Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1954 Read online

  Rebel Mail Runner

  Manly Wade Wellman

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  The Last Mammoth

  Wild Dogs of Drowning Creek

  The Haunts of Drowning Creek

  The Raiders of Beaver Lake

  The Mystery of Lost Valley

  The Sleuth Patrol

  HOLIDAY HOUSE, NEW YORK

  Text, copyright 1954 by Manly Wade Wellman Illustrations, copyright 1954 by Stuyvesant Van Veen

  PRINTED IN U.S.A.

  To PAUL

  “The gods granted me a brother whose example stimulated me to make the most of my powers, while his respect and affection gave me new heart . .

  —Marcus Aurelius Antoninus

  This is an imaginary story, about an imaginary boy; but the Confederate Underground Mail Service, from Missouri to the Deep South, was a thrilling fact of the Civil War, and its daring and resourceful chief, Absalom Grimes, was as real as any American in history. His memoirs exist today, and the adventures of himself and his lieutenants, some of them retold here, are still remembered up and down the Mississippi River.

  Manly Wade Wellman Chapel Hill, North Carolina October 15,1953

  Contents

  I. To Save AB GRIMES

  II. The Underground Mail

  III. DIXIE

  IV. Blockade at VICKSBURG

  V.The WAY OUT

  VI. BARRY Rides Alone

  VII. An ERRAND for JOE SHELBY

  VIII. DISASTER in MEMPHIS

  IX. NEWS from SPRINGFIELD

  X. Gratiot Street PRISON

  XI. TRIAL

  XII. VERDICT

  XIII. A Presidential ORDER

  XIV. PEACE Pike County

  I. To Save AB GRIMES

  THEMISSOURI sun was warm that April afternoon, and Bowling Green looked and sounded peaceful, for all the war had been going on for two years. Barry Mills could see nothing more warlike than the Union flag in the courthouse square, blue-coated soldiers strolling the plank-covered paths. Barry clucked to the horses and turned them from Main Street into Court, on his way to August Batz’s wood yard. He hunched square young shoulders under his jeans jacket, and turned his dark head, under the shabby wool hat, to look resentfully at the load of wood riding behind him in the wagon.

  He’d sawed and stacked and seasoned that wood out on his father’s farm. And he’d greased the wheels and harnessed the team and loaded the wood, and when he got to the wood yard he’d unload it again. But the pay for the wood wouldn’t go to him—nor to his father, either. It would go to fat, wax-moustached Cousin Buckalew Mills, who had ridden into town ahead of Barry, on the sturdy claybank mare that belonged to Barry’s father, too. If he was only riding that mare himself, thought Barry, he’d just ride and ride, south and west, till he could join his father in the Confederate Army. He was seventeen, old enough for soldiering, and sick to death of Cousin Buck.

  Barry glowered sidelong at the row of stores on Court Street, with their wooden porches. Might Buckalew be in one of those, hurrahing for the Yankees as he’d hurrahed for the rebels two years ago in ’61? Buckalew was what folks called a turncoat, first for one side, now the other. And he was a mean man to work for on top of that; Barry could swear to the fact.

  Barry turned the team in at a gateway through a high fence of rough boards, pulled up, and got down over the wheel in August Batz’s wood yard. The wood-dealer lifted a broad hand in greeting. August was thick-built, but not pudgy like Cousin Buckalew, and his big yellow-gray beard was always crinkling in a smile.

  “Unload ofer by der big pile at der side,” he directed, pointing. “Karl, you go mit, help him take der wood from der vagon out.”

  “Sure, Papa.” Big Corporal Karl Batz of the Union infantry, home on leave, shoved back his jaunty peaked cap and tucked up his blue sleeves as he walked toward the wagon. “Tool ’em over here, Barry, and we’ll stack.”

  “High time you got here, boy.” That was Buckalew Mills, coming out of Mr. Batz’s shantylike office. He wore a frock coat and a broad hat, and under his moustache jutted a lean cheroot. “You were late, or near to it. Tardiness isn’t a savory habit, Barry.”

  “Ach, don’t scold der boy,” urged August Batz good-humoredly. “He’s here, der vood’s here. Now, vot news gifs it in der town?”

