THE DOGROBBER

by Frederick A. Fish

1.

"So you call yourself a Pinkerton man," the Union Sergeant said.

Private Watts strained through his teeth the last gritty swallow of coffee, and flung the sediment from his tin cup into the campfire. "My previous line of employment is not a welcome subject with me," he said.

"Sorry," Sergeant Meigs said, not sorry at all. "Just wondered what a Pinkerton man would make of that commotion by the signal house."

A young soldier had also noticed the activity, and joined the two men at the campfire. The soldier had worn his uniform to bed in an attempt to reproduce the weathered look of the veterans of the 20 th Illinois , to no avail; his buttons gleamed like newly minted pennies. "What's going on? Are we going to get into this fight? They say it's worse than Antietam ," the young soldier said.

"Nothing could be worse than Antietam ,” Sergeant Meigs growled. “What's the matter boyo, not enough excitement for you, guarding the grub?" Meigs sliced a bit of salt pork to gnaw, and grimaced in Watt's direction. "Well Dogrobber, you surely earned your name with this sorry excuse for meat."

Watts limped to the woodpile with an awkward gait, his right leg stiff at the knee. "Mother raised no cooks," he said.

Sergeant Meigs laughed, then addressed the young soldier. "Our company cook ain't much with meat, but he's a genius at understatement. He fixed a meal last week that would gag a maggot --". Meigs paused, the smile fleeing from his face. He pointed into the night with his knife. "Comes a horseman."

The horseman, a young aide, reined to a halt near Sergeant Meigs. "Captain Murdock wants you at the signal house. You are to bring Private Watts as well." Receiving a nod in reply, the aide galloped off.

Sergeant Meigs frowned. "Come along, Dogrobber," he said to Watts . “I expect the Captain has something important for you to do, like rendering some perfectly good chickens inedible.”

* * *

Watts and Meigs arrived at the signal house on borrowed horses.

A guard slouching against a porch pillar eyed the arrivals with dull interest. A weasel-thin man with dirty blond hair, he spit a stream of tobacco juice over the porch rail, then drew a sleeve across his wispy beard.

Sergeant Meigs eyed the skinny guard. “Well, I suppose if my baseball rolled down a rabbit hole, I could just slip this lad down after it.”

The guard sniffed and spat again. “Captain's inside, and he's in great mood,” the guard said. “I'd recommend you save some of that Irish wit for him.”

They followed the guard into the signal house. The small farmhouse had been hastily vacated two days previously, as had much of the countryside as the opposing armies converged upon Gettysburg . Now occupied by the signal corps, the front room was cluttered with semaphore flags, telegraph keys, batteries, and rolls of wire.

Captain Murdock paced amidst the clutter, puffing furiously on a cigar. "By the Lord God, I do hate a spy!" he shouted. " Watts , I'm told you used to be a Pinkerton man. What can you do about this?" He pointed toward a back room with his cigar stub.

Watts took an oil lamp and entered the back room. He found a small kitchen that had been drafted into office duty, a table converted to a desk in the center of the room, scattered papers, and a lockbox, broken open. On the floor lay an officer, dead as a slaughtered hog, a bayonet sunk in his throat.

In his days as a Pinkerton detective, Watts had primarily investigated railroad thefts, but a few of his cases had involved murder. He could handle this. It beat cooking, anyway.

Watts , disturbing nothing to preserve evidence, backed carefully from the kitchen and closed the door. "Who is he?"

"Major McVay of the Signal Corps, of course," Captain Murdock said, relighting his dead cigar and flinging the match impatiently. "An aide delivering the General's orders found him murdered, an hour ago."

"Witnesses?"

Captain Murdock gestured toward the skinny blonde guard. "Tell him, Spofford," he barked.

"I've been sleeping in the little cellar below the kitchen,” Private Spofford said. “It's cooler below ground. Heard that Doctor from town come in, shoutin' about his wife. The Major, well, he's popular with the ladies. Anyway, Doc Hastings left in a hurry and it quieted down, but when I came up later, I found the Major dead on the floor.”

