A Dangerous Promise (11 page)

The soldiers chuckled, but one of them asked, "If you're not with the Guard, then what business do you have here at camp?"

Mike was prepared for the question. "I've got a good friend with the Guard, Corey Blair, and before I'm off and away to who knows where, I'd hke to say good-bye to him. Do either of you know Corey?"

The taller man nodded. "I know him, but I'm not sure he's here in Springfield. Scouting details were sent east and north. Corey may have gone with either of them."

"Jiri Logan, as well?"

The soldier glanced at Mike sharply. "My advice is for you to have as little to do with Jiri Logan as possible."

The other man smiled. "Pay no mind to whatever this sour-face tells you. His gambling losses have clouded his mind."

"Logan cheated!"

"It was only your word against his."

"Logan's too blamed clever. I couldn't prove what he'd done."

"Then why get in a card game with him? You might as well throw your pay in the ditch."

As the soldiers argued, Mike thought about the choices before him. There seemed to be thousands of Rebs in the camp. What chance would he have if one of them found him out? But Jiri Logan might be right here under his nose. For Todd's sake, Mike had to get into that camp and retrieve the watch.

Security at the gate was lax, and no one challenged Mike as he limped into the encampment. He kept his eyes open. If Corey or Jiri spotted him, he was as good as dead. Trying not to let his voice betray his pounding heart, Mike began to

ask a few of the soldiers if they knew where he might find Logan.

Most soldiers just shrugged, but one finally directed him to the last row of tents near the north side of the encampment. "Fifth one down, I think, although I doubt he'd be there this time of day."

All the better, Mike thought. Jiri wasn't likely to have the watch, or any other belongings he'd stolen, on his person. They'd be hidden away—maybe in a blanket roll.

The tent area wasn't as busy as the rest of the camp. Mike was alone as he limped down the last row to the fifth tent. Holding his breath, he stopped and listened. There were no sounds coming from inside the tent. Cautiously, he lifted a comer of the fiap that served as a door and peered inside.

Good! It was empty!

Mike slipped from the bright sunshine into the tent, where he saw neat piles of bedrolls and equipment—enough for at least four men.

The watch could well be in one of these knapsacks, Mike thought, bending toward the knapsack on his right. But before he could begin his search, strong arms circled him and roughly jerked him off his feet. Gasping, he sailed through the air and fell with a plop onto the hard-packed dirt outside the tent. Dizzy from pain, Mike grabbed his sore leg and fought the tears that blurred his vision.

Fists at his waist, a red-faced sergeant glared down at Mike and growled, "You're up to no good, I can tell. What are you after in my tent, boy?"

Mike flinched and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "I thought it was Jiri Logan's tent. I'm looking for him."

"Why?"

"Why? Well, uh—to say hello," Mike stammered. "I heard he was here."

"You heard wrong. His battalion left the camp last week for Rolla." The sergeant squinted as he studied Mike from

head to toe. Finally, he said, "Turn out the contents of your knapsack."

His knapsack! The sergeant would discover Mike's Union Army uniform, and he'd be thought a spy. Spies were hanged.

Mike shivered as a chill passed through him. What if he never saw his family again—not even to say good-bye? His resolve to be brave couldn't stop the tears from flooding his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. "I'm not a thief," he insisted.

The sergeant cleared his throat and awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "S-stop that bawling," he said uncomfortably. "Are you a man, or aren't you?"

Well, Mike thought. His tears seemed to be coming in handy. He allowed a few more sobs to escape. "You can see I'm not a man," he said. "I'm not yet thirteen."

As Mike continued to snuffle, the sergeant's gaze shifted nervously from side to side. "No more of that!" he ordered. "Anyone who heard and saw you would think I'd been giving you a beating."

Mike wailed and raised his hands protectively over his head. "Don't hit me!" he cried.

The sergeant took a step back. "Get out of here, you young rapscalhon!" he demanded. "Start running now, and don't stop until you reach Springfield! Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir!" Mike scrambled to his feet and clutched his knapsack tightly, hobbling as fast as he could until he knew the sergeant could no longer see him. After a quick stop to catch his breath and rub his painful leg, Mike passed the sentries at the gate and headed once again for Springfield.

That escape had been much too close. Suppose the uniform had been discovered? As he limped along, Mike went over and over what had happened. He'd taken too much of a chance, entering the tent in broad daylight. He wouldn't make a serious mistake like that again. He also knew that it would be a lot safer not to have a Union Army uniform in his

possession while he was traveling through Confederate-occupied territory.

