The horsemen moved away from the river’s edge, the limp flags following, the only one visible the long flowing Stars and Stripes. McDonald pounded a fist into his leg. “What’s your hurry? Dammit! Who are you, anyway?” He glanced at Seeley now. “Keep looking … try to see …” He saw the mess that was Seeley’s field glasses now, scowled at him. “
Reconnaissance
mission, Lieutenant. Keep those things clean and dry! What’s the matter with you …?” McDonald stopped himself, and Seeley looked toward the others watching them, some laughing, the ridicule kept silent by the rain.
“Try to clean ’em up. Show these boys how you got that damn gold bar on your collar.”
Seeley worked the lenses furiously, unbuttoned his shirt, his undershirt just as wet, but doing a better job at clearing the mud. He knew the others were watching him, knew the jokes would come later. He raised the glasses, could see smears of shapes, lowered them, saw more clearly with his eyes. Straight across the river was a wide trail that led out of the woods and open fields straight toward the wrecked bridge. In the middle of the trail he could see the raised hump of a railroad bed. But there were no tracks, more good work from someone else’s patrol, John Hunt Morgan most likely. The blue troops were still coming forward, more columns spreading out both ways into the woods, some close to the river, some filling patches of open ground downstream, guided by more horsemen, the junior officers. He tried to count, gave up quickly, knew there were hundreds of them, probably many more behind them. His heart was pounding, jumping in his chest, and he ducked lower behind the brush. McDonald seemed to read him, said, “I don’t want ’em to see us. But even if they do, not much they can do about it. They’ll probably expect someone to be keeping an eye on ’em. Might even send a patrol over here, float across on a log, maybe somewhere over there somebody thought to bring a damn boat.”
Seeley buttoned his shirt again, thought of the captain’s wistful fantasy, one good rifled musket. Pick off those boys one at a time and they wouldn’t have the first idea where it was coming from, not in this downpour. Of course, trying to shoot a musket in the driving rain was enough of a challenge as it was. Pretty hard to keep your powder dry. And a musket full of wet powder was a boil-on-a-backside to clean. He thought of McDonald’s words, had no confusion about their mission. Be awful nice to know who you are, General. The whole bunch of you.
He blinked rainwater out of his eyes, felt a sneeze coming, did all he could to stifle it, bent low, held his nose, the sneeze exploding into his ears. McDonald said in a low voice, “They can’t hear you from over there. Can you hear them? This rain makes a nice damn blanket over all of us. I’ll get these boys back to the horses, make a camp. No fires. We need to eat something. You got any rations?”
“Yes, sir. Some hardtack, hunk of raw bacon.”
“It’ll have to do.” McDonald looked around, pointed to the old sergeant, and another man, motioned them forward. “Sergeant, you and Hinkle stay with the lieutenant here, keep each other company. I want to make damn sure those bluebellies are staying the night. Look and listen, any signs of a camp, unbridled horses, wagons unloaded, all of that. Don’t want them marching the hell out of here without us knowing about it. It gets too dark to see, you make your way back to us. Yankees are pretty scared of the dark, so once the sun goes down, they’ll probably stay put.” He pointed back away from the river. “The horses are three hundred yards straight that way. You get spotted, anybody hollers at you or shoots at you, crawl like blazes out of here, and make sure we hear you coming. I’m taking no casualties, and no one gets lost, not in my command. You get close to us, use a password …
Beauregard
. Call it out. Somebody’ll answer you. For now, as long as there’s daylight, try to see some of those damn flags. They’re supposed to be proud of the damn things. I want to know who they are. That’s the only damn reason we’re here. I didn’t join the cavalry to sit in slop.”
The captain moved away, leading the others back from the river. Seeley watched him, waited for the last man to disappear into the darkening woods, thought, he sure cusses a lot. Probably not a church man. Don’t hear too many officers in this army tempt fate with that kind of talk. Colonel Forrest, maybe a little. But if I had that much to be thinking about, I’d probably let down a little, too. Just don’t let Katie hear that. Or Mama. Oh Lord, no, not Mama.
Beside him, the sergeant, Gladstone, growled, “Lookee there. See all that white? They’re putting up their tents. That’ll make the captain happy. Looks like they’re planning on staying awhile.”
Seeley saw wagons now, gathering on a hillside farther back from the river, supplies unloaded, men in motion everywhere.
