They had taken them from a mail convoy near Kansas City.
The Federals were tied more or less like yearlings, linked together by a thick rope, anchored to a tree. They trembled a bit and were skittish with their glances, not wanting to look too boldly into our faces.
Several of Clyde’s group sat on the ground watching the prisoners, torturing them with bad jokes.
“Are those good boots, Yank?”
“I don’t know. Could be.”
“They seem to run a mite slow.”
“This time they did.”
“Well, there won’t be any more races for them with you standing in them, will there?”
“I would reckon not.”
“Ho, ho, ho. You are a shrewd reckoner, ain’t you?”
One of the men who lounged there was the oddest comrade thinkable. It was George Clyde’s pet nigger, Holt. He was always called Holt, and he carried pistols and wore our garb. It was said that he was an excellent scout and a useful spy. He looked about like any other nigger but spoke less and had a narrow quality to his face that gave it an aspect of intelligence.
Clyde’s reputation served to protect Holt, but the nigger’s actions also gradually gained him some esteem. He almost never spoke to anyone but Clyde, as he knew his opinions would be scorned. As with most niggers his life was puppeted by slender threads of tolerance at all times.
He was a good field cook, that was proven.
“Holt,” I said to him as I stood.
His eyes came up to mine and held there steady, then he nodded once. There was a shiny effect from his gaze, as though some awful fire was in him. He did not speak.
“Jacob, oh, my Jacob,” someone said to me. I slowly looked for the source and found it among the prisoners. There, hogtied to his poorly chosen comrades, was Alf Bowden, a neighbor of Jack Bull’s and mine from near Waverly.
“Hello, Alf,” I said. “You are in a fix.”
“It seems so,” he said. “It surely does seem so.”
Gus Vaughn, an able bushwhacker, said to me, “You know this man?”
“Certainly,” I said. I walked over and touched Alf on the shoulder. He seemed grateful for the display. His face was haunted by accurate expectations. “His little place was just downriver from the Chiles’ place. Hemp grower.”
Alf was sunken-chested and twig-thin. It was not uncommon to thus meet enemies who had not been so in gentler times. I had helped Bowden raise a barn once, and danced with his sister ’til her face flushed and we both sweated, but I was not in his debt, nor he in mine. It was a good war for settling debts via the Minié-ball payback or the flame of compensation. Many debts were settled before they had a chance to be incurred, but thin-skinned fairness rarely crabbed youthful aim.
I looked down at Alf. It seemed my presence was raising his hopes. Jack Bull Chiles then joined us, and Bowden strained his pale face, trying to summon up a grin.
“Jack Bull,” he said.
Looking down his nose somewhat Jack Bull barely raised his chin in recognition. “Bowden,” he said. “Any news of home?”
The little man started out shaking his head, but the gesture picked up momentum and soon his body shuddered entirely.
“No, no, no,” he said. “It all goes on. It all just goes on. Some may have died, not most.”
“What of our mothers?” Jack Bull asked.
“Well, now, well,” said Bowden, his eyes angled down, “they are watched. All the secesh are watched.”
“And my father?” I asked. I was vaguely interested in news of the old, exotic gent, but not frothy about it.
“He comes and he goes, like he always has. He ain’t bothered by no one. No one hurts him. But, you know this, you must know the whole town knows you boys are out here, Black Flaggin’ it.” He finally glanced up. “Some friendliness may have been lost for your kin.”
“Have you been fed?” Jack Bull asked.
“Not so’s you’d notice.”
“I’ll look into it.”
We left our old neighbor then, under the watchful eyes of Holt and the others. The camp was engaged in frolic. There was no rain on the wind, only the smell of thawed mud and early blossoms, but the boys were lazied by the previous days and made a carnival of the camp. A ball of leather was trotted out, and men of both groups began to boot it here and there. Their stomps turned the mud into a glue that sucked down boots and held them there.
“Will he be killed?” I asked Jack Bull.
“The