Only the Gallant (14 page)

There came the sickening realization that she might not be able to bluff her way out of this predicament. As for Jesse, what could he do? He was brave enough but how capable was he? Baptiste was taking her to Jackson on the same well-protected train that Jefferson Davis would be riding. One man wouldn’t stand a chance against the troops guarding the president. In the silence of the room, in these desperate hours, Caitlin Brennan had never felt so alone in her young life.

She cupped her face in her hands and lay back upon the feather mattress. But she did not cry.

“Colonel Henri Baptiste certainly cuts a dashing figure,” Ophelia commented. The smartly dressed Creole was preparing to spur his charger down a well-trod path that led between two rows of posts. Each post stood about six feet tall and was topped by a sackcloth pillow roughly the size of a man’s head. She glanced at Jesse, beside her in the carriage, to see if she had aroused a little jealousy in him. He seemed preoccupied. She nudged him. Jesse looked at her. “What … oh yes … the very thing.” Ophelia frowned. Where exactly were his thoughts?

That afternoon Captain Bon Tyrone had arranged a demonstration for Jefferson Davis and his staff of generals, to amuse the president while waiting for last-minute repairs to be concluded on the train to Jackson. Last night’s bombardment had damaged the locomotive, but the engineers had assured the president he would still be able to continue his rail tour by evening.

It was a cold, somber afternoon and a challenge to Vicksburg’s inhabitants to make the best out of a bad situation. They had brought picnic lunches to this meadow on the Warrenton road near the railyard. Davis and Generals Johnston and Pemberton sat in the shade of a white canvas tent. Storm clouds continued to build to the north. The sky overhead was threatening, and most of the spectators kept to their carriages, with blankets on their laps and baskets of fried chicken, hot bread, and flasks of brandy to keep their bellies full and warm.

Jesse and Ophelia had watched from her carriage as the Gray Fox led his raiders through an intricate drill designed to show off their horsemanship and their fighting ability. Tyrone’s cavalry had concluded the demonstration with a headlong charge at full gallop. Rebel yells filled the air as they swept past the president’s party. The townspeople clapped and cheered and President Davis personally congratulated the horsemen, delivering a brief impromptu speech about the quality and dedication of these knights of the Confederacy.

Now Colonel Henri Baptiste presented himself. He rode a chestnut stallion and brandished a gleaming saber in his right hand. Sunlight glinted off the thirty-six-inch curved steel blade and the brass hilt protecting the swordsman’s fist.

“The sword is a gentleman’s weapon. In New Orleans, a lad of breeding practices swordsmanship from the day he walks,” he loudly explained, striving to be heard. He raised and lowered the saber in salute to President Davis and the generals in the tent, then bowed graciously to the carriages, right and left. Many of them contained young ladies who obviously had fallen under his spell. He held the chestnut to a brisk trot and continued around the twin rows of posts until he neared the far end. Then he angled out across the meadow for a dozen yards, whirled, and charged the spectators. He guided the chestnut down the path between the posts. His saber flashed, became a blue of bright motion cutting left and right, left and right. The sackcloth pillows exploded in a flurry of goose feathers. A murmur of approval rose from the spectators. Not to be outdone by the man from New Orleans, Bon Tyrone drew his saber, as did the men in his command. Tyrone galloped out into the field once more and led his men along the same path between the poles. Black servants hurried to replace the sackcloth pillows as the Gray Fox and his men charged past with their sabers flashing in the sunlight. They kept the feathers flying to the delight of the audience, whose hearts swelled with pride.

Jesse sensed he was being watched and looked up as Baptiste approached him. The Creole saluted and bowed to Ophelia.

“Well done, sir,” she said.

“Thank you, ma’am. A compliment from beauty is always the highest honor.” He shifted his gaze to Jesse. “I am told you are a horseman. Can you handle a saber? It is a gentleman’s weapon, as I have said.”

“But of course,” Jesse replied. “Whenever I am attacked by pillows, it is the first thing I reach for.”

Bon Tyrone, riding up on his black charger, overheard the conversation and had to look away immediately to hide his amusement. Ophelia lacked her brother’s subtlety and laughed aloud, then brought a hand up to her mouth when she saw the anger flash in the colonel’s eyes. Baptiste whirled his horse about and rode back to the poles. This time he ordered the Negroes to place candles on the tops of the poles. When one of the servants moved too slowly, the colonel swatted him with the flat of the blade and exhorted him to hurry. Jesse scowled at the man’s conduct. His dislike for Henri Baptiste increased the more he came in contact with him.

