A Dangerous Promise (6 page)

Mike choked down the lump that rose in his throat. Lose Missouri? That couldn't be!

Without waiting for a reply from his officers, Lyon continued, his voice becoming even more tense: "Our men have not been paid, and the condition of their uniforms is deplorable! They are badly off for clothing, and the want of shoes makes them unfit for marching."

Mike well remembered the uniforms of cheap wool shoddy that a crooked clothing supplier had sent to Fort Leavenworth. What had gone wrong that the Union Army had not enough men and not enough proper supphes?

Soon word spread among the soldiers that Union General Sigel's regiment had been beaten in a skirmish at Carthage. Mike wasn't the only soldier who was disheartened by the news of a Confederate win and felt eager to even the score by supporting General Sigel's troops. But Sigel had retreated to Springfield, and General Lyon decided to join him there. Major Sturgis's battalion set up camp at Pond Springs, a few miles west of Springfield, to wait for further orders.

Ben sighed loudly. "More walkin'."

"Take it like a man," Harley told him. "You don't hear the boys complainin', do you?" He winked at Mike, and Mike smiled at the praise.

Then after all their struggles and uncertainty, good news came at last. Arriving in Pond Springs on July 13, the battalion learned of a Union victory on July 11 at the Battle of Rich Mountain in western Virginia.

While cheers went up, Mike nearly burst with pride. Captain Taylor was in Virginia! He and his company had probably fought at Rich Mountain. And they had won!

Soon, Mike was sure, he, too, would be involved in a Union victory. Those Confederates, swarming in great numbers up from Arkansas into southern Missouri, would turn tail and go running back!

Although there were plenty of duties to keep Mike busy, he noticed that he wasn't the only one who was restless. Why should they have such a long wait? The Confederates were within a day's march, ready to strike.

"If I were General Lyon, I wouldn't wait for those Rebs to take action. I'd strike first," Mike told Todd as they sat by a campfire one evening, both of them with paper and envelopes on their lap, ready to write again to their families.

"The general has spies and scouts. He knows what's going on, which is more than you do," Todd snapped. Todd had never spoken that way to Mike, and his words cut like a bayonet.

For an instant Todd looked stricken, too. "Sorry, Mike," he murmured. "It's hard to think about going into battle. Just between you and me, sometimes I wish we hadn't joined up."

"Would you have wanted to sit out the war, safely back at the fort with your little sisters?"

"N-no," Todd said slowly.

"There, you see?" Mike countered. "Our Union forces will soon lick the Rebs, the war will be over, and we'll return home with a row of medals across our chests."

Todd had to smile. "All right, Mike. If you say so." He licked the end of his pencil and began to write.

Mike leaned over Todd's shoulder. "That's the second letter to your ma this week."

Todd grinned. 'There's not much else to do but write letters or play cards, is there? And Ma'd have a fit if I so much as picked up a deck of cards."

Mike set to his own letter-writing, bragging to Danny about the upcoming battle and the way they were going to defeat those Rebs.

On Saturday evening, July 20, the one-armed, tough, and courageous Union General Sweeny commanded twelve hundred men who had been assembled in a mix of infantry, cavalry, and artillery to break up a camp of secessionists at the small southern Missouri town of Forsyth. Mike was among the assembled men; Todd was among those who stayed behind.

Among the soldiers, Mike sloshed along roads that rain had turned into beds of mud. His forage cap, protected by an oilskin cover, remained dry, but the rest of his clothes were soaked by the rain. This is it, he thought. This is what Fve been waiting for. Close to Captain Dawes's side, ready to send any order through his drum calls, Mike envisioned himself helping to guide the men through the fight.

It took two days to cover the forty-five miles of hilly, rugged countryside between Springfield and Forsyth, and the rain changed to a hot dry sun that seemed to beckon every biting, flying bug in the county. The stink of drying wool and sweating bodies overpowered the cleaner fragrances of wet earth and washed meadow grasses.

Riders on horseback brought the conunand to a halt. Word swept down the line faster than a grass fire. A handful of Rebs had challenged General Sweeny's mounted advance guard, but the guard had captured two of them instead.

General Sweeny directed Captain Stanley of the cavalry to take his two companies and the mounted Kansans and surround the town. The artillery and infantry were to follow.

