Authors: Kerry Newcomb
“I have repeatedly warned Pemberton that Vicksburg is a trap. Yet he refuses to abandon the city. So be it.” Johnston raised his red-rimmed eyes and stared past his courier to the Vicksburg road winding off to the west. “Well, when he reads this, General Pemberton will know how alone he really is. Perhaps it will inspire him to rethink his situation before Grant bottles him up.” The general lowered his gaze and focused on Jesse. “You carry a dispatch of vital importance, Lieutenant. I pray you are up to the challenge.”
Jesse met the general’s stare. “I promise to personally deliver it into the appropriate hands,” he said. And he meant every word. The appropriate hands belonged to General Ulysses S. Grant. This was the dispatch Jesse had been waiting for. It was time to ride into battle beneath the flag of his country. It was time for
Captain
Jesse Redbow McQueen to return home to Old Glory, the Stars and Stripes.
“Then you are dismissed, sir,” Johnston said.
“General—perhaps I ought to keep the lieutenant company,” Bon said. “What with a Union Army to our south, Grant is bound to have sent out patrols.”
“I am sure Lieutenant McQueen is more than capable of completing his mission.”
Jesse waited, steeling himself for the accusation he was certain to come. Escape was impossible. If the matter came to a head, he knew he wouldn’t get ten feet down the drive before the troops on either side filled him with lead. He looked up at Bon Tyrone standing on the porch and without batting an eye said, “I appreciate the offer, Bon. Tag along if you’ve a mind, if you’re all that worried for my safety.”
“Nonsense,” Johnston said. “Captain Tyrone here needs his rest. Come tomorrow, I intend for him to lead a column and strike at Grant’s supply lines.” He stood and walked toward the front door. “Be on your way, Lieutenant. And godspeed.”
“Yes, sir,” Jesse saluted. He spun on his heels and leaped astride the roan, figuring to put a good five miles between himself and the Confederate encampment before striking out in search of the Union Army. He ignored Bon’s continuing stare and tugged on the reins to bring the stallion about, heading for the Vicksburg road. He did not want to appear too anxious to leave and kept the stallion to a brisk trot. But with Bon’s eyes boring into his back like a slug from a .44 Colt, Jesse felt like a human target all the way down the drive. It was the longest ride of his life. He held his breath and didn’t suck air until he was clear of the cottage and the guns of the man who had been his friend.
“What the devil are you up to?” the heavyset Cajun asked as he elbowed his way through the underbrush to the tether line where the First Mississippi Volunteers kept their horses. Spider had left the troop back by the road, forty tired, bearded men with nothing but sleep on their minds. But if Bon had given them the order to ride, the men would have crawled from their bedrolls, saddled their weary mounts, and followed him.
The Gray Fox finished cinching his saddle. He’d chosen a fresh mount, a high-stepping brown gelding from the Fifth Alabama Mounted Infantry, and spirited the horse right out from under the none too watchful eyes of those troopers encamped near his men.
“That’s horse stealing, Captain Bon,” Spider reminded the officer. Then, his eyes twinkling with mischief, he added, “I’ll go and fetch me one from the same place you catched the brown.” He started to leave. Bon caught him by the arm.
“Not this time old friend. I go alone. You stay with the troop. There’s no sense in both of us getting into trouble with the general.”
Spider cocked his head to one side and assessed the merits of Tyrone’s argument. A big, solid, simple man, the Cajun was smarter than most folks took him to be.
“I saw Jesse McQueen ride by.” Spider Boudreaux scratched at his jowls and rubbed his dirt-streaked neck. “You aim to follow him.”
“All the way to Vicksburg, if need be, or wherever he leads.” Bon leaned on the saddle. “I have to know, Spider. He’s my friend, and my sister is falling in love with him. I must have the truth.”
“Why don’t you just turn him over to the authorities?”
“Because I owe him for Ophelia’s life.” Bon reached over and clapped the sergeant on the shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Just be back before Gen’l Johnston hears of it.” Spider shook his head. “Jesse’s got him a pretty slim lead … been ten minutes or so that he came past.”
“I’ll catch him. And track him. And after today there will be no more doubts.”
Spider ruefully wagged his head from side to side. He spat a stream of tobacco juice on an anthill at his feet. “I don’t like it, nary a bit,” the Cajun said. But Bon had the upper hand. And the rank. The sergeant was powerless to stop the officer even for his own good. “As I see it, you got two questions need answering, Captain.”
“Oh?” Bon climbed into the saddle.
“Yes, sir. The first being, whether or not your friend is a spy.”
