Cross-Eyed Crow

By Clem Reams

In every book written about espionage, there is always a tangled web, which must be deciphered page by page. In the history of the Civil War, there are stories of both Yankee and Confederate spies and the tactics they used to gather information for their armies. In this story, Crocker Dooms walks the tightrope of espionage as he unravels the story page by page.

This story begins in the Old City of New Orleans, during the Civil War. It includes Confederate widows, clergymen, and soldiers both Yankee and Rebel, as it unfolds the tangled web of Confederate espionage, tracking the movements of a rebel version of 007 and his exciting, dangerous, and life-threatening escapades as a rebel spy in Yankee camps.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524578503

Clem Reams

The author was born and raised in South Florida, enlisted in service and served two tours of duty in Vietnam, in a Reconnaissance Unit. He became a student of history, including the War for Southern Indepenence. He left a clean cut simple young man who wanted to serve his country and came home with his life forever scarred, due to the wartime experiences. It was in his Recon unit that he became most interested in espionage, and has come to understand the complex life of an espionage agent, from a “NOC” (non official cover) to desk jobs at the CIA. Although never a member of the CIA, he has always been intrigued with it. He spent a lot of time in Israel, which led the FBI in the 80’s to think he was a CIA operative there, (Another Story) All these life experiences have led him to write this fiction story of The Cross Eyed Crow. He tried to couple this fiction with factual research on the Confederacy, and hopes this book will serve to make one proud of his/her Southern Heritage, as well as provide some entertaining reading.

Book preview

CROSS-EYED

Crow

CLEM REAMS

Copyright © 2017 by Clem Reams.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 01/31/2017

Xlibris

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Seven

Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty One

Chapter Fifty Two

Chapter Fifty Three

Chapter Fifty Four

Chapter Fifty Five

Chapter Fifty Six

Chapter Fifty Seven

Chapter Fifty Eight

Chapter Fifty Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty One

Chapter Sixty Two

Chapter Sixty Three

Chapter Sixty Four

Chapter Sixty Five

Chapter Sixty Six

Chapter Sixty Seven

Chapter Sixty Eight

Chapter Sixty Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy One

Chapter Seventy Two

Chapter Seventy Three

Chapter Seventy Four

Chapter Seventy Five

Chapter Seventy Six

Chapter Seventy Seven

Chapter Seventy Eight

Chapter Seventy Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty One

Chapter Eighty Two

Chapter Eighty Three

Chapter Eighty Four

Part I

A Gathering of Fools

N.O. to David Dodd’s arrival in LR

Part II

Glittering Illusion

From Dodd to Steele’s break in

Part III

Mud Minuet

From LR to Pr dAne

Part IV

Race of the Stone Gods

rom Steele’s investment ofCamden to Jenkins Ferry

Prologue

New Orleans

September 20, 1863

The Officer

M ajor Wallace Henderson hated the damnable city. He despised the rain, the heat, the fishy odor of her waterfront, the clamor and the noise. New Orleans’ façade of Old World sophistication didn’t fool him. Behind the fashionable pretensions, she was an overpriced whore, infected with treason, her garments stained with the scandals of a slavish past. More than anything, he hated the ghosts of the Confederate dead who hovered over her soul like a voodoo curse.

He lit a cigar and hurried down the stairs into the dripping remnants of a predawn thunderstorm. The cool air smelled clean. Another of the city’s deceptions. By midday, the sun would boil the cool dampness into a sweltering steam bath.

He looked over his shoulder and grinned at the sight of Antoinette Gireaux standing in the doorway of her Creole mansion blowing him a kiss. She was the exception; the one thing about the city he didn’t loathe. The willowy widow exuded charm with passions as tempestuous as a Gulf storm and a voice as soft as her skin.

Whispers of their affair made her an outcast among her peers in the city’s upper social circles. Despite the costs, she was madly in love with him. He would miss her, but he wasn’t a fool. He had plans. Plans that didn’t include the baggage attendant with a rebel war widow. Antoinette was a lovely wartime dalliance. Nothing more.

At the first intersection, Henderson turned off of Rue Toulouse in the direction of the Dauphine Hotel, the headquarters of Major General Nathaniel P. Banks and the Federal Army’s Department of the Gulf. He passed the quarter-hour walk mind-muddling in the afterglow of the night’s pleasures. A half block from the hotel, he cut into a narrow alley, negotiated a series of turns and entered a darkened courtyard.