“He is a proud man. And proud men can be dangerous,” Bon Tyrone advised.

“Pride goeth before a fall,” Jesse replied.

“Perhaps.” Tyrone steadied his charger and turned to watch with professional interest Colonel Baptiste’s latest display. “Depends on the man, I’d say.”

Jesse dropped the conversation. His thoughts were on Caitlin, held prisoner and waiting to be taken to Jackson. He had even heard a rumor from Spider Boudreaux that Baptiste intended to continue on to Richmond with her. There’d be no rescuing her from the capital of the Confederacy. He’d have to do something before that happened. He began to formulate a plan.

“Why, Jesse McQueen … your thoughts are miles away.” Ophelia playfully pouted. “I hope I can blame your disinterest on lack of sleep and not on the company you’re keeping.”

“What … yes, I mean no,” Jesse stammered. Then he patted her hand. “Please excuse me.” He climbed out of the carriage and, circling Tyrone on his mount, cut straight in front of the carriages on a course for General Johnston in the president’s entourage.

“Well, I never.” Ophelia stared after her departed escort in disbelief. Bon Tyrone chuckled good-naturedly, dismounted, and joined his sister in the carriage.

“Never fear, sister. I’ll be happy to help eat your chicken.”

Ophelia “harrumphed” in disgust.
Of all the unmitigated nerve
, she thought, trying to work up anger at the dark-haired lieutenant who’d abandoned her.

“I never thought I’d see the day when a man didn’t fall under your spell and obey your every whim like a well-trained pup. Yes, sir. There goes a man with character.” Bon Tyrone was definitely enjoying this. After all, a brother had a sacred duty to torment his sister.

Ophelia turned on him, her temper flaring. “You can choke on that chicken for all I care, Mr. Boniface Tyrone.”

Tyrone grinned. “Whew. You’re still quite the firebrand when your dander’s up.” He noticed Spider Boudreaux standing a few yards off to the side of the carriage. The gruff-looking Cajun had ground-tethered his horse and couldn’t take his eyes off the picnic basket on the floor of the carriage. Tyrone motioned to the sergeant to join him. Spider virtually beamed as he hurried over to the carriage, delighted at sharing in his captain’s good fortune. He doffed his hat, bowed to Ophelia, and glanced from the picnic basket to the woman who had prepared the meal.

“If’n you don’t mind, Miss Ophelia?”

“By all means,” the woman replied, cold as the chicken she had packed with care. “Help yourself.”

Jesse was halfway to the president’s tent when a chorus of cheers erupted from the crowd. The loudest came from a cluster of carriages occupied by a bevy of young unmarried ladies. Another carriage held an older but singularly attractive widow who made no attempt to hide her interest in the colonel from New Orleans. Baptiste charged pell-mell past the posts, topped with the candles the servants had just lit. The colonel, wielding his saber, attempted to trim each burning wick, a feat requiring a delicate touch and expertise with the blade. Jesse looked around as Baptiste cleared the posts, leaving about half the candles untouched but the other half trailing smoke. There was no doubting the Creole’s skill. But that didn’t make him any less a murderous bastard as far as Jesse was concerned. He continued on toward Davis’s tent, ignoring Baptiste until the Creole called him by name.

“McQueen!”

Jesse faced the colonel. He was weary of Baptiste’s games and his arrogance. “What do you want, Colonel Baptiste?”

The man on horseback walked his mount toward the president’s tent. He made certain to bow to the ladies and saluted them with a sweep of the saber. He stopped his horse about fifteen feet from Jesse.

“Perhaps you’ll give us all a demonstration how a gentleman of mixed blood fights.” Baptiste glanced over at the young ladies who’d begun to titter among themselves. His skill and bearing had certainly won them over. “I mean, if a gentleman were to challenge you. How would you defend yourself?” He sliced the air with a series of savage cuts. The steel blade whistled as it described each arc, each brutal slash. Then he froze, holding himself steady, saber poised, prepared to strike. “All in fun, of course,” he finished, grinning.

A gunshot cut short the ladies’ applause. One moment Jesse was standing motionless, his arms at his side, the next his right hand brushed his side, the navy Colt filled his hand. The gun barked once, blasting the saber’s blade off at the hilt. The yard of curved, sharpened steel spun off through the air, striking the stallion. Baptiste had only a second to blink in disbelief and stare dumbfounded at the useless weapon in his hand before his frightened mount leaped and bucked.

“Looks like that New Orleans gator’s been defanged,” Spider called out. Several of the First Mississippi Volunteers made catcalls, only adding to the colonel’s humiliation.