“And the second?” Bon asked, looking down.
“If he is a spy, can you kill him?”
Bon freed the reins from the sergeant’s grasp and made no reply as he walked the gelding beneath the shade of the pecan trees and out toward the Vicksburg road.
The Gray Fox was weary of questions. He needed answers. And he knew where to find them.
J
ESSE MCQUEEN SHIFTED HIS
weight in the crook of the red oak and grimaced as a knob of bark jabbed his posterior. He repositioned himself yet again and, finding a comfortable perch, at last raised his spyglass and adjusted the focus until the blurred images became an armed host, General U. S. Grant’s Army of the West. Forty thousand men had converged on a plantation in the heartland of Dixie. Soldiers and livestock, freight wagons and caissons had swarmed across a cotton field and turned it into an arena of dust. No doubt the main house had been commandeered by Grant and his staff for the night. Jesse doubted the army would tarry longer.
Regiments of soldiers had unrolled their bedrolls and begun to make their camp upon the plowed earth. Skirmishers were beginning to fan out from the encampment, taking up the perimeters to guard against a night attack. Jesse shifted his gaze to a column of infantry marching at double time along a wheel-worn drive leading up to the red-brick plantation house. They fanned out near the front porch and began to stack their rifles and gather in groups of three and four to start cook fires, light pipes, and relax on woolen blankets.
Artillery men set up a half-dozen Napoleans, the twelve-pounder cannons that were the workhorses of Grant’s armaments. The remaining eighteen field pieces were hitched to the caissons and left in the center of the encampment. Horses had been ground-tethered for the most part, although some of the officers had brought their mounts into the barn.
A creek ran alongside the western edge of the cotton field. It flowed out of the thicket of red oaks and sweet gums concealing Jesse a couple of hundred yards away. A stone’s throw from Jesse’s vantage point among the branches, the headwaters of the spring-fed creek bubbled out of the earth and spread a shadowy pool of icy water across lichen-covered stones, shallow tree roots, and black mud.
It was early afternoon. Jesse tucked the spyglass in his coat pocket and resolved to ride into the Union camp under a flag of truce. Suddenly a flurry of crows and blue jays exploded from a treetop north of him. Jesse stiffened and cursed softly. Earlier in the day he had glimpsed a plume of dust along his back trail and once he had waited in the lee of a deserted cabin for his unseen companion to reveal him- or herself. He had waited in vain. Nevertheless, he had a pretty good idea as to the identity of his pursuer, although he had expected the proud, brave fool to abandon the hunt once the combined federal force under Grant and Sherman came into sight.
“Blast him anyway,” Jesse muttered as he descended from his perch and returned to his horse on the edge of the glade. Sunlight glimmered on the surface of the shallow pond like strewn diamonds. Water lilies drifted on the surface, and dragonflies darted to right and left, then hovered above the surface. Here was a place of tranquility and peace. Jesse wished he could lie down on a bed of rushes and dream away the war. What had begun as a great adventure had become acutely painful now that he had lived among his enemies and called them friends. He led the roan back among the trees and tethered the stallion to a burr-oak sapling that struggled to find the sun in this world of emerald twilight.
He had just returned to the edge of the spring and stepped out from behind the red oak when Bon Tyrone, astride his brown gelding, emerged from the shadows on the other side of the clearing about fifty feet away. The two men confronted one another in a brittle silence that Jesse was first to break.
“Bon … I’m sorry it’s you. Turn and ride out. These woods are full of Union patrols,” he said.
“Not without that pouch from Johnston,” Bon retorted, and drew his pistol. The LeMat blossomed flame as the Confederate drove his heels into the gelding. The animal charged forward and hit the pool of water at a gallop as Bon continued to fill the air with hot lead. Jesse dived for cover behind the red oak. Slugs flattened against the bark and ricocheted off among the trees.
Water erupted in a fine spray to either side of the gelding as the sturdy animal splashed across the pool. The animal faltered as its hooves sank into the muddy bottom of the pond. Bon yanked the gelding’s head up and the sturdy mount cleared the icy-cold water and reached dry ground. Bon rode past the red oak and fired at what should have been Jesse McQueen. But his intended victim had vanished. He thought he glimpsed movement to his right. The LeMat spoke twice. Again, nothing.
“Spider’s right. I
am
a piss-poor shot,” Bon grumbled. He held the pistol ready and mentally tabulated the rounds left in the cylinder. The gun held nine and he had fired six … or was it seven? “Show yourself, Jesse! Damn you! I knew it, but I didn’t want to believe it. You were working for the Union all along. And like a fool, I trusted you.” He heard a twig pop, whirled, fired, and missed a brown squirrel by inches. The terrified creature scampered up a tree and vaulted from branch to branch as it fled to safety.