A sentry stepped out of the shadows. Morning, sir. I trust you had a good night.

Henderson morphed his face into a broad grin. Mission accomplished. Took no prisoners.

He shared a laugh with the soldier and handed him two Cuban cigars, a reward for sealed lips. He doubted the private had the refinement to appreciate the quality of the tobacco, but it was cheaper than the Scotch he had offered last time.

Upstairs, inside his muggy room, he opened the windows and dropped into a rocker to catch his breath. A breeze puffed the curtains and chased the fusty air. The clock showed less than an hour until the breakfast meeting in General Banks’ office.

It would begin like a typical staff meeting. A dozen yawning officers half listening to monotonous reports as they sat around an oval table and slurped coffee. The awakening would occur when the general announced the imminent transfer of the bulk of the Army of the Gulf to Alexandria, a hundred miles upriver as the crow flies, in preparation for an offensive against the rebel stronghold at Shreveport.

Before the staff recovered from shock, Banks would turn the meeting over to Henderson. As chief of staff, he would lay out the logistics for the advance while the staff exchanged stares and questions ricocheted inside their skulls.

Steamships traded whistle blasts on the Mississippi. Henderson got up, tossed his clothes over a chair, mussed the bed for the sake of the orderly who would tend his room and pulled a clean uniform from the chiffonier. He changed, then checked his papers. A brief overview of the campaign with details for the concentration of the army at Alexandria. Everything was in order. He brushed lint from his coat and took a long look in the mirror.

Good morning, Major Henderson.

Damned right it’s a good morning, he replied, grinning at his image in the mirror. I’m about to march up the Red River with Nathaniel Banks … all the way to the White House.

He had been at the general’s right hand from the beginning of Banks’ meteoric political career. First, his tenure as governor of Massachusetts, then the rise through congress and the ascendancy to House Speaker. Now, Banks was embarking on a military campaign that would be the final stepping stone to the pinnacle of achievement. Henderson intended to ride the wake as far as it would take him.

That meant facing down rivals. Captain Richard Thorne, the son of an old political supporter, had joined the staff five months ago. The youthful Thorne quickly became the general’s lap dog. He was handsome, ambitious and given to connivance, but Henderson had handled aggressive pups before.

Not one to lose a fight in his own back yard, he outflanked Thorne by suggesting he be shipped off to General Frederick Steele’s headquarters in Little Rock to act as a liaison between Banks and Steele during the coming Red River offensive. What better way to keep the pressure on the reluctant Steele to cooperate? Banks had jumped at the proposal.

Henderson checked his watch against the clock, snatched up his satchel and opened the door. He could hardly wait to see the expression on Thorne’s face when he learned of his new assignment and realized that the old dog was the one who had engineered his banishment to Little Rock.

The Widow

The sun poised on the eastern horizon as Antoinette Gireaux stepped out of her fashionable Creole mansion on Rue Toulouse and hurriedly picked her way down the narrow walkway to the front gate and onto the sidewalk. She twirled a shouldered parasol with one hand and with the other lifted her skirts to step over puddles left by the rain. Traffic moved along the streets and walks, mostly shopkeepers on their way to work. She avoided eye contact with the passersby. Easy to do. Most of them looked away as she approached.

Six blocks into her journey she entered the vestibule of Saint Louis Cathedral. She peered into the sanctuary and saw it was empty except for two female parishioners who sat in semi-darkness their heads covered. Antoinette folded her parasol, stepped through the entrance and walked to the altar. She heard whispers as she passed the two women. Above her, a trapped sparrow flitted back and forth in the rafters, a poignant reminder of her own predicament.

She knelt and crossed herself. Her thoughts turned to her late husband, buried in a Virginia church yard she had never seen. The colonel had died too soon, struck down in the first moments of his first battle. He would not approve of what she had done, but she must live her own life now. She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and prayed for the day when she could bring his body home to rest in the family plot alongside three generations of his ancestors.

The mushy sound of feet swished against carpet and interrupted her grief. From the corner of her eye, she watched the two gossips exit the church. Incense tingled her nose as she arose and walked to an apse off the sanctuary. Her pulse drummed in her ears, but she brushed aside the sense of foreboding and entered the confessional booth.

