Encounter in Shadows
Jantallian
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'A friend loveth at all times and a brother is born for adversity.' Proverbs 17:17
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The Third Encounter
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It was next to impossible to know what was happening! One moment all attention was focused on the interrogation of the young Confederate prisoner in front of the Captain's tent. The next, the shadows all around the edges of the camp were suddenly alive with Rebel yells. A bugle shrilled, splitting the night, and was cut off in mid-note.
Lieutenant Mort Cory issued an abrupt order to the small group of men under his command, which kept them together poised and ready for action, unlike the rest of the Union troops. After a split second of stunned immobility, the massed ranks, who had been watching the punishment of the prisoner, broke and scattered haphazardly, each man acting as he saw best. Although their intention was the defence of the security of their base, without orders and leadership their efforts were in vain. Cory could see this instinctive reaction was going to result in chaos and probably more casualties.
Captain Blake yelled for his horse and started for the lines, his orderly running ahead of him. But he was too late. His voice was overwhelmed by the pounding of hooves and his way cut off as loose horses thundered like a storm-cloud through the camp. The attackers had made sure there would be no mounted pursuit when they withdrew, at least not in the immediate aftermath.
For Cory was shrewdly sure they would withdraw almost at once, despite the level of mayhem they were generating. Flames were roaring where several tents had been set on fire. As men were diverted to deal with the conflagration and its threat to the munitions stores, a sudden rumble of wheels suggested that at least one wagon was being driven off in haste. He ran his eye over his men, the five of them who had accompanied him but remained together on the edge of the watching crowd. The sixth, Matthew Sherman, must still be somewhere near the hospital tent, where he had gone earlier to support his injured comrades. The men had drawn their guns, but were still disciplined and waiting for orders.
The trouble was, which order to give? Lieutenant Cory was intelligent and experienced and he knew when he had been out-manoeuvred. Whoever had loosed the picket lines and set the horses stampeding through the camp would, by now, have melted into the dusk. Those who had fired the tents would be long-gone. Someone had driven at least one wagon away, but in the confusion would already have got clear of the camp. He looked back at the Captain's tent. Sergeant Guerra was still holding the prisoner in a tight arm-lock ready for torture, faithful to the orders he had been given. Cory was tempted to countermand those orders. The boy had suffered enough and was surprisingly showing no sign of trying to escape, despite the nearness of his comrades.
But there were more urgent needs. The rest of the supply wagons must be secured just in case the Confederate raiders got over-confident. He didn't expect this. Whoever had planned the attack had made sure it was carried out with total speed and precision; in less time than seemed possible, the raiders had struck and vanished again. Nevertheless, the supplies which had not been stolen were essential and gave a clear objective to fight for.
"Follow me!" He led his men swiftly towards the remaining wagons.
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As Lieutenant Cory had rightly judged, the raid resulted in chaos throughout the camp. The enemy seemed to materialise from the earth and vanish into the shadows with consummate ease. It reminded him of one of those old legends – a single body with many heads and limbs, all acting with a single purpose. Random shots were loosed off into the dusk by the baffled Union soldiers and the chances of being hit their own side were considerable, especially as Cory's contingent had not yet had the chance to get into uniform. Men sought their comrades, standing back to back in defence, their eyes staring wildly but seeing nothing. Dust, smoke and shadows clouded the vision and seemed to cloud the mind too.
When the time came to assess the damage, the officers found a number of the guards had been knocked unconscious with such efficiency that it took them half the night to recover. There were several serious injuries, caused mainly by attempts to stop the hurtling wagons and put out the raging fires. There were knife-wounds and bullets probably fired by their own side, since it seemed that, in this instance, the raiders were not interested so much in reducing enemy numbers, but in getting safely away with supplies which they must badly need. Being gathered together round the prisoner had, in some respects, worked in favour of the Union, because there was, ironically, safety in numbers.
In confirmation of the raiders' intentions, the tents and the gear they contained, which burnt to the ground, were merely a diversion. Two wagons, one containing ammunition and the other food supplies, had disappeared into the darkness. So had most of the cavalry mounts. The prisoner had been swept up by a couple of riders who charged through the camp at a flat-out gallop, causing Cory momentarily to applaud their horsemanship before they vanished into the wreaths of smoke and dust which covered their escape like a protective cloak. The attackers had disappeared with equal ease and, for all that they had acted with supreme co-ordination, they seemed to retreat and run for hiding like so many individuals. Just so did a wolf pack use the strength and co-operation of individuals to act in unison and achieve a common goal. Licking their wounds, both literal and metaphorical, the men were calling them 'ghost wolves'. Maybe they were right, Cory reflected, since the opponents he had seen were lean and spare enough to be phantoms.
Eventually some form of order was restored to the camp. Weary and dispirited men returned to their tents. Those who had lost everything were taken in by comrades. To make sure there was no chance in future turmoil of being shot by their own side, Lieutenant Cory had his men follow his example and put on their uniforms. He saw that they had all serviced their weapons before they rested or took a turn mounting guard over their quarters. It was worrying that young Sherman was still unaccounted for, but he could not instigate a search immediately. Instead, he checked on the condition of the men in the tents closest to his contingent, suddenly vividly reminded of Sergeant Guerra's methodical, thorough inspection after the battle earlier in what seemed to be an extraordinarily long day. The last he had heard of the sergeant was Captain Blake yelling for him to keep a close guard on the prisoner. He wondered wryly whether the good Captain had ever found a horse to mount.
