Secret of Richmond Manor (11 page)

J
eff was awakened out of sound sleep by a rough hand on his shoulder.

“Get up, Jeff! The regiment's moving out—part of it anyway.” Tom was already dressed.

Since becoming sergeant, Tom had been rough on his troops, and no less so on his own brother. At times Jeff thought Tom was even stricter on him than on anybody else.
I guess he's got to be
, he thought,
so he won't show favoritism
.

He rolled out of his blankets and pulled his clothes on. It had been a warm night, and the east was already glowing with the rising of the sun.

As Jeff put on his uniform, Sgt. Henry Mapes stopped by. He was tall and rangy, with black eyes and hair, and had seen considerable action. He had been a regular in the United States Army but left when his state seceded. “Don't forget your drums,” he told the two boys, for Charlie Bowers too was dressing, even while blinking away sleep.

“Where we going, Sarge?” Jeff asked.

“We heard there was a breakthrough. Some of the Yankees coming in from the west—over by White Oaks Swamp bridge.”

“Think it'll be a big battle?” Charlie asked. His eyes were dull with sleep, and he yawned hugely. “It
better be—to get me out of a sound sleep like I was having. I dreamed I was at the circus.”

“Well, you might get a chance to see the elephant today, but I don't know what else.”

That was what the soldiers on both sides called seeing action—“going to see the elephant.”

Mapes hurried away, and soon the boys were beating a tattoo on their drums to rout out the sleeping troops. Then the men ate a hastily prepared breakfast and marched out with Charlie and Jeff at their head, right behind the staff officers.

“This won't be a big fight,” Jeff said.

“How do you know?” Charlie asked.

“Because we're not carrying extra rations. If it was going to be a big struggle, we'd get three days' cooked rations. You know that, Charlie.”

They left Richmond at a fast pace. Somewhere up ahead Jeff heard a cavalry troop thundering along the road, but it veered off to the west. They marched hard till noon, stopping only once to eat cold rations.

As the men sat around resting, Tom took out a sheet of paper and a pencil and began to scribble.

“Writin' to your girl, are you, Sarge?” Curly Henson teased. The big redhead winked at Jeff. “Tell us about her, Jeff. Is she as pretty as that little gal I seen you with in town?”

Jeff glanced at Tom, not knowing if he could take teasing or not, but Tom paid no heed. “It's her sister, Sarah.”

“Why, that's a right pretty name.” Henson nodded. “I had a gal named Sarah once. Law, she was as pretty as a pair of red shoes with green strings. I sure would like to be going to a pie supper with my Sarah today.”

“You won't be going to a pie supper, I don't reckon,” Tom looked up to say. “If we bump into Pope's boys, it'll be a right smart skirmish.”

Henson shrugged. He was not a man who thought a great deal, and he returned to his former subject. “What about these two gals? How come you can get gals and the rest of us can't?”

Jeff bit off some hardtack. It was tough and hard, but he managed to get it down. “We've known 'em a long time, Curly,” he said. “Their farm was next to ours back in Kentucky. We all grew up together.”

“Their family fightin' for the Union?”

“Yep, that's right. Their brother Royal's serving with McClellan. I guess he was somewhere in this last fight we had. Hope he didn't get hurt.”

Tom looked up from his writing again. “I hope so too. Royal Carter is the best friend I ever had.”

Then the call came down the line from Captain Majors, “All right, get the men moving, Sergeant.”

Jeff grabbed his drum and moved into position, and soon the company was on its way down the road.

The action started before Jeff was ready for it. A scout came back with the information that the enemy was drawn up behind a line of trees just beyond a creek. “You can get 'em if you charge,” he said. “They're not ready, I don't think, but you'll have to be quick.”

Nelson Majors thought quickly. He had been watching the Union soldiers that he could see vaguely through the trees. They did seem to be unprepared. He made up his mind at once. “Private Majors, you and Private Bowers sound the charge! You sergeants, see that your men hold their fire
until they're in proper range! Spread out in a skirmish line!”