Mike sighed with frustration. No matter what the danger, he couldn't—he wouldn't —ditch the uniform of which he was so proud. He'd simply have to be more careful. And he'd keep an eye out for Jiri's battalion, wherever it might be stationed between Springfield and RoUa.

As soon as he was well away from the Rebel camp, he left the dusty road and sat in the shade of a tree. There he ate some of the meat and bread Mrs. Ray had packed for him.

When he had finished eating, Mike stretched and looked around. Not far from him, on the other side of the split-rail fence that edged a farmer's property, a young woman was climbing a path leading from a springhouse to the farmhouse and carrying a bucket of water. Sprays of crystal drops splashed over the edge of the bucket as she took a step off balance. Mike licked his lips, imagining the wonderful taste of the sweet chilled water. Just what he needed after eating salty meat on this hot day!

Leaning on the top rail, he called out, "Miss? Could you spare a cup of water?"

The girl stopped and appraised him with unsmiling eyes. He saw then that she was even younger than he first thought. "What are your sympathies—Union or Confederate?" she called back.

Mike tried a pleasant grin. "I'm just asking for a cool drink of water. What difference does it make where my sympathies lie?"

"It matters," she said. "I'd sooner pour this water into the ground than give it to anyone who supported those secessionist bullies who trampled our garden and stole our horses and food!"

With a guilty pang Mike thought of Janie, whose family's stores his own company had taken under the order to forage. "I'm sorry," he said sadly, as much to Janie as to the girl

who stood before him. "I'm not a southern sympathizer, but I won't bother you again."

As he turned and limped toward the road, the girl called, "Wait!" Soon she was beside the fence, a battered tin cup of water cradled in her hands. Unsmiling, she held it out toward Mike.

The sun beat down on his head and shoulders with such force, Mike gladly took the water and gulped it down. "Thanks," he said as he handed back the cup.

"I wish I could offer you food," she said, "but the Rebs have taken everything. Last week a dozen or so broke into our house and demanded that Ma cook them supper. When she tried to explain how little food we had, they began smashing her china." Her eyes reddened as she added, "Her own mother's china. Someday it would have been mine."

"I'm sorry," Mike said. "At least the Union—"

"Union soldiers aren't any better," she said through tightened lips. "When General Lyon first came into Springfield, he sent his bodyguard ahead of him, and they did a thorough job of sacking the town."

Mike was puzzled. "But from what you said earlier, I thought you were against only the Rebs."

"My father's a Union soldier," she answered. Again tears came to her eyes. "But I know Pa would never break into a house and steal things and force the women to cook for him. He'd never do that. He's a good and gentle man."

Mike asked, "Why don't you leave Springfield? Maybe your family could go to a safer place until the war's over."

"This land is all we own," the girl said. "Besides, there's nowhere we could go."

"Don't you have other family—cousins? Aunts and uncles? Grandparents, maybe? Isn't there someone somewhere who could take you in?"

"No," the girl answered. Dangling the cup on one finger, she stepped back from the fence. "I have to get that water into the kitchen. Ma will be wondering where I am."

"Thanks again for the drink," Mike said.

The girl's eyes were dark with sorrow, but her voice was soft and gentle. "Wherever you're off to, may you have a safe journey."

"And may you and your family be safe," Mike answered. Sadly he watched her hoist the heavy bucket before he climbed down to the road and joined the traffic moving into Springfield. With luck he'd find a bam to sleep in for the night and in the morning meet up with someone who'd give him a ride to RoUa and to his company. If Jiri's battalion was still near RoUa, Mike might have a chance of finding him. And then Emily would have something of Todd's that she could always treasure.

Mike thought of how the girl with the water had lost her grandmother's china to a mean, rotten bully. He wouldn't allow the watch meant for Emily to meet the same fate.

Mike was surprised by what he saw in Springfield. Although some of the people who lived there seemed to be going about their business as usual, many of the tidy houses, shaded by trees and bordered by flowers, stood empty; and a number of store windows were boarded up. A smattering of wagons filled with household possessions, their passengers often only women and children, headed in one direction—north from Springfield.

As it grew dark, Mike passed a trim two-story house whose front door hung open. He walked up the steps and entered, calling loudly, but no one answered.

He closed the door and looked around. There were a few candles still in their holders, and most of the furniture was in place, but the house looked bare, as though the people who had lived in it had stripped it of photographs and family treasures and loving memories, carrying them away as they fied.