“Tonight anyway. Good.”
Gladstone pointed at Seeley’s field glasses.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you ought not be so mean to them things. Can be a man’s best friend out here.”
“I know. It was stupid. They slipped out the front of my coat.”
The other man spoke, Hinkle, very young, one of the men from Kentucky.
“Can’t see much of nothin’ anyhoo. Gettin’ dark fast. You see flags? This is dumb, if ’n you ask me.”
Gladstone punched the boy in the shoulder.
“The lieutenant didn’t ask you; the captain neither. Dig the mud outta your ears and listen for bugles. Maybe they’ll tell us something.”
“Right. Hadn’t thoughta that.”
Gladstone moved to one side, toward a small crooked tree, stuffed himself against the trunk, a sliver of shelter. He dug into his own shirt, and Seeley was surprised to see a single-lens spyglass. Gladstone pulled it lengthwise, telegraphed it out nearly two feet long, held his hand out over the larger end, sheltering it from the rain, scanned the far side of the river for a long minute. He slid it closed again, looked at Seeley, a broad smile, missing many teeth.
“My pappy gave me this, sir. Navy man. Said he knew John Paul Jones. Well, said he knew a lot of things. Knew the damn rum bottle, that’s for sure. But this here spyglass … a fine piece. You can see clear to the moon. Hmm. Maybe not tonight.”
He seemed to hesitate, a glance at the muddy field glasses hanging uselessly around Seeley’s neck. Seeley looked at the spyglass, and Gladstone huffed, said, “Well, all right. Give it a try, sir.”
Seeley expanded the glass, impressed by the brass and leather, knew Gladstone was watching him carefully. He mimicked the sergeant, put a hand over the far end, shielding the lens, put the smaller end to his eye, was amazed at the detail. He scanned the far side of the river, could clearly see movement, even faces, the brass buttons, stacks of muskets, tents rising. Farther up the rise, more tents were going up, and he saw flags, but even the breeze didn’t move them, revealed almost nothing.
“One looks like Ohio. Maybe. That doesn’t mean a thing. Stars and Stripes … but I guess we knew that.”
Gladstone said, “They got their big brass’s headquarters back in those woods, I betcha. Under the big trees for
comfort
. They stuck the green lads at the river’s edge. Flood rises up and grabs ’em, nobody’ll care.”
The sergeant laughed, and Seeley couldn’t help a smile. He had already decided that if anything dangerous happened, Gladstone would be the man to follow, rank or not. Seeley could feel it, even in the swamp, knew that this man had never been lost in his life. Maybe, he thought, the captain knows that, too. That’s why he left him here.
The thunder rumbled again, far away, and he glanced upward, the skies still heavy and dark, a hint of a setting sun. But the rain had slowed, the splatter on the river lighter, more sounds flowing across from the Federal camp. He looked again through the spyglass, thought, they got a pile of nice tents, that’s for sure. I’d like to have one of those things. He shivered, the air cooler, another breeze whipping the misty rain in a swirl around him. And now Hinkle pointed, a chattering excitement in his squeaking voice.
“Sir! They’re coming across!”
Near the railroad bridge, a half-dozen men had slid out into the water, were swimming furiously, reaching the first of the wrecked pilings, clambering up, their own island. On the shore behind them, a group of men had gathered, and now a rope was tossed out to one of the men perched up on the piling. He pulled what seemed to be a small raft, piled with some kind of black lump. Now another rope went out, caught by a second man, another raft floating out, pulled by the rope. Seeley watched with a hard burn of curiosity, saw four of the men swimming to the second of the five pilings, then the two towing the rafts. Hands reached out, pulling the men onto the second piling, the small rafts dragged close, then the process began again, the men moving toward the third piling, the largest, at the center of the river. On the far bank, an officer sat on his horse, watching, and Seeley thought, he’s done this, sent them over. Probably picked his best swimmers. They’re gonna be over here as skirmishers, lookouts.
Beside him, the sergeant said, “Those rafts … not big enough to be muskets. Pistols and cartridge boxes, I bet, wrapped in a raincoat. They can keep the powder dry till they reach this side. Then load up. Clever devils.”
Seeley glanced back to the swamp, said, “We gotta get back, tell the captain.”
“Easy there, Lieutenant. They’re clever, but don’t mean they’re smart. Got me an
idee
, if you’ll permit, sir.”