As if his thought had conjured them, a string of horses emerged from the dark, led by his missing man, Corporal Sherman. They saluted each other and the young soldier reported somewhat breathlessly: "The raiders let loose the main lines, but ours were hobbled, so they didn't run far. Thought I'd better bring them back here in case we need them, Mor … sir!"
The older man gave him a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. "Well done, son. Keep them here, out front, where we can see them. I'm going to report to the Captain."
"Yes, sir." The young man saluted again.
"And, Slim –" The nick-name came naturally. The tall, muscular and powerful blonde was a long way from his skinny childhood self, but somehow it had stuck.
"Sir?"
"Tell the others to be ready to ride out in pursuit. We may be the only ones left with mounts."
"Yes, sir."
Mort Cory smiled as he strode away in the direction of the Captain's tent. Formality was not normal between the two of them, for he had known the boy pretty well from birth, but both of them recognised and appreciated the need for discipline. Slim was natural officer material and Mort hoped it would not be long before he could be promoted. If he had known how this wish was to be fulfilled he might, like a character in an old tale, have realised he should have wished more cautiously.
Appreciation of the need for discipline was less evident the further he got from his own tent. Outside Captain Blake's quarters, he found the irate and impotent young officer, angrily pacing back and forth while his subordinates hung indecisively on his erratic commands. Only one of the troop's original lieutenants remained on duty; the other had been seriously injured trying to halt one of the flying wagons. Lieutenant Cory paused in the shadow of the tent, unwittingly standing in the earlier footprints of Sergeant Guerra. He surveyed the scene.
His attention was immediately drawn to the fact that there was a body on the ground, though no-one seemed to be taking much notice of it. A frown creased Cory's weathered face, dispersing the natural laughter lines which characterised it. Why was nobody attending to the man? He strode forward and bent over the body, which was lying face down on the blood-stained turf.
Fearing the worst, he reached out and felt the man's pulse. It was slow and slightly erratic, but he was obviously alive, despite all the blood. Cory rolled the man gently over on to his back. Shock knifed through him. It was Sergeant Guerra. His shirt front was soaked in blood and his hands, clutching unconsciously into fists, were stained with it. Even his face was smeared with red, though Cory figured this probably came mostly from the grass. And the blood, he realised as he recollected foregoing events, was probably not Guerra's own. The prisoner had bled freely after the lashing Guerra had administered and the sergeant had been ordered to hold him fast afterwards for branding. Lieutenant Cory grimaced in distaste at the assigning of such a duty to any man. But it was immaterial now. The prisoner was gone and presumably Guerra had been knocked out in the process. The sergeant's jaw was swollen and a huge bruise was spreading rapidly across his face. Blood dripped from his nose and from a split lip.
Cory looked up, intending to summon help to get the man to the hospital tent. His movement caught Blake's eye.
"Leave him be," the Captain ordered harshly.
"Sir! He's been unconscious for some time and he is still bleeding. He needs medical attention."
"He'll get attention soon enough!" Blake promised. "He can stay where he is for now."
"And how long is 'for now'?" Cory demanded as forcefully as he dared. "How long do you expect him to be left here in this condition?"
"Until I'm ready to question him!" the Captain snapped.
"In his condition, you can ask, but he won't be able to answer," Cory pointed out. It was an unfortunate choice of words, echoing as it did the Rebel prisoner's defiance earlier in the evening.
"Oh, we'll wake him up soon enough!" Blake sneered. "He'll be only too glad to talk!" It was another promise of the worst possible kind.
It was difficult to intimidate someone from a kneeling position, but somehow Cory simply radiated his repudiation of Captain Blake's intentions. He could not defy his superior's orders without very good reason, but he refused to leave an injured man just lying without attention. He loosened the sergeant's shirt and pulled off his bandanna, using it to mop some of the blood from Guerra's face. There was no water anywhere near and the medical orderlies were fully occupied with the newly injured and burned. Cory put his hand on the shoulder of the wounded young man, the gentle pressure giving a simple message of support. He thought Guerra's eyelids flickered for a brief moment, but then nothing. There was no sense in provoking the Captain's rage further.
That rage was now directed elsewhere as the Captain realised the disordered aftermath of the raid into which his troop had sunk.
"Those damn Rebs didn't come out of nowhere! Who posted the guard?"
There was a pause and boots shuffled in the dust. "Guerra, sir!" someone finally admitted. After all, he'd done it many times before without incident, but they knew they are going to be blamed.
"I knew it! He set us up! He made sure there'd be no alert! You let him get away with it!"
"It seems unlikely he bribed the men to abandon their posts." It was that reasonable voice again, coming from somewhere near the Captain's boots.
"The guards were the ones injured and knocked out, sir," the other sergeant, Sergeant Taylor, pointed out with considerable daring.
"He set them up!" Blake stood over Cory and the injured sergeant, his face a mask of fury. Suddenly his booted foot thudded into Guerra's ribs, as he kicked him, then turned on his heel to deal with the present crisis. "I want those horses rounded up now. What the hell are the scouts doing?"
"I've sent men after them, sir," the chief scout replied, obviously trying to control his own anger. "It is night. They won't run for long."
"You'd better be sure and find them, Stevens. We aren't going to get far on foot!" Blake sounded distinctly uneasy, as if he had just realised that they were deep in a wilderness commanded by their enemy and far from any fort or supporting forces.
"And get out there and find where those Rebels are hiding!"
Stevens' face remained impassive, but his thoughts could be guessed. They had not been able to track the raiders by daylight, so pursuit at night was going to be useless and it would be impossible to cover the required territory without horses.
