Green? Did they have green paper then?
Or wire-bound notebooks?
DOES IT MATTER?
Move to reopen contact. We don’t have much time.
He’s blocking channel one.
Trying two …
12
“EARLY LETTER TO SANTY Claus?” asked Clarence, peering over Jake’s shoulder. “Would you like me to run it to the mailbox?”
No time to waste. Don’t talk.
Jake scribbled as fast as he could, letting the two men look on.
He drew a map — the pass, the mountains, the village. He drew the enemy position, closing in.
And he drew the battle plan — a series of arrows and a brief explanation underneath.
The picture was crude, but the words would explain everything.
Military Tactics for Beginners. I can’t believe they haven’t thought of this themselves.
“It’s a map,” Jamie whispered.
“Well, I’ll be …” Clarence murmured.
“They was right,” Jamie said.
Now both men were backing away toward the cell door.
Jake glanced up. “Who was right?”
“You’re the one,” Jamie said. “You’re the — ”
Clarence began banging on the cell bars, shouting at the top of his lungs. “Hey! GUARD! RADEMACHER!”
Rademacher stormed in. “Shut your mouth ’fore I — ”
“He’s the spy!” Clarence said, pointing at Jake. “It ain’t us! He’s making plans for the Rebels! We caught him!”
“What are you talking about?” Jake said. “Didn’t you read the explana — ?”
Jake cut himself off. The two men were staring at him, their eyes fearful, hopeful, and vacant.
No.
They didn’t read it.
They can’t read.
Of course. It was the 1860s. Not everybody was literate. Not everybody went to school.
“I can explain!” Jake said.
“I’m sure you can.” Rademacher was grinning. “What’s on that itty-bitty piece of paper you’re holding?”
“A battle plan — for us! I know how we can win — ”
Fool.
Don’t give it away.
Not to him.
You can’t trust him.
Jake held the paper behind his back. “I demand to see Colonel Weymouth at once!”
“Funny, I thought I was the one who made demands around here.” With one swift move, Rademacher reached between the cell bars and grabbed the paper from Jake’s hand.
“NO!”
Rademacher made a big show of reading the map — scratching his chin, tapping his jaw. “Hmm, looks mighty interesting. Why, I’ll be sure to give it to him myself. Y’all behave while I’m gone, Southern boy, hear?”
With a sneer, he folded the map and left the cabin.
Jake slumped against the wall, glaring at Clarence. “You ruined it. You destroyed our chances.”
“Sorry, kid,” Clarence said. “It’s a war. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”
Suddenly new memories were bubbling up. Stuff he’d read long ago about the Battle of Dead Man’s Trace.
This is how they lost.
The Rebels knew the Union Army’s every move. They anticipated the counterstrategies. Their spies infiltrated the ranks.
They blew the Federals to smithereens.
I could have stopped it. But I didn’t.
I gave it away.
He gazed out the window. At the encampment.
No. Not the encampment anymore. The battlefield.
The killing field.
Rademacher was running, hunched down, eyes peeled, the green paper still in his right hand.
Near Colonel Weymouth’s tent, he ducked behind a fortification of sandbags. He was scanning the note now, reading it. Orvis was limping past him, his arms full of first-aid supplies.
Suddenly Rademacher grabbed Orvis by the arm and shouted something that Jake couldn’t hear. Both men looked toward the prison.
Jake ducked. Instinctively.
When he rose again, Orvis was gone. The supplies were in a pile.
And Rademacher was racing into Colonel Weymouth’s tent. With the note.
He’s giving it to Weymouth.
Which meant he wasn’t the spy.
Which meant there was a chance of victory.
“Everybody! Out!” Orvis’s voice, high-pitched and hysterical, rang through the cabin. “All men to fight! Corporal Rademacher say we needing all we have!”
“YEEEE-HAH!” Jamie hollered.
Yes.
Finally.
Jake’s hands clenched. His throat constricted.
No retreating now, the way we did at Hobson’s Corner.
This would be different.
This would be revenge.
This would be real.
Orvis fumbled with a set of keys, then inserted one into the cell door and turned.
