Undressed, she cooed over his body and manipulated him to a mammoth erection —that was something new, anyway; she couldn't wait to tell Lamar.
North of Richmond was a wayside inn whose faded paint had given the hamlet of Yellow Tavern its name. Some half a mile farther on, at the end of a deserted lane running west from Telegraph Road, rose a large grove of trees. Light from a heat-hazed moon fell all around the grove, illuminating the landscape dimly. But under the trees, where two men talked, neither could see the other.
Over soft sounds of horses moving restlessly, one said, "I must tell you for the good of all of us that you've spoken too freely, too often. They say even that damned Lafayette Baker's heard about us."
"Well, so be it. Men from my state make no secret of their convictions. Governor Brown doesn't, and neither do I."
"But you've drawn attention to yourself. Therefore maybe to the rest of us."
"Oh, I doubt that one more tale of conspiracy will be given much credence — there are so many. Besides, I've no other way to recruit men with the right sort of nerve. I can only put out a baited line and wait. It worked with you."
Grudgingly: "True."
"Are we in any immediate danger?"
"I don't think so. Davis heard some of the talk and sent a letter ordering the general to investigate. I volunteered for the assignment — patriotic zeal, loathing for traitors — the usual claptrap."
"Clever of you. Now you can block the inquiry?"
"Slow it down," the other corrected. "We don't have as much time as we did before."
"We'll move faster. Within a few months, Jeff Davis will be dead and gone."
"If he isn't, the rest of us will be."
"And we'll be enjoying the sunshine and free air of the Southwest. Meanwhile — I deeply appreciate the warning."
"I know it's a long ride out here, but it's the safest spot I could think of, and I thought you'd want to know."
"Absolutely. My thanks. I'll be in touch."
They clasped hands, bid each other good night, and turned their horses in opposite directions. Wan moonlight brushed the face of Lamar Powell as he cantered from one side of the grove and the benign features of the agent of the provost marshal, Israel Quincy, on the other.
88
Prodded out of the covered wagon at musket point, Billy saw the sign that had identified the block-square structure when it was a warehouse instead of a prison. Some three dozen officers climbed from Billy's wagon and the two behind. Like the others, Billy was exhausted, hungry, and, above all, nervous.
To reach Libby Prison, the wagons had passed through a neighborhood of commercial buildings and vacant lots. Approaching, Billy first noticed the uniformed guards posted at intervals around the brick building.
The prison looked harsh in the morning light. The wagons had parked on the lower side, where the building was four stories high. On the opposite side, at the top of the sloping street, it was three. The warning said to be carved above one of its doors was known throughout the Union Army: Abandon all hope who enter here.
"Form up, form up in single file," a bored sergeant said, pushing some of the prisoners, gigging others with his musket. Most of the captives were quietly resolute about their predicament. Inevitably, one or two had insisted on cracking jokes during the ride to Richmond in a filthy freight car. But once the train arrived in the enemy capital, the jokes stopped. In the entire lot, only one prisoner, a portly captain of artillery two or three years older than Billy, seemed genuinely broken by the experience; his eyes were moist as he took his place in line.
"Look there," an officer said, pointing to a barge pulling away from a pier not far from the prison. All the open space on deck was filled by emaciated men in dirty blue uniforms. On the roof of the deckhouse, a white cloth hung from a staff. The barge was headed downriver.
Noticing the prisoners watching, a guard said, "Flag-of-truce boat. Just took a load of you boys out of this yere building for exchange. Not many of them boats leavin' these days. Be a long time 'fore any of you take the trip. Now march."
As they passed through a doorway, Billy searched for the famous inscription and didn't see it; but Libby had many entrances. They shuffled up creaking stairs. Men began to cough because of the odors: fish, tobacco, something acrid.
"What the hell's that stink?"
The prisoner was answered by a sarcastic guard. "Burnin' tar. You Yanks smell so putrid, we got to fumigate the place reg'lar."
Shuffling in line, trying to remember Brett, remember all his many reasons for clinging to hope, Billy reached a large, unfurnished room with high slot windows that admitted only a little daylight. There a private interrogated each prisoner, inscribing name, rank, and unit into a copybook. Then he turned them over to a corporal who stood beneath a window, hands locked behind his back in the rest position. The sight of the stiff-backed noncom made Billy's gut quiver.
"Line up — eight men to a rank — starting here."
The corporal was a boy, pink-faced, wholesome-looking, with blond curls and eyes as brilliant as an October sky. When the prisoners had formed their ranks — Billy was in the second one — the corporal strode to a spot in front of them.
"I am Corporal Clyde Vesey, charged with welcoming you gentlemen to Libby Prison, of whose hospitality you have no doubt heard. You will now strip to the skin so Private Murch and I may conduct a search for money and any other illegal material you may be carrying."
Shirts came off, trousers dropped; dirty hands worked the buttons on sweaty suits of underwear. There were no complaints; guards on the prison train had warned them about a search, saying that whether they were allowed to keep money or personal items frequently depended on the mood of the soldiers doing the searching. Seeing Vesey's blue eyes and listening to his speech, Billy was not encouraged.
"Open your mouth," Vesey snapped to a major in the front row. The major objected. Vesey backhanded his face twice, hard. Two places to the left, the fat artillery captain let out an audible cry of dismay.
"Open," Vesey repeated. The furious major obeyed. Vesey reached in and withdrew a small paper tube, spittle-covered, from its hiding place next to the upper gum. Vesey unrolled the ten-dollar note, wiped it on his blouse, tucked it away and moved on.
When he reached the artilleryman, Vesey smiled, sensing his weakness. After a routine search of mouth and armpits, he stepped back. "Turn around and spread your backside."
"W—what? See here. That isn't decent or —"
Vesey smiled a sweet smile, interrupting. "You have nothing to say about what's decent or indecent in Libby Prison. Such decisions are in the hands of the warden, Lieutenant Turner, and those of us privileged to serve him." His hand flew up, seizing the captain's ear and twisting. The artilleryman shrieked like a girl.
Vesey smiled. "Turn around and grab your backside and spread it."
Enraged looks passed between some of the prisoners, Billy being one of them. Red-faced, the artilleryman turned to face the rank behind him and reached for his buttocks. Billy recalled he had heard about the warden of Libby — a martinet who had resigned from the Academy in his plebe year, just before Sumter fell.
Vesey let the artilleryman stand in that embarrassing position for fifteen seconds — twenty — thirty. The captain began to shake from strain. Vesey reached around and slapped the side of his face. The captain squealed and fell forward. Men in the next rank pushed him back. The captain started to cry. Billy took a half-step forward.