"Run or you're dead, youngster."
The picket dropped his musket and ran.
But one more was dashing up the slope of Twenty-first from the river side of the building. Charles hastily untied Sport, shoved his boot in the stirrup, mounted, and fired a shot across his saddle to turn back the running guard. Tightly reining the nervous gray, he pulled his left foot back and thrust his free hand downward.
"Grab hold and use the stirrup. Quick!"
Billy groaned at the exertion, and so did Charles. He fired again to keep the guard cowering. When he felt Billy settle into place behind him, he shouted, "Hang on, Bunk," and spurred the gray the short distance up to Cary. His friend's Academy nickname had come back without thought.
Three pickets gathered on the corner to fire at them as Sport carried them by. Billy wrapped his arms around Charles's poncho and held fast. One shot boomed, then two more. All three missed. The gray galloped away into howling wind.
In an alley a mile from the prison, Billy donned the butternut pants and corduroy shirt unpacked from a blanket roll on the saddle.
"Jesus," Charles said as he handed Billy the gray jacket.
"What's wrong?"
"I killed that guard. Didn't even stop to think about it."
"You deserve a medal."
"For shooting a boy?"
"You did every man in Libby Prison a service. That guard is the bastard who put me in this condition."
"That right? Then I feel better. Glad I did it." Charles smiled in a way that made Billy shiver. He gave Billy the last article from the blanket roll, a kepi. "Let's go."
Billy waited in the darkness with Sport while Charles entered the stable where he had previously arranged to hire a mule for the night. "Get him back by eight in the morning," the sleepy liveryman said. "I got another customer."
"Guaranteed," Charles said, leading the balking animal into the dark.
He had his pass, and Billy had the one Orry had forged, so they traveled north through the defense lines without incident. They dismounted in an orchard, and Charles gave his friend a second, smaller, bundle.
"That's a little hardtack and sliced ham Madeline fixed up. I wish I had a gun for you, or more gear, so you'd look more like a furloughed soldier."
"I'll make it the way I am," Billy promised. "What I wish for is more time for the two of us to catch up on things." Once past the last picket post, they had hardly stopped talking, covering the whereabouts and fortunes of most of the members of both families. Charles learned why the guard at the prison entrance had taken special interest in Billy; the story of the ride on the caisson wheel disgusted him and, as a Southerner, shamed him, too.
Now he said, "I'd like to take you to see Orry and Madeline, but it's better if you put some miles between yourself and Richmond before daylight. With a spot of luck, you should be all right even if you're stopped and questioned. The pass will take you through. When you reach your own lines, don't forget to ditch the cap and jacket."
"I won't — and I'll approach with my hands high in the air, believe me."
Both were trying to minimize what lay ahead for him: hours of riding, patrols on the road, hunger, anxiety. And all of it made worse by his weakened condition. There was plenty to contend with, and Billy knew it. But there was also hope now. A goal. The safety of his own side.
The chance to write Brett with miraculous news.
The wind tore petals from the trees and whirled them around the two friends in the spring dark, each a little awkward with the other because the intervening years had made them near-strangers.
"Bison."
Eyes fixed on the Richmond road, Charles said, "Um?"
"You saved me once before. Now I'll never get out of your debt."
"Just get out of the Confederacy; that's good enough. That'll make me happy."
"My worst problem's liable to be my accent. If I have to answer questions —"
"Speak slowly. Like — this — here. Drop some of your g's and tell 'em you're from out West. Nobody in Virginia really knows how a Missouri reb talks."
Billy smiled. "Good idea. I was stationed in St. Louis — I can pass." More soberly: "You told me about Orry's marriage and a lot of other things, but you haven't said a word about yourself. How have you been getting along? What command are you with?"
"I'm a scout for General Wade Hampton's cavalry, and I'm getting along fine," Charles lied. "I'd be getting along a hell of a lot better if this war was over. I guess it will be soon."
He thought of saying something about Gus. But why mention a relationship that had to end? "I'd like to talk all night, but you ought to go."
"Yes, I guess I should." Billy patted his pocket to be sure he had the pass. Then, with slow, pained movements, he mounted the mule. Charles didn't help him; Billy had to do it himself.
Once Billy was in the saddle, Charles stepped forward. They clasped hands.
"Safe journey. My love to Cousin Brett when you see her."
"Mine to Madeline and Orry. I know what he risked to help me. You, too."
The laugh was dry and forced. "West Point looks after its own, doesn't it?"
"Don't joke, Bison. I'll never be able to repay you."
"I don't expect it. Just stay away from our bullets for the next eight or ten months, and then we can have a good, long visit in Pennsylvania or South Carolina. Now get going."
"God bless you, Bison."
In a surprisingly strong voice, Billy hawed to the mule and rode rapidly out of the orchard. He was soon gone in the darkness.
Petals blew around Charles, a light, sweet cloud, as he thought, He'll either make it or he won't. I did all I could. He was unable to forget the dead guard, but it had nothing to do with regrets about killing him.
He felt drained. He wanted whiskey. "Come on," he said to the gray, and mounted.
The clock chimed four. Bare feet stretched to a hassock, Charles swirled the last of the bourbon in the bottom of the glass, then swallowed it.
"I got scared and shot him. Panic — that's the only word for it."
Madeline said, "I imagine killing someone, even an enemy, isn't easy."
"Oh, you get used to it," Charles said. She and Orry exchanged swift looks that he didn't see. "Anyway, the guard was the one who tortured Billy. The reason it bothers me is, I lost control. I've seen the elephant often enough. I thought I could handle tight spots."
"But how many prison escapes have you staged?" Orry asked.
"Yes, there's that." Charles nodded, but he remained unconvinced.
"How did Billy look?" Madeline asked.
"White and sickly. Feeble as the devil. I don't know if he can make it even halfway to the Rapidan."
"How is Brett? Did he say?"
Charles answered her with a shake of his head. "He hasn't heard from Brett in months. That guard, Vesey, destroyed every letter Billy wrote, so I'd guess he destroyed any that came in, too. Orry, can you spare some cash for the liveryman? He'll never see his mule again."
"I'll take care of it," Orry promised.
Charles yawned. He was worn out, ashamed of his loss of self-control, and most of all saddened by the reunion with Billy. It seemed to him their talk had been trivial and difficult to carry on. Years of separation, their service on different sides — everything took its toll. They were friends and foes at the same time, and every halting sentence they had spoken expressed that without words.
"One more drink, and I'm going to get some sleep," he announced. "I'd like to be out of Richmond early in the morning. We'll be in the field soon —" He extended his glass to Orry; the liquor trickled noisily from the brown bottle. "Have you heard Grant's bringing a new cavalry commander from the West? Phil Sheridan. I knew him at West Point. Tough little Irishman. Greatest man with a cussword I ever met. I hate to see him in Virginia. Still —"