Clarence abruptly kicked open the door. “Come on, Jamie!”
With a cry of surprise, Orvis flew across the room, slamming into the wall.
Jake ran to help him. “Are you okay?”
“Orvis not spy!” Orvis blurted out. “What Orvis tell you — South-North not matter — not means Orvis Rebel. Just needing job — ”
“Don’t worry!” Jake locked his arms around Orvis’s shoulders and helped him outside. “We’re even! I’m not a spy, either — ”
“Orvis knows this. Rademacher tells. He says you smarter than you look. NO, NOT GO THIS WAY. TO LEFT!”
Orvis yanked Jake to the left. Pulled him to the ground.
BLAAAAAAAM!
The ground erupted just to their right.
Clods of dirt rained around them. Jake rolled away and looked up.
Orvis was fine. But a crater had opened in the soil exactly where they’d been headed.
That could have been us.
Jake was shaking. The sound of the blast rang in his ears. H-h-how did you know?”
“I — I —” Orvis just shrugged.
“YEEEAAAAAAAGHHHH!”
A soldier was running toward Jake now, weaving. Shrieking.
The cook.
His eyes were wide, his head back. Blood dripped from a stump where his hand once was. It spurted as he pointed to Jake and Orvis. Then his face suddenly calmed and he began laughing uncontrollably.
“Down!” Orvis shouted. “He got the crazies! He — “
CRRRRRACK!
The cook’s body lurched off the ground. He fell, staring at Jake, trying to utter a sound. Then his eyes rolled back into his head.
“NO-O-O-O-O!”
Real that was real it couldn’t have been a fake, the stump HOW DO YOU FAKE A STUMP? He’s dead dead dead
Orvis was pulling Jake now. “Come!” he shouted. “Away from open fire!”
Suddenly Jake felt himself lifted off his feet. From behind.
“You!” Sergeant Edmonds yelled. “Say your prayers, ’cause you’re a dead man.”
“DEAD, THE COOK IS DEAD I SAW HIM — ”
“I SHOULD THROW YOU TO YOUR OWN MEN!” Edmonds shouted. “YOU BETRAYED SAMUELSON. YOU GAVE UP THE CAMP — “
BLAAMMM!
Jake hurtled toward a long mortar-and-stone wall. He fell and rolled, with Edmonds and Orvis beside him. A line of soldiers was firing at the ridge, nestling their muskets between the stones.
Get away, you DON’T belong here, it’s NOT better, it STINKS, go home go home NOW
Jake stood up.
CRRRACKKK!
“GET DOWN! ARE YOU NUTS?” Sergeant Edmonds bellowed.
Yes. Yes, THATS EXACTLY WHAT I AM—
“I — I have to go!” Jake said.
Edmonds shoved a musket in his hands. “TAKE THIS AND USE IT, OR GIVE IT TO ME AND I’LL SHOOT YOU RIGHT NOW!”
NO. NO!
“SERGEANT, I’M ONLY FOURTEEN — “
“Sergeant…”
Samuelson??
?s voice.
Samuelson?
“You fool!” Edmonds shouted. “What are you doing out of the cabin?”
Samuelson crawled toward them, smiling weakly. “I heard you needed all the help you could get.”
“There he is,” Edmonds said, gesturing to Jake. “Judas. Kill him.”
“S-s-sergeant, this is a big mistake,” Jake stammered.
“He didn’t betray me,” Samuelson said. “He saved my life.”
BOOOOM!
Stones and soil flew upward. Fifty yards away, a gap opened in the wall.
Closer, it’s getting closer, the next one’ll be here, time out, can we call a time-out —
“SHOOT, BRANFORD!”
Edmonds shoved Jake on his stomach. Propped the musket in a gap between the stones.
Jake looked through the sight. At a line of Rebels on the ridge.
Like my journal. Like the gray line I mowed down and it felt so good, so CLEAN and so EASY and here I am looking at them and they want to kill me.
One of the Rebels was aiming at him.
The trigger.
SQUEEZE THE TRIGGER!
KA-BLAM!