Sergeant Meigs said "I know that Doctor Hastings. He tended some of my men. Keeps a home office in that little town to the east. Two Taverns."

"How long ago did he leave?" Watts asked.

"Maybe two hours,” Spofford said. He finished scratching a bug out of his scraggly beard, and wiped a bit of blood on his sleeve. “You going to catch the man who killed the Major?"

Captain Murdock interrupted. "Yes, he's been killed, but that's not important. Hundreds of men have been killed these last two days of battle, he's just one more. The bad part is, the Major's cipher disk is missing from his lockbox. Understand? We have a massive battle on our hands, and if our cipher disk gets into the hands of the enemy, they will be able to decode our semaphore messages in the battle tomorrow. Watts , you were a detective. You know how to hunt men down. I want our cipher disk back! That doctor has it, which makes him a spy. Lord, I do hate a spy! There's no honor in 'em! When you catch him, hang him on the spot. Get moving, he's hours ahead of you."

Watts stood as if rooted. "Hold on, Captain. We should not be hasty about this. First I need to gather information from this crime scene," Watts said.

"You need to follow my orders! I've given you all the information you need."

The damn fool officer. “This isn't the way I investigate a crime,” Watts said, not moving.

“That's the way you'll do it today.”

Watts was no longer sure he wanted this job. “Won't the Provost Marshall complain? It's his job to catch spies and criminals. I'm just an ex-Sergeant, busted back to cook.”

Anger was drawing blood to the Captain's face. “The Provost Marshall's men are all busy,” he shouted, spraying a bit of spittle. “Too many prisoners, skulkers, deserters. I want you to hang this spy and recover that cipher disk. Now get moving!”

"All right, Captain,” Watts said. “Put guards on the door and let nobody in this house, and I'll go. But if I do this, will I get my stripes back?”

Captain Murdock started to swell with rage and the force of his reply.

"On our way, Captain," Sergeant Meigs said, and pulled Watts through the door into the night.

2.

Watts signaled a halt on a small hillock, and surveyed Two Taverns by moonlight. Meigs halted nearby, his horse nickering and pawing, unhappy with this hard ride on a hot night.

One dirt road bisected by a rail line, with twenty darkened buildings clustered at the intersection. Lamplight glowed from the distant rail station. All was still. A dog padded across the dirt road on its nightly rounds. A porch swing squeaked on its chain at the passing of a slight breeze. Were southern spies alert and waiting in this silent town? If he had more men, Watts would have sealed off both ends of town and taken the rail station before searching the town. As it was, better for the two men to stick close together and try for surprise.

"Let's see if we can catch the skunk at home," Watts said quietly.

They tethered their horses at the rail outside a darkened tavern, and drew their carbines from the saddle holsters. Meigs led the way quietly down the center of the dirt road toward Doc Hastings' house. Watts limped behind, carbine at the ready.

Near the house, Watts signaled for Meigs to wait and provide cover. Watts walked onward, toward a window on the side of the house that danced with dim light as from a single flickering candle.

Watts stilled his breathing, limped quietly to the open window and tried to peer through the gauze curtain, but could make out nothing. He gently moved the curtains apart for a better view.

A metallic clack echoed in the room, unmistakable to a soldier -- the latching of a weapon hammer pulled back to full cock.

Not again. Watts ducked, too late. Flash, explosion, impact, like being struck square in the forehead by a hurled baseball.

Watts fell backward into the grass.

----again in front of his men, advancing through the cornfield near Antietam Creek. Sounds of whirring insects, and boots trampling through crackling cornstalks. Bright Pennsylvania morning sun gleaming on the white Church nearby. Greybacks ahead, waiting, protected by a low stone wall. Sudden eruption of smoke from a thousand guns. Men crumpling, melting away, falling by the hundreds. Pushing on into the metal hail, grim, determined, terrified. The sound of the gunnery like a giant tearing sheet. Impact in the knee, like being struck full force by a brickbat. Spinning to the ground, sinking, falling. Lying in the trampled corn among the blue clad dead, in the center of a universe of battle, which goes on and on forever----

Watts opened his eyes, squinting into lamplight, and found himself lying on a couch. Sergeant Meigs leaned over him, concern etching his face.