Despite his increasingly irrational behaviour, Blake seemed to realise the need to send out a mounted patrol. "Are there no horses left in camp? Were they all in the lines?"
"The Wyoming detachment, sir," someone put in quickly. "Theirs were hobbled and they've still got them."
Lieutenant Cory got quietly to his feet, anticipating the next order. Sure enough, Blake turned on him. "Make yourself useful, Lieutenant! Find a mount for Stevens and get your men out there. Make sure you round up those loose horses and then find out where the hell they've taken those wagons. They can't vanish into nowhere. Even Stevens ought to be able to follow something as big as a wagon!"
With this final insult, the Captain waved them both away. Cory was loathe to leave the injured sergeant still unattended and at the mercy of a man who regarded him with the contempt and hatred he could see clearly in Blake's face. But other than mutiny, there was no option. As he led Stevens back to the horses, Cory heard Blake's voice ring out in more orders:
"I want every man out guarding the perimeter! Circle the remaining wagons! And make sure the fires have plenty of fuel!"
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Lieutenant Cory's search party halted at the narrow mouth of the battle-scarred valley and surveyed the trail before them. Providing a horse for Stevens meant that Big Malcolm had to be left behind, but he was well suited to helping with the heavy work needed to restore order to the campsite. That left Harris and Jenkins, both of them experienced woodsmen, but whose skills were not best employed on this terrain, the Gautier twins and young Sherman – all of them eager to see action, but cautiously aware conditions were far from ideal. It was a very small party indeed to be tracking a band of at least thirty seasoned Confederates over their home territory, but neither Cory nor his men were daunted. The plunder would be less easy to hide than the men who had taken it.
The tracks of the two wagons were clear, even by starlight. They led to the flats bordering the river and their speed had obviously increased considerably after this. There was no doubt they had been driven skilfully and with a clear purpose in mind. At the river, however, it was more difficult to guess what that purpose was. There were no tracks emerging on the far side. This obviously meant they had driven either upstream or down – there was no way to guess which.
Stevens was staring at the tracks leading to the river bank. Cory raised an interrogative eyebrow. Immediately, the scout responded: "After the wagons, there were two horses. Up to this point," he indicated the edge of the river, "their paces are even but both favourin' the inner side. Here –" he waved a hand at the prints, "we get a pair of boots and then one horse carryin' a heavier load than the other."
Cory nodded. "They picked up the prisoner between two horsemen." Superb horsemen! his impartial mind wanted to admit. "After carrying him between them this far, they must have decide it was better to travel with him riding double on one of the horses."
Stevens' face lit up with an appreciative grin. "I don't know about you, Lieutenant, but I'd pick this pair for bein' in command, or somewhere near it. If I've to place my bet, as opposed to tryin' to pursue every red herring they've laid, I'd say the best chance is to follow the tracks of these two riders and ignore the rest."
Cory nodded again. "Let's do it!" He detailed the twins to round up the loose horses, who had spread out to take advantage of the rich grazing along the river, and drive them back into the valley. Once the herd were running in the right direction, they would stop at the camp. The twins could catch up fairly soon, since the trackers could be clearly seen on the gentle, even slope ahead.
Without further words, Lieutenant Cory led them down into the river, crossing straight over and ignoring which way the wagons might have gone. On the other side, he waved Stevens ahead. They rode at a steady trot, following a clear trail. The raiders had not bothered to hide their tracks, but their progress seemed to make no sense. The trail meandered left and right in wide curves instead of heading directly in any direction. On one occasion the pursuers found themselves turning back on their tracks in a complete circle. They traversed so little ground that the Gautiers, riding straight east, caught them up quickly. It was totally frustrating, but there seemed to be no other option but to keep following. Cory just hoped no-one was on the look-out for them. There was very little cover, but the Rebel band had already demonstrated several times that they were masters of concealment, even in daylight.
It was not long before the sandy earth began to turn to much rockier desert terrain. Stevens dismounted and examined the ground closely, but it was impossible to pick up any clear tracks, even though the stars were brilliant with silver radiance. The rock and dust bore few traces and a light breeze had sprung up, drifting sand and scraps of debris along the surface to further obscure any traces there might have seen.
Ahead of them the land began to rise steeply into a wall of cliffs, buttresses, long spurs of the mountains and inaccessible plateaus. They turned along the edge of this, heading north, but soon came to tracks of a heavily laden wagon, which had been driven southwards. Resigned, they turned back, wondering how they had missed the traces to the south.
The answer was that they hadn't. All of a sudden, the wagon appeared to have stopped abruptly where they had first seen its wheel-marks. From then on, the wide rock shelf at the edge of the cliff was scuffed and littered with debris, but the only hoof-prints were those of their own mounts, heading north and then returning. It looked as if the wind had been playing games across this particular stretch.
Stevens shook his head. "It must have gone somewhere!" he muttered in frustration. But there was no sign, no evidence to lead them anywhere. "The wagon was heading south. We'd better go on in that direction – it's my best guess."
Cory took time to consider carefully, but he could not see any alternative which would bring more success. He turned in his saddle and signaled to his men, who were strung out behind, each of them automatically taking a portion of the ground to go over again. He commended them mentally for their thoroughness without being ordered, even if it was not bearing results. They converged again to ride as a group and set off southwards once more.
They had not gone very far, however, when there was a muted call: "Here, sir!"
