Surrender the Wind (36 page)

The Yank captain sat forward in his saddle and protested. “This is irregular. We have come face to face with the enemy and must engage unless they choose to surrender.”

John heard rifles click behind him, saw the subtle gesture of his brother, Ryan, signaling for his men to wait. There would be no surrender on the Rebels part. The Yank Captain was either a greenhorn or a complete idiot, staring down the muzzles of seasoned Rebel sharpshooters. They outnumbered the Yank Cavalry.

“Captain O’Donnell,” Father Callahan addressed the Yank Captain, “In this case, the rules of conduct are to be broken.”

“That’s traitorous behavior. We could be hung for such talk,” said O’Donnell. “There’s a Rebel general and a Rebel colonel at my disposal. They should surrender to me immediately.”

The Yank Captain was not only stupid but insane. He wanted glory. To capture such a prize would guarantee promotion. So many times during the war he’d witnessed the vanity of leadership crumple like ruins into dust. Father Callahan had better do some fast-talking unless he wanted his whole family wiped out. Catherine was beside him. Her hands were folded over her saddle horn and she was swathed in his huge greatcoat. Her hair fell and rose with the summer breeze and even though the one side of her face was swelling, she lifted her head like a queen. Despite his annoyance with her consistent disobedience and the danger they were presently in, his heart swelled with pride for her selfless sacrifice to prevent bloodshed.

She must have felt his eyes upon her and she turned as her horse shifted beneath her. “What do you think about when you are in battle?” she whispered to him.

“Staying alive. Winning. In this case, keeping you alive so I can wring your neck.”

She bestowed on him a dazzling smile and mouthed the words
“I love you.”
There was no convincing her to ride to safety.

“Stay close to me. Very close,” Rourke ordered beneath his breath.

“Yes, General Rourke,” she said, bending a quelling look.

Father Callahan began a stunning if not cunning oration, pleading to the sensibilities and moral responsibilities of mankind. John had never heard him speak but imagined him in his marble pulpit, influencing the masses. Everyone around him was spellbound. He finished with a grand gesture demanding a proposition. For this, he turned on Captain O’Donnell.

“We have a situation that is beyond the moral circumstances of North and South. Since we have involved the Union and the Confederacy in this affair, we can remedy that without the required bloodshed.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “What I am proposing is very simple and can be solved with a boxing match between two men of Northern and Southern heritage. Not just any men—men with talent from both sides, so it will be considered a fair fight.” He circled his horse, catching and controlling the interest of every man. His keen gray eyes missed nothing, and his stout body trembled as though shaken by some inner wind. His voice thundered now, commanding with a proper mixture of anger, arrogance and a touch of Gaelic charm. Father Callahan was a gifted showman, his performance affected without artifice or pretension. He could bow men to his strength of character merely by his words, soft and poetic one moment, then, in a split second, stirring like a storm-drenched sea. All of them were entranced, their eyes gleaming at the thought of a single fight. And like putty in his hands, they all nodded their heads in agreement, lusting for this new idea to unfold.

The sun had descended an hour from its zenith, casting small shadows on the ground as horses pranced with impatience, the metal on their bridles clinking together as they raised and lowered their heads. In the distance, glazes of heat drifted in hazy uncertainty, lifting and disappearing. The decision lied with the Yank Captain. With scorn, Father Callahan turned his keen gray eyes on the Captain, freezing him in his place like glacial ice.

“But it would be treason, and act against our sovereign nation.” Captain O’Donnell objected.

“Bah!” Father Callahan said. “Who of the men here would not desire to see a real boxing match, pitting the best of North against South?”

“What happens if word of this gets back?” Captain O’Donnell blinked, afraid to make a decision against the rules of war.

“No man here will tell,” Father Callahan challenged him. With efficiency he moved around, glaring each man in the eye. “Every man will swear an oath to that effect before me!” It was a command.

Every man nodded in agreement—except the Captain.

Captain O’Donnell withered under the priest’s glare. No way did he want to go against the power of God. He nodded his head, giving his consent. John had the feeling that Father Callahan had known just what O’Donnell would do.

“Who’s to fight?” asked one of the Yank soldiers.

Father Callahan shook his fist into the air. “I’ll be deciding that notion.”

“But who is good enough to represent the North?” persisted the same soldier.