"Glad to see you've finished your nap," Meigs said.

Watts struggled to rise, but the Sergeant pushed him back.

"Rest a bit more. I've searched the house and the Doc ain't here."

Watts felt his forehead. A small groove dented the skin. His fingers came away with a smear of blood.

The Sergeant held up a small lead ball, twenty-five caliber. "Doc's wife shot you, but she had a bad load of damp powder. Ball knocked you off your feet, but did little else. Except now, you got a dimple in your head to match the one in your chin. Gives you kind of a balanced look, I'd say."

"Get her in here. I want to question her."

"Already did. She thought you were breaking in, a Reb or a bummer, and since the war started she's kept a loaded pistol at hand when her husband is out. The Doc left about ten minutes before we got here. Wife doesn't know where he went, or won't say."

A huffing, mechanical noise broke the stillness of the night.

Meigs parted the curtain and looked out. "Train in the station is getting up steam. Looks about ready to leave."

Watts sat up and took a few deep breaths to clear his head. “Well, they're not paying me twelve bucks a month to lie here. Let's get over to the station. We might catch this skunk yet." Watts staggered a bit on his way to the door. “Maybe we better ride.”

Watts and Meigs retrieved their horses and approached the train station at a slow trot. Watts provided cover with his carbine while Meigs kicked open the station house door. Meigs ducked inside, then exited shaking his head. Empty.

A freight train had unloaded powder and shot, and now built steam in preparation for the run back east. The engine boiler popped and groaned from heat expansion, the air smelled of burning sulphurous coal. Behind the engine stretched a short run of freight cars. A white-haired ancient railman, his overalls bagging scarecrow-like on his desiccated body, tottered arthritically along the line of freight cars, checking the brake boxes. The old man continued working despite the sudden appearance of the soldiers. Soldiers were no longer a novelty.

Watts motioned for Meigs to check the engine cabin, and then walked his horse along the tracks, glancing in every freight car, finding them empty.

The old man bent low to check a brake box. He gave a start, and bent further to peer under the train. "Is ye dead?" he hollered, his high-pitched voice like screeching brakes.

Watts spurred toward the old man, dropped to the ground to look under the train car, and spotted a pair of running legs. Got him. "He's out the other side!" Watts shouted.

Watts jumped into the saddle and kicked his horse to a gallop. He rounded the train and saw the doctor in full sprint, satchel in hand and long coat flapping behind. The doc disappeared from the diffuse light of the coal fire into the darkness. Watts galloped after him, shouting for Meigs to follow.

Watts closed on the sprinting Doctor, but the man suddenly disappeared into the darkness as if swallowed up by the earth. Watts felt the horse gather itself to leap, and was in midair before he realized the horse had jumped to avoid crashing into a creek ditch. The horse landed on the far bank, skidding, with Watts clinging desperately to remain in the saddle. Watts regained control, and headed the horse back around. The Doc was nowhere in sight.

Watts trotted back to the creek ditch. He reached the bank and spotted the Doc a few feet away, crouched in the dry creek bed, with an object clutched in his hand; a four shot, nickel-plated derringer.

No time to draw his carbine. Watts hunkered down on his mount to afford less of a target, and spurred his horse to leap into the dry creek straight at the Doc.

The Doc tossed the derringer away without firing and jumped aside to avoid being trampled.

Now Watts drew his weapon from the saddle holster. The Doc had regained his footing and was trying to flee again. Watts spurred his horse, passed the Doc at a gallop, and clubbed him to the ground with his carbine stock.

Watts dismounted. The Doc lay on the ground, eyes closed and his legs jerking, semiconscious but still trying to flee. Watts grabbed him by the collar and was slapping him awake as Meigs rode up.