To Mike's disappointment, the battle was over before the Second Kansas Infantry arrived, and on July 24 he found himself back in Springfield. "Wasn't much to it," he complained to Todd. "There were only a hundred and fifty state guards, headquartered in the courthouse. They fired on the mounted troopers as they rode into town, but when the troopers fired back, the Rebs fled into the hills, hiding in the trees and underbrush. The artillery flushed them out of those woods like a covey of quail."

Todd looked hopeful. "Maybe the rest of the Rebs will run off, too."

"Sure," Mike said, puffing out his chest and looking wise. "All we have to do is throw a scare into them."

"I wish it had been like that at Bull Run," Todd said, and Mike saw the worry in Todd's eyes and a drawn, frightened look on his face.

"What's Bull Run?" Mike asked, wishing he hadn't been so full of his own story that he hadn't seen that something terrible was bothering his friend. "What are you talking about?"

"You didn't hear the news?" Todd answered. "Our Union forces took a terrible beating from the Confederates at what they're calling the Battle of Bull Run, near Manassas, Virginia. A woman spy for the Confederacy told them the Union Army's plans. We should have won, but instead there were many . . . many Union soldiers killed."

Mike tried to swallow. His mouth was dry, and his throat tightened with fear. "Captain Taylor and your pa, Todd . . . they would have been there, wouldn't they? Do you know if they . . . ?" Mike couldn't continue.

Todd's eyes filmed with pain as he shook his head.

Mike clenched and unclenched his clammy hands. "I have to know. I'll ask Captain Dawes how we can flnd out."

"You aren't going to teU him about Captain Taylor adopting you, are you?"

"No," Mike said. "There has to be another way." As he headed toward his company headquarters, he murmured, "Don't worry. By the time I find Captain Dawes, I'll come up with an idea."

His heart pounding, Mike found the captain leaving the headquarters tent. The muscles in his face were tight, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.

Quickly stepping to the captain's side, Mike blurted out, "Sir, I have a friend in camp named Todd Blakely. His father's Captain John Blakely, serving with Captain Joshua Taylor in Virginia."

Captain Dawes's eyes lit with recognition. "Josh Taylor was a classmate of mine at West Point."

Mike was cold, even though sweat tickled his neck and backbone. "What I mean, sir . . . Todd is awful worried about Captain Tay—that is, his father and Captain Taylor. Is there any chance of knowing whether they were at Bull Run, and whether they . . . uh . . ." Mike couldn't finish.

Captain Dawes clapped a hand on Mike's shoulder. "I can tell you about Captain Taylor, because we were just reading correspondence about the battle and its unfortunate outcome. Josh's name stood out to me because he's a

friend. He survived the battle with honor. As a matter of fact, he received a field promotion to major."

A rush of relief and thankfulness left Mike hght-headed. His voice cracked as he asked, "And Todd's father? Captain Blakely? Do you know what happened to him?"

Captain Dawes hesitated. "I wish I had good news for your friend, but as yet I haven't. We weren't sent a list of casualties."

Mike slowly made his way back to where Todd was waiting. "They don't have a list of casualties yet," Mike said. "But that doesn't mean anything bad happened to ... to either your father or mine. We've got to keep thinking that they both survived the battle with honor."

Tears flooded Todd's eyes, and he rubbed them away angrily as he dropped cross-legged to the ground. After a few moments he said, "Mike, we'll be going into battle soon, and I've been thinking—not everybody lives through a battle to tell about it."

"Don't say that!" Mike scolded as he squatted next to Todd. "It's not right."

"It's right to face the truth," Todd said.

Mike shook his head. "It's just asking for trouble," he insisted.

Todd put a hand on Mike's arm. "I don't own much of any value, but . . ."He reached into his pocket and pulled out his simple gold-plated pocket watch, which had been dented by baby teeth. "You know that my pa gave this to me on my last birthday." Todd bit his lip hard enough to leave marks before he asked, "Mike, if I'm killed in battle, v^U you take my watch, and when you once again reach home, will you give it to my sister Emily?"

"Todd! You're not going to get killed!"

Todd tightened his grip on Mike's arm, and Mike winced.

"You've got to promise, Mike! Promise!"

