When This Cruel War Is Over by Thomas Fleming Page A

a ferry service, was a nitwit.
    Jameson and Pete Worth strode to the barn, picked up Frankie Worth’s body, deposited it in the buckboard and rode away without saying another word. As they rattled out the gate, Major Stapleton asked, “Why didn’t you arrest them both? Are you going to let them bury that fellow without another word?”
    â€œWe’ll deal with them at the appropriate time and place,” Gentry said. Inwardly he winced at the disgust on Stapleton’s face. Maybe it was time to explain to this young man why he preferred to play a waiting game with Rogers Jameson and his Democratic friends.
    â€œI almost forgot another matter,” the major said. “We caught a deserter. He wasn’t involved in the skirmish. Would you like to talk to him?”
    â€œOf course. Where is he?”
    The deserter was in the back of the barn in a stall that Sergeant Washington had fitted out as an office. The prisoner did not look more than fifteen years old. Gentry dismissed the trooper who was guarding him and asked the boy his name. “Robert Garner,” he said. “I didn’t plan to desert. I just come north to see my momma.”
    â€œWhy did you go to the Fitzsimmons farm?” Gentry asked.
    â€œJoe Fitz’ was my friend in the army—the only friend I had—until he got killed at Vicksburg. They made us charge a Confederate battery. A cannonball took his head off. His blood covered me—my hands, my face. Ever since that happened I been sick. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep.”
    â€œColonel?” Sergeant Washington loomed in the doorway. “Trooper Bowen give this to me. Says he saw this guy tryin’ to hide it in his shoe.”

    The piece of paper was grimy with sweat and dirt. Gentry opened it and read: “‘I, Robert Garner, do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the Confederate States of America, and that I will to the best of my ability support its Constitution and its laws, so help me God.
    â€œâ€˜Subscribed and sworn to before me, Post Commandant, at Richmond, Kentucky.
    â€œâ€˜Colonel William C. Danforth.’”
    â€œI don’t mean a word of that,” Garner said. “I had to sign it to get through the Confederate lines. They control everything in southeast Kentucky.”
    â€œWhat do you know about the men who fired on Major Stapleton’s troopers?” Gentry asked.
    â€œI never saw them before. They came to the farm this mornin’. They wanted me to join them. I said I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t shoot a Union soldier. They cursed me for a coward.”
    Garner began to blubber. “I don’t want to shoot anyone. I told them when they drafted me I wanted to work in the hospital. But they wouldn’t listen. They gave me a gun.”
    Gentry sighed. Too many deserters told this story. After three years of slaughter, the Union Army could not afford to inquire where a man wanted to serve. They needed anyone who could carry a gun in the front lines.
    â€œEscort him to the town jail. We’ll ship him to Indianapolis for trial on Monday.”
    Stapleton followed Gentry through the dim barn to the sunbaked yard. “Can you spare fifteen minutes for a private talk?” Gentry asked.
    â€œI want to make sure Doctor Yancey treats my wounded troopers.”
    â€œTell him I’ll consider it a personal favor,” Gentry said. “I’ll wait for you in my office.”
    Twenty minutes later, Major Stapleton returned looking
satisfied. Dr. Yancey, still reasonably sober, was bestowing his considerable medical skills on the wounded black troopers. The man with the head wound had died but that did not seem to trouble Major Stapleton. He had no doubt seen enough casualties at Antietam and Gettysburg and other battles to make death routine. Perhaps they also taught that idea at West Point.
    â€œSit down, Major. I know you’re