“AAAAAAAAAGH!” Jake recoiled.
A body was falling. Over the ridge. Screaming. Leaving a trail of bright red.
Did I do that?
I did.
I KILLED HIM.
It didn’t feel good. Not at all. Jake wanted to throw up. The ground was whirling …
“I got him for you,” Samuelson said. “You have to pull the trigger harder, son.”
Suddenly Edmonds bellowed, “Cover the colonel!”
Steady.
Stay alive, Jake.
Breathe deep. See this through.
Jake glanced toward Colonel Weymouth’s tent.
A squadron emerged. In formation. A V-shape like a flock of geese, with one man at the front and the others fanning out in back.
Briskly they walked forward, their muskets trained on the enemy, bursts of smoke puffing up with each shot fired.
In the midst of the formation, huddled together, were Colonel Weymouth and Mrs. Stoughton.
“What are they doing?” Jake asked.
“Weymouth insisted!” Edmonds shouted. “He wants to save her, at all costs. Now. In case they surround us. In case we’re slaughtered. He thinks they won’t fire on a woman — “
“He crazy!” Orvis said.
“He figures she can escape through the ravine while we focus fire on the rebels.” Edmonds replied.
“What? He’s using the men as a shield!” Jake said.
Edmonds didn’t answer. But his eyes were a soldier’s: they said I obey; I don’t question.
The formation was moving. Slowly. Toward the woods.
This is the dumbest thing I have ever seen.
Union shots echoed. Rebel bodies fell from the ridge.
But the men in the formation were untouched. Unfired upon. All of them.
Jake stared in total disbelief.
Then a sudden, unexpected motion. Mrs. Stoughton, stumbling over her dress.
Colonel Weymouth pulled her arm. Hard.
She lunged forward and fell. Her purse fell to the ground, spilling its contents.
Jake’s eyes fixed on one item.
A green piece of paper.
Quickly Weymouth stooped over. He picked up the paper.
For a moment he was exposed. An easy target.
But not one shot was fired near him.
Weymouth quickly stuffed the paper back into Mrs. Stoughton’s purse. And he fell into position again, protected by the V.
It can’t be.
They’re leaving the camp.
With the plan.
But why?
Where would she be taking it?
The answer hit Jake over the head.
Hard.
“She — she — ” Jake swallowed hard. “SHE HAS IT! SHE HAS THE PLAN!”
“What plan?” Edmonds shot back.
“Colonel Weymouth — didn’t he tell — Rademacher knows about it!”
“Rademacher’s dead! Someone shot him. In Weymouth’s tent.”
“What?”
“Sniper. The bullet must have gone right through the tent.”
No. That wasn’t it. The killer was inside.
“Who else was in there with him?” Jake asked.
“Just Colonel Weymouth and Mrs. Stoughton.”
Jake glanced back at the woods.
The men had reached the tree line. In moments they’d be out of sight.
He’s getting away with it.
The boy is on his own.
13
“STOP THEM!” JAKE SHOUTED as loud as he could. “THEYRE THE SPIES! COLONEL WEYMOUTH AND MRS. STOUGHTON!”
“Whaaaat?” Samuelson said.
“That’s treason!” Edmonds shot back.
Pull it together, Jake.
Make sense.
“Listen to me!” Jake persisted. “The Rebels have gone around us. They’re squeezing us from two sides. I have a plan. We fight them off during the day and spread into the mountain passes at night. We counterattack. I wrote it all out. Rademacher took the plan to Colonel Weymouth. Then — BAM — he’s killed mysteriously and Mrs. Stoughton is carrying the plan with her into the woods. And the Rebels aren’t shooting at them. Put two and two together!”
“By god, it makes some kind of crazy sense,” Samuelson said.
Edmonds’s angry expression slackened.
“You have to believe me!” Jake insisted. “We can’t let them go!”
“Colonel Weymouth?” muttered Edmonds, shaking his head. “Of all people, I never thought — ”
“What do we do?” Samuelson asked.
“Follow them — now,” Jake insisted. “The Rebels won’t dare shoot at us for fear of killing the spies.”
