,” Abbot replied in a conciliatory tone. He tried to smile and looked at William Sherman, whose features seemed set in stone.
No help there
, Abbot decided, and focused on Grant again.

“Correct me if I am in error, Major,” Grant said. “An hour ago, three deserters and a former slave slipped out of camp. Now Captain McQueen has also deserted. And he has taken Bon Tyrone with him. We held the Gray Fox prisoner for all of six hours!” He slammed a fist against the tabletop and chomped his cigar clean through. The cigar fell from his mouth. He scowled and spat out the remnant of tobacco still between his teeth. “Is that about right?”

Peter Abbot gulped. “Jesse didn’t desert, General. From what Major Harlin told me and what I already knew of Tyrone’s situation … well … sir … there are extenuating circumstances.”

“I’ve ordered out a troop of cavalry to bring them back. Perhaps I’ll hear McQueen’s explanation from his own lips,” Grant said. He searched in his coat pocket and found another cigar of cured Virginia tobacco, the last of a supply smuggled into Cairo. “Then again, why don’t you enlighten me, Major Abbot. And take your time; no doubt we have all night.”

Abbot lifted his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose, scratched his head, and tried to come up with the most plausible explanation, one good enough to keep himself from being demoted to private and Jesse McQueen from a court-martial—for real this time.

“Well, you see, General Grant, our agents’ missions by their very nature must be … uh … secret. …”

“Nothing to it?” Jesse glowered. He had a bullet hole in his sleeve, another in his saddle, his hat had been shot away, and blood oozed from a flesh wound on the neck of the dun gelding he’d stolen.

Bon Tyrone gingerly probed the spot where a ricocheting slug had clipped his ear. His long gray coat had been riddled with bullets as it trailed, unbuttoned, behind him as he galloped through the Union picket lines. The two men had ridden unchallenged out of the Union camp. The soldiers guarding the north road were still rattled by the desertion of Doc Stark and his companions. One moment they called out to the two approaching horsemen, and seconds later, before Jesse had a chance to reply, the federals had opened fire. Jesse McQueen and Bon Tyrone had hugged the shadows and raced through a gauntlet of flying lead. Orange tongues of flame lapping at them from the darkness were a vivid memory. Only by the grace of divine providence had they emerged alive and for the most part unscathed.

“Well, I usually have more men,” Bon retorted. “And if you had let me create a diversion—”

“Blowing up a powder wagon, not hardly,” Jesse replied. “Setting you free is liable to land me in prison. I don’t want to be shot in the process.”

Bon shrugged. “It was worth a try.” He continued to study the night-shrouded landscape for any sign of pursuit. A troop of Yankee cavalry had made a valiant effort to catch them, but Bon’s knowledge of the countryside had prevailed. Now, a couple of miles from the plantation that played unwilling host to the federals, there was no trace of the pursuers.

“Lost ’em,” Bon added with a self-satisfied smile.

The two horsemen sat astride their mounts by a cottonwood tree. Jesse took his bearing from the stars. The countryside might not be as familiar to him as it was to Bon, but he knew that a man need only head due north to cut across the Vicksburg road to Jackson road, follow it west and later north and across country to Dunsinane. He was loath to waste even a minute, but there was something he had to find out.

Jesse reached in his saddlebag and produced Bon Tyrone’s LeMat revolver and offered it to the Confederate.

“I don’t intend to ride to Dunsinane looking over my shoulder at you, so if there’s to be trouble between us, let it be here.” Jesse’s hand dropped to his navy Colt as he waited for Tyrone to make his move. The Gray Fox buckled his gunbelt around his waist. His right hand closed around the walnut grip. At this range, the twelve-gauge underbarrel would cut Jesse in half. But there were other considerations. From what Jesse had told him, Doc and Milo and Titus were a rough bunch. Bon would need all the help he could get if he was to rescue Ophelia from these deserters. Of course, there was always the chance that when they discovered the gold was gone, they might panic and leave Ophelia and Dunsinane unharmed.

Sure, and pigs can fly
, he thought. Bon’s hand dropped clear of the LeMat. “Whatever’s between us can wait.” He swung his horse about and pointed the animal north. A twig dropped from a branch overhead and struck Jesse’s hand. He glanced up, and in the shadowy foliage he spied a raven, eyeing him from a juncture of branch and tree trunk. The moon poked its silvery head out from behind a cloud bank and bathed the raven in a lustrous light as it preened its wings and tail feathers. The raven appeared to be studying him as it hopped to a lower branch.

“Grandmother,” Jesse softly called, his voice full of warmth. “Be with me.”

Bon waited at a discreet distance. He was uncertain what was delaying the Union spy. Jesse Redbow McQueen was as much a mystery now as he ever had been.

“You coming with me?” Bon asked his enemy.

McQueen looked one last time to the branches above and found them empty. The raven was gone.

“All the way,” Jesse replied, his resolve as dangerous as a loaded gun.

R
OUGHLY A MILE FROM
Dunsinane, Jesse knelt in the road and, with a twig, prodded the clump of horse dung he’d found. Here in the middle of the wheel-rutted path that years of travel had trampled and packed into a road, the noonday sun sent a shaft of sunlight through a gap in the branches of the red oaks. For the last couple of miles and continuing on to Dunsinane the towering red oaks spread their limbs above the road like a canopy. Jesse and Bon had ridden their tired mounts through a patchwork of amber light and sea-green shadows. The road was peppered with the tracks of iron-shod horses, but Jesse was only interested in the most recent ones.