What Jed Harker advised was that they headed off the track they were on and turned a little to the east. This would take them into a range of low hills, where they might not be so prominently exposed as was the case on the plain across which they were currently making their way. Abigail Tyler, for all her show of being well able to take care of herself, was secretly pleased that Harker seemed to know what he was about and was content to allow him to direct their course; at least for the time being. So it was, that within an hour of parting company with the cavalry; the ox-cart and the little body of people accompanying it were out of sight of the track and making their way across the course, sparse grass which covered the hills. It was easy enough to wend their way along the broad, shallow valleys which separated the hills. It would have been pointlessly trying to traverse a straight line, over the hills and then down to the valleys; to say nothing of such a course of action being likely to see them silhouetted periodically on the sky-line. Harker’s chief aim at the moment was to pass as quietly through the Indian Nations as could be, without drawing any attention to themselves.
Pompey had taken to clinging to Jed Harker’s side like a cockle-burr. The news that Harker had been a soldier had cemented the esteem in which he held Harker and unless his mother called him away and told him not to bother the man, it seemed that all young Pompey wished to do was march along as close as could be to the man who had now evidently become some kind of hero in his eyes. Noticing this, Abigail waited until Pompey’s mother had called him away on some errand and then hauled herself up onto wagon and seated herself next to Harker; who was trying to get a little more speed out of the two sullen beats who were hauling the cart along. She said, ‘Well, looks like you got two admirers now. First the mother and now the son. Why, you’ve a ready-made family there, if only you were wanting to settle down when we get to Kansas.’
Harker shot her a disapproving look and said, ‘The boy, he’s of an age when he needs a man to look up to. I ain’t what you’d call the right pattern, but we’ll have to hope that Miss Jemima there, she picks up with somebody suitable.’
‘You’re as delicate as woman with the way you talk and all. Anybody ever tell you so?’
‘No,’ said Harker equably, ‘I don’t recollect that anybody did.’
‘You’re that sensitive about being polite and doing the right thing and such.’
‘Is that a bad thing?’
‘No, just uncommon in a man, is all.’
Before heading off the track, Harker and Abigail Tyler had broken out one of her guns and loaded the drum which fed the ammunition to the breech fully with cartridges. Harker felt a little uneasy about leaving such a fearsome weapon untended in the wagon, but short of riding along with the thing cradled in his arms, he didn’t very well see that he had another choice.
Every so often, Harker would invite Jemima and her son to take his place and steer the wagon. For all that he was bothered, he would have been quite content to let them sit up there, perched on the buckboard, the whole time; while he strode along at his own pace. The problem was that the two of the two of them were nowhere near as adept as him at keeping the oxen moving and as soon as he got down, the lazy creatures seemed to sense that they could slow down to an absolute crawl and that they had nothing to fear from the whip.
At about midday, Harker began to think about what they would do for vittles that day. There was the loaf of bread that Abbot had sold them and other than that, just water. There was no shortage of water, because every so often they came across little rivulets and streams which crisscrossed the area they were travelling; draining rain from the surrounding hills. He and Abigail Tyler were walking along now, leaving the wagon to the others. Harker said, ‘Well, I reckon as I ought to think about providing some food, otherwise we’re like to starve, never mind getting shot in a war or scalped by Indians.’
‘What’ll you do?’
‘Shoot something, I reckon, though I’ve no idea what. Jackrabbit, maybe’
After instructing Jemima and Pompey to keep the ox-cart rumbling on as best they could, Harker slung the carbine which he had borrowed from Abigail Tyler over his shoulder and set off at a loping run to the crest of the nearest hill. He’d little apprehension of being left behind; not at the pace that the mother and daughter were managing to keep those oxen moving.
At a pinch, Harker was thinking that he might be able to bring down a bird, although he’d rather a scattergun than a military rifle for such a purpose, but what he really wanted was a buck or a rabbit or something which he could be tolerable sure of hitting with a single ball.