Cory reined his horse round and rode back a few paces. The three younger men had formed the rear-guard and the alert eyes of Sherman had spotted something the rest of them had missed in the shadows. On closer inspection, this proved to be the mouth of a narrow canyon, scarcely wide enough, it seemed, for more than a couple of horsemen to pass through. It was naturally concealed by the way the buttresses at the entrance curved out from the mountain wall.
"A horse stood here, sir," the young man pointed to a single print, almost blurred to nothing by the encroaching dust and grit.
Cory looked up the gorge. He could see very little, but it appeared to continue just as narrow as the entrance, the sides deep-cloaked in darkness and only a faint strip of starlight touching the floor here and there in places.
"Shall we go investigate, sir?" The twins were already turning their horses to head up the canyon.
"No!" Cory reacted sharply. "We stick together. Splitting up would let them pick us off one at a time. And it only needs one man who's a good shot to hold that passage indefinitely." He had no doubt that at least some of the Rebel forces had traversed the twisting tunnel of the canyon and that they could ride in the deep shadows under the cliffs as if they were riding a broad, grassy trail leading home. But it would be suicide for a stranger, not knowing what to expect, to follow such a path. Disappointing though it was to abandon the first lead they'd had, it made no sense at all to risk losing good men for the sake of misplaced bravado in following the enemy recklessly through terrain which was all in their favour.
"Continue south," he ordered.
Stevens led them back to the trail they had been following. But they had not travelled a quarter of a mile when the scout pulled up with a furious exclamation. "Will you look at that!"
In front of them the wheel-tracks of the wagon suddenly began again. The trail gave the impression the wagon had simply been lifted into the sky by some giant eagle and only returned to earth at this point, far from its starting place. Stevens leapt from his saddle and crouched low over the offending prints, muttering viciously to himself as he did so. Cory kept his men back and out of the way and the light.
Presently, he slid from his saddle and strolled over to join the scout, who gave every impression of being about to throw down his hat and jump on it. As soon as he was close to the tracks, the Lieutenant could see what was riling him.
"An empty wagon," he ventured.
"Yeah!" the other man grunted. "The team are running flat out, as if they've been spooked, but the wagon's ridin' high and light behind them. The terrain's gettin' soft the further south it goes – we'll have no problem tracking it."
"Or what's left of it," Cory observed shrewdly. "The mouth of that canyon wasn't obvious, especially in the dark, unless you knew where to look. I'm willing to bet the wagon must have been halted and methodically stripped of its contents. Where they took them – who knows? But wherever it is, they started from that canyon."
Stevens nodded. "But you're right. Only a fool would go up there in the dark, not knowing what was waitin' for him." He paused and then added: "You ain't no fool, Lieutenant."
Cory grinned. "Neither are you, Stevens – and these young hot-heads'll do as I say." His grin was turned on his men, as he went on: "At least, I think they will."
"If we know what's good for us!" Sherman and the twins chorused. They were fond of ribbing Mort about his protective sense of responsibility for them.
"Ain't so young –"
"Nor so hot-headed –" Harris and Jenkins also sounded like a chorus.
"Reckon you have the right of it, sir." They could both read the evidence.
"So what do we do now?" Jacquo Gautier asked.
"Our orders are clear." It was not Mort Cory who replied. Instead Corporal Sherman proved once again his respect for authority and his commitment to duty. "We were told to find the wagons."
"So that's what we'll do," his Lieutenant affirmed. "At least, we'll try to find this one."
They mounted up again and continued to head in a southerly direction. The terrain was indeed soft. The wheel-marks were clearly visible and they were able to ride at a reasonable pace without fear of losing them.
After a while, another shout from young Sherman called them to a halt. They had been riding spread out, abreast, in case any traces showed riders meeting up with the wagon. Sherman was on the end of the line, nearest the river and had already jumped down when Mort Cory rode over to him.
"See, sir!" He held up a handful of bullets which gleamed silver in the starlight.
From behind them, Harris quipped: "We'll be callin' you 'Sharp-Eye', not 'Slim' if y' gonna keep doin' this!"
Cory simply nodded and said briskly, "Put them in your saddlebag and mount up." He was thinking hard. He could almost see the smirk on the face of the enemy leader at the way this tactic was bound to delay their pursuit. He also knew that he was tracking a ruthless and pragmatic commander, who, despite being desperate for ammunition, was prepared to sacrifice some of it to thwart the enemy and waste their precious time.
They collected several more handfuls of bullets; at this great distance from their base line, Cory was unwilling to waste ammunition, even if it seemed plentiful in camp. Finally they found the wagon, abandoned in the soft margins of the river, just deep enough to make it difficult to get to. It was a moot point whether it had got there by accident, but it seemed unlikely, given the previous skill of the drivers and the cunning tricks used to delay anyone trailing it. And there were just enough ammunition cases visible to ensure that they were forced to investigate whether there was anything left to salvage.
Wading in rivers was a young man's job. Sherman and the twins dismounted. The edge of the river was deep mud and getting their horses bogged down trying to ride out to the wagon would be stupid. They were all going to get soaking wet, but it was not a cold night and Cory figured the young were resilient enough to survive. Meanwhile Stevens, Harris and Jenkins made a careful examination of the surrounding area.
It wasn't long before they found where the horses had left the river after being cut free. There was little to be gained from examining the tracks. They were familiar by now with the Rebel tactics and, sure enough, the horses seemed to have bolted, run in circles, cut across each other, doubled back and, of course, mysteriously found the nearest hard ground where their hoof-prints made virtually no impression.
"They did everything bar dance in a line whistlin' The Bonnie Blue Flag!" Stevens reported in tones of disgust. He knew that given time and decent light he could unravel the problems being set for him, but they had neither commodity and, into the bargain, an impatient Captain waiting for their report.