The Priest

Dreaded bell! Father Dominic turned his eyes upward and sighed. He withdrew the saucered tea from his lips and set it on the table. Why didn’t people tend to their consciences at a decent hour? He wiped a spill and sucked the sweet liquid from his fingers. First decent tea in months.

He tended to his vestments, then slowly descended the cold stone steps into the sanctuary. Old age. The aggravations grew worse with each passing day. His joints were stiff and racked with pain, and the bottoms of his feet hurt as though someone had beaten them with a hammer.

Dominic shut the door to the confessional, sat down and fumbled with his rosary. He tried to remember what to do next. Not that he was slipping. No one thought clearly this early in the day.

Yes. How may I help you? He winced at the cranky edge in his voice.

Father, I have sinned.

He straightened and stared at the veil. No longer concerned with pain and wasted tea. It was the same voice. Same accent. Her French was continental, not the French of the bayous.

Still, he best be certain; it had been four months. He replied in French. My child, I believe we talked on a previous occasion. Am I correct?

Yes, Father.

No mistake! He pulled the cap from his bald dome, leaned forward and rubbed a knobby hand across his scalp. If memory serves me, you were concerned with temptations. Temptations of a certain nature.

Yes, Father. You meant the warnings for my good, but…. She sobbed. Father, it is all my doing. Mine alone.

Who is this creature? So cultured. So full of refinement. Yet willing to…. He leaned his head closer to the veil and wished he could tear it away and look at her. Child, we must learn lessons from our trespasses. Lessons that minister to others. He tensed. He must get the words right. Tell me…do you feel you have learned from your failures?

I’ve learned important lessons.

His hand tightened around the rosary. And you are ready to share these lessons?

Father, things are much worse than I told you.

Be calm, my child. Lower your voice.

It is a major offensive. General Banks is to move his army to Alexandria. General Steele will bring a force from Arkansas and Indian Territory to unite with General Banks on the Red River. Their objective is Shreveport. They plan to destroy our—

Wait, my dear. Nervous chatter. Much ado about little. It was an old story with over zealous informants. I must know where your information comes from. I am forbidden to pass hearsay and rumor to my superiors.

General Banks.

You got the information from General Banks? He shook his head and smiled.

No, Father. I got it from his chief of staff.

So, General Banks’ chief of staff just decided to let you in on this treasure trove of secrets?

No. I slipped the papers from his satchel and copied them.

You copied the enemy’s campaign plans?

Yes, Father.

And where was Banks’ chief of staff while you pilfered his satchel and copied secret papers?

She hesitated; he waited.

He was sleeping.

Sleeping?

He was asleep in my bed.

Father Dominic sat back. His jaw fell slack. The rosary slipped from his fingers and coiled onto the stone floor like a beaded serpent.

Chapter One

October 19, 1863,

Quapaw Landing, Eastern Arkansas

T he breeze off the Arkansas River tweaked Crocker Dooms’ nose with the odor of rotting fish. It wasn’t like he needed a reminder that death was in the air. Truth to tell, it was only minutes away.

He scraped mud from his cavalry boots and kept his eyes trained on General John Marmaduke and two other officers who were hunkered behind a stand of cattails thirty yards away.

For the past half hour they had knelt at the river’s edge smoking cigars and passing field glasses back and forth while they stared downstream. Now they stood to their feet, frozen in place. The line of dismounted cavalrymen posted in the tree line stopped their banter, all eyes now focused on the river.

Marmaduke slammed a fist into his palm. We got ’em!

The three turned from the water’s edge and hurried up the slope of the bank. Dooms saw the flush in the general’s face, the excitement of the hunter closing in on his kill.

Marmaduke’s approach signaled a flurry of activity, the general barking orders, officers and couriers taking off pell-mell on horseback.

Get the horses outta here, Lieutenant. Move ’em back. Marmaduke looked over his shoulder toward the river. Y’all locate Dooms?

He snatched the cigar stub from his teeth. What? I have to put it in writing?

Sir, O’Donohoo found him yonder at d’Gussey’s Corner, an aide answered.

DEE’Gussey’s! Where the hell is he now?

Dooms had rather kiss an angry cottonmouth than deal with Marmaduke when his dander was up, but the time had come to face the music. Here, sir.

Well, well. Good day, Captain Dooms. Nice of you to take time from your social life to look in on our raid.

Sir, Mrs. d’Gussey prepared breakfast for some—

Breakfast! Hell, it’s past noon!