As he drew out of earshot of the wagon, and would in the normal way of things have expected to hear nothing other than the rustling of the wind in the grass and occasional birdsong, Harker gradually became aware of a background of sound; one which set his nerves taut and made him wonder of the best course of action might not be for him to race straight back to the others. At first, he couldn’t rightly make out what he was listening to; other than that it evoked buried memories and made him alert for danger. It was nothing much, really. The creak of harness, little grunts from men and whinnies from horses. The noise all seemed to be coming from beyond a hill; away over to his right. This was crowned with a spinney of stunted trees, which had not yet any leaves on them. They would provide a little cover though, were he to creep up and have a peep over the brow of the hill and see what was what. He accordingly walked up the little rise aways and then crawled to the top; so as not to make himself prominent against the sky for anybody in the valley below. It was only just as he reached the clump of trees that he suddenly recollected what the sounds which he heard put him in mind of; an army camp being established in debatable territory, with a minimum of noise and fuss. It came therefore as no surprise when Harker finally peered over the crest of the high ground and spied fifty men or more, setting up tents and hauling three field guns into position.
At first, Jed Harker thought that he might be watching another detachment of federal forces setting up a base, but that was before he noticed something exceedingly curious. The soldiers he was observing were wearing not the standard-issue blue tunics, such as the cavalry he had encountered earlier had been clad in, but rather grey coats and jackets. It looked for all the word as though these men were sporting an altogether new uniform; one which had been designed to set them apart from the usual armed forces of the United States. He was turning this over in is mind and trying to decide what it might mean, when there was a sharp, metallic click a few inches behind his head and a heavily accented voice said softly, ‘And now you die, you bastard!’
Harker was laying on his belly, which meant of course that he was also laying on his pistol; which was as usual tucked casually in his belt and was now squashed beneath him. He would not be able to reach it in a hurry and that click he had heard suggested very strongly that the man at his back had already cocked his piece. If only he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the camp below, then Harker might have heard this fellow tiptoeing up behind him. He said, ‘What say I turn around and face you, so’s we can talk like men, face to face.’
‘Do that and you’re dead.’ said the other man. It wasn’t proclaimed in an angry or threatening fashion, but in a low, matter-of-fact way that made it all the more chilling. Harker had not the slightest doubt that if he attempted to turn round, he would find a ball flying through the back of his head immediately. The man continued, ‘I’m guessing you have a pistol in front, is it not so?’
The ‘S’s were more like ‘Z’s, so that ‘so’ came out as ‘zo’. It was this which revealed his antagonist’s identity to Harker and he said, ‘That would be you Chappe, am I right?’ For answer, he received a crushing blow to the back of his head, delivered with such ferocity, that Harker honestly thought for a moment that it might have broken open his skull, allowing his brains to leak out. While he was all but unconscious, the man who had just reversed his carbine and dealt Jed Harker such a savage crack to his head, reached under the dazed man’s body and removed the pistol from his belt.
‘You best call me Mister Chappe,’ said Claude Chappe, emphasising the point by jabbing Harker in the back of his head again. ‘Get up. But slowly, slowly if you set any value upon your miserable life.’
There didn’t seem anything to do for now, other than follow the little Creole’s instructions to the letter. After all, from all that Harker could see, the other man held all the cards; at least for this hand. He stood up, feeling giddy and sick from the blow to his head and said, ‘You’re a brave one, I don’t think. Striking a man from behind.’
‘Shut up and walk very slowly down into our camp.’
‘You want to hand me back my pistol and we’ll settle this man to man?’
It was plain that the idea appealed to Chappe, because he did not speak for a few seconds. Then there came a shout from below; the two of them had been spotted. The moment passed and Chappe said, ‘Just walk down very, very slow.’
The arrival of Chappe with his prisoner caused some little interest among the men who were erecting the tents and generally preparing the area for some martial activity. Harker cast a practiced eye over the field guns and saw that they were six pounders, which he was familiar enough with from the Mexican war. He was surprised; he knew that there was more up-to-date artillery than that about. Why were these people using 1841 model weapons? He did not let it be seen that he had any interest in the disposition of the weaponry here; he’d an idea that that might not be too good for his future health. Instead, he put a bland and slightly dull-witted expression on his face and racked his brains frantically for a good explanation for what he might be doing out here in the wild.
Harker was marched to an officer who, he was intrigued to note, was a full colonel. Not militia either, but regular army by what he could make out. The colonel said to Chappe, ‘What’s to do? Found a Yankee spy, hey?’ His tone of voice was light and suggested to Harker that he did not take his presence there too seriously. Never the less, he thought it expedient to make a great show of his protestations. ‘Spy?’ he exclaimed indignantly, ‘I ain’t no spy! What in the blazes is going on here?’
‘Well now,’ said the officer, ‘As to that, I reckon it’s for you to explain yourself. What was this man about when you took him, Chappe?’