Seeley felt a small surge of panic, looked at Gladstone, saw the same gap-toothed smile.
“What kind of idea?”
“Right now, they ain’t armed.”
“Neither are we.”
“They don’t know that. It’s getting dark fast. We make enough ruckus, we can scare ’em to death.”
“The captain said no engagement. No casualties. This is just … reconnaissance.”
“I ain’t for disobeyin’ nothing, sir. But if ’n we wanna know who those boys are, the easiest way might be to ask ’em. The captain wants information. Let’s get him some.” Gladstone pointed, the woods darkening even more. “The railroad bed is that way, and that’s where they’ll land. What you say, sir?”
Seeley heard a loud cry, looked out to the men in the river, one of them struggling, helping hands not helping enough. The man began to drift downriver, flailing, a high yelp. Men were shouting toward him, the men up on the piling staring helplessly as their friend was swept quickly away. Seeley felt sick, his heart racing, but the men on the piling stayed put, wouldn’t do anything, and he looked across, to the officer on horseback, hard shouts, pointing to the crossing, pointing again, giving the order. Seeley could hear it all in his mind. No stopping. Nothing you can do for him, without losing maybe all of you. It’s the only order the man could give. Seeley couldn’t see the single Yankee now, too far, too dark, thought, maybe he’ll find a snag, grab something. Maybe he’s already gone.
Drowning
. God help him. Not a way I’d want to go. He looked at the other soldiers, the five men all perched up on the fourth piling, anger and agony in their movements. Gladstone was still beside him, had seen it all.
“That’ll help. One less to worry about. And they’ll be jittery.”
The men didn’t rest long, no time for grief, the darkness coming fast. Seeley watched as they slipped down in the water again, hands helping others, slowly, more careful. The two small rafts followed as they swam on toward the last piling, the last stop before they reached the near shore. Seeley felt the energy now, the sergeant’s simple idea forming itself in his own mind, a deadly game, a game played by soldiers. He thought of the captain’s harsh comment, the gold bar on his collar. Earn it, Jimmy. Earn it right now.
T
hey had spread out, ten yards between them, Seeley closest to the railroad bed. The men were swimming straight toward him, splashes in a steady rhythm. It was too dark to see them, but out on the last piling, he could see two forms, men who seemed to stay put, and he thought, they’re played out maybe. Too exhausted by the current. Or, the lost man’s friends. They’re not moving … no matter their orders. Figure their officer can’t see ’em. So … now just three in the water. I hope.
The rain was nearly stopped, a thick wet fog settling over the river, and he slipped closer to the edge, the splashes a few yards offshore. Soon they’ll stand up. It’s time.
“You there! Yankees! Stop or we’ll shoot!”
To both sides, the other two took his cue, more shouts.
“Yankees! Shoot ’em! Cut ’em down!”
“I got him … he’s mine. Let me kill him!”
The men in the water began to cry out, responding, their helplessness carrying away any urge to fight.
“Give up! I give up!”
The first man stumbled up close to Seeley, still shouting, the man only feet from Seeley’s face. Then he was down, the exhaustion sucking the energy from his legs, and he lay flat on the gravelly bank, said again, “I give up! Don’t shoot!”
Seeley jumped on the man’s back, dug a knee down hard, holding him firmly, but there was no strength in the man, just hard gasps, the man’s breathing.
“Don’t move, bluebelly! I’ll put a ball in the back of your head!”
“Not moving! I give up!”
He looked up, foggy darkness, heard a manic explosion of splashes, listened hard, the swimmers moving away from shore. To one side, Gladstone called out, “They’re running away! I wanted to kill me one up close! Damn you, bluebellies! Come back here so’s I can run this here bayonet up your assbone!”
Seeley kept his weight down hard on the man beneath him, no struggle, a slight whimper from the man.
“Don’t kill me, reb. I got babies at home.”
“Then shut up! Don’t move.”
There was a rush through the bushes to one side, Gladstone running low, then down beside him. The sergeant shouted out, “Hinkle!”
The boy came at a gallop, stumbling out onto the railroad bed, breathing as heavily as the prisoner. Gladstone drew his knife, reached down, and made a short slice. Seeley jumped, thought, no! But he saw now, the sergeant had cut the rope that had been tied to the man’s arm. He pulled it in quick draws, the small raft now sliding up the bank.