Jesse holstered his revolver, but kept a wary eye on the Creole. Black powder smoke drifted between them while the colonel struggled to stay in the saddle. He was forced, at last, to dismount. He leaped clear as the chestnut stallion raced past the carriages and down the Warrenton road toward Vicksburg. The shattered sword had left a bloody patch on the animal’s rump.

Colonel Henri Baptiste dropped a hand to his revolver as he glared at McQueen, who had turned his back to him. The colonel started to draw his gun.

“Let it drop, Colonel,” said Bon Tyrone, climbing out of Ophelia’s carriage and approaching the colonel. “No reason to take offense. We’re all wearing the same color uniform.”

Baptiste appraised Tyrone with the same shrewd gaze that had served him so well as a slave broker in the crescent city. The Union occupation had put an end to what had been a thriving trade. It was a loss he keenly felt.

But something in Tyrone’s voice overrode his anger and his wounded pride. “The same color, sir. I wonder.” He lowered his holster flap. “You may champion this red nigger, Captain Tyrone, but I surely don’t need to stand here and watch.” He spun on his heel and left the meadow. He marched at a crisp pace but had only covered a dozen yards or so when one of the widows quit the field and drove her carriage up alongside him. Though he’d be leaving when the repairs were concluded, the widow saw no reason why she shouldn’t give Baptiste a farewell to remember.

“A most interesting display, Lieutenant McQueen. And fine shooting,” President Jefferson Davis remarked as Jesse entered the tent. The officers were sharing a bottle of sherry. The president of the Confederacy was gnawing on a chicken leg.

Jesse saluted the officers. “Thank you, Mr. President,” he said, then shifted his attention to General Johnston. “May I take a moment of your time, General Johnston?”

“Any man who can shoot like that can have all afternoon,” Johnston replied, chuckling. “Colonel Baptiste can be somewhat of a bore. I didn’t mind seeing him taken down a notch.”

“Sir, I was thinking perhaps I might ride on to Jackson. As the train won’t be ready until tonight, I ought to be able to check most of the tracks. If I find any trouble, I’ll have the train flagged down and the engineers aboard can see to repairs. And there’ll be soldiers to help them.”

Johnston stroked his chin, rubbed his neck, and slowly nodded. “Very well, Lieutenant. President Davis and I prefer to finish this journey in the comfort of his railroad car. But I’d feel happier with the tracks inspected against the acts of Yankee sympathizers.”

The dour-looking General Pemberton spoke up. “Perhaps you ought to take someone with you.” He did not think he had enough troops to defend the city. Johnston had spent the entire morning telling the Philadelphian he had all the troops that could be spared.

“No,” Jesse retorted a bit too quickly, then caught himself. “I can cover more ground on my own.” Another man tagging along would ruin his plans. He had to be alone.

“Have it your way, Lieutenant,” Johnston said. Jesse breathed a sigh of relief. He bid the generals a good afternoon and ran back toward Ophelia’s carriage. No matter that she was furious with him. He needed to ride back to Judge Miller’s house, where he had stabled the roan stallion. And he’d have to borrow another mount from the judge’s own stock. Fortunately, Miller prided himself on raising prime horseflesh. His stallions were bred for speed, which was all well and good. For tonight, Jesse McQueen wouldn’t have a moment to spare.

T
HE FRONT BARRELED OUT
of the north a couple of hours after sundown. Strong gusting winds laced with icy rain stung Jesse’s cheeks and hands. The night, black as Mississippi mud, hid his huddled form as he crouched over the railroad track and stuffed a makeshift fuse into the powder keg he’d wedged beneath the rail irons.

Jesse had left Vicksburg late in the afternoon, leading an extra horse with the express purpose of making a hard, fast run to Jackson. As he’d be following the tracks across rough terrain at night instead of keeping to the well-traveled road, the second horse made sense. An animal could throw a shoe or cripple itself on such a night. He had ridden unchallenged through the breastworks, halting only once atop a wooded rise to watch the setting sun poke out from behind the lowering clouds and bathe the sky in crimson and gold. The Warren County Courthouse with its pillared verandas and gleaming cupola dominated the horizon. And at that moment Jesse had recalled Major Abbot’s analogy between the Civil War and the Trojan War. Indeed, the Greeks must have felt these same emotions that even now coursed through his mind as he beheld the fabled fortress city among whose warriors Jesse McQueen kept perilous company, like a man dancing on a gallows door with his neck in the noose.