  “News?” echoed Buckalew, and tapped ashes from his cheroot with an important air. “You may well ask, August. The news concerns Captain Ab Grimes.” Barry, loosening the tail gate of the wagon, started violently, but nobody noticed. Both Karl and August turned to stare at Buckalew Mills.

  “Ab Grimes, Absalom Grimes,” repeated old August. “Der rebel mail runner, ha?”

  “Absalom Grimes, the rebel spy and traitor,” snapped Buckalew, again biting on the cheroot.

  “Ach, so” grunted August. “So bad as dot you call him? I hear he brings only der letters from der secesh soldiers and from also der famblies he takes der letters back—”

  “By the rules of warfare, he’s a spy,” interrupted Buckalew. “Anyway, they’re offering two thousand dollars reward for him in Saint Louis.”

  Hoisting a log, Barry listened. Buckalew, once a clamorous secessionist, now called Absalom Grimes a rebel spy. Buckalew had turned around so fast that the heels of his boots were in front, you might say. Yet August Batz thought of Grimes as only a mail carrier, though both August and his son Karl had been strong Union men for years.

  “I’ve reckoned it plain as print,” plunged on Buckalew. “I know Ab Grimes personally, I know his friends. You recollect Jim Glascock, who farms on the edge of Hannibal? Well, his daughter Lucy’s engaged to Ab Grimes, and it so happens that Lucy Glascock’s visiting here in Bowling Green today.”

  “Veil,” prompted August placidly, “vot about it?” “She’s at Judge Westfall’s house, yonder on Church Street, and you know the judge is a quiet hoper for the rebs to win. Well,” and Buckalew grinned around his cheroot, “what’ll you bet that Ab Grimes isn’t here in Bowling Green, too, visiting his sweetheart?” Stacking wood, Barry listened eagerly and thought quickly. He, too, knew the name of Captain Absalom Grimes, the daredevil ex-steamboater whose work and pleasure it was to slip through the Federal lines with mail for Missouri’s Confederates and their families. He was the only means of communication between anxious wives and mothers and their men in gray, just now banished by war to Mississippi and Arkansas.

  Barry himself had received a letter last July from his soldier father, handed him by a furtive neighbor. It had said that Jefferson Mills had survived several fierce battles and was now a sergeant with the First Missouri Cavalry in Shelby’s Brigade. That letter,

  Barry knew, had come through Absalom Grimes, whom Buckalew was now trying to trap for the reward.

  Grimes carried letters for Southern soldiers, he kept thinking. His father, Jeff Mills, was a Southern soldier, and Barry would be one if he could. He had to help Grimes. No two ways about it.

  “Not two blocks away,” Buckalew was arguing. “We can yank him right out of the judge’s parlor.” Barry made up his mind suddenly, without quite knowing how he would manage what he hoped to do. “Karl,” he said, “isn’t there some drinking water around here?”

  “Yonder in the office,” Corporal Karl told him, humping his thick shoulder under a chunk of wood. “Bring me out a dipperful, too.”

  Barry slipped around the wagon, into the little office, and slid a dipper into the water bucket. Through the half-open door he could still hear Buckalew.

  “August, you know some folks don’t think I’m a good Union man. I’ve kind of got to prove myself to them, capture this rebel spy—”

  “Ja, /a,” August agreed. “It’s
duty, like vot you say. Mine boy Karl, maybe also he could find some soldiers to help—”

  “But let’s decide something right now,” interrupted Buckalew. “I had the idea, ain’t that so? I thought of catching Grimes. So I ought to get half the reward money, and the rest of the party can split the other half; ain’t that fair?”

  Barry waited to.hear no more. He dropped the dipper in the bucket and wriggled out through the rear window, open to the warm spring air. Swift and silent as a raiding mink, Barry slid behind great stacks of wood.

  “Karl,” he heard old August calling. “Listen goot to vot Mr. Buckalew iss telling me.”

  At the corner of the yard, Barry knelt and prodded at the fence. A board was loose, and gingerly he shoved it outward, then squeezed through the opening and ran along the alley beyond. A springing rush brought him out on Church Street. Past two small stores he moved at a headlong gallop, almost overturning a drowsy old man whose chair leaned back against a door-jamb. He crossed another street beyond, vaulted a picket fence, and sprang upon the wide pillared porch of Judge Westfall’s home.

