Raiding With Morgan (29 page)

“Keep an eye out, anyway, Private White,” Ty ordered, kneading bread dough in a flat pan as he talked. “Do you two remember the conversation we had with Lieutenant Shannon last spring about what to do if the prisoners revolted en masse? Remember what he said then, Private Campbell?”

Given Campbell dropped potato peelings into a pan positioned between his knees and said, “Something about making sure you know which direction the tide is flowing before you light out.”

“Well, the tide is flowing up against the west wall tonight, and didn't Lieutenant Shannon say a smart trooper might check what's happening in the opposite direction? Perhaps with the guards all looking and running pell-mell in one direction, he could sneak off in the other.”

“By damned if he didn't,” Ebb White exclaimed at Given Campbell's vigorous nod.

“Think along with me,” Ty said. “Lieutenant Shannon and I studied the walls of Prisoner's Square from every angle. The northeast corner of the square overlooked by the guard tower juts well past the north wall of Garrison Square, and only a handful of blue bellies are ever on duty there. Once over the wall, you slip across Cottage Grove Avenue, where there are no houses, and gain the railroad running to Chicago.”

“What then?” Ebb White asked. “Which direction would we take at the railroad?”

“Did Cally Smith tell you the name and address of his uncle who lives in Chicago?”

His interest in Ty's escape plan growing rapidly, Given Campbell laid his peeling knife aside for the moment. “Yes, he did. Francis Wellington Ferguson, Esquire, 999 Fairmont Square.”

“Did he mention where Fairmont Square is located?”

“Three blocks north of the Colony Street Hospital. He said Colony Street runs due north from the railroad depot.”

Ty shaped his bread dough into long cylinders. “Squire Ferguson being loyal to our cause, it seems to me he might be inclined to help his nephew's friends escape the clutches of the Yankees, a golden opportunity to stick his finger in their eye again.”

Given Campbell chuckled. “I'd bet you're right about that. From what Cally said, his uncle hates President Lincoln like rats hate barn cats.”

Ty slid his baking pan into the oven and wiped his hands on his apron. “The key question is how to get over or through the wall of the stockade. Lieutenant Shannon pointed out a man-sized door at the northeast corner of Prisoner's Square under the guard tower. He believed it's locked with a crossbar on the outside, meaning there's no need for a keyed padlock. His idea was to put someone small, like Billy, over the wall and let him open that door.”

Given Campbell could hardly contain himself. “Billy is good with a rope. We'll cut up our blankets and make one for him. He'll be over the wall faster than a treeing squirrel.”

Ebb White asked, “What if Billy can't get the door open for us? What if it's padlocked?”

“We'll run back to the barrack and Billy can try to make it clear alone,” Given Campbell said. “I've won money betting that boy can sneak up on rabbits in broad daylight. There's a goodly chance he can duck the Chicago Police and find Fairmont Square and Squire Ferguson's house.”

Flicking peelings from his knife into his pan, Ebb White inquired of Ty, “Lieutenant Shannon was a wily devil. Did he say exactly how he'd go about this?”

Ty started dicing peeled potatoes at the kitchen's sideboard. “Yes, send a man across the open area short of the Deadline to attract the attention of the guards in the tower, while whoever is going to scale the wall sneaks out from behind the far end of the barracks. Once the man with the rope is next to the northeast door, he waits for the commotion erupting on the other side of the square to catch the full attention of the guards above him. The tower guards seldom lean out and check below them. With any luck, they'll be called away from their post to help with the emergency on the west side of the yard and that's when our roper scales the wall. Then whoever is breaking out with him rushes to the door. Once the door's open, they slip through, drop the bar, and skedaddle. Lieutenant Shannon thought the whole thing shouldn't take more than two to three minutes, maybe less.”

“Who's going to walk out along the Deadline to start the wheel rolling?” a heretofore silent E.J. inquired.

“That would be me,” Ty answered. “I was to exaggerate my limp and stagger around a little, always inching toward the Deadline. We felt that would make the guards curious enough to study me for a bit.”

“You sure you still want to be the decoy?” Given Campbell asked.

Ty looked Private Campbell squarely in the eye. “Yes, if I can't escape myself, I won't fail the men in my charge.”

