“We move together, in a group,” he rasped softly. “Slow and easy to keep down the noise. They spot us, run like hell.” He pointed and showed a mirthless grin. “Like the man said, that way’s north.”
“What then?” Rhett asked nervously.
“Then, for Christ’s sake, you do your own thinking,” Forrest snarled in low key.
He saw in their gaunt faces that the troopers were no longer neutral. In a situation as tight as this, the sergeant was a bad second best to the sleeping Captain. But Forrest’s menacing expression warned against argument and all the men, except the litter bearers, drew their Colts. Their rifles had been left behind in the tent, considered unnecessary encumbrances at this stage.
They stepped out into the soft moonlight, which seemed suddenly brighter and harsher. Forrest took the lead, followed by Bell and Scott with the litter. Seward and Rhett flanked one side, Douglas the other. Their stockinged feet padded silently on the packed down dirt. They looked to neither left nor right and when Forrest stepped into cover, the other scuttled after him.
Forrest grinned his satisfaction. “How about that?” he muttered.
“You’ll make general in no time,” Rhett breathed.
Only Scott heard him.
They were grouped between an ammunition store and a row of supply wagons. Each had some recollection of the map inscribed in the dirt and had some idea of his bearings. But, yet again, no one dared to move until Forrest took the initiative, heading along the line of wagons, then turning between two of them and following the rear fence of the corral. Several horses snorted, sensing the men’s presence, but there was no panic among the animals.
The litter was transferred to Seward and Rhett and the group crouched low as the men moved through a cluster of field guns with evil barrels snouting skywards. Next, they went between two lines of timber buildings that could have contained anything - food, maybe, or small arms. The wire-mesh fence at the side of the stockade took on a dull sheen in the moonlight. Forrest raised a hand to call a halt and the men crouched down.
The stockade was about a hundred yards square with a row of low bunkhouses along one side. A bad smell rose from a series of open latrines behind the buildings. The gates were guarded by two men armed with carbines who were bored with their duty. All the slaves were inside the bunkhouses, awesomely aware that to move through the doorways after taps was a crime punishable by death. So the guards squatted on their haunches, shooting craps for match sticks.
“Boots,” Forrest hissed, and the troopers stooped to put on their footwear. “Billy.”
The youngster stood up, licked his lips and moved out into the open with the sergeant. Forrest spoke softly to him as they approached the stockade gate. The guards heard their footfalls and sprang to their feet, wary of an officer. But when they saw the lack of insignia, they relaxed.
“We ain’t due off for another hour,” the younger guard said.
Both men had left their carbines on the ground. Neither wore sidearm’s.
“You’re through right now,” Forrest rasped, and he and Seward drew their revolvers simultaneously. “Turn around.”
The younger man seemed about to protest, but as Seward pointed the Colt at his eye, he spun around. His companion did likewise. The two troopers stepped up close to the guards and swung their revolvers. As the men crumbled from the blows to the sides of their heads, the troopers caught them and lowered them silently to the ground. Forrest crouched and his knife swung twice. Bloody wounds opened up in both men’s chests, left of centre. Seward shot the two bolts on the gate, opened it a crack and slid inside. Forrest went through after him.
There were no fastenings on the doors of the bunk-houses. Both men entered the same building and grimaced as they met the stink of close-packed humanity. Memories of Andersonville flooded their minds, but they pushed all extraneous thoughts from them. Each still had his revolver drawn and raked the interior with it as he allowed his eyes to distend to the darkness. Within moments the double rows of cots took shape and they became aware of at least fifty pairs of eyes watching them fearfully. The stench in the hot, difficult-to-breathe air grew stronger as the slaves sweated their fear.
“Friends,” Forrest whispered. “Who’s head man?”
No answer came. Forrest wanted to bellow for a response, but curbed the impulse.
“No foolin’. Abe Lincoln sent us. You wanna fight for it, you can get free.”