  He knocked loudly, and waited impatiently until the door swung open. Barry looked up into a dignified dark face above a spotless shirt front. It was the Judge’s grave Negro butler.

  “I want to talk to Miss Lucy Glascock,” said Barry breathlessly.

  “Miss Glascock?” the butler repeated. “She know you, young sir?” And his wise eyes studied Barry’s shabby clothes.

  “I’ve got to see her,” pleaded Barry. “It’s—it’s a matter of life and death.”

  “What’s all that, Simon?” demanded another voice, and over the butler’s shoulder looked the square, proud face of Judge Westfall. Dark eyes scowled under heavy white brows. “What’s your name, son? Wait a second, I know you. Aren’t you Jeff Mills’ boy? Let him in, Simon, and close the door.”

  The butler moved aside, and Barry stepped into the dark, spacious hall.

  “Now,” said the judge, impressively, “you spoke a lady’s name. What have you to tell her, son?”

  Barry licked his dry lips. “Judge, I know you love the South, and you know my father’s a Confederate cavalryman,” said Barry, all in a breath. “You can trust me, sir. If Miss Lucy Glascock happens to be here, I want to tell her that—that somebody she’s mighty fond of is in big danger. It’s—it’s—”

  He stammered, and fell silent. Someone else had come into the hall, Judge Westfall’s stately wife.

  “You say I can trust you, son,” the judge reminded Barry, with great calm. “All right, and you can trust us. So if you’re holding a name back, speak it out and don’t be afraid.”

  “Absalom Grimes,” said Barry.

  “What about Absalom Grimes?” the judge challenged Barry. “Don’t stop talking now; what about him?”

  “They’re coming to catch him,” said Barry, fresh words tumbling out in a torrent. “I heard them at August Batz’s wood yard—Mr. Batz and my cousin Buckalew. They’re bringing soldiers. They say Captain Grimes is here with Miss Glascock, and there’s a reward for him, and—”

  “Soldiers coming!” cried the judge’s wife.

  “Let me speak to that boy,” said another voice, quietly, from a half-open door into a side room.

  Judge Westfall glanced that way, then turned back to Barry.

  “Mr. Barry Mills,” he said, as though he addressed his equal in age, fortune, and importance, “permit me to acquaint you with Captain Absalom Grimes.”

  Barry blinked at Captain Grimes with respectful interest. He had often imagined the mail runner as gigantic and overwhelming, a headlong hero, half pirate, half circus acrobat, cloaked and booted and spurred, with pistol and dagger ready to hand. Absalom Grimes was nothing like this. He was of medium height and build, dressed neatly in dark coat and pantaloons and checkered vest, with a fair skin, straight nose, and broad, high forehead. His dark brown hair and beard contrasted with the light gray of his mild eyes. He might have been a young doctor or schoolmaster. But the slim hand he held out looked steely strong, and as he moved toward Barry his feet were silent as a cat’s on the floor boards.

  “Honored,” said Absalom Grimes. “I heard you say they’re after me.”

  “They call you a spy, Captain,” stuttered Barry. “Surely they can’t say that—”

  A smile in the soft, short beard. “Well, I’m a Confederate soldier in citizen’s clothes. That qualifies me for a rope, I reckon.”

  “Absalom!” That was a dark-haired young woman in a crinoline dress, as tall as Grimes and gracefully slender, and just now frightened. She swept into the room behind Grimes and laid an appealing hand on his arm.

  “You must leave at once, Absalom,” said the girl, swiftly. “Don’t wait, dear, not even to—”

  “Lucy,” said Captain Grimes, courteously serene, “may I present Mr.—”

  “Barry Mills,” Barry supplied.

  “Mr. Barry Mills, who most kindly brought me warning. Miss Glascock, Mr. Mills. And now, young sir, your full story, as fast and clear as you can tell it.” Barry swiftly repeated what his cousin had said in Batz’s wood yard. They heard him silently.

  “Thank you,” said Grimes as Barry finished. “Lucy, you’re right. I must leave at once. I’ve a buggy in the stable of Mr. George Talliver. Judge Westfall, if one of your servants could go and ask—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” spoke up Simon, from the door. “Somebody just rode past—slow. Now he’s cornin’ back down the street.”