The wagon was, equally predictably, empty. All they had to show for their investigations was three pairs of wet breeches.
The three young men shook themselves like dogs and remounted briskly. There seemed to be little point in searching further south, since there was no sign at all of the second wagon. Mort Cory was also conscious that the night was deepening and they were achieving nothing which could possibly aid the beleaguered troop.
"Spread out!" he ordered. "We'll back-track as far as the canyon. I want to know if the smallest pebble is out of place or the least leaf damaged. Call halt if there is the slightest hint we might have missed something."
He was pretty sure they hadn't. Stevens was very competent and, besides, the concealment practised so far by the Confederate band did not suggest that they were likely to leave obvious clues. Even the hoof-print Sherman had found was almost obscured and gave no indication as to which way the horse had departed. Mort Cory did not, however, allow impossibilities to put him off doing a thorough job, even if all they were going to get for their efforts was sore eyes and stiff necks.
These predictions were amply fulfilled by the time they reached their objective. The party drew to a halt once more and considered the dark gateway to the mountains. Cory could feel the eagerness of the younger men, although it was tempered by respect for his decisions and, on the part of Slim Sherman, well-grounded common sense. The three older men gave no indication of their opinion, just waited patiently; they were all far too experienced to rush matters.
After a few minutes, Stevens gave an apologetic cough and admitted: "I don't know how they did it, but I'm sure they brought both wagons to this point."
Cory ran shrewd eyes over the ground again and nodded in agreement. "They emptied them, loaded the stuff on to their own horses and abandoned the empty wagons where they'd cause us maximum effort to examine. Even if we find the second one, there won't be anything in it but a load of trouble and wasted time."
Silence fell again. As the senior officer, all the responsibility lay on Cory. They could tackle the canyon or they could try their luck to the north or they could return to camp. Presently he ordered: "Back to base!"
Stevens looked hard at him and reminded him: "The Captain expects us to find the wagons."
"We have sufficient evidence to suggest that would be useless and a waste of time and energy," Cory replied firmly.
"Lieutenant, the Captain ain't gonna see it that way!" Stevens asserted. "You gonna risk how he'll feel about it?"
Cory returned the hard look. "It isn't a matter of feelings. It's a matter of the evidence. We've done our duty as efficiently as we can. I am prepared to be held fully accountable for my decision."
Stevens looked deeply worried. "Captain's way of accountin' is –"
Cory cut him short. "Any competent officer would make the same decision."
"Yeah, that's what I mean." Stevens hesitated for a moment, but he had developed considerable trust and respect for the new Lieutenant. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"What is it, Stevens?"
"The Captain, sir. I've served under him for the last six months. He ain't …" The man hesitated again. "He ain't carryin' the responsibility like he did at the beginning. Since we've been on this campaign, well, not wishin' to sound disrespectful, but some of his decisions have been …" Stevens searched for a word which wouldn't get him court-marshalled and finally settled for: "Odd!"
Cory's eyes were warm with sympathy for the man's dilemma and his concern, but he replied coolly and authoritatively: "I can't act on hearsay, Stevens. How your troop has been commanded in the past is outside my jurisdiction. But we are returning right now because it best serves the troop and my contingent."
And so they did.
Jogging over the flat land to the river, seeing the trails criss-crossing it like a ravelled skein of rope, Cory allowed himself time to reflect on the complex relationships with any military band. He knew that the reinforcements, of which his contingent were the advance guard, had been seconded because Blake's troop was perceived to need strengthening. Such a judgement by his superiors could not have been easy on the young Captain's pride. Arriving in the nick of time to take part in a battle he had not anticipated, Cory had not had the opportunity to make a measured assessment of the new company they had joined. But he was aware of the poor morale of the troop, the lack of coherent orders and a battle plan, the extreme pressure of blame being vented on subordinates. Of the officers in the camp, he had seen only Sergeant Guerra who resolutely and conscientiously carried out his duty towards the men under him.
Mort Cory did not want to think of the condition in which he had been forced to leave Guerra. Regardless of what the man had or had not done, he was a human being who deserved to be treated with compassion and justice. But he was forced to think of it. He had sensed in the man a deep integrity, a passionate loyalty and a profound care for his comrades, which equalled Mort's own. The integrity and loyalty might or might not be towards the Union, but they were real, nonetheless. And there was no question of the way Guerra felt about the ones he fought alongside. Added to this, he had a clear sense of the duties inherent in his rank.
Those duties included flogging a prisoner and being prepared to hold him under torture. Mort felt a biting anguish that relationships between citizens of the same mighty country had degenerated to this. He was still surprised at himself – and yet not surprised when he had called out in protest, trying to bring reason to bear on the interrogation proceedings. Trying to divert the tide of injured pride and retribution. Trying to remind everyone that they were all human beings. It had been a risk, but a risk he felt utterly was worth taking.
Yet what was it about that young Confederate which provoked this reaction in him? And how did he know and respond to Guerra's reluctance, his compliance in administering the punishment only because it was his duty?
Ridiculous though it seemed, there was something that called to him. Something that said: 'We are greater than this war, this strife between brothers.'
Brothers! It was a common enough way of describing those who fought together, and yet now it seemed to have a much more profound significance. The prisoner was young, younger even than Slim. It was obvious from his total defiance of Blake and all his captors could do to him that he would give heart, mind and soul to the things in which he believed. Slim Sherman was the same – Mort knew this from personal experience. How could it be that these two kindred souls were torn apart, before they had even had a chance to meet, by a war which sacrificed everything, good, bad and indifferent on the altar of division?