Feet shuffled on the rough timber floor and a massive Negro clad only in filthy, once-white underpants approached the troopers. The whites of his eyes seemed to be luminescent in the murk.
“Me head boy in whole stockade. What you want here?”
Forrest spoke to him in low tones, the man listening with deep distrust. He had to take him out across the dangerously open ground of the stockade and show him the dead guards before he could allay suspicion. Only then did the Negro smile and it seemed to be the first expression of joy he had shown in a very long time. Forrest exchanged a few more soft spoken words with him, then beckoned to Seward. The two troopers made good time back to where the others were crouching.
There, the white men watched in an agony of suspense as figures, clad only in ragged levis, were dispatched from the head man’s bunkhouse to the others. Then, moments later, in complete silence, more than two hundred slaves loped in single file across the stockade and through the open gate. There they divided, filtering to each side of the supply depot: and sub-divided, splitting into small groups. One such unit was comprised of the head man and four others. They joined the troopers.
“All know must be finished in thirty minutes,” the big man told Forrest. “Before guard changed.”
Forrest nodded for the Negroes to lead the way. Then they moved off.
Throughout the depot with which they were so familiar, each group reached its objective and started to work with a will they had never possessed before. Doors were swung open with only the smallest of scraping sounds and men flitted inside, to emerge moments later with their burdens.
A group with clips of bullets joined another with a supply of Spencers and Colts. Men weighed down with shot canisters and cannon balls carried their booty to where other men were sighting artillery pieces. Powder kegs were handed over to men realigning the position of wagons. Four horses were cut out of the corral and harnessed to a wagon in the rear of which Hedges lay sleeping. A dozen liberated slaves loomed around the wagon, loading it with rifles, ammunition and a Gatling gun. Douglas and Scott sat on the box seat, the latter with the reins. Forrest and Seward set up the Gatling. Rhett and Bell - with nothing to do - sweated and jumped at each small sound.
Every trooper knew the deadline was drawing near. The camp on the far side of the road remained peacefully quiet. The perimeter sentries paced up and down in their boredom. The change-of-guard and duty officer dozed in the headquarters building annex.
Then an owl hooted and the grinning face of the head man appeared over the tailgate of the troopers’ wagon.
“You count, please,” he whispered to Forrest. “I never learn.”
Forrest grimaced. Another owl hooted. “Your boys?”
The head man nodded. “Must hear this many before all ready.” He raised both hands, fingers splayed, lowered them and raised them again.
“Jesus, that’s a lot,” Seward rasped.
“Too damn many,” Forrest snarled. Another bird call sounded. He pulled his knife and made a slit in the canvas on the left hand side of the wagon. He swiveled the Gatling so that its muzzle snouted through the slit. “There just can’t be that many birds awake around here.”
Three hoots sounded together.
“How many more?” the Negro asked politely.
An owl call sounded. A shot rang out.
“That’s it!” Forrest lied, and raised his voice to a yell. “Let’s go, Johnnie!”
Scott cracked the whip and slapped the reins. The wagon leapt forward and Bell and Rhett gripped Hedges’ arms to keep him from being flung across the wagon bed.
Shouts sounded from every section of the camp as men scrambled from their tents and gave vent to their confusion. A score of cannon roared and rained body-mangling death on a distant area. A score of Negroes stained their sheened backs against four wagons and the vehicles trundled across the road trailing flaring fuses, Rifle, pistol and rapid Gatling fire peppered the night with deadly sound.
As the duty officer and guard ran from the headquarters building two men fell beneath the crushing wheels of a wagon and chunks of flesh were scattered hundreds of yards under the impact of a violent explosion. The wagon and half the building disintegrated, raining burning timber and tongues of flame on to men and canvas. The three other mobile bombs rumbled into the camp and their searing explosions turned a dozen running figures into human torches.
Cries of agony ripped across the angry roar of spreading flames. A naked soldier stared in disbelief at his twisted leg, lying ten yards from where he sat. Then his head exploded under the impact of a burst of Gatling fire.