"That fella take running lessons at Manassas ?" Meigs said, dismounting with a rope.

Doc Hastings struggled awake. Seeing soldiers bearing rope, he started to sob.

Watts grunted in disgust and threw the man to the ground.

"Oh God, now you'll hang me sure. . ." Doc Hastings said. He buried his face in his hands.

The soldiers tied Doc Hastings' hands and led him away, the soldiers riding and the Doc on foot.

The Doc cried all the way back to town.

3.

Lamplight now poured into the street from the open doors of Doc Hastings' house. Two neighbors standing in the shadows gaped at the sight as Watts and Meigs tethered their mounts to the fence posts and dragged the bound Doc Hastings inside.

Watts grabbed the Doc and flung him toward Meigs. "Tie him to a chair in the center of the parlor. I'll question him there."

Watts collected several oil lamps, brought them into the parlor, and turned the wicks high. He stirred the fire and, in spite of the warmth of the night, piled on several logs. He said to Meigs, "Give me your pistol. Find the wife, but keep her out of earshot until I summon you."

Watts strode into the parlor and slammed the door. The Doc watched warily, a tiny muscle next to his left eye twitching. Watts slowly rotated the handgun cylinder, checking the packing. Then he walked slowly, and stood directly behind the Doctor.

Doc Hastings twisted around, looking over his shoulder, trying to glimpse the blow before it landed. Lank hair, darkened with sweat, hung in the Doc's eyes.

Watts slowly pulled the pistol hammer to half cock. Hastings flinched at the clack of the mechanism. Watts pulled it back to full cock, and said, "Hope these are not the defective percussion caps that go off prematurely. I almost shot my horse this morning, by accident."

Hastings swallowed, his throat raspy and dry. "Private, if there's any mercy in you," he said, "you'll let me have a whiskey.”

"Doctor, you'll have your next whiskey in hell, if you don't give me that cipher disk.”

"What? What are you talking about? Cipher what?”

Watts circled the chair, and let the Doc stare down the pistol barrel. "Time is too short to play stupid. Two disks that twist around their center, with letters and numbers around the edges. A decoder about the size of your hand. Stealing it means espionage, which is a capital crime. You killed the Major, broke open his lockbox, and took his cipher disk to sell to the Greybacks. Give it back to me now, and you might escape with your life."

Hastings licked his lips, dry and bloodless. "Who's playing stupid? You believe me a spy, right? You'll hang me, cipher disk or no."

Watts mover closer to glower down at the seated Doctor. "We have fought this battle for two days, and I don't know if we are winning or losing, but if the enemy gets our cipher disk, they'll read our signal flags and slaughter us tomorrow. I have seen enough dead men to last me a lifetime. I mean to have that cipher disk back, and right now, too."

"Private, I want those soldiers to live as much as you. You have to find who really has that cipher disk. Because as the Lord is my witness, I'm an innocent man."

Watts snorted in disgust. "I was a Pinkerton detective in Chicago . I have caught thieves, swindlers, and murderers. Most of them claimed they were innocent, too."

"Well I might be your only innocent man, and you're going to hang me without benefit of trial. Where is the justice in that? I've done nothing wrong, unless marrying badly is a crime." Doc Hastings spat on the floor, the words bitter in his mouth.

Watts opened his mouth as if to bark an order, but hesitated. He turned his back on the doctor and paced slowly over to the fire. He eased down the pistol hammer, placed the weapon on the mantle, turned toward the Doctor and spoke slowly.

"Doctor, war has its own breed of swift justice. Make no mistake, I am judge and jury here. This is the only chance you are going to get to speak, so answer quickly and honestly. Understand?"

The doctor swallowed, hard and raspy. He nodded.

"Did you see Major McVay at the signal house tonight?"

"I did."

"What time?"

"Shortly after eight."

"Why did you go there?"

The doctor shifted in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position. "I was . . . warning the man away from my wife.”

"Your wife?"