“Not me,” protested Father Callahan. “I’m too old and feeble. Beyond a shadow of a doubt I shall be dead soon.” Everyone laughed.

What a clever use of levity to melt the hostilities. John considered Father Callahan. He was old, of course, but there was a spark of mischief in his eyes, and liveliness in his wizened face. With certainty, the old man was wily enough to court another hundred years.

“From the North,” Father Callahan paused with skillful exhibition, “New York’s finest boxer with a renowned reputation, the king of the ring, Francis Mallory. Bring him over boys,” he motioned to the Rebels who held Mallory prisoner. “You Rebel boys should know we have been chasing this felon across half the state of Virginia. You did a fine job in catching him for us.” He complimented them.

Catherine burst with Mallory’s sins. “He took Rebel prisoners out of Capitol Prison and beat them without mercy. For his own profit, and with evil purpose, he sold misshapen barrels from his foundry to Fitzgerald Rifle Works. These guns exploded backward into the faces of innocent soldiers of both the North and South.”

Both Rebs and Yanks spat in Mallory’s direction. A fair fight was one thing, but corruption at the expense of personal gain was unforgiveable.

“Who’ll fight for the South?” asked the same Yank soldier.

“We have a fighter in Mallory for I have even heard of him,” admitted the captain. “But the South has no such man. None!” O’ Donnell spoke, venom spit from his lips. “Need I remind you only the North has boxing parlors, while the South woos fighting with fowl in their barnyards with the stink of swine dung clinging to their feet?”

Father Callahan stared at Captain O’Donnell, his sharp eyes cutting him to pieces. He would not allow an idiot to destroy his attempt to preserve a separate peace.

“Is that a head wound you received in the war?” Father Callahan asked innocent enough, referring to the bruise on the Yank’s head.

The Captain’ face grew red, embarrassed and angered from the priest’s question.

“I heard you were kicked by a horse.” The old priest did not wait for an answer. The jerky head movements of the Yank confirmed the truth.

Father Callahan was in control.

“You should be grateful you weren’t wounded anywhere crucial.” Some of the Rebs laughed at the priest’s slight, but before the insult registered on the Captain, he said quickly, “What do you think of a little wager to give it the right spice? I’m a gambling man. How about a few wagers between the men? Can’t be any harm in that?” Father Callahan appealed to the Captain’s greed.

“Who fights for the South?” yelled the same irritating Yank soldier.

Captain O’Donnell leaned down, looking over the lean Southerners, none of which had the massive arms and shoulders of Mallory. “Who fights for the South before I lay my wager?”

“A simple fighting man. But it must be fair for the sake of the wagers laid,” Father Callahan said, taking him into his confidence. He turned. “General John Daniel Rourke!” He looked at John with a dominating eye that sanctioned no opposition. “It would be only fair to even the odds,” he spoke over his shoulder for the benefit of the half-wit Captain.

Mallory, bolder now, threw off his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves. He stared at John. “Your lesson is not yet done.” He started feinting in the air like a prizefighter, receiving hoots and hollers of approval from the Yanks.

Father Callahan rubbed his hands with glee. “General John Daniel Rourke.” He turned his eyes on John. “Are you up for a good fight, my boy?”

“Agreed,” said Rourke smiling.

“No,” cried Catherine. “I won’t allow it. I forbid it.”

John looked to his wife. “Oh ye of little faith.”

Her face turned ashen. “You don’t know that beast. He’s killed men. I’ve seen how’s he’s beaten them, crippled them.”

Father Callahan glared at his niece. “You’ve more than humiliated an Officer of the Confederacy, girl. Keep your mouth shut, for you shame your husband. Jimmy, my boy, collect the wagers.”

“You mean he’s—General Rourke?” bellowed Captain O’Donnell. He took a deep breath out of fear and astonishment for his eyes beheld the true hero of the South.

“You’re gambling over my husband’s life. I won’t have it. You must stop this madness.” Catherine pleaded to anyone with sense that would listen. And then her eyes fell on a young boy. “Jimmy O’Hara,” she shrieked in shock from his presence.

“Yes miss,” said Jimmy, collecting the wagers from the men, he lifted his hands, palms up. “I have to do as I’m ordered. I’m working for the United States Military under Colonel Lucas Rourke.”

“Father Callahan you should be ashamed of teaching a young child such vices. What kind of example are you showing him?”