The anger in the Missouri general’s voice scraped across his ears like a rake. She was some slow with fixings, sir.

Marmaduke cocked his head and sniffed the air. My nose tells me Mrs. DEE’Gussey serves whiskey with her breakfast.

Old man d’Gussey gave Major Marlowe a jug. I…we took a couple of sips.

Sweet Mary! Are you ever gonna get serious about this mission?

Yessir.

Dammit, from now till I get you in a Yankee uniform, I want you so close people think we’re newlyweds. Understood?

Yessir.

Marmaduke cast the cigar stub aside and handed him his binoculars. C’mere, I wanna show you something.

He followed the general toward the river bank pretending not to hear a smirking staffer refer to him as Mrs. Marmaduke.

Watch your step. It’s slicker than owl shit down here. Marmaduke pulled up and nodded downriver. Take a gander.

Dooms lifted the glasses. In the distance, he saw the two Yankee warships. Peaceful as a painting, he said. The big one led the way, its twin stacks billowing trails of smoke.

General, how’s something covered with that much iron float?

Impressive, huh?

The big one the Orion?

Right.

How many guns? Dooms asked.

I plan on this being over before they get ’em unlimbered.

Dooms reckoned the number of sailors on the Orion’s deck at two dozen. A dozen bore rifles, their eyes trained toward the banks on either side of the river. He turned the binoculars on the smaller vessel, the Omega. Only eight men topside.

They have no idea, Dooms said, might as well be asleep.

Stirman’s gonna wake ’em right soon. Marmaduke pointed in the direction of his horse artillery, hidden upriver in the bend. C’mon, we best get going.

Dooms slogged up the hill in step with the general.

I can’t get used to that beard, Marmaduke said. Makes you look might near as old as me.

Beg pardon, sir. I am might near as old as you.

Jitters?

Trying not to, sir.

You got sand in your craw, you’ll make it.

The encouragement didn’t make him feel better.

By the way, old DEE’Gussey, gave me a jug too, Marmaduke said. The snaggle-toothed old rascal sure has a pretty young wife. He cackled and slapped Dooms on the shoulder. I reckon a woman like Mrs. DEE’Gussey demands proper attention from my staff officers.

Chapter Two

D ooms stood at Marmaduke’s side and waited. The scene was unreal. Sixteen hundred troopers so quiet and still that one could hear his own breathing. Off to his right, he heard a boom followed by the scream of a rifled shell as it arched above the river.

Suddenly, musketry from the six hundred troopers on the opposite shore, popped and skuttered, then exploded in an incessant roar. He watched through the binoculars as hell broke loose upon the gunboats. Blue-clad sailors tumbled to the decks. Bodies toppled over the rails and plunged beneath the rippling water; seamen scrambled for cover inside the iron shell of the Orion.

As the musketry momentarily slackened, a galling hail of artillery fire opened from beyond the tree line two hundred yards upstream. Napoleons belched tongues of fire as the Confederate gunners unleashed them against the hapless boats, the shells exploding around the Yankee ships in brilliant flashes of fire.

Marmaduke bared his teeth in a broad grin. Thataboy, Stirman!

The din of the exploding artillery pushed Dooms’ senses to a razor’s edge. All around him tense troopers waited, their carbines ready. The breeze wafted clouds of acrid gun smoke off the river stinging his nostrils and eyes. A sooty residue clung to his skin and clothing and coated the lenses of his binoculars.

The Yankee ships heaved to starboard to evade the artillery barrage. The Confederate cannonade slowed, then ceased as the boats moved in to hug the eastern shore. The ships closed within ninety yards … seventy-five yards … sixty yards. Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by a familiar scream. A rifled Parrott gun made a direct hit starboard of the Orion. At that moment, the entire length of the rebel line … a thousand men … along the east bank erupted with fury.

The Orion angled away, back toward the center of the river. In mid-turn, an ear-splitting explosion ripped the vessel at midship. The exploding torpedo shot a massive plume of water skyward, spewing debris like a cyclone. Beneath its shadow, Dooms saw the starboard paddle wheel had been blown from the ship.

Another explosion rocked the earth. A second gigantic plume lifted the Orion’s stern from the water exposing her hull to the sun. For a moment the warship seemed to levitate at a forty-five degree angle under a parasol of water that spread out one hundred fifty feet above her.

