Reno blurted.
The general slapped a hand on the table and his cheeks reddened. “Enough, Captain. See that the orders are given to destroy the river bridges across the Arkansas. If my Union counterpart intends to pursue us, he will have to get his armpits wet.”
“Yessir,” Reno said, and with a second deprecatory glance in Pacer’s direction, he left the cabin. Pacer heard the guards snap to attention as the officer stepped through the doorway and out into the gray afternoon.
Steele returned his attention to the Choctaw Kid. “The truth, sir. Is this part of the plunder taken from Lawrence?”
“A few days ago I stopped a stage outside of Neosho, in Missouri. I heard tell there was an army payroll aboard. This is it.”
“Hmmm. Captain Reno would think me a fool, but I believe you,” said Steele. He patted the bag. The officer had already begun to calculate the best way to spend its contents. There were plenty of profiteers north of the Mason-Dixon Line eager to sell contraband supplies of medicine and munitions to the Rebels, providing the price was right.
“Then take a chance and believe me again. I took no part in the burning of Lawrence or the slaughter of its citizens. I thought we were there to raid a Union supply depot. I learned the truth too late. I have fought and killed for the cause I believe in. But Quantrill’s raid was madness. No. It was plain and simple meanness, murdering unarmed innocent townspeople, some of them mere boys.” Pacer turned away. The memory plagued him, haunting his sleep with dreams of fire and death. He had come to join the Arkansas Volunteers, to fight the war as it should be fought, with honor. “I’m not here to buy a commission, General. I rode up from the Indian Territory to find the war. I’ll fight as a private if you’ll have me.”
Steele had no doubt the young man standing before him could fight. That was, in the end, precisely the point. All of the border guerrillas were men who dealt lead for breakfast, slept in the saddle, and rode away to fight again another day. Here was a man with a lit fuse for a backbone and a heart of brimstone. And yet he did not fit the mold.
Candles sputtered on the mantel against the south wall. The table lantern painted the twin shadows of the two men upon the mud-chinked walls. The bed in the corner had not been slept in for a night and a day. Slices of bread on a platter at the corner of the table looked crusty and stale, leftovers from a man preoccupied with death. The austere interior of the cabin had none of the comforts of Steele’s headquarters in Little Rock. Giving up the cabin was easy enough. Let the Yankee general have the hard bed and the temperamental chimney with its backdrafts and the rickety ladder-backed chairs that never seemed to sit flush on the floor and groaned and creaked when sat upon.
Brigadier General Steele walked to one of the shuttered windows and opened it against a gusting wind. Six thousand men were encamped along the Arkansas River just outside the town of Fort Smith. Cookfires dotted the riverbank, where smoke curled above the treetops. Horses were led to the river and back again. Men went about their jobs with an air of resignation.
“Tomorrow I withdraw to Little Rock, where I’ll combine this force with the troops garrisoned there. In all, I can put about twelve thousand men on the battlefield against an overwhelming two-pronged Union offensive building to the north and west.” The general closed the shutters and helped himself to a drink from the makeshift table below the window. He poured a glass of bourbon for himself and his visitor, then handed the glass to Pacer. “One man won’t matter much to the good. But he could make matters even worse for a regiment with flagging morale.”
“Meaning your men would not wish to fight alongside someone who rode with Quantrill,” Pacer said in a hard voice.
“It’s easier for me to believe you took no part in that Kansas butchery.
The general slapped a hand on the table and his cheeks reddened. “Enough, Captain. See that the orders are given to destroy the river bridges across the Arkansas. If my Union counterpart intends to pursue us, he will have to get his armpits wet.”
“Yessir,” Reno said, and with a second deprecatory glance in Pacer’s direction, he left the cabin. Pacer heard the guards snap to attention as the officer stepped through the doorway and out into the gray afternoon.
Steele returned his attention to the Choctaw Kid. “The truth, sir. Is this part of the plunder taken from Lawrence?”
“A few days ago I stopped a stage outside of Neosho, in Missouri. I heard tell there was an army payroll aboard. This is it.”
“Hmmm. Captain Reno would think me a fool, but I believe you,” said Steele. He patted the bag. The officer had already begun to calculate the best way to spend its contents. There were plenty of profiteers north of the Mason-Dixon Line eager to sell contraband supplies of medicine and munitions to the Rebels, providing the price was right.
“Then take a chance and believe me again. I took no part in the burning of Lawrence or the slaughter of its citizens. I thought we were there to raid a Union supply depot. I learned the truth too late. I have fought and killed for the cause I believe in. But Quantrill’s raid was madness. No. It was plain and simple meanness, murdering unarmed innocent townspeople, some of them mere boys.” Pacer turned away. The memory plagued him, haunting his sleep with dreams of fire and death. He had come to join the Arkansas Volunteers, to fight the war as it should be fought, with honor. “I’m not here to buy a commission, General. I rode up from the Indian Territory to find the war. I’ll fight as a private if you’ll have me.”
Steele had no doubt the young man standing before him could fight. That was, in the end, precisely the point. All of the border guerrillas were men who dealt lead for breakfast, slept in the saddle, and rode away to fight again another day. Here was a man with a lit fuse for a backbone and a heart of brimstone. And yet he did not fit the mold.
Candles sputtered on the mantel against the south wall. The table lantern painted the twin shadows of the two men upon the mud-chinked walls. The bed in the corner had not been slept in for a night and a day. Slices of bread on a platter at the corner of the table looked crusty and stale, leftovers from a man preoccupied with death. The austere interior of the cabin had none of the comforts of Steele’s headquarters in Little Rock. Giving up the cabin was easy enough. Let the Yankee general have the hard bed and the temperamental chimney with its backdrafts and the rickety ladder-backed chairs that never seemed to sit flush on the floor and groaned and creaked when sat upon.
Brigadier General Steele walked to one of the shuttered windows and opened it against a gusting wind. Six thousand men were encamped along the Arkansas River just outside the town of Fort Smith. Cookfires dotted the riverbank, where smoke curled above the treetops. Horses were led to the river and back again. Men went about their jobs with an air of resignation.
“Tomorrow I withdraw to Little Rock, where I’ll combine this force with the troops garrisoned there. In all, I can put about twelve thousand men on the battlefield against an overwhelming two-pronged Union offensive building to the north and west.” The general closed the shutters and helped himself to a drink from the makeshift table below the window. He poured a glass of bourbon for himself and his visitor, then handed the glass to Pacer. “One man won’t matter much to the good. But he could make matters even worse for a regiment with flagging morale.”
“Meaning your men would not wish to fight alongside someone who rode with Quantrill,” Pacer said in a hard voice.
“It’s easier for me to believe you took no part in that Kansas butchery.
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