Deep inside himself, Mort felt the yearning for justice and equality which had driven him all his life. If he had his way, these two young men would be fast friends instead of implacable enemies, friends with a better use for faith and loyalty than to tear at each other's throats until one or other had all the power bled out of them. Maybe in the future …
The Lieutenant brought himself back to the immediate future with firm self-discipline. There would be no greater future for his country if he did not give a principled lead and set a high standard as he carried out his own duties now.
They were splashing through the river and soon broke into a gallop, heading for the mouth of the valley where their camp awaited their return. As they came over the little ridge which divided the valley from its mouth, Cory flung up a hand in the signal to halt. It was Stevens who expressed all their opinions with unconscious irony:
"What the blazes is happenin'?"
The entire camp was lit by a ring of fire.
#####
Neither Lieutenant Cory nor Stevens could believe their eyes. Fires had been lit at intervals all round the perimeter of the camp – a clear challenge to anyone trying to mount an offensive. The only problem was it also made clear exactly where the boundaries were and left the men guarding them blind to attack.
As they rode down to the camp, this was obvious. They were not challenged until almost the last moment, when Cory was thinking of abandoning the whole venture until daylight would create less potential for catastrophic mistakes of identity.
When they had finally been challenged and passed to ride into the camp, Cory looked around with something akin to despair. It would have been so easy for an enemy as shrewd and adaptable as the one they were facing to get close enough to the guards to take them down, with devastating effect. But an even more devastating discovery was close at hand.
Cory had ordered his little troop to return to their tent, intending that he and Stevens should report back Captain Blake, when a curious grouping of men around one of the nearby fires caught his eye. Praying that he was not seeing what he suspected, he handed his horse over to Sherman and beckoned Stevens to follow him.
There was the kind of silence surrounding the little group by the fire which was unmistakable. The silence which brutality breeds when it is exercised unchecked and unopposed. The silence of men biting their tongues to keep from admitting their horror and guilt. As Cory and Stevens approached the group seemed to huddle together as if driven to self-defence by the shame they felt.
Without hesitation, Mort Cory grabbed two of the soldiers and forced them apart so that he could see what was holding their attention. He looked across the little circle. The flame-light might just as well have been that of hell!
"Stop right there!" Mort's voice rang out in commanding fury.
The other Sergeant froze - the hot iron he was wielding stopped only inches from Guerra's stomach.
"Put it down, Taylor."
The speed with which the Sergeant obeyed suggested that he was totally relieved at being prevented from any further action by a higher authority. This was just as well. Guerra was being held up by two others or he would probably have collapsed. His back, shoulders and ribs were raw with beating and, where the blood was not running, the blackened skin of many burns told its own tale. But he was still breathing. Breathing slowly, with long, ragged breaths. And his face was calm. Uncannily calm and expressionless. As if he no longer existed in the savage firelight, but in a place far beyond the reach of his tormentors.
"Captain Blake's orders, sir!" Sergeant Taylor sounded as if he was reminding Lieutenant Cory of their mutual accountability.
"Consider the orders fulfilled," Mort told him softly.
"Captain'll expect a report," Taylor pointed out, clearly knowing full well that he had nothing with which to appease the Captain's fury.
"Then we will report to him."
Taylor hesitated, perhaps knowing his skin might be next for the lash.
"Now!" Mort's voice snapped out an icy command and was instantly obeyed. The little group made their way slowly back to the command tent, half-carrying, half-dragging the man from whom they had been trying to force a confession.
A little way off, Slim stood holding the three horses and biting his lip in an effort to overcome the desire to vomit. But he was cut from a stern fabric and would never let his own physical reactions get in the way of what he saw as his definite duty. He urged the horses briskly back to the tent, where he made some swift preparations.
#####
Inside Captain Blake's headquarters, the atmosphere was fraught with rage, suspicion, fear and something Mort was realised with trepidation was the beginnings of madness. He did not let Taylor face their superior officer alone, but stood resolutely beside him. He was pleased to find Stevens taking his place at Taylor's other side. Two of the corporals stood behind them.
Blake's angry glare scoured over the five of them. "About time! I expected results long ago. Report!"
Taylor gulped and went pale, but did his best to maintain a formal demeanour. "We've done our best, sir. He won't speak."
"You have not done your best, Sergeant! He has not spoken." The Captain moved swiftly to stand right in Taylor's sweating face. "What did you do, cut his tongue out by mistake?" The sarcasm was laced with impotent fury at being denied the information he so badly needed.
"We don't have any proof he's actually got anything to tell," Mort pointed out reasonably. He didn't for a moment think that the Captain would be open to reason, but someone had to keep a grip on sanity.
"He let the prisoner escape!" Blake was adamant. "Why would he do that if he wasn't a damn spy?"
"We did pick him up unconscious. He couldn't have done that to himself," one of the corporals put in. He sounded hesitant, unwilling to take any risks, but at the same time wanting to compensate for their violent treatment of their own comrade.
Emboldened by this, the other added: "He was knocked out cold. Enough to scramble any man's brains." They all liked and respected Guerra and none of them had really wanted to be involved in carrying out such orders.
"So even if he does speak, he may not remember, not know anything."
It was the new Lieutenant again. Blake recalled now how he shouted out in protest when the Captain had ordered the prisoner to be beaten. Obviously a man with no stomach for tough decisions! he told himself. And blind to the evil of having this Southerner in our ranks!
