Only the Gallant (7 page)

“Emory, you know her, too, I understand,” Doc said, a kind of menace in his voice. Emory Stark gulped and assumed a hangdog look.

Cicero hurried to the forge and helped himself to a couple of biscuits from the tin plate. He deftly plucked a few pieces of bacon from Titus’s skillet, while Titus himself stared at the black man in astonishment. Cicero nodded his thanks and, using an anvil for a stool, proceeded to wolf down his breakfast.

“What the hell is going on, Doc?” Titus said.

Cicero studied his four benefactors. Though mixed-blood Cherokees, there was nothing Indianlike in their appearance except perhaps for their long black hair. He found it curious when Doc told him they hailed from Indian Territory. Cicero had no formal schooling but he was a shrewd judge of character. At a glance he could tell these were four men who would do just about anything for a handsome profit. Right now he needed them to stay free. But soon they’d be needing him.

Doc turned to face Milo. His gaze dropped to the Colt revolving rifle.

“Jesse McQueen’s in town. He did this to me.” Milo held up his bandaged fist. “I aim to make him pay.”

“Sometime—but not today,” Doc said. He hooked a thumb in his gunbelt. A Colt dragoon rode high on his hip in a worn leather holster. “Let it lay. We don’t need trouble with the army. Not now, when Cicero here is fixing to make us all rich.”

His words had an almost magical effect on his two brothers and Titus. Suddenly all differences were set aside, animosity vanished, weapons were lowered as the Starks and their cousin came together in the center of the barn.

“That’s how it should be.” Doc nodded approvingly. “We’re blood kin. If we turn against each other, we’re no better’n animals.”

“A pretty speech, Doc,” Titus remarked. “I like how it began. Something about this darkie making us rich.”

“The name is Cicero,” the black man interjected.

“I found him hiding in the stable out back of Letitia’s Sporting House down by the river. Seems he’s a runaway.”

“I’m free. I aims to stay that way,” Cicero said, heading for the coffeepot.

“What’s he got to do with us?” Milo asked.

“Gold. A strongbox full of Spanish gold,” Doc replied. The men around him grew silent. The only sound came from the restless herd of half-wild horses in the pens. Sweat rolled down Doc’s cheeks and lost itself in the black stubble. He shifted his gaze to the black man. “Tell them,” he said.

“Spanish gold in a wood-and-iron chest, so big.” Cicero held his hands about two feet apart.

“Where?”

“Hidden on Dunsinane, the plantation where I was born, just a long day’s ride from Vicksburg,” the ex-slave told them, nursing his coffee. It was the first time in his life Cicero had ever felt important, and he was enjoying himself.

“I don’t know how old Marse Tyrone came by it. But before he died he done had my pa hide that chest on the plantation. Now only three people know its whereabouts. Bon Tyrone and Miss Ophelia is two. And I be the third. My pa told me where he put it for Marse.”

“On a plantation!” Titus said, ruefully shaking his head. “What are we supposed to do, fight our way to Vicksburg, us four, against the whole damn Rebel army? Cousin, I admire your notion of fair odds.” He started to turn away, but Doc caught him by the arm and turned him back.

“We let Grant do the job for us. It’s common talk that Sherman and Grant will be joining up to march on Vicksburg. No one’s sure as to the course they’ll take.” Doc folded his arms across his barrel chest and looked from Milo to Emory to Titus. “I say we tag along. And when we’re close to Cicero’s plantation, we’ll light out, get the gold, and head for Indian Territory.”

“Taking me along,” Cicero added.

“Of course,” Doc told the black man. “We’re partners. Equal shares and you’ll ride with us out of this heathen land to freedom.” He extended his arm. “And here’s my hand on it, in front of my kin.”

Cicero nodded and clasped Doc’s outstretched hand. Then he returned to the biscuits and bacon, his appetite yet to be appeased.

Behind him, Doc Stark continued to smile warmly, though on closer look, his eyes betrayed him. They glittered with a different hunger. Spanish gold—now, there was a feast a man might live and die for—or kill for. It was all a matter of taste.

T
OAD BRADLEY STOOD ON
the porch of his mother’s Rooms for Ladies and stuck two fingers in a jar of dark brown honey then popped them in his mouth. He was eleven years old, fair-haired and sunburned. He wore woolen knee-length trousers, suspenders, an oversized shirt haphazardly tucked in his waistband. He sucked his fingers clean and pulled them from his mouth with a pop.

