The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

prove he could stick through all the rigors Drew had just outlined for him.
    But in any event the boy’s introduction to war was going to be as unromantic as anyone could want, short of being thrown cold and untrained into a major battle. They must be prepared for a bad time until they made it out of the Union lines and south again.
    The night closed down, dark and moonless, with a heaviness in the air which was oppressive. Campbell had to grant men and horses a breathing period. He put out pickets, leaving the rest of them to lie with their mounts saddled and to hand. Drew loosened the girth, stripped off saddle and blanket, and wiped down the sweaty back of his new mount. But he dared not leave the gelding free. So, against all good practice, he re-equipped the tired beast. No mount was going to be able to take that kind of treatment for long. They had a half dozen spare horses, and undoubtedly they could “trade” worn-out mounts for fresh ones along the way. But such ceaseless use was cruel punishment, and no man wanted to inflict it. War was harder on horses than men. At least the men could take their chances and had a fraction of free will in the matter.
    Drew awoke at a tug of his sleeve, flailed out his arm, and struck home. Kirby laughed in the gray dawn.
    “Now that theah, kid, is no way to go ’round wakin’ up a soldier. He may take you for a blue belly as has come crawlin’ into his dreams. It’s all right, amigo—jus’ time to git on the prowl again.”
    Feeling as if he had been beaten, Drew slowly got to his feet. Men were moving, falling into line. And one was arguing with Captain Campbell.
    “It could work, Cap’n,” the trooper urged. “Ain’t a lot of the boys wearin’ Yankee truck they took outta the warehouses? Them what ain’t can act like prisoners. Jus’ say we’re the Eleventh Ohio—they’s stationed near Bardstown and it would seem right, them ridin’ down to take them some prisoners. The old man, he’s got a rich farm and sets a powerful good table. Might even give us a right smart load of provisions into the bargain. It’s worth a try, suh.…”
    “Rennie!” So summoned, Drew reported to their new commander.
    “Know anything about a Thomas McKeever livin’ in this section?”
    Drew’s memory produced a picture of a round-faced, cheerful man who liked to play chess and admired Lucilla’s pickled watermelon rind to the point of begging a crock of it every time he visited Red Springs.
    “Yes, suh. He’s Union—got two sons with Colonel Wolford. Owns a big farm and raises prime mules—”
    “You know him personally?”
    “Yes, suh. He’s a friend of my grandfather; they used to visit back and forth a lot.”
    “Then he’d know you.” Campbell’s fingernails rasped through the stubble on his chin.
    “So Rennie heah could be one of our prisoners, suh. That theah might convince Mistuh McKeever we’s what we say—” the trooper pressed his point.
    “Could be. It’s gospel truth we ain’t goin’ to get far with our bellies flat on our backbones. And it might work. Now, all of you men, listen.…” Campbell explained, gave orders, and put them through a small drill. A dozen men without any Union uniform loot to distinguish them were told to play the role of prisoners; the others exchanged and drew out of saddlebags pieces of blue clothing to make their appearance as the Eleventh Ohio.
    “They ain’t gonna expect too much.” The trooper who had first urged the plan was optimistic. “We can pass as close to militia—”
    “You hope!” Kirby was in the prisoner’s section, and it was plain he did not relish a role which meant that he had to strip himself of weapons. “You—” he fixed his attention on the man to whom he must hand his Colts when the time came—“keep right ’longside, soldier. If I want to get those six-guns, I want ’em fast an’ I want ’em sure—not ’bout ten yards away wheah I can’t git my hands on ’em!”
    Their gnawing hunger drove them all into agreeing to the masquerade. Drew could not recall his last really full meal. Just thinking about food made a warm, sickish taste rise in his mouth. He brought out the hardtack which Boyd had so indignantly rejected the night before, and holding the chunk balanced on his saddle horn, rapped it smartly with the butt of a revolver. It broke raggedly across, and then he was able to crack it again between his fingers.
    “Here—” He held out a two-inch piece to Boyd,