“Forget it for the moment, sir. Concentrate on getting well.”
“Forget? Hell, Miles, I can’t even remember how I got here.”
59
July 9, 1865
The night was warm and balmy, the breeze from the west filled with the scent of grass and the slightly astringent tang of horse manure. Not that a man could get away from it anywhere on the Fort Scott grounds. Private Golding Baird was most of the way around his patrol, his Springfield rifle musket over his shoulder. His feet, pinched in the brogans, already hurt and he had until sunrise before he’d be relieved.
Though he couldn’t see his watch, he suspected that longed-for moment was still four or five hours away.
As he marched around the big wooden warehouse he gripped his rifle, squinting into the darkness. Yep. Here came the Rebs!
Dancing forward, he jabbed his rifle at the darkness, whispering, “Take that! And that, you dirty Reb!”
In Golding’s imagination he mowed a swath through tight formations of gray-clad enemies.
He’d just turned eighteen, having been allowed, finally, to enlist last winter. He’d been desperately afraid that the war would be over before he could kill him a Reb. Mother and Uncle Frank had seen him off at the station in Atchison in February. So far, he’d only shot his rifle ten times. At a wooden target. When they were teaching how to load it. He’d actually hit the target—some fifty yards away—twice. That had been in the beginning. Before he knew what the blast of fire and smoke was like, or how the damn gun hurt his shoulder. At the end he pinched his eyes shut, pointed the malevolent thing, and winced at the bruise it was purpling on his skinny shoulder.
Far better to employ the bayonet. And in the darkness of night, out here on guard duty, no one could see him. Here he was in the front lines at Antietam, or Gettysburg, or Chickamauga, or even just whipping Sterling Price at Westport.
Which was as close as he’d get to actual fighting now that the war was over. Not only were the Rebels whipped, but even Fort Scott was going to be shut down by the end of September. Most of the other soldiers had been mustered out. Those who remained were guarding the last of the dwindling military supplies, caring for stock animals and wagons, and closing down the buildings. With a few exceptions even the gamblers, whiskey traders, and whores had already pulled stakes for Kansas City or points east.
Golding cocked his head, hearing coyotes out in the grass.
“It’s the Rebel yell!” he rasped, lifting his rifle, shooting straight and true into Stonewall Jackson’s advancing ranks of butternut infantry. In his mind, his ball blew through three of the Rebs who’d made the mistake of standing in line.
“Hah!” he mouthed as he charged forward, his bloody bayonet pinning and tossing Rebs this way and that.
He’d just reached the corner of the warehouse. Hearing voices, Golding stopped short, his heart pounding. Dear God! There was someone there! At the front entrance.
He swallowed hard, the rifle suddenly clammy in his hands. He was about to holler a warning when he stopped short, hearing, “If you want a passel of trouble, Corporal, I’m the one who can give it to you!”
The voice sounded sharp and commanding. Not the sort of furtive tone used by thieves.
“I’m a captain, soldier, and you’ll snap to it, or I’ll have that chevron from your sleeve! You’re going to wake up tomorrow and look forward to the whole rest of your military career digging latrines!”
Golding swallowed hard and crept to the corner of the warehouse. The captain sounded really mad.
“Sergeant Kershaw, do you understand the nature of our assignment? Why it is important that we comport ourselves as gentlemen and soldiers? A sentry is supposed to be alert, not parading around like a buffoon!”
Golding felt a little sick to his stomach and snapped to attention, shouldering his rifle.
“We don’t have time to stand around so that I can dress him down properly. Not and stay on schedule.”
Thank God. Golding felt a cold sweat breaking out. He needed an excuse, something. He’d seen something. Yes, that was it. Moving out in the night. Maybe Indians or skulking Rebs.
Then why hadn’t he called out the alarm?
Ah yes. Because it had turned out to be coyotes. But he was making sure. That’s why he was late.
Squaring his shoulders, he prepared to step around the corner. Hestitated. The captain was going to dress him down?
He saw me killing Rebs.
Golding’s gut fell.
Somehow he couldn’t make himself round that corner and march forward into the captain’s wrath.
“I don’t want to spend the rest of my enlistment digging latrines.” He felt like crying.
He was still standing there, rifle shouldered, when a spring wagon, loaded full, was pulled past. In the darkness, he could just make out the figure on the seat, tall, a slouch hat pulled low, what looked like an officer’s cloak about his shoulders.
Golding froze, saluted, and stood at attention.
He waited, eyes following the wagon.
Only then did he exhale the breath he held. Where was the rest of the command?
Timidly, he peered around the corner, seeing nothing but the dark ground before the warehouse entrance.
“Must be pretty damn good soldiers,” Golding muttered. “They vanished without a trace.”
60
July 10, 1865
“Philip?” Butler’s voice pierced the fragmentary dreams.
Doc opened his eyes, aware that he was in the wagon, his body propped uncomfortably. With every jolt, something sharp jabbed into his back. The sky overhead was a pale blue dotted with white puffs of cloud. He could hear birdsong over the creaking and muffled rumble of the wagon and trace chains.
He tried to sit up. The cough seemed to tear its way through his throat. He cupped his hand, enduring the fit, only to gasp for air when it was all over.
“Philip?” Butler asked again.
“Yes?” he said through a groan.
“I’m tired. I think we should camp now.”
Doc lifted his head and stared around. The country