The terrified sentries on the depot perimeter rushed forward, firing blindly. A Negro crouching beside a powder magazine, took a bullet in the head and fell forward. The match in his hand raked across timber and flared. It dropped into the prepared fuse trailing through the open doorway. Seconds sliced away at time and the building exploded with an ear-splitting roar. Thirty Negroes and four guards in the vicinity were either charred to cinders or torn limb from limb.
Naked and half-dressed soldiers, unable to hear the orders of their officers against the din of gunfire and screaming, rushed among the tents in panic, shooting indiscriminately towards the road. More than one Rebel fell wounded or dead, shot in the back by a comrade.
The wagon carrying the Union troopers reached the road and made a slithering, lock-wheeled right turn. As Scott crouched low on the seat, lashing the team, Douglas pumped rifle fire into the camp. Then, with Seward feeding the hopper, Forrest opened up with the Gatling gun.
Answering fire pecked at the speeding wagon from both sides, the Rebels aiming at it, the Negroes firing to the front, rear and under it. Soon the side on the left was a mass of splintered wood and the canvas was peppered with holes.
A second salvo of cannon fire roared. The thump of metal against flesh and the ground gave rise to a new crescendo of screaming. Then improvised battle cries and the thunder of hoof beats added to the din.
Delirious with the joy of freedom attained amid such revenge, scores of bellowing Negroes poured on to the road, running at full tilt and galloping bare-back on stolen horses. They streamed in the wake of the racing wagon, firing wildly as they went. Answering fire brought down riders, runners and horses. Coal black bodies pitched to the ground to feed it with their blood.
The wagon hurtled through the opening in the perimeter at the north end of the road and the less than sixty survivors among the freed slaves dashed out after it. A rattle of rifle fire followed them.
Then two more powder magazines exploded with gigantic roars which sent heat waves swirling across the entire camp. Ammunition stored in two buildings was destroyed in a series of minor, chattering explosions.
Forrest, Seward, Rhett and Bell looked back down the road as the wagon slowed on the incline out of the valley. The whole depot side of the camp was engulfed in smoke-billowing flames while a score of lesser blazes dotted the area of the soldiers’ quarters. In the flickering firelight, men ran in every direction, or stumbled about in a daze. Against this backdrop of death and destruction the Negroes on horseback halted their animals so that their fellows on foot could swing up. The gunfire from the camp had ceased, as had the battle cries of the freed slaves. For each had taken time to look back along the road: to see the gruesome spectacle of twisted and bloodied bodies that littered the way to freedom.
In the rear of the wagon, Hedges moaned and stirred, but the morphine held him prisoner to his sleep.
“We sure gave ’em hell, didn’t we, Frank?” Seward said in high excitement, drinking in the sight of the carnage before the wagon crested a rise and all he could see was the orange hue doming the sky above the valley.
Bell stabbed a finger at Hedges. “You reckon he’ll ever believe what we did?”
Forrest spat over the tailgate of the wagon, watching the Negroes streaming over the hillcrest behind. “Reckon he will,” the sergeant replied. “He’ll have it in black and white.”
The wagon and its strange escort rumbled into the night, every yard travelled taking them a yard closer to safety.
*****
MOST of the hostages left the freight train at Salt Lake City to transfer to the comfort of passenger cars. But Edge, Alvin and Beth, with no facilities for raising the fare, stayed aboard: until Cheyenne where there was a changeover of crews.
Both the new engineer and his fireman were company men who worked by the book: and the book said no passengers on freight trains - especially no passengers without the price of a ticket. Sheriff Bodie, two deputies and a quartet of railroad officers backed up the order. With the former crewmen nowhere in sight, neither Edge nor the couple even attempted to explain their situation.
They were escorted outside the town limits. Edge, weaponless apart from the razor, accepted the treatment philosophically. Beth was incensed by the bum’s rush. Alvin asked how far it was to Deadwood in the Dakotas, because his mother’s brother ran a saloon up there.