‘He was laying on his belly like a snake and watching the camp.’
‘Well sir?’ said the colonel, turning to Harker, ‘What do you say to that?’
Harker shrugged contemptuously. ‘I say it’s a lot of hogwash. I had a run-in with this fellow, back in Lovett. Some friends of his stole my horse and so I’m making my way to Kansas on foot. There’s no more to the case than that.’
‘He’s an abolitionist,’ said Chappe angrily, ‘He took my boy and set him free. Ask to deny it.’
The colonel held up his hand and said, ‘We don’t have time for this. Strikes me as you two have some private quarrel. I’ve bigger fish to fry here. What’s your name?’
‘Harker. Jed Harker.’
‘Well Mr Harker, I regret to say that I shall have to detain you here for a spell, but no harm will befall you. You must consider yourself a prisoner of war. As soon as we have executed our plans, I promise you’ll be freed. You’re not the first man to cross swords with Monsieur Chappe here and I doubt you’ll be the last. I must have you handcuffed to a wagon or something, until we finish and can eat. Forgive the inconvenience.’ He gave an order to the sergeant standing beside him and the man went off; returning a minute later with a pair of bright, steel cuffs.
All considered, things could have been a good deal worse. If he could avoid having his throat cut in the night by the Frenchman, then Harker thought that the colonel seemed like an honourable man, who would be likely to keep his word. He nodded and then went off with Claude Chappe, who was glaring at him venomously. When they reached the nearest cannon, Chappe halted and began trying to force Harker’s arms up behind his back, so that he could be secured in the most uncomfortable manner possible. One of the men in grey tunics saw what was going on and came over, saying, ‘There’s no need for such. If this man’s to stay with us for a stretch, we don’t need to torture him as well. He pushed Chappe out of the way and winked at Harker. The soldier secured only one of Harker’s wrists to the field gun and said, ‘There, you won’t be going anywhere for a while. Not ‘til we’ve done what’s needful, anyway.’
After the man went off, Chappe stood for a space, staring balefully at Harker. It was pretty clear that if the Creole had anything to do with it, then Harker would not be leaving the camp alive.
Once he had been left alone, Harker began thinking furiously about what might chance, assuming that he was unable to break free of the place. He felt that for his own part, there was a passing fair chance of his making it out of this present fix alive and in one peace. Nobody there, other than Chappe, seemed to be all that ill-disposed towards him and if he could just evade that man’s vengeance, then he suspected that he would indeed be freed as soon as these southrons had conducted whatever business it was they had in the area. For after listening to the people here, Harker was sure that every single one of these men came from the south. The colonel’s accent was pure Virginia and the rest of them sounded as though they came from Georgia, Tennessee and so on. Whatever enterprise these men were engaged upon, it was obviously part and parcel of the same set of circumstances which had sent that troop of cavalry racing south.
Taking care of his own self was one thing; Harker was tolerably confident about that. His anxieties centred in the first instance though upon Jemima and her children. It would be little short of a tragedy for them if they were snatched back into captivity, just when they were so very nearly free of the toils. Why, it wasn’t to be thought of! Then too, there was the matter of Abigail Tyler’s revolutionary weapon. If that fell into the hands of these people, then it would most likely be spirited away to some manufactory in the south and reproduced in huge numbers. If the war everybody had been expecting had really begun, then that gun would practically assure the rebels of victory.
Without making a great production of it, Jed Harker began to examine the bonds which held him. The steel shackle would prove impossible to break; he could see that at a glance. It was a standard-issue thing which the army used when restraining an awkward or dangerous prisoner. The thing was designed to hold both wrists, but only Harker’s left hand was held. The other shackle was locked to a ring on the trail. Surreptitiously, he gave a tug on the metal ring, but it was fixed securely. Glancing down casually though, told Harker that the thing was only held onto the wooden spar of the trail by four ordinary screws. He had no screwdriver, but if he could contrive to use something or other, then getting free might not prove all that tricky.
While Harker was turning the matter over in his mind, a grey-coated soldier came up and offered him a mess-tin; filled with an unappetising and stodgy mound of potatoes and vegetables. Unattractive though the food looked, Harker suddenly realised how hungry he was. The man said, ‘Compliments of the colonel.’
‘What have I got myself into here?’ asked Harker, as he took the proffered food and set it on the ground. It wasn’t until you were deprived of the use of one hand, that you found out just how much you depended upon both hands even for so basic and uncomplicated activity as eating.
