to stay alive: even thugs like McAfee gave him a wide berth. Yet he felt something changing. Jonas suddenly realized this shitty day had the potential to grow much worse.
“What’d you do, Hollister?” Garrick asked him. With the sun gone behind the western wall, the heat had subsided a bit and twilight shadows were racing across the grounds.
“I don’t understand, sir,” he replied.
“Like hell you don’t. You been writing letters again? You might’ve stepped in the cow shit, Hollister.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure I did, sir,” Hollister said.
When he’d first been sentenced to prison, Hollister had used whatever meager privileges he could muster to write letters to his former comrades, commanders, and even the congressman who’d appointed him to West Point. Asking for a new trial, he had pleaded his case and begged his friends and former classmates to investigate the disappearance of his men and find the creatures that’d killed them and destroyed his life.
All for naught. He was shunned by everyone he’d once called a friend; standing up for him was a sure way out of the army. He had given up after a year.
“Colonel Whitman ain’t going to be happy, if you been stirring up the shit, inmate. You been stirring up shit again, Captain?” The lieutenant sneered. It was a grave insult to a prisoner, especially a former officer, to be referred to by his old rank. He took a deep breath, determined not to let the lieutenant draw him in to his little game.
“No, sir,” he replied quietly.
The two men crossed the main yard, reaching the wood-plank walkway leading to the main gate. Passing through, they entered the administration building with the lieutenant in the lead, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and proceeded to the colonel’s office. The lieutenant knocked on the door and they heard the gruff man answer from inside.
Lieutenant Colonel Whitman was a pompous little rooster. He was about five feet five inches tall, gray haired and clean shaven. He was approaching thirty years in the army without ever seeing combat, and as a result had never risen above his present rank, even during the war, when promotions were handed out like wooden nickels.
“That will be all, Lieutenant,” the colonel said. He was standing at the window of his office, which overlooked the yard of the main prison. Running the nation’s military prison was no plum assignment no matter how you tried to frame it. Whitman would be here until he retired or died.
“Inmate Hollister, your appearance is, as usual, appalling. You are out of uniform. I can smell you from here.” The tone in his voice was measured. These were facts, not to be disputed, and Hollister knew he would be punished for his transgressions. More digging lay ahead.
“No excuse, sir,” he said, hoping it would save him from the lecture on the importance of an inmate’s personal hygiene. The colonel remained at the window, looking out on the prison grounds. This was unusual as he normally was all business, sitting at his desk and dispensing whatever orders he needed to in a clipped and efficient manner.
The colonel’s body language made him look bound up and angry, as if he had been forced to swallow something and could not bear the taste. Hollister then noticed the other man, sitting in the corner. Medium height, thick chin whiskers and a hard, granitelike face, which implied he knew a thing or two about trouble. He sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap. Hollister noticed the rough, scarred skin on his hands, especially on a few broken fingers that had never healed right. Whoever he was, he’d been in few scraps. Hollister remained at attention and turned his eyes to the practiced middle-distance stare of a prisoner, and waited.
“You have a visitor, Inmate Hollister,” the colonel said, his back still turned to Jonas. Jonas saw Whitman’s stance go straighter as he spoke, and he clasped his hands behind him. Neither man said anything, as if waiting for Hollister to speak.
“Yes, sir,” he finally replied.
The stranger stood up, striding confidently across the creaking office floor to Hollister and stuck out his gnarled right hand.
“Captain Hollister,” he said. “My name is Allan Pinkerton.
Chapter Three
Hollister knew the name. He reluctantly shook Pinkerton’s proffered hand, but returned quickly to attention. Whitman turned around to look at him, and he was determined not to do anything that would bring the colonel’s wrath down on him. At least not yet.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Captain Hollister,” Pinkerton said, with a trace of a Scottish brogue.
“ Private Hollister,” the colonel corrected.
Pinkerton glared at him. “For now, Colonel. For now,” he said. He stomped back to his chair, picked up a leather satchel, and placed it on Whitman’s desk.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hollister saw Whitman blanch and press his mouth into a straight line at Pinkerton’s growing list of violations of proper procedure.
“Please, Captain Hollister, at ease, at ease,” Pinkerton said as he rifled through the satchel. Jonas glanced at the colonel for approval before allowing himself to go to parade rest, his posture relaxed but on the alert. He was concerned. This wasn’t about McAfee and the fight. This was something unfamiliar. One of the most famous men in America was here to talk to him. But not knowing why made Hollister edgy.
“Yes… yes here it is,” Pinkerton said, pulling a small ledger out of his case and thumbing it open.
“Jonas P. Hollister, captain, United States Army. Born in Tecumseh, Michigan. Graduated from West Point in 1864, assigned to the Seventh Michigan Cavalry under the command of General George Armstrong Custer. Awarded medals for valor at Cold Harbor, Petersburg, and the Winchester Campaign. Received a field commission of lieutenant colonel directly from General Ulysses S. Grant. Court-martialed for assault on a superior officer, found not guilty but reduced in rank to captain in March 1865.” Pinkerton paused. “What exactly happened there, Captain?”
Hollister was quiet for a moment. He squinted at the man. He still didn’t know what this was about. The colonel had returned to staring out the window, giving him no indication as to how he should proceed. All right, then.
“I punched George in the face, sir, because he was responsible for the death of thirty-seven of my men.”
“When you say George, you mean General Custer?” Pinkerton asked. Hollister nodded.
“General Custer was your superior officer and you assaulted him
…” Lieutenant Colonel Whitman said, staring in disbelief. Pinkerton held up his hand and he stopped talking.
“Go on, Captain,” Pinkerton prodded.
“General Custer, sir, was a glory-seeking jackass,” Hollister said, making sure he was speaking directly at Pinkerton. Knowing full well the colonel still held all the cards as far as his future was concerned.
“I see. What is your opinion of Custer’s performance at the Little Bighorn?” Pinkerton asked.
“I wasn’t there,” Jonas said.
“But you must have an idea. Some thought about your former commander. An opinion?” Pinkerton went on.
“From what I heard and read, sir, he divided his command against a far superior enemy with a clear tactical advantage. It’s no wonder he got everyone killed. I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner,” Hollister stated. He saw Whitman’s shoulders tense.
Pinkerton said nothing, looking down at the ledger again.
“Tell me about Wyoming, Captain,” Pinkerton said.
“No, sir,” Hollister replied.
“God damn you, inmate, you will answer his questions,” the colonel turned from the window and roared at Jonas as he stormed around the desk.
“It’s all right, Colonel,” Pinkerton said. He had a tone about him that both shut Whitman off and took him