Jeff's blood began to rush through his veins, and his heart pounded as it always did. He began drumming the charge as loudly as he could. Charlie Bowers moved off to the other end of the line, and soon the men let out a wild yell and started across the field.

Jeff stumbled along with them, trying to stay close to his father. In case there was a command, he wanted to be able to drum it out.

As they ran, a man dropped just in front of him. It was Asa Hotchkiss, a farmer from Alabama. Jeff felt a moment's grief, for he knew that Asa was planning to go home and get married when his enlistment ran out. He was relieved to see that the man didn't seem to be hurt badly.

Then the musket balls began to whistle, and out of the trees issued a cloud of black smoke as the Federals began firing.

“Forward! Don't let 'em get away!” Captain Majors cried out. He himself was right in the front. Jeff wished he would fall back a little, but his father had told him, “Officers have to lead from the front. You can't lead from the rear!”

Now, as Jeff stumbled over the broken ground and reached the creek, he saw the bluecoats backing up. He splashed across the stream, and just as he reached the other side, a Union soldier rose up and fired. Jeff felt his hat leave his head and knew that he had escaped death by inches. At the same time, the soldier uttered a cry, grabbed his stomach, and fell.

These were the times Jeff hated. He ran on with the line of Confederate troops, and soon the enemy was routed.

Jeff leaned against a tree, breathing hard, and Tom came by. “Are you all right?”

“Just out of breath! How ‘bout you?”

“Didn't get a scratch, and Pa's all right too. We lost some men, though.”

To Jeff this was the saddest part of a battle. He began to wander over the battlefield, helping his comrades who had fallen. Some were wounded in a minor way and headed immediately back toward Richmond. Others had to be carried. Then Jeff came to the Union soldier who had missed his shot at him and saw that he was curled up and moaning softly.

Carefully he put down his drum and approached. He wasn't sure but that the soldier might have a pistol, but when he got there, he saw that the man's hands were red and he wasn't thinking about a weapon.

“Sorry you got hit,” Jeff said, leaning over. “We'll get you to a doctor.”

The soldier looked up, and his eyes were wide with fright. “I'm going to die.” He gasped rather than spoke, and pain and fear twisted his face.

“Don't talk like that,” Jeff said. “You'll make it.”

“Are you the one that shot me?”

“No, I'm a drummer boy. I don't even carry a gun. Let me see how bad hurt you are.” He pulled the soldier's hands away, and his heart sank. He'd been in enough battles to know what the chances were. The doctor said that if a soldier's got a bullet in his belly, he's a dead man.

Nevertheless Jeff began to hustle. He found Tom and explained. “Help me carry this fellow back. We've got to get him to a doctor. He's hurt bad.”

Tom came and glanced down at the man and then at Jeff. Both knew that the boy had little chance. “All right,” Tom said. “The doctor's got a tent set up over there. Come on, Billy Yank, we'll get you fixed up!”

The two brothers carried the moaning boy to the field hospital. When they got there and put him down, he took Jeff's arm. “Don't leave me to die,” he said. “Stay with me.”

Jeff hesitated, but Tom said quickly, “That's right. You stay with him, Jeff.”

Jeff sat beside the soldier, and the Yankee asked his name.

When Jeff told him, he said, “My name's Josh Dawlings.”

“Where you from, Josh?”

“From Maine. I wish I was back there now. I wish I'd never left.” He moaned.

For more than an hour Jeff sat beside the boy until two doctors came by. They took one look at the wound, and he saw them shake their heads. “Put a dressing on it and give him something for the pain,” one said.

Dawlings's eyes filled with tears, for he knew the doctors had no hope. When he was carried outside and placed beneath a tree where other wounded prisoners were being guarded, he begged Jeff, “You're the only one I know here. Stay with me, please?”

So Jeff stayed beside him, getting him water, making him as comfortable as he could.

When night came, he saw his father and asked if he could stay overnight with the boy.

“Sure, son. You do all you can. The fighting's over. The Yankees have gone back.” The captain patted Josh's shoulder. “We'll take the best care of you we can, soldier. I'll leave my son here with you.”