Mike walked through all the rooms, upstairs and down,

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just to make sure he was alone in the house. Relaxing as he felt more secure, he closed the heavy window drapes, lit the candles, and ate more of the food Mrs. Ray had given him. When he finished eating, Mike wrapped up the remainder, knowing it would be scant fare for tomorrow's journey, and replaced it in his knapsack, which he leaned against a small table that stood under a window.

Mike reminded himself that upstairs he could have his choice of comfortable beds. He lit a candle and made his way up the stairs and into the largest bedroom, in which earlier he'd spotted a huge tester bed with a thick feather mattress. Snuffing out the candle, he threw himself into the bed facedown and sighed with pleasure.

He awoke to the sound of glass smashing against a wall, and a man's angry shout, "Somebody took away all the valuables!"

Another man belched loudly and laughed. "You've got more than you can carry already. Are you going to take 'em into battle with you?"

Soldiers? Mike tiptoed to the top of the stairs, looked down, and saw a whole group of Rebs—four? Five? And they were all very drunk.

One soldier gave a nasty chuckle and said, "Angle's foimd a good place to peddle what he collects. Treat him right, and maybe he'll share what he knows with you."

Another belch, another mumble—Mike couldn't make it out—before the soldier said, "All I want now is a soft bed."

A long shadow leapt up the stairs, and Mike jumped back. As quietly as he could, he raised the bedroom window in search of an escape route.

What good luck! Branches of a large tree swept against the roof of the house. Mike swimg his legs over the window-sill and balanced easily on the roof as he lowered the window. As candlelight suddenly flooded the doorway of the bedroom, Mike flattened himself to the side of the casement and peered cautiously through the window. A squat, bulky

man stumbled to the dresser, barely managing to place his candle on it before he fell across the bed.

Right where I was sleeping! Mike thought with a shiver.

Mike followed the nearest and sturdiest branch to the trunk of the tree and climbed halfway to the ground before a horrible thought struck him: My knapsack! It's in the parlor!

He reached the last branch and dropped silently to the ground, grinding his teeth as pain seared his leg. Stopping only to try to rub the pain away, Mike crept cautiously to the nearest parlor window. If he remembered correctly, his knapsack was directly under this window.

Slowly, Mike raised the sash barely an inch—just high enough to reach in with one finger. He pushed the drapes apart, creating a peephole. Mike examined the room, inch by inch, finally reassuring himself that the room was empty.

Mike shoved again at the wooden window frame. Good! The sash slid up silently and easily. Pausing only for another careful look around, Mike hoisted himself onto the window-sill and pushed the table below to one side.

As the table legs squeaked across the polished fioor, Mike froze, listening, waiting, but the house remained silent. He dropped noiselessly to the fioor and scooped up his knapsack with a sigh of relief, slipping his arms into the straps.

Mike grasped the window frame, ready to jump outside, when a deep voice behind him growled, "Stay where you are, and turn around!"

His heart hammering, Mike turned and saw a Confederate soldier pointing a musket in his direction. Mike shouted, "Don't shoot! The silver's hidden in the attic!"

Later, Mike thought about the expressions of surprise and greed that swept over the Reb's face, but at the moment he had time only to think of his escape. He leapt up and dove headfirst through the open window, as musket fire splintered the window frame next to his head.

Scrambling like a four-footed animal, Mike reached the protection of a high hedge that bordered the yard. No one followed him. No one even came to the window. He grinned as he thought of the rowdy drunken procession of soldiers climbing to the attic, searching and searching for something that wasn't there. Judging from the look of the house, any silver owned by the people who had fled from Springfield had gone with them.

Mike ducked through the hedge and into the yard behind the house to the next street, limping and stumbling in an imeven jog-trot until he was out of the town itself and into the rural countryside.

At most of the darkened farmhouses dogs barked a warning, and Mike plodded on; but finally he arrived at a house with a bam not too far from the road, where only silence greeted him. Ready at any sign of danger to turn tail and run or flatten himself in the tall grass, Mike cautiously climbed over the split-rail fence and walked through the pasture toward the bam.

The small bam door opened easily, and Mike—breathing in the familiar pungent odors of animal sweat, urine, and hay—felt his way along the stalls to a ladder. As horses snuffled and snorted and a few chickens sleepily scolded whoever had interrupted their sleep, Mike spoke to them soothingly and softly. He climbed to a loft and lay in the loose hay, tucking his knapsack under his head as his pillow.