The doctor looked at the ground, like a shamed child. "The man was... seeing my wife."

"Where did they meet? Here at the house?"

"I believe so, when I was away on calls. Also at that signal house."

"So you killed the man in a matter of honor."

"No! I never killed the man! We had words, yes, but he was alive when I left."

"The guard at the signal house says the last man to enter that place was you. How do you explain that?"

"I can't. But I'm telling you, the Major was alive when I left."

Watts pondered a moment. To hell with the Captain's orders, he would investigate properly.

"Well, if we are going to test the truth of what you say, I suppose we better question your wife.” Watts paused, expecting the doctor to object, but he remained silent and sullen. "Your accent tells me you were raised below the Mason-Dixon. Is your wife a Southron too?"

"You'll find my wife to have the airs of a Charleston lady. It is pure female artifice. I took her for a wife in Indiana, a hog farmer for a Daddy."

Watts opened the door and shouted for Meigs. "Bring the lady in."

She swept into the room with smiling assurance on the arm of the Meigs, who had grown unused to female company and now grinned like a schoolboy. "Mrs. Hastings," Meigs announced.

A stunning beauty with a flawless complexion and striking auburn hair, Mrs. Hastings appeared unaffected by the late hour and hectic events of the evening. Clearly she was putting on a front, but she was very good at this, Watts thought. He felt Mrs. Hastings lock her gaze on him, her eyes alive with availability and challenge. Very good, indeed.

Watts frowned at her, broke eye contact and turned to Meigs. "Search this place. Look for any indication someone in this house was communicating with the enemy. Bring me maps, letters, any strange scribbling you find.”

"Will do," Meigs said. "You know, she looks like a lady, but she knows some fine cuss words. She can break the third commandment even better'n me daddy, and he was the cussing champ of Donegal."

Mrs. Hastings looked at the bound Doctor, and smiled sweetly. "Goodness,” she said, “what has my silly drunk of a husband happened into now?"

"What has your whoring driven me to, you mean!" Doc Hastings shouted, trying to leap out of his chair against his restraints.

"You must forgive my husband, sir," Mrs. Hastings said. "He is a man of pronounced weaknesses, including an overly developed taste for whiskey.”

"And you've got an overly developed taste for..."

"Quiet!" Watts shouted, palm in the air like a prophet calling down doom from the heavens. "The only talking in this room will be in reply to a direct question from me. Now, Mrs. Hastings, answer directly and forget the delicacies. Were you in the habit of visiting Major McVay?"

"Why, whatever could you mean?" she replied.

"Did a relationship exist between yourself and Major McVay, of the Signal Corps?"

"I'm sure that I find the word relationship a puzzling one, Captain. Could you be referring to a distant kinship?"

Watts walked to her slowly close, invading her space, nearly stepping on her toes. "Good Lord, woman, your husband's life is at stake her. Answer the question."

Mrs. Hastings stepped back and folded her arms across her chest. "The question is not fitting. I think I shall not."

"All right, I will set aside for a moment the question of horizontal refreshments. When was the last time you saw the man?"

"This night, about nine o'clock."

This startled Watts a bit, which he covered by fishing a pencil from his pocket and scribbling notes. "You were at the signal house at nine? Didn't you find the Major dead?"

"I found the Major most delightfully alive, and alive he was when I left."

Hooves clattered to a halt outside, interrupting Watts ' next question. A young aide stomped into the room. "Message for Private Watts from Captain Murdock," the aide said.

"Speak it.”

The aide glanced at the Doctor. "The Captain believes you have had sufficient time to capture Doctor Hastings. You are to hang him immediately, and return to your company. We have been ordered to the front lines by dawn, to prepare to meet the rebels if they renew their attack.”

Doctor Hastings slumped forward in his chair, his face going grey.

Watts frowned deeply. He'd see the Captain in hell before he hung a man based on this scanty and conflicting evidence. “Tell the Captain I find it necessary to return with the Doctor to the Signal house. Ask the Captain to meet us there.