Marmaduke hollered, his voice shrill, What did they put in that thing?

A waterfall cascaded down from the sky. The wounded ship plunged into the river and momentarily disappeared beneath walls of churning water. She bobbed for a few moments like a giant cork, then slowly settled and listed to starboard.

YEEE…ohhh…WOWWEEEEE! Dooms waved his hat and joined in the cacophony of rebel yells. The listing giant swung around and drifted toward the east bank of the river. Twenty-five yards from shore she lurched and crunched to rest in the shallows.

Before the cheering died, a fiery explosion ripped the smaller vessel. Inside a roiling cloud of smoke and flame, the Omega spun around like a dead fish. When the smoke cleared, her iron hull was headed straight toward a spoon-shaped sand bar. She plowed onto the handle of the spoon and came to rest sixty yards south of her sister ship.

Minutes later white flags fluttered in the river breezes and Yankee sailors climbed out of the ill-fated ships. With the scene secured, a rebel officer approached the prisoners, who were corralled by the river. A grim-faced naval officer, his head wrapped with a bloody cloth, stepped from the crowd and followed him up the bank.

General Marmaduke, this is Lieutenant Harthing, executive officer of the Orion.

I’ve heard of you, Harthing said, with a half-hearted salute. Captain Overall is dead. Lieutenant Spaeder, in command of the Omega, is missing.

Marmaduke nodded and looked at the crowd of prisoners.

General, we have medicines on board the Orion. They could be of help to our injured men.

Marmaduke looked to his side. Lieutenant Clark, have our surgeon assist in tending to their wounded. Check the medicines on board the vessel, see if they’re in any condition to be of use.

Harthing coughed. He put a hand to his mouth, leaned over and spat two bloody teeth to the ground. General, I respectfully request that my men be paroled. His words came out in a mushy hiss.

The prisoners will be escorted to Shreveport, then moved by rail to the prison camp at Tyler, Texas.

General, some of my men are badly injured. Send them to that pigsty, you’ll give them a death sentence.

The ones who make it to Shreveport will receive hospital treatment. Best I can do.

But, General, you can’t—

You have Captain Richard Thorne of the Federal Army with you. Point him out, please.

Harthing took a step backward. You’re going to ignore my request?

Point Thorne out, Marmaduke ordered.

You goddamned horse thief. You’re no different than Quantrill.

It was my pleasure to teach Mr. Quantrill all he knows. Unless you want a personal lesson, you’ll heed my order.

A real officer would parole these poor devils.

The saber scar on Marmaduke’s cheek turned purple and the rims of his eyes reddened.

Dooms knew the sign. He took a step back.

The general drew his revolver and shoved the barrel against Harthing’s throat. I’m from Missouri, Lieutenant. I know all about Yankee mercy. So, point out Thorne, or I guarantee the next man I bring up here will. Marmaduke cocked the revolver.

Best put the fuse out on this situation, Dooms said. Just do what he says,

The Yankee cast his gaze on Dooms and nodded. Captain Thorne! Step forward.

A bloodied sailor stepped to the front of the crowd of prisoners. The captain was killed when our boiler exploded. I was standing near ’im, sir. He never had a chance.

Marmaduke turned back to Harthing. He was in possession of papers to be delivered to General Steele. Where are they?

I know nothing about Thorne’s business. Even less about any papers.

The general decocted his .44 and holstered it. Major Strong, choose a detail. Search those boats, every inch. Search the prisoners. See if they’re hiding anything. We’re looking for papers.

Loud voices broke out in the direction of the captured seamen. A tall, blond-headed Yankee broke away and splashed into the frigid river.

A trio of Confederates laid down their rifles, scurried to the water’s edge and ran into the river after him.

The prisoner reached the Orion, climbed onto the deck and disappeared into the hold. Moments later he emerged carrying a tan satchel in one hand and a long knife in the other.

The rebels clambered aboard and ran to block his path. Trapped, he assumed a crouch. He slashed, thrusted, parried. One of the rebels lunged for him. The Yankee lurched forward. The rebel screamed, clutched his bloody abdomen and fell to the deck.

Hundreds watched from shore as the other two Confederates tackled him. A right cross sent one of the rebels sprawling backward into his compatriot. The Yankee swung the satchel around his neck and dove over the side of the grounded vessel.