‘We’s aheadin’ north.’ Said the man in a friendly enough way, ‘Fighting’s begun down in Charleston and so we’s making sure as this border’s secure.’
This boy couldn’t have been above nineteen years of age and from the way he spoke, Harker guessed that he was just a farmer’s son. He said, ‘Mind if I ask your regiment?’ Seeing the guarded and suspicious look which came into the fellow’s eyes when he asked this question, he hastily followed it by saying, ‘I ask because I used to belong to a regiment down south, some years back. The Third Kentucky Horse.’
The boys eyes lit up at this information and he exclaimed happily, ‘Why, you don’t say so? My pa, he was in the Kentucky Horse. Happen you knew him? Name of Carter, Nathanial Carter.’
‘I don’t recollect the name, but then he was most like a little before my time. I was in the Mexican war.’
‘You ain’t a southerner though, are you?’
‘No, it’s by way of being a long story. So you folk are heading north? You going right up to Kansas?’
The young man scratched his head and said slowly, ‘Well, they don’t tell us all that they plan, but yeah, I reckon that’s about the strength of it.’
The afternoon dragged on, with nobody taking any particular notice of the prisoner secured to the field gun. There was drilling, latrines were dug, fires built and the usual activity which one would expect to see in a temporary camp of this sort. Harker watched what was going on with the practiced eye of a former soldier. The piece of ordnance to which he was shackled had been set up about fifty yards from the tents and so he was a little out of the way and could not hear much of what was said by the men in the encampment. A couple of times, Claude Chappe wandered up and, without saying a word, drew his finger across his throat; as though cutting it. By which, Jed Harker understood pretty well that as soon as he had the opportunity, the Creole mean to murder him.
At dusk, some more food and water were brought to the prisoner and after that, he was seemingly forgotten about. It was a chilly night and the soldiers were huddled around camp fires. A crescent moon, combined with a cloudy and overcast sky meant that the darkness was complete. Harker listened carefully, for he fully expected Chappe to sneak up and slit his throat in the dark and he was not intending to be taken unawares. So it was that when he heard stealthy sounds, suggestive of somebody creeping slowly towards him, he turned to face the danger and resolved that if it was the Frenchman, then he would sell his life dearly. It was an enormous shock, although also a great relief, when he heard Pompey’s husky voice whispering, ‘You awake, Jed?’
‘Lord almighty boy,’ he replied softly, ‘What in the hell are you doing here? I’d hoped that you and your ma would o’ set a good way from this place by now.’
‘We wouldn’t leave you here, sir,’ said the boy reproachfully, ‘Neither me nor ma would hear on it.’
Jed Harker’s brain had begun to work furiously, as soon as he realised that he had an ally near at hand. He said, ‘it’s surely a forlorn hope, but you wouldn’t happen to have such an article as a screwdriver on you, I suppose?’
‘Got my pocket-knife. That have a blade with a flat head.’
‘Could I have it, d’you think?’
‘Sure can.’ Pompey reached into his pocket and then crawled closer to the gun and handed it over to Harker. It was too dark for either of them to see anything other than the faintest silhouette, but Jed Harker smiled warmly. He located the screws by feeling with his fingertips and then proceeded to undo them, freeing the metal ring, to which he was attached, from the trail of the field-gun. Having done this, Harker closed the flat-headed blade and, again working by touch alone, opened the largest blade; which he tested with his finger. It was, as far as he could tell, razor-sharp.
It was a relief to be able to stand up freely, even if the chunk of metal around his left wrist was something of an encumbrance. Taking Pompey’s arm, he guided the boy in the direction that he thought they should be moving; which was to say, away from the camp. The less talking they did, the better. There had been no warning shouts from any of the men seated around the various campfires which twinkled in the shallow valley between the hills. It was Harker’s feeling that they had forgotten all about him and most likely would not be overly distressed were he to make off.
One person though had not forgotten about Jed Harker, for as he and Pompey made their way up the gentle slope leading to the crown of trees at the top, a dark shadow reared up, from where it had been laying and most likely observing them. At that moment, the clouds parted and the feeble light of the moon shone through. Harker and the boy found themselves face to face with Claude Chappe; who had in his hand a pistol.
Another Basil Brush ending to a chapter Simon. Boom boom!
Suspenseful!