Some of the Rebels were uneasy about their wagers. They knew General Rourke’s reputation on the battlefield as a legendary fighter. In war, he had weapons, but boxing? Coins clinked. The men made their bets.

“Billy, bring me some water,” condescended Captain O’Donnell. The Yank captain had acquiesced for the long haul.

Treated like his personal manservant, a gigantic black soldier dismounted his shoulders and arms bulging like a blacksmith. John let go a smirk. So this is where his old friend, Boxing Billy, the escaped slave had gone to. When Billy brushed past John on his trek to the creek to fill the captain’s canteen, he lifted his left hand. John nodded with the signal from his old sparring partner.

Father Callahan moved to John out of earshot of the Yanks. “Greed is a terrible thing, but it works with half-wits like O’Donnell, doesn’t it General? I see Boxing Billy sends his greetings. Remarkable lad. It’s a pity our half-wit Captain doesn’t understand what a prize he has right under his nose. Treats him like a dog.”

John grunted.

“It would give me the greatest of pleasure to see you geld Mallory. It’s a genuine gift I’m giving you.” The priest boasted. “I’d do it myself but I abandoned boxing the day I took the vow of celibacy.”

Rourke gave the priest a faint look of amusement. “You have a lot of faith in me.”

“Good Lord, not faith, but common sense. If you need faith, I’ll say a few Hail Mary’s. Billy gives you his nod, so I’ll take his word.”

“Bloodthirsty aren’t you, Father?” John reminded the priest, hinting at the sin of revenge.

“Not at all, General Rourke. Do you see the bruise on Catherine’s face? I wonder how it got there.”

A raw fury blazed into Rourke and with intent, Father Callahan had seized upon it.

“Should I make my wager for ten or twenty times?” the priest asked.

“A hundred,” rasped John, his eyes glaring holes into the dancing Mallory.

“Good boy.” Father Callahan rubbed his hands together. “I’ve spent enough time with the Southern side, and I must go back to the northern boys.” He winked at John before he hobbled back. “Jimmy,” he called. “Don’t forget my wager.”

If John could have seen through his rage, he would have seen the true genius in Father Callahan’s tactful negotiations. But his mind was set on Mallory. John removed his coat and shirt, giving them to Ryan.

“Good Luck, John,” Ryan said. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

His brother would call it off in a second, but then there would be full-scale bloodshed. John itched to get his hands on Mallory. He would not be cheated. “Does an elephant concern himself with a cricket?”

“I thought so.” Ryan smiled. “I wonder why Lucas keeps rubbing his jaw.”

“Fond memories.” John smiled. “I assure you Mallory will have even fonder memories before this day is out.”

Catherine appealed to Colonel Ryan Rourke. “You can’t gamble over your brother’s life.”

“I don’t care. This is the fight of the century. North versus South. This is the way the war should be settled anyway.”

No one wanted to stop this fight.

John stepped forward into a square ring Billy had edged with a bayonet. Cheered by a chorus of Rebel yells, his blood began to race through his veins.

“You can beg for mercy now,” Mallory told John, “if you want your death to be swift.”

“You could quit now, Mallory, saving yourself a beating—” John countered, “—and the humiliation.”

They waltzed a bizarre dance like two gamecocks circling each other. John gauged his opponent. Mallory came in hooking. Some of them were to hurt, though, and one of them was low. John broke and tried a short right for the jaw. It landed. It jolted Mallory and he took a step backward, his first of the fight. John followed, swinging with a wild overhand right. Mallory had the weight. John had the speed. John hit steadier, quicker punches. Half the blows Mallory initiated never landed. Rebs and Yanks circled tight around the boundaries of the ring, screaming.

Mallory continued the barrage. John put a left in his mustached face. In answer, Mallory punched at John’s head hard with the pounding of a bull.

“I’m not even winded yet. I can waltz like this all day,” Mallory taunted.

Most expected John to be the weaker of the two. Mallory slipped on wet earth then, and John beat down on him. His energy poured into just one thing, the lust for battle, even death, and he laid at Mallory with massive short jabs that drove Mallory back and back. The fists flew hard and both men cursed at one another before more blows were met. John punched, feinted, and taunted Mallory again and again, never giving Mallory a chance to recover from the throws of his fists. Finally, they pushed against one another breast to breast.