"Not know anything?" The Captain's tone was dangerous and would have warned anyone who knew him better.
But the one who spoke with reason did not seem to be daunted. "Two Rebel riders carried off the prisoner. So much is confirmed by the report of those who witnessed it, as I did myself. If they knocked out Sergeant Guerra in doing so, it does not make him a spy."
"Gerrer is a damn Southerner!" the Captain snarled. "The only one in this troop. Who else would pass information?"
"There is no proof he was doing so." Mort Cory was not going to be deflected from the truth.
"Not yet, Lieutenant, not yet. But there will be when he speaks." The Captain turned abruptly, strode over to the chair behind his work table and flung himself into it. "Sergeant, apply the irons. Now!"
"We already have, sir." Taylor's tone clearly betrayed his distaste for torturing his fellow officer, even though he had done so thoroughly and without mercy. He had already pointed out that it was, in any case, ineffective.
"Nonsense! I heard nothing."
"There was nothing to hear, sir. He didn't make a sound the whole time." There was admiration as well as frustration in Taylor's voice.
Blake swore and the chair crashed to the ground as he leapt up in anger. "I hate to call you incompetent, Sergeant Taylor, but do I have to do everything myself to achieve efficiency?"
"Taylor was most efficient." Mort's voice subtly conveyed his distaste and disapproval of the whole proceeding without giving the slightest cause for an accusation of insubordination.
"He's outside, sir. You can see for yourself what we … tried."
Blake glared at them all. He could feel respect and command slipping away from him. He suspected it was due to the presence of this Lieutenant Cory, the one Gerrer had been so pleased to praise – a man nearly twice his own age – and every year of that age was one of hard, practical experience – it was in the lines on his face, the shrewdness of his eyes, the resolute stance of his tough, wiry body. This was not a man whom it was possible to daunt or coerce.
The angry Captain pushed past his subordinates and led the way out of the tent. The open space outside the tent was surprisingly crowded. There was a small crowd around the body of the man slumped on his knees, his head bowed almost to the ground. The firelight and torches left no doubt about what had happened to him. His skin was lacerated with many lashes and blackened marks showed where the most sensitive parts of his body had been savagely burned. There was a soldier was bending over him. For a moment Blake hoped he was inflicting further torture, but then he saw the white smudge of a damp cloth in the man's hand. He was attempting to wipe away some of the blood and cool the raging burns.
The sight snapped the last controls on Blake's fury. Not only were his orders being thwarted and his need for information denied, but someone saw fit to offer compassion to this miserable traitor. Someone so much saner, so much more caring … for a split second, Blake wondered at the madness driving him through this relentless conflict. But then he realised that here was yet another attempt to undermine him. He erupted with the full force of his displeasure and his authority.
"What do you think you are doing!" His voice rang out like a lash and the one who had been tending to the prisoner stopped in mid-action. The man leapt to his feet and Blake found himself confronted with six foot three of immovable integrity and care topped with icy blue eyes which left no doubt about what the blonde corporal was feeling.
"Attention, soldier!" It was the Lieutenant again, commanding this time, but not intimidating. "Report. Account for your actions."
"Sir! Prisoner collapsed. Without attention, could not speak to give information."
"Very perceptive, corporal." Captain Blake stamped over impatiently to examine the prisoner, restraining with difficulty his desire to apply his boot to those damaged ribs once more – or maybe even to the soft-hearted corporal. Compassion was as dangerous as treachery. "However, you do not seem to have revived him. You are dismissed!"
"Sir!" The corporal saluted and strode away, the thud of his boots reverberating through the ground as if he were distinctly unhappy about leaving the prisoner at the mercy of his tormentors. A sneer crossed Blake's face. Another defiant one to be dealt with, the sooner the better! But one problem at a time. Better to finish this while there was still obedience in the troop.
"I grow tired of this affair." The Captain contrived to sound bored, but underneath this superficial impression, his voice was filled with frustration and desire for vengeance. "We can ill afford to waste our rest on this miserable traitor. Let us sleep. But let us ensure that he does not!"
The ensuing pause was so deadly quiet that the faint sound of Sherman's retreating footsteps could still be heard in the distance. Captain Blake paced impatiently back and forth as he thought, seeking a suitable way to secure the traitor and continue the torture. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Lieutenant Cory, daring to stand still and firm next to the prisoner, ostensibly on guard, of course, but in reality ready to prevent Blake from inflicting further punishment. Or so he hopes! Blake thought gleefully.
"I think he can spend the night," he pronounced coldly, "in irons. Beyond the hospital tent, there is a dead tree. It has a convenient branch at just the right height to chain a man so that he can neither stand nor rest. Do it! And make sure you set our sharpest guards and keep the fires well built up. We don't want anyone dropping off to sleep or dropping in."
"You expect the Rebels to come for him, sir?" Sergeant Taylor asked.
The Captain laughed. "With the perimeter of the camp fully illuminated? I somehow doubt it, Sergeant! No, it is sympathisers within that I fear." He raked all those present with a scorching scowl. "Make sure I do not have any reason to search out further traitors! Hang him in chains! Do it!"
There was a flurry of action as the men hastened to obey. Since he was now, by default, the senior officer, Mort followed Blake into the tent.
"You want something, Lieutenant?" Blake flung himself back into the chair. Although secretly he felt more able to face up to this man on his feet, he needed to give the impression of confident nonchalance.
"To carry out my duty, Captain. I'll set the watch on the prisoner and –"
"You will do no such thing!" Blake surged to his feet again, despite his cool intentions. "You will leave the prisoner to my officers. And that corporal, the blonde one. What's his name?"
