Spoke with Secretary S. & ruined my army career. Plan to get drunk to celebrate. Transfer looks certain. G.H.
86
The work train of two flatcars chugged southwest toward Manassas. The day had grown gray and heavy with the odor of rain.
Pine branches beside the track reached out to brush Billy's face. He sat on the side of one of the cars, legs dangling, carbine resting beside him. Under his shirt was a small copybook, in which he was currently keeping his journal. His dusty trousers partially concealed the legend U.S.M.R. NO. 19 painted in white on the edge of the car.
Against the shuttling rhythm of the slow-moving train, he thought of a number of things: Brett, whom he longed to sleep with for just one night; Lije, whose death seemed such a waste; the disturbing telegraphic news from New York, which they had heard just before pulling out. The city was braced for demonstrations and perhaps widespread rioting when the first names were drawn for the draft.
The engineers had taken part in the Gettysburg campaign, but scarcely in a capacity worth mentioning. They had built the usual Potomac pontoon bridges, then languished on their rumps as part of the headquarters contingent while the main army engaged. Now they were back here in Virginia, and Billy and six enlisted men had been dispatched down the Orange & Alexandria to survey a new spur line proposed near the Bull Run trestle. Guerrillas had recently destroyed the trestle for the sixth or seventh time.
A blond corporal lying on his back hummed "All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight." Another took up the melody with a small mouth organ, his elbow resting on the lacquered case containing two transits. A third man rested his legs on the folded tripod.
Smoke flowed over the relaxed soldiers riding in the open. Soot and cinders peppered them, but that was the worst of it until the shots exploded. The first rang the locomotive's bell. A volley followed.
"Where the hell are they?" the blond corporal yelled, flopping onto his belly and grabbing his carbine. Billy likewise flattened himself. He heard the enemy before he saw them. They spurred into sight from behind the caboose, eight raggy men with long beards and wiry mounts. Four rode on each side of the train.
Although the train was in territory controlled by the Union, that control was nominal. Right now they were traveling through what was boastfully called Mosby's Confederacy. Were these some of the Gray Ghost's men, Billy wondered, flinging up his carbine. He fired and missed.
A ball tore into the edge of the flatcar where his legs had dangled moments before. A long splintery scar horizontally bisected the letters U.S.M.R. The ragtag attackers whooped and wailed their rebel yells, passing the caboose.
"Stay low, Johnson," Billy shouted as the blond soldier foolishly jumped up, braced his legs, and tried to aim while the flatcar swayed. The rider leading the others on Billy's side, a stick-thin man wearing a fusty black suit, bent to avoid a branch, then fired his revolver and blew Johnson off the other side of the car.
Billy went to one knee, hoping to steady himself that way. The fireman had clambered onto the tender. Holding on with one hand, he leaned out and fired a Colt with the other. Billy felt the train lurch as the engineer opened the throttle. A private picked off a guerrilla on the opposite side, which put an end to the grinning and whooping of the partisans.
The train gained speed. The sky darkened; rain began to patter the flatcar. The guerrillas came up to flank the car on which the engineers were riding. Billy pivoted to shoot toward the far side when something fastened on his arm, dragging him.
Dizzy with fright, he went spinning and tumbling off the car, pulled by the dark-suited man, who had ridden close enough to reach him. Billy struck the shoulder of the roadbed, gasping, the wind knocked out of him. In a daze, he watched the lantern and white numerals on the caboose shrinking.
Billy's carbine lay beside the near rail. Two of the partisans cantered up the center of the right of way. The retreating train slowed, the engineer worried about the men who had fallen off. The partisans fired several volleys at the train, which speeded up again.
On hands and knees, Billy reached for the carbine. "Touch that an' I'll kill you," said a cheerful voice. He raised his head, saw the frail, black-suited man. A huge dragoon pistol filled his right hand.
"We got two, countin' the captain here," Black Suit shouted, controlling his pawing horse. "Is that there one alive?"
"Naw, he's gone," someone called from back along the line. Billy grimaced; Johnson had been anticipating news of the birth of his second child in Albany at any moment.
In the pattering rain, the guerrillas plinked a few last rounds at the train, now no larger than a toy. How dark the morning had become, Billy thought, ringed by men on horseback.
"Gone for sure?" Black Suit asked the man riding up with Johnson's body. The blond volunteer lay over the neck of the horse, head and legs hanging down.
"Deader'n a pickaninny's brain."
"Any val'bles?"
"We can pry the gold out of his teeth, but that's about it."
"Hell," said Black Suit. "This 'pears to be the only real prize we got. Stand up, Yank. Gimme your name an' unit, so we can do a proper job fillin' out the burial papers."
Billy couldn't believe the man meant it. He couldn't believe this had happened — the swift attack, the accidental capture. But then, that was the lesson of war you so often forgot. The bullet that missed you — or killed you — did so by chance.
Rain dampening his hair, Billy stood at the side of the right of way, wondering if these men were who he feared they were. "Name an' unit," Black Suit repeated, testily now.
"Captain William Hazard. Battalion of Engineers, Army of the Potomac. Who are you?"
Snickers, amused whispers, then a bull voice: "He's smack in the middle of Fairfax County an' he's gotta ask who we are."
Ugly and fat, the deep-voiced man rode around where Billy could see him. "Major John S. Mosby's Partisan Rangers, duly authorized for independent action by the 'Federate Congress. That's who we are, you piece of Yankee shit." He swiped at Billy's head with the butt of his shotgun.
Angered, Billy grabbed for the butt. Black Suit reached down and yanked his hair. Billy yelped and let go. He smelled the unwashed men and took notice of their unclean clothes, pieces of cast-off uniforms — and he knew they weren't lying to him. John Mosby had scouted for Stuart for a time but had lately established himself as a guerrilla commander. He came and went by night, ripping up track, burning supply depots, sniping at pickets — all the more feared because he and his small band were seldom seen. Gray ghosts.
Who did not operate by the regular rules of war, Billy remembered with a heavy feeling in his middle. Black Suit gave him another hard shake by the hair and cocked his pistol.
"Hands on your head, boy."
"What?"
"I said lay both hands on top of your head. I want to make this quick."
"Make what quick?"
Jeering laughter. One of those laughing loudest said, "He's real dumb, ain't he?"
"Why, your military execution, Captain Hazard, sir," Black Suit said, with the thick juice of sarcasm in every word. "Now if that's all right with you, mebbe you'll 'low me to get on with the matter and be away to other, more pressing duties."
Disbelieving, Billy stared at the dark figure on horseback. The pines moaned, the wind raced through the boiling dark sky. Why didn't the train come back for him? They must have thought him slain, like Johnson —
"Hands on top of your head!" Black Suit said. "And turn away from me so's I can see your back."
"Under —" Billy struggled to keep his voice from cracking "— under the articles of War, I have the right to be treated as a prisoner and —"