It was a terrible night for Jeff. Josh Dawlings knew his time was short. He dreaded to face death and said once, “I'm only seventeen years old. I haven't even started to live yet. I would have gotten married, maybe had children. Now none of it will ever happen.”

Sometime just before dawn, Jeff dozed off. Then he heard Dawlings calling him and awakened at once. “Are you all right, Josh?” he asked.

But there was no answer except a terrible raspy sound from the wounded soldier's throat, and then he suddenly grew very still.

Jeff leaned close, and he saw that the soldier was dead. He put the boy's hands on his breast, slowly stood up, and walked away.

Back in the camp, he sat down and stared at the ground.

His father came over and sat down. “How is he?”

“He's dead.”

“Too bad! Too bad! A likely looking boy.”

Jeff looked up, his eyes tortured. “He should have lived, Pa. He should have had a good life.”

“I know, son, I know. I think that about every man that we lose and the men they lose too. I think about your mother. I think about Esther. I think about all our family, scattered now.” He seemed very sad.

Jeff sat thinking for a long time. Finally he said, “Pa, I've had hard feelings against Leah. We had a fight.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” the captain said. “Friends don't need to be fighting. There's enough misery in this world without losing our friends. You know one of my favorite Scriptures?”

“What's that?”

“‘A friend loveth at all times.' That's good, isn't it? That means when I don't behave right, my friends still love me. When I do 'em wrong, they love me anyhow. ‘A friend loveth at all times.' That's the best description of love I know.”

Jeff nodded slowly. “I'll make it up to Leah, Pa. I promise I will. I'm sorry.”

“We all go wrong sometimes, son. The thing is, when you see what you've done, do your best to make it right.”

R
ufus Prather stepped up onto the front porch and knocked on the door. When Leah came to ask, “Yes, what is it?” he said, “Sure am thirsty. Maybe you could give me a glass of tea?”

Leah hesitated, but the boy was useful at times. “All right, Rufus, come on in.” As she led him to the kitchen she said, “We don't have any real tea—just sassafras.”

“That'll go down mighty good.” Rufus grinned.

When they reached the kitchen he sat down and watched while she poured a glassful. He drank it down thirstily. “That was mighty good,” he said. “How ‘bout another one?” As he started on the second glass, Uncle Silas came in.

“Why, hello, Mr. Carter,” Rufus said. “How you feeling these days?”

“Very well, Rufus. How about you?”

“Oh, finer'n frog hair.” He waved his hand around. He was a lazy boy, but he loved to talk. “If words was work,” someone had said of him, “he'd be the workingest young fellow in the country!”

Leah began to make a piecrust, as Rufus talked on. He traveled around a great deal, always glad to run errands to get out of work on the farm. He knew everybody and was a great gossip. This time, however, he did have some news.

“Did you hear what happened last night?”

“No, what was it?” Silas asked, pouring himself some tea.

“Why, some of them Yankee officers in Libby Prison escaped.”

“Escaped!”
Leah said. “How'd they do that?”

“Dunno, but they did. Six of 'em.” He drank his sassafras tea noisily, then eyed the piecrust. “What sort of pie you making? Apple, I hope. That's my favorite.”

“No, all we've got is dried peaches. Tell us more about the escape.”

“All I heard was that the Secretary of War is threatenin' to shoot the warden there at Libby Prison. Wouldn't be surprised but what he might do it too. He sure does hate for any prisoners to get away.”

He looked up and inquired, “Haven't you heard patrols going up and down the road this morning?”

Silas Carter nodded slowly. “There was a patrol went by early today, but they didn't stop here.”

“Well, they're chasing those Yankee officers, you can bet on it. And if they catch 'em, they'll handle 'em pretty rough, you bet.”

Uncle Silas asked cautiously, “Are they coming back this way?”

“I reckon they are. When I was over at Crawfordville, they was going into houses, and people was pretty mad too.” He grinned at Leah and winked. “You ain't hiding no Yankee officers in the attic, are you, Leah?”

“No,” Leah said abruptly. Her hands were trembling on the piecrust.

“Well, something else happened. You know Lincoln—he called them three hundred thousand men to serve for three years?”