“I said she’s gone, mister. And my ma ain’t here, so I can’t get her. But she’d tell you the same thing. Miss Tyrone up and left this morning.” He jammed his fingers in the honey jar, then, as if remembering his manners, removed his hand and tilted the wide-mouth jar toward Jesse McQueen.

“Have some. Autumn honey’s thick as molasses and sweeter. Some folks like the runny kind, when its yellow gold in the spring.” Toad wagged his head. “Not me. Have some. I don’t mind if you’re a Yank. My ma says just ’cause we hate you bluebellies don’t mean we can’t be Christian.”

“No, thank you,” Jesse replied, waving the jar aside. It was after ten o’clock and the city had come to life. A crowd had begun to gather at the First Congregational Church across the street. Jesse had questioned the purpose of such an assembly until he saw the hearse drawn by four black horses pull up to the white picket fence.

Jesse returned his attention to the youth in the doorway, who continued to watch him with interest. Soldiers in the streets and gunboats at the pier—it was all very exciting to the lad.

“Did Miss Ophelia leave word when she might be back?”

Toad pinched his lips and scrunched his brow and thought real hard. Then he shrugged. “I could ask my sister but she probably won’t tell ’cause Mirabelle ain’t said nary a word since she heard Lee Bucklin got hisself killed at Pea Ridge. You want I should fetch her?”

“No.” Jesse handed the boy a couple of pennies for his trouble and stepped down off the porch.

“Thanks, Yankee,” the boy called after him. Jesse didn’t hear. He’d already shifted his attention to Major Peter Abbot, who came galloping toward him past the funeral procession lining the front of the First Congregational Church. Abbot’s frock coat flapped like the wings of a blackbird as he bore down on Bradley’s Rooms for Ladies. The major rode a brown gelding and held the reins of a roan mare, saddled and racing alongside him. The major reined to a halt in a billowing cloud of dust. Jesse fanned his hat before his face to keep the grit out of his eyes.

“C’mon. I’ll explain later. We haven’t a moment to lose,” Abbot said, tossing the reins of the mare into McQueen’s outstretched hands.

Jesse vaulted astride the roan and took off after the departing figure of his friend. Thoughts of a fair, pretty Southern belle vanished at the urgency he heard in Abbot’s voice.

Jesse leaned into the roan, becoming one with the animal’s smooth sleek stride. He had not been born a horseman, but growing up among the Choctaws had bred the skills in him. In a matter of minutes he had caught up to Abbot. Wind rushed past the young lieutenant’s face. The holster at his side slapped his thigh. He felt a rush of adrenaline, his heart pounding in his chest, and sensed that events were already in motion, bearing him into harm’s way.

Colonel Bon Tyrone knelt among the sweet-gum trees and held a spyglass to his right eye. He cut quite a dashing figure in his gray breeches and tunic and knee-high black boots. Upon his head, a cocked-brim gray hat sported a black plume. A .42-caliber LeMat revolver was holstered at his side. The LeMat carried nine shots in its cylinder. Beneath its six-and-a-half-inch barrel, a second shorter barrel held a load of buckshot fired by the same hammer due to its pivoting striker. Boniface Tyrone, Bon to his friends, “the Gray Fox” to his enemies, was a husky, rawboned man of twenty-eight. He stood six feet tall and had auburn hair like his sister, Ophelia. A darker-hued mustache and goatee covered the lower portion of his face. One hazel eye squinted shut while the other peered through the spyglass at the federal soldiers encamped to either side of a winding road that followed the Mississippi Central Railroad line. With the fall of Memphis, no Confederate train would dare venture this far north of Vicksburg. Ten miles outside of Memphis, this troop of federal cavalry had been posted to track the comings and goings of civilians and put a halt to any contraband traffic that might still attempt to cross over into Mississippi. Patrols were a constant threat for any Rebel soldier brave or foolish enough to venture this close to Memphis. Bon figured both words aptly described him … and his bullheaded sister.

“I see the carriage. There is a wagon behind, but Cicero’s not driving the team.” Tyrone shifted his gaze back to his sister, garbed in a pale yellow dress and buttoned black boots.

Sergeant Spider Boudreaux doubled over and sneezed. The noise seemed as loud as a gunshot to Bon Tyrone, and he whirled around and fixed the round-bellied Cajun in place with an exasperated stare.

“Spider!” Tyrone peevishly whispered.

“Sorry,” the sergeant muttered, wiping a forearm across his nose and snorting.

“Don’t be sorry. Be quiet, man,” Bon Tyrone testily replied.