  Barry fairly sprang to join the butler, and peered through the glass pane in the door. He saw Buckalew Mills, ambling by on the claybank mare and staring into the yard.

  “It’s my cousin,” reported Barry. “He’s watching this house.”

  “That no-account Buckalew Mills, keeping guard while his friends gather,” growled Judge Westfall, white brows bristling. “He’s dog when it suits him, and hog when it suits him. Captain Grimes, they shan’t take you while I can defend my own threshold. Simon, fetch my shotgun.”

  “Wait, Judge.” Grimes seized Barry’s shoulders. “Barry—is that your name? Are you acquainted with this town?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve lived near here all my life.”

  “Do you know where George Talliver lives? And can you guide me there through back yards and alleys?”

  Barry nodded eagerly, and Grimes looked past him at the judge.

  “They’ll come here in a minute, surround the house, and knock.”

  “I’ll order them away—” began Judge Westfall fiercely.

  “No, but let Simon be slow and suspicious of them before he calls you to the door. Then show enough nervousness, if you’ll be so good—you and the ladies, too—to make them insist on a search.”

  “But they’ll find you,” protested Miss Lucy.

  “No, Barry and I will be gone. Just keep them squandering and irritating around from room to room for a while. When they can’t find me—then, Judge, make them apologize to you and your lady, and to your guest, Miss Lucy Glascock. That’ll use up a full quarter hour. And I’ll be away, every trace of me, like a ’possum from a tree dog.”

  “I understand,” said Judge Westfall. “Luck go with you, sir.”

  “Come on, Barry.”

  Absalom Grimes had not let go of the boy’s shoulder, and now he fairly marched him down the hall to where a rear door opened into a spacious, tree- shaded back yard.

  “See yonder, between the carriage house and the shed,” said Grimes. “There’s an alley beyond. Go and look both ways. If nobody’s waiting, turn and wipe your face to signal for me to come running.” “Yes, sir.” Barry stepped gingerly into the open. He forced himself to stroll, with seeming carelessness, through the yard and between the buildings. He peered along the alley, left and right. Nobody moved there. Facing around, he lifted his hand to his face.

  At once Grimes came racing across the yard, a dark hat pulled low above his bearded face and his right hand hoisting a heavy carpetbag. He joined Barry, and t
hey headed along the alley. At the street beyond, Grimes’ free hand caught Barry’s arm and pulled him to a stop.

  “You know these folks who want to scoop me up,” he said. “Slide on across, but be dead sure none of them are in sight. Then signal again from the other side.”

  From across the street, Barry again mopped his face to tell Grimes that all was safe. Again Grimes hurried after him with the bag. Thus they went the length of two alleys, then emerged to walk together along a side street with thick-boughed shade trees.

  “There’s Mr. Talliver’s house up ahead,” volunteered Barry, pointing to where, on the opposite corner, stood a pleasant, two-story frame house.

  “Good.” Grimes drew himself and his bag between two close-growing trees. From his pocket he fished a pencil and a scrap of paper, and scribbled hurriedly.

  “One more favor,” he said. “Give this to Mr. Talliver. He’ll hitch up my buggy. Then drive it back here, to this point. Will you do that?”

  “I’ll be proud to, Captain.”

  Barry went on alone, and knocked at the door. Grim, gaunt Mr. Talliver answered his knock, read the note, and let him in.

  “I reckon the cap’n hasn’t any time to waste,” he grunted. “Come out to the stable and help me hitch up for him.”

  It was quickly done. Captain Grimes’ buggy looked shabby—perhaps on purpose, to attract less attention—but it was built along trim, easy-running lines, and the bay horse looked swift and steady. As Barry climbed in and took the reins, he saw that there were numerous bags and packages on the buggy floor. He spoke softly to the bay and rolled out into the street.

  At that moment Barry felt as though every Union soldier and Union sympathizer in Missouri must be drawing close around him, but the street was quiet. Only two rigs and a few pedestrians moved. He walked the bay horse along to the point where he had left Grimes.

  “Don’t stop,” cautioned a low voice, and from between the two trees sprang the mail runner, hurling the carpetbag into the buggy, then springing in after it and taking the reins from Barry. Grimes turned them right at the next corner and quickened the bay’s speed toward the edge of town.