"Matthew Sherman, sir."
Blake's eyes narrowed as he sensed a stronger bond than just one of rank and authority. "Sherman. Well, if you value his hide, Lieutenant, keep him out of my sight and well away from my prisoner! Now call Sergeant Taylor."
For a long moment they held each other's eyes. Then Mort turned on his heel and went out to summon Taylor to be given his guard duties.
#####
It was obvious to Mort as he walked briskly through the darkened camp that all the men could not stay on watch all night. But with the collapse of the chain of command and Blake's irrational behaviour, which he had now witnessed first-hand, no-one had had the authority to set rosters and ensure someone was in charge at each guard point.
Heaving a sigh very much like the one Danny Guerra had uttered only a few dark hours ago, Mort set about the necessary organisation. But first he gave orders to his own men, deploying them to act as messengers between the various sections of the camp and ensuring he remained fully informed at all times. Slim Sherman he kept with him. This was partly because of Blake's threats, but more importantly because he wanted Slim to gain as much experience as possible of all aspects of military duty, so that when he was promoted he had skills and knowledge to build on. The other men in the Wyoming contingent respected him for his abilities, young though he was, and liked him into the bargain. Despite the circumstances, Mort smiled a little to himself: Slim was very likeable!
Together they checked each of the fires, making sure the men on watch were evenly spread along the perimeter of the camp, that each group had chosen someone to take over-all responsibility and that they were doing their best to preserve their night-sight against the unhelpful blaze of light. While the Captain was still in command, Mort did not feel he could order the men to allow the fires simply to die down. While the Captain was still in command? He wondered briefly how much longer this could go on, before turning his attention firmly to the task in hand.
With these changes to the way the guard was arranged, some at least of the men were able to rest for a while, although Mort doubted if any of them would sleep much. He sensed a profound uneasiness amongst them, even though he did not know them at all, and endeavoured to bolster their morale by his own calm and encouraging presence and words.
"They're missing their Sergeant," Slim observed as they made their way back to their own tent. "From what I've heard, everyone trusted and liked him."
Everyone except the Captain! hung unspoken in the air. Who had the right of it? Or was there any absolute right and wrong in such a conflict?
Mort nodded quietly. "He was a conscientious and efficient officer."
Slim stopped, halting in a dark shadow thrown between two of the fires. He said equally quietly, "He was more than that."
Mort looked at him, sensing something in his tone which went far beyond a simple concern for another human being's welfare. He waited patiently, trusting Slim's honesty and his sense of justice.
"He was a brother," Slim said. "The Rebel prisoner. They were brothers."
"Are you sure?" It was hard to believe, though not impossible, for among other evils the war had torn apart some families.
"The loose horses stopped me joining you at first and it seemed sense to collect ours." Mort remembered Slim coming to the tent with the horses after the attack, breathing hard as if he had just been in a race. His young friend went on: "Guerra and the prisoner were left standing, bound together, in front of the captain's tent. I saw them recognise each other. The boy flung his arms round Guerra, gave him a desperate hug. Guerra had to break the embrace, hold him off at arms' length. Then two horsemen bore down on them, the boy ran and jumped and they swept him up, carried him off into the night."
"Yes, I saw them," Mort agreed, "but how are you so sure they really are brothers?"
"I asked," Slim said simply. "I thought it was like that bit in the Book of Proverbs, where it speaks of brotherhood which comes to life out of shared adversity. But he said no. He just stood there, gazing after the boy as if he'd seen a ghost, as if they'd been parted for a long, long time. He said he was a brother born of the same blood."
"That explains a great deal," Mort commented thoughtfully. "But Guerra was picked up unconscious."
"The boy hit him. I think Guerra must have told him to, so he wouldn't be suspected." Slim paused and, even in the dim shadows, Mort could see how resolute his face was. "I haven't had a chance to tell you this yet, sir, but the boy couldn't bring himself to hit hard enough, even if it meant saving his brother. I knocked Guerra out."
Mort reached out and laid a firm hand on his young friend's shoulder. "You're off duty now, Slim. And it's Mort, not sir. The Rebels would have rescued the boy, regardless of what you or Guerra did."
A grim frown flashed across Slim's face. "I doubt if Captain Blake would see it that way. He was looking for evidence to prove Guerra let the prisoner escape right from the start."
"But there isn't any evidence," Mort pointed out.
"Not anymore." Slim reached into his pocket and held out the cut pieces of rope. "He cut this. He is guilty, but I would do the same again. And I think you would too, Mort."
Mort considered this and then slowly nodded his head. "And despite what you or I have done to prevent the consequences, Guerra has suffered terribly. Enough for any offence!"
"But he suffered willingly for his brother." Slim's eyes were gleaming and Mort knew he was remembering the young brother he had left behind in Laramie.
"And still is!" Mort had been turning this over in his mind, all the while they had been organising the camp, trying desperately to think of a way that the brutal treatment of Guerra could be stopped.
"And I'm still off duty, aren't I?" Slim demanded.
"Indeed you are. It's been a long night – and a dark one."
"It's not over until the dawn." Slim thrust the rope back into his pocket and stood facing Mort squarely, his head up and his shoulders flung back in fervent determination. "And I still have something to do!"
.
.
NOTES:
The increasing strain of command, leading ultimately to Blake's irrational and unpredictable behaviour, and the continuing loyalty and obedience of the men under him, was initially inspired by Matt Martin's brother in Incident at Phantom Hill.