The aide stepped back, slightly shocked at anything less than complete obedience to orders. He turned and walked stiffly out of the parlor.

Meigs walked in as the aide departed. "I heard him. I already told our boys we'd likely be ordered up today. They will be prepared. I finished searching these diggings, found nothing spy-like.”

"I saw a carriage out back. Could you get the horse harnessed? Take the lady with you."

Meigs guided the loudly protesting woman out the door.

Watts stood alone in the parlor with Doc Hastings. He untied the doctor, who remained slumped in the chair, exhausted. Watts poured a jigger of whiskey from the bottle on the sideboard, and handed it to him.

Hastings downed it in a swallow, nodded his thanks, and set the jigger on the floor next to the chair.

Watts spoke. "When I chased you tonight, over by the dry creek bed, you had a good bead on me with that derringer. Why didn't you shoot?"

Hastings frowned wanly, and considered the question. "Well, maybe I'm not a great doctor, but I guess killing still runs against my grain.”

Watts nodded. "I see. Well, let's go take another look at that Signal house."

4.

Watts led the way west, back towards Gettysburg . Mrs. Hastings and the Doctor bickered constantly as the carriage bounced along the rutted roads. Sergeant Meigs, following closely with his carbine ready, gradually allowed the gap to widen between his mount and the carriage, so he would not have to listen.

They left the dirt road frequently, allowing clattering wagons and caissons to hurry toward Gettysburg . Ambulance wagons moved more slowly in the opposite direction, carrying wounded men toward hospitals in the East.

The morning wore on, growing even muggier. Faint pulses in the air became palpable, which the soldiers knew were explosions just beyond range of hearing. The bickering couple broke off and listened.

They heard the sound of the cannon fire first, like a brewing thunderstorm on the far horizon, then the pattering of skirmishers trading musket fire. The firing crescendoed as the infantry joined in.

Mrs. Hastings began to whine about approaching any closer to the battle. But as they drew closer to Gettysburg , the firing slowed, and by mid-morning it died completely. Sergeant Meigs said, "Reckon we missed all the fun."

Noon had passed when they arrived at the signal house. Two soldiers guarded the door, while Spofford sat on the porch, flushed and angry.

"Anybody been inside?" Watts asked.

"These bums wouldn't even let me in," Spofford said, his voice angry and petulant. "I need to get more wigwags up on the Round Top, and they won't let me in to fetch them."

"You men can hoof-it back to your unit," Sergeant Meigs said to the guards, who departed slowly, having preferred duty that kept them off the front lines. "Don't worry boys," Meigs shouted after them. "Fighting's over I expect. It's too hot, too humid, and everyone's too tired to fight more today."

"Everybody inside," Watts said. "You too, Spofford, I've got some questions for you."

"No time, they need me back at the line. Don't take orders from Privates anyway.” Spofford started to walk away.

Sergeant Meigs blocked his way. "Inside, Spofford. And consider it an order from me."

Spofford poked an insolent finger into Meigs' chest. “You ought to be ashamed, a Sergeant taking direction from Private Watts the way you do.”

“Well, our ranks used to be reversed, and it got to be a habit,” Meigs said. “Get in the house, or you'll be looking for a splint.”

Inside, Watts started on Spofford. "You lied to me, Spofford. You told me the last man here was Doctor Hastings. How come you didn't mention Mrs. Hastings arrived an hour later?"

Spofford grinned, exposing tobacco stained teeth. "When you work for Major McVay, you learn real quick not to take too much notice of the coming and goings of his lady friends."

"It didn't occur to you that fact might save an innocent man from the noose? Tell me what you heard, and take care to leave nothing out."

"Not much to tell. I was in the cellar, and could hear them talking. Knew the woman from the tone of her voice, but could not make out the words. Then there was them bedspring noises. Eek-eek. A bit later, I heard the door slam as she left. Now that I think upon it, must have been her that killed the Major. What's the word for a lady spy? Spyess?"

Mrs. Hastings tried to maintain her poise, but