Given Campbell came to his feet and extended his hand. “Corporal, no matter what happens tonight, it was a pleasure meeting you, knowing you, and riding with you. It will be a while before I meet a better young man, if I do.”

Surprised by the unexpected compliment, Ty swallowed hard and shook hands with Given Campbell. “The same here, Private.”

“Before you boys start fawning something awful over each other,” E.J. interjected, “there's a few things I'd like somebody to tell me. Who's heading this all-fired breakout this evening?”

“From what I'm hearing, Sergeant Blair Taylor, of the Eleventh Alabama Infantry,” Given Campbell said. “The signal will be the ‘all's well' calls of the guards after their midnight exchange. Taylor's men have come by some axes to chop through the west wall. We hear a chorus of rebel yells, it means the wall has been breached and it's every man for himself.”

E.J. thumped the table with his butcher knife. “You boys are smart to listen to Corporal Mattson. I've seen a few shifty-eyed rascals amongst our own men lately that makes me suspect they're spying for the Yankees. Hear you me, the blue bellies will be waiting outside the west wall with loaded rifles.”

“Our boys are so out of kilter, even if they know the Yankees are waiting on them, I don't think it would stop them. Like Lieutenant Shannon said,” Ty reminded his messmates, “when the quiet and the meek are riled, along with the hotheads and the impatient, an explosion of tempers is inevitable.”

Ebb White nodded in agreement and said, “What are your orders for tonight, Corporal?”

“Wait until after lights-out to make your blanket rope. If anybody notices what you're doing, say you're making a rope in case you need it. Don't tell them what we're planning. We don't need bystanders watching us once we're outside the barrack. We want them listening for the rebel yell. When we go, we'll slip out the kitchen door. You best tell Billy what's up right away.”

Excruciating second by excruciating second, the day passed for Ty and his men. Not even E.J.'s excellent diet-changing meal of fried pork and potato hash and fresh bread elicited much comment.

As Ty helped E.J. clean the kitchen after supper, a thought struck him that hit close to the bone. If Privates Campbell and White escaped, all of his original messmates, except for E.J., were gone from his life. He doubted he would see any of them after the war and that saddened him. Charging point-blank into a hail of enemy fire on horseback and surviving forged a bond amongst cavalrymen that tied them together forever. While Ty had no desire to fight in another war, the pride he shared with his messmates in their feats on the battlefield made him feel a foot taller and fully grown.

In contrast to the painfully slow pace of the day and evening hours, the thirty minutes short of midnight swept by like a speeding bullet. They bunched at the kitchen door with a shocking quickness that had Ty panting for action.

“Private Burke, don't hurry too much,” Ty ordered. “It's important that your loop snags a wall stanchion the first try or two. Private Campbell, you've been on watch at the front door, what's happening in the streets?”

“E.J. may be right. No Yankee patrols tonight. Prisoner's Square is empty of guards on foot.”

“Then we best not linger,” Ty surmised. “If the Yankees are lying in wait, there will be a host of blue bellies outside the west wall and fewer Yankees on the guard walk and in the towers. Private Campbell, no matter what happens, you and Private White move from behind the far barrack the second you see Private Burke's in position to scale the wall. Don't look anywhere but at that northeast door.”

Not wanting to pressure Billy Burke unduly, Ty made no mention of the fact that their fate was in his hands and his roping ability. He heard the front door of Barrack Ten creaking open, eased the kitchen door open, and whispered, “Off we go, me first.”

Ty stayed close to the front walls of the barracks lining the street, out of the path of silent Rebels mobbing in the opposite direction. His objective was Barrack One, the closest building to the northeast tower. Privates Campbell, White, and Burke wended between barrack rows to his right and turned left three streets over. That maneuver separated them from Ty enough that it was unlikely the tower guards, hopefully entranced with his decoy act, would spot their rush to the northeast door. Ty wasn't above crossing fingers on both hands and praying in earnest. It would be a tight affair if they succeeded.

The cloud-covered sky was pitch black, the only source of illumination being the gas lamps hanging on the stockade wall, some of which were not lit, a lucky break for would-be escapees. Ty peeked around the corner of Barrack One and counted the shadowy outlines of four widely spaced bodies on the guard walk to the left of the northeast tower, half the normal complement of Yankees. The tower itself appeared to be unmanned.