"All right," Mike said. "I promise. I'll do whatever you want."

Solemnly, Mike and Todd shook hands.

"And now," Mike said, trying hard to sound cheerful and hearty, "let's decide how we'll celebrate once the battle's over and the victory's been won."

"Celebrate with what?" Todd asked.

Mike winked. "Maybe with a nice roasted turkey. I saw a few in a field a ways back. Now, wouldn't turkey taste good along with applesauce? I think I'd dive in headfirst. Gobble, gobble, gobble."

Todd couldn't help smiling, and Mike was cheered.

When the mail arrived, both Mike and Todd received their first letters from their families, and Todd's good humor seemed completely restored.

Like many of the soldiers who had received mail, Mike found a place apart from his friends and settled down to read the letters over and over in private.

Mike read Louisa Taylor's letter first. In no uncertain terms she wrote that she was frantic about Mike, who was much too yoimg to serve his country. Yet she added, "There is nothing that can be done about it now, so I can only say that my prayers and love will follow you wherever you go."

In the next letter. Ma gave Mike a good blunt scolding before her words lost their edge and became as tender as Mike remembered. "My impulsive, my adventuresome son," Ma wrote, "I guess I should have expected to see you leap to be one of the first to serve your country. Just remember, you are still a boy, not yet a man. Stay away from those who drink and gamble with cards, choose your companions wisely, and don't forget to pray. Throughout each and every day, I'll be praying for you." Ma sent her everlasting love and included a funny note from Peg, who wrote a gleeful description of mean Mr. Crandon tripping and falling facedown into a mud puddle. Mike would never forget Mr. Crandon—the stuffy bank president who had wanted to send him back to New York—and prison. He hoped he never met up with that man again.

There was a short letter from Megan, who promised to write every week, and a longer letter from Frances, who didn't scold, as Mike thought she might. She longed for the slave issue to be settled once and for all, the war to be over soon, and Mike to return safely to his home with the Taylors.

There was no letter yet from Danny, but Mike wasn't worried about his brother, who'd have to take a long drive to town in order to post his letter.

Soon Todd, with a wide smile on his face, joined Mike and dropped to the ground next to him. "Ma got it all off her chest, and then she began writing loving things and telling me how she was arranging with her brother Peter to have me live with his family in Boston when the war is over." Todd chuckled. "All I care about is that Ma's got over being mad at me. From now on everything's gonna be all right."

Todd punched Mike's arm, Mike punched back, and they scuffled, rolled, yelled, and laughed until two men plucked them apart, dangling them in the air by their belts.

"Cut out the fighting! You want to get in trouble?"

Harley's deep voice broke in: "Leave the boys alone. Don't you remember when you were their age and havin' fun?"

And so the men dumped Mike and Todd on the ground, where—still laughing—they scrambled to pick up their mail.

During the next few days camp life followed its usual pattern, with one exception. General Lyon, concerned about protecting the citizens of Springfield from unwarranted raids, issued an order temporarily forbidding foraging. As a result, all soldiers under his command were existing on half-rations. The soldiers' empty bellies made the long wait to fight the Confederates seem all the longer.

"General Fremont took charge of the western army," Harley said during one of the men's countless card games, "and I heard tell that he won't send Lyon the troops he's

been begging for. Lyon is afraid of getting beat without the extra men, and he's hoping Fremont will change his mind."

Sitting on the sidelines with Todd, Mike listened intently.

Ben squatted on his haunches as he slapped down a six of spades. "How come you know so much about what's going on, Harley?" he asked.

Harley spat to one side and wiped his mouth on his sleeve before he answered, "Nobody tells a foot soldier nothin', so a long time ago I learned to keep my ears open. That's how come I know what the officers talk about."

Ben grunted. "Well, if all they're gonna do is wait and try to make up their minds when they're gonna fight, I'll be long gone out of here, and so will the other volunteers who signed up with me. Our ninety days will be over on August fourteenth, some volunteers even earlier than that."

"Don't count on it," Harley answered. "If Lyon isn't goin' to get troops to replace the volunteers, then he's bound to go into action while he's still got men under contract." He studied his cards, then added, "Word is that Lyon's spies told him that the Rebs are movin' up strong from Cassville, hopin' to march on Springfield."