“Hell, Bonnie, if we weren’t all by ourselves, ass-deep in Yankees, a man wouldn’t have to fret about sneezing,” Spider pointedly reminded his commanding officer. His lack of respect for the colonel’s rank did not pass unnoticed by Bon. He’d known Spider Boudreaux for the better part of a year. The Cajun had proved himself relentless in battle, a tireless campaigner. Although they came from different stations in life, war had made them equals, at least when alone. In such moments Boudreaux seldom deferred to Tyrone’s rank.

“And I must add, if you’d only strapped some sense into your sister like I done mine, we wouldn’t be here at all,” Spider added. The Cajun was a heavyset man in his mid-thirties, bald as an eagle. He was brown-bearded, clad in a butternut uniform and short-brimmed cap. His rough, dirt-creased right hand clasped the walnut stock of his .44-caliber Walker Colt. Both men had left their rifled muskets in their saddle scabbards on the mounts they had ground-tethered a few yards to the rear.

“They’ve stopped her. Damn!” Bon drew his own revolver and checked the loads.

“Good lord, Bonnie, you ain’t about to ride down there and take on them Yanks.” Spider Boudreaux turned pale at the notion of charging a whole troop of Yankee cavalry. Yet if that was the case and Bon Tyrone saddled up, the Cajun didn’t intend to let his friend die alone.

“Where’s your breeding, my friend? I was told the French Acadians were men of valor,” Bon muttered.

“It ain’t them bluebellies I’m feard of, but you,” the Cajun said, his feathers ruffled now. “A rich man’s son like you never had to hunt his grub. I cut my teeth on my pa’s long rifle and learned to shoot when I was a boy child, yes.”

“Meaning what?” Tyrone asked, frowning.

“Meaning everyone knows you are the worst shot of all the First Mississippi Volunteers. A man has as good a chance gettin’ hit by your lead ridin’ with you as agin’ you and that’s the gospel fact, I warrant.”

Tyrone colored. Of all the effrontery. The trouble was, he knew the damn Cajun spoke the truth. Brave, shrewd, careful, and daring, these were all qualities of Colonel Bon Tyrone. But in his hands, a revolver was about as useful as a club. Tyrone holstered the LeMat and returned his attention to a trio of blue-clad soldiers who had proceeded to block Ophelia’s carriage while another couple of men proceeded to search the wagon behind her.

“Fool girl. Stubborn girl,” Tyrone said softly, his voice thick with emotion. He glanced at Boudreaux. “Say, I met your sister when she visited Jackson. Biggest woman I ever saw. If anybody got a strapping, it was you.”

Boudreaux scowled and his round cheeks reddened above his scruff beard. He didn’t even try to deny it. Tyrone started to chide him further when a hue and cry sounded from the federals surrounding Ophelia’s carriage. They’d discovered something. Tyrone’s heart sank. His little sister was one step away from a firing squad. And he was damn near powerless to help her.

“You have no business stopping me. These papers are signed by General Sherman himself,” Ophelia protested as the Union private pried open the trunk strapped to the rear of the carriage. The driver of the wagon began to shift nervously on the wagon seat. Joe Dobbs, a clerk from the Delta Hotel, had no desire to sacrifice his life for the Confederate or any other cause. Elmo Dern had instructed the clerk to drive Ophelia Tyrone’s wagon thirty miles down the river road to a point where a locomotive would meet them and load the supplies, carriage, and the daring young sister of Colonel Bon Tyrone onto a freight car bound for Vicksburg. Dobbs was supposed to have returned to Memphis with the wagon. Now the timid little man feared he’d return in irons to await execution. A federal soldier lifted the tarpaulin covering the wagon bed and peered in at what appeared to be a brass bed frame and various boxes and barrels of fruit, salted meats, wine, and toiletries all destined for Major General Earl Van Dorn, compliments of his old comrade at arms, General Sherman. War was one thing, friendship another, and there seemed no reason why the two couldn’t coexist.

But the courtesy between generals was the furthest thing from Ophelia’s mind. Her own situation became more and more precarious with each blow from the stock of the soldier’s musket as he battered the padlock until the catch released. Several of his friends had gathered around to see what treasures might be contained in the trunk.

“You have no right!” Ophelia continued to protest. She snatched up the buggy whip and stepped out of the carriage.

One of the soldiers slapped his sleeve. “The color of this here uniform gives us the right, missy.”

“By heaven, here’s a find,” the first private exclaimed as he stared at twenty-four brown glass bottles of French brandy. He grinned. “Those generals sure are a thirsty bunch.”