He sucked air into his lungs, slid around the corner, and moved toward the Deadline, one exaggerated-limping step at a time, staggering sideways on occasion. He hoped he appeared a disabled prisoner who had found a source of liquor and overimbibed.

The guards either showed no concern over Ty's challenging of the Deadline or they hadn't spied him yet. That wouldn't do. “Hey, you damned Yankees,” he shouted, slurring his speech. “You see any better than you fight?”

The heads of the guards swiveled and trained on Ty, who kept moving ever closer. “That's the Deadline straight in front of you, you drunken secesh!” one of the guards yelled, bringing his rifle to his shoulder. “Cross it and I'll shoot you dead.”

Ty desperately wanted to look beneath the tower and confirm that Billy Burke was in place by now, but he didn't dare, afraid he might arouse the suspicions of the alerted blue bellies. “I'm lost and don't know where I'm bound,” he called, knowing he was within two lurching steps of the potentially fatal Deadline.

Sharp thuds and the crack of splintering wood echoed within the stockade. The eyes of the guards lifted in unison and stared over Ty's head. A bugle blast rang through the night, and then a bellicose Yankee screamed repeatedly, “Guards, to the west wall! Pass the word.”

Ty snuck a peek at the northeast door and his heart leaped with joy. A smallish body was snaking upward on a rope, hand over hand. Once within an arm's reach of the top of the pickets, Billy Burke lunged, gained a handhold, and disappeared slick as a scampering circus monkey, dragging his cloth rope behind him.

A single ear-piercing rebel yell was followed by a hundred more; and Ty forgotten, the guards in front of him left their posts in a mad dash. The northeast door swung open. Their plan was working to perfection.

Ty caught movement in the northeast tower. A previously unseen guard stepped from the wooden structure and pointed his rifle toward the ground, on the far side of the stockade. “Who goes there?”

Ty's spirits sank. Had all their planning and effort been for naught?

His eyes widened when the guard's arms slammed against his sides, his rifle went flying, and, with a squawk, he shot over the wall like a toy puppet discarded by an angry child. Ty chuckled. The Texans riding with General Morgan had bragged over campfires about their talents with the “lariat.” He might never witness a Texan on horseback roping and taking down a steer, but he'd just witnessed a Texan rope and take down a by-God Yankee from his lofty perch.

The northeast door closed and its bar thumped into its hangars. The last of his messmates were outside the stockade, bound for Cottage Grove Avenue and the railroad.

A sporadic volley of rifle fire spun Ty about. The clash between Yankee and Rebel had taken a violent turn. Barrack Ten seemed the logical place for him to be—and quickly—in case the shooting blue bellies routed the prisoners and pursued them through the streets of Prisoner's Square.

His best attempt at a run was aptly described as a disjointed hop and skip, with his balance in constant jeopardy. The sporadic gunfire continued and the thunderous rebel yells of a few minutes ago slowly died away. Ty sensed the mass revolt was collapsing.

Short of Barrack One, he noticed a curious shadow protruded past the corner of the building. The dark extension moved; without thinking, Ty ducked as he rounded the corner. There was a swish of air and a metal object clanged against wood. Ty stumbled and went sprawling facedown into the muddy street.

He heard a man grunt and say in a voice brimming with determination, “Won't miss again, Mattson.”

Ty flipped on his side. He saw light flash on metal and the blade of a shovel zipped past his hip and buried itself in clinging brown goo. He grabbed the handle of the shovel above the blade and dug frantically in his right boot for the stiletto with his other hand. The kick of a boot lanced pain down his leg and stout hands wrestled him for control of the shovel.

His probing fingers found the handle of the stiletto. Jack Stedman's son, it could be no one else, tugged hard on the shovel and Ty stopped resisting, but he maintained a firm grip above the blade. As he'd anticipated, the sudden exertion of his foe in the opposite direction leveraged him to his feet.

Ty let go of the shovel and followed after it. Jack Stedman's son wobbled backward, shuffled his feet to regain his balance, and raised the shovel above his shoulder for another strike at the charging Ty.