Prisoners cheered and whooped. Rebels crowded the bank for a better view of the action. A score of graybacks positioned themselves to fire at the fleeing prisoner.

It’s gotta be Thorne! Dooms shouted. He panned the surface of the river with Marmaduke’s field glasses until he saw the fugitive swimming with the current. General! We can’t let ’im get away.

Two rifles cracked, followed in rapid succession by three more. The blond head was momentarily wreathed in a reddish halo which evaporated like steam over a kettle. The bloody head bobbed above the tide, rolled over and slipped beneath the surface. Caught in the current, the body alternately appeared and disappeared in the tea-colored river.

General! Dooms ran to Marmaduke’s side. We gotta have that satchel!

The general shoved an aide in the back. Get downstream, tell those boys to get their boats in the water and fish him out! Hurry! Before we lose him!

Marmaduke spun around and glared at the Navy lieutenant. You lying sonofabitch, I’ll see you to Texas if I have to hog tie you.

Dooms stepped to the river to watch the action through the field glasses. A quarter mile away, a six man detail pushed two confiscated row boats into the water and paddled through the treacherous current to head off the body. Two of the troopers jumped into the cold river and made the interception. They finally guided the body alongside one of the boats.

A company of butternut-clad soldiers rode up as they neared land. The troopers dismounted, waded into the water and helped drag the body to shore. One of them lifted the brown satchel and waved it above his head.

Relieved, Dooms walked back up the river bank.

Haven’t had enough killing, Lieutenant? Marmaduke kick a weathered turtle shell, spinning it into the air. I assume that garbage yonder is what’s left of Thorne? Answer me, or be damned!

You assume correctly, Harthing said, his voice defiant.

Marmaduke grabbed him by his lapel. By every star that shines, any of these sonsabitches try this again, I’ll put you in front of a firing squad.

He wheeled to a staff officer. Major, escort this liar down there and put him with the other prisoners.

The general motioned for Dooms, then turned and stalked up the bank. Lieutenant Beckett, see that those boats are blown to smithereens. Get on it! We pull hoof in an hour.

Another aide waved him to a stop. General, Colonel Stirman wants to know if you want him to retrieve the remaining torpedoes from the river or detonate them?

Marmaduke brushed his unruly hair back under his hat. What do you say, Captain Dooms? Retrieve ’em, or leave ’em?

We need to kick dust, Dooms said. Let the damned Yankees find ’em, the hard way.

Couldn’t have said it better. Marmaduke grinned. You heard ’im, Sergeant. Relay the order to Colonel Stirman.

Chapter Three

Next Morning

T he sun was a fiery bump on the eastern horizon when Crocker Dooms and his three man escort crested a ridge and dismounted in a grove of trees a mile south of Quapaw Landing.

Sergeant Hinn Blevins unrolled a duffel while the two privates tied off the horses. Blevins wagged his head and tossed him a mud-splattered, blue officer’s tunic. Glad it ain’t me.

Dooms looked at the scorched sleeves and blood stains. Not exactly my idea of dress up. He unbuckled his belt and slipped off the scabbard. Take care with this bowie, it has some sentiments on it.

Yessir. Blevins took the knife and stuffed it into the duffel.

Dooms stripped to his long johns and tossed his clothing to one of the privates, who wadded it into the duffel along with his spurs and his two .44 Colts. The butternut clad sergeant unstrapped Dooms’ two saddle pistols from his horse, another pair of .44 Armies. He quickly pried out the percussion caps, and shoved the revolvers into a saddle bag.

I know you’re growing hair under your collar, Sergeant, but I’ll be right with you. Dressed at last, he walked over and whispered in the ear of his nickering horse while Blevins watched and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Blevins, this is Storm. See that he’s delivered to Major Robert Crockett.

You got my word, sir. You ready? Blevins walked to his side.

Dooms continued to whisper to the big bay.

Ready, sir? Blevins drew his bowie.

Not as ready as you, Sergeant. Dooms leaned his head to one side and felt Blevins’ cold, callused fingers pinch the skin on his neck.

Owweee! That stung!

Sorry sir. Looks good. It’s mixing into the blood stain on the collar.

He rubbed a hand across the cut, then wiped the blood on his pants’ leg. Damn! For a second, I thought you was going for my jugular.

Blevins motioned. Ragan, get over here.

Private Ragan stripped off his cavalry jacket and hung it over his