A clump of bark landed in the bushes to his right. Bon faced this new threat. Even as he turned, the Rebel sensed he’d been tricked. He twisted to the left and tried to bring his pistol to bear as Jesse leaped from behind a curtain of vines and slammed into him, knocking him from the saddle. Bon groaned as McQueen landed on his chest, wrenched the LeMat from his grasp, and tossed it out of reach. Bon shoved Jesse aside and struggled to stand. Jesse wrestled free, lifted the larger man off his feet, lost his balance, and toppled into the spring. Both men shoved clear of each other and stood, sputtering and streaming water.
Bon swung with a solid right but Jesse ducked beneath the blow and came in low to drive a solid left jab to the Rebel’s groin. Bon gasped, and as he doubled over in agony, Jesse straightened. Like a battering ram, the top of his head caught Bon flush on the chin. The Confederate officer staggered and sank down in the mud. His eyes went blank. Somehow he managed to splash his face with water and kept from losing consciousness.
“Goddammit, Jesse. You don’t even fight fair,” Bon grumbled.
McQueen looked at the big man he had felled. Bon was larger by a couple of inches, had a longer reach, and weighed more. “I fight to win,” Jesse replied, catching his wind. “Remember, I’m part Indian. That was a fair fight for a Choctaw.” He sloshed from the pond and sat down with his back to a red oak. “Take your horse and ride out. You made enough noise to alert Grant’s whole army. The woods will be crawling with Yankee cavalry and any minute now they’ll—”
“I’m not leaving without that dispatch and you,” Bon growled. He dipped his face into the cold water and rose up dripping. “What kind of man are you?” He gingerly prodded his jaw with his fingertips. It wasn’t broken but he’d have a hell of a bruise. “You have no honor.”
“This isn’t a game, Bon. I fight my war, the same as you fight yours.” Jesse wasn’t in the mood for a lecture. Warfare was a nasty business, and trying to cloak it in terms of civility and proper conduct was a waste of time. “Captain Tyrone, you’re a good man, but what you stand for is wrong. I’ll stop you any way I can.”
“We’ll see about that,” Bon said. Drenched to the bone, he managed to stand and lumber from the pond. His intent was perfectly clear. Jesse glanced at the man’s clenched fists and sighed. Didn’t the blasted Rebel ever quit? He drew his navy Colt and pointed it at the big man’s chest. Bon never even batted an eye.
“You won’t shoot me.”
“Why not?” Jesse replied.
“Because then you’d have to explain to Ophelia how you killed her brother.”
“Damn,” Jesse whispered beneath his breath. The man was right. He scrambled to his feet as Bon charged.
Gunfire filled the air and geysers of mud erupted between the two men. Powder smoke drifted among the trees. Jesse and Bon slowly turned to face a dozen blue-clad Missouri volunteers, their weapons drawn and aimed at the two men. Jesse became acutely aware of the color of his uniform. The patrol’s leader, a burly, mustachioed sergeant, walked his mount forward a few steps. Jesse’s eyes widened with recognition.
“Oh, no,” he muttered.
“By heaven, what have we here?” Doc Stark said aloud. Milo and Titus broke ranks to join him. Milo grinned and brought his Colt revolving rifle to bear.
“Looks like we caught us a pair of Rebs trying to sneak into camp.” He licked his lips.
“Hold it, Doc,” Jesse said. “You’re about to make a big mistake.”
“I’ll live with it.” Doc smiled.
“But you won’t,” Titus added, training his own gun on Jesse McQueen.
“Friends of yours?” Bon asked, paling.
“From home,” Jesse replied.
This has nothing to do with the war
, Bon sensed. The Gray Fox had the distinct impression he was standing smack dab in the middle of a blood feud. And in the middle was the worst place to be.
“I might even get a medal for shooting a turncoat like you,” Doc said.
“A firing squad more than likely,” another voice said from across the clearing. Major Peter Abbot rode into view. Doc looked up in surprise, baffled by the officer’s remarks. Abbot ordered the Missouri volunteers to holster their weapons, then walked his horse across the pond, further clouding the water with sediment from the muddy bottom. A hint of a grin touched Abbot’s face as he glanced at Jesse. Bon recognized the Reverend Pettibone and inwardly groaned. Were there any honest Confederates left in Mississippi?