Edmonds glanced out to the moving V. “But once those men get into the woods …”
“Weymouth’ll lead them into a trap,” Jake said. “Somewhere.”
Edmonds sprang upward and leaped over the stone wall. “ABANDON YOUR POSTS! FOLLOW THEM!”
“Jake, you’re a genius!” Samuelson said, leaping up.
“What are you doing?” Jake said. “You were shot!”
“Never felt better!” Samuelson grabbed Jake by the arm.
The two of them ran after Edmonds.
A shot rang out. The ground erupted inches in front of them.
The open field.
Suicide.
THINK.
DON’T DIE.
Take cover along the way. Anywhere.
Jake made a break for the supply cabin. “Come on!” he called over his shoulder.
“NO! NOT THERE!”
Samuelson grabbed Jake from behind, flung him to the ground, and dove on top of him.
BOOOOOM!
The cabin erupted in a ball of fire.
Jake scrambled away, staring aghast at the flames.
He hadn’t seen the cannonball.
Thank god Samuelson did.
“Come on!” Samuelson was yanking him upward.
He ran toward the V formation. Jake followed close behind.
Open field again.
“Go exactly where I go!” Samuelson cried out.
Jake didn’t question.
Zig left.
Clods of dirt shot up from the ground to the right.
Zag right.
To their left, bullets shredded an empty tent.
My flesh, that could have been my chest, my arm, my face—
Some of Edmonds’s men were charging forward, running flat out, on foot and on horses, pausing only to shoot toward the ridge.
Where are the rest of them?
Jake glanced over his shoulder. Toward the stone wall.
There they were. Mutineers. Doubters.
WHAAAAAAM!
The wall burst upward in a sudden geyser of rock, dirt, and smoke.
No.
Jake’s heart
skipped.
Dead.
All of them.
I would have been, too. And Samuelson. And Sergeant Edmonds.
If I hadn’t convinced them.
“MOVE, BRANFORD!” Edmonds shouted.
Jake turned toward the woods.
Just ahead of them now, the last of Weymouth’s V formation was climbing the hill.
Edmonds fired into the air. “Stop there!” he yelled.
Weymouth’s men turned, muskets at the ready.
Expecting Rebels.
Their faces registered surprise. Disbelief.
Weymouth locked eyes with Edmonds.
“THE COLONEL IS A TRAITOR!” Edmonds announced.
Weymouth’s face turned crimson. His upper lip curled back in anger. “Shoot to kill!” he commanded.
His soldiers gripped their guns. But no one fired.
“SHOOT, I SAY!” Weymouth roared.
Crrrack!
A flash of light.
The man to Jake’s left vaulted off the ground. He fell in a motionless heap, his chest a red, wet mass of shredded material.
Oh no oh no no no NO NO
“GET DOWN!” Edmonds yelled.
Hide.
Jake dived. Rolled behind a tree. Curled up.
CRRRACK!
A body thumped to the ground beside him. Writhing. Kicking. Shrieking.
Edmonds.
“SERGEA-A-A-NT!” Jake cried.
“Chhh— gk — ” Edmonds was trying to say something. His eyes were desperate, pleading.
Stop STOP STOP— DIE. PLEASE.
With a sudden choking sound, Edmonds went still.
Eyes still open. Still staring at Jake.
Jake heaved and puked. Without feeling much of anything.
Run.
His body was acting on its own now. His brain was separating. Deadening. He was fleeing. Through the woods.
Past a man who was bent over a tree.
Past Mrs. Stoughton, who was firing a pistol.
Past Weymouth’s men fighting Edmonds’s. Weymouth’s fighting Weymouth’s. A civil war within a civil war within a civil war.
The smell of gunpowder seared his lungs. The splinters from bullet-riddled trees nested in his hair.
And none of it meant a thing.
His musket was long gone. Dropped somewhere by the destroyed supply cabin.
But he had no desire to use it.
Killing didn’t matter how.
Nothing mattered.
Nothing but his life.
There.
An opening.
He veered toward a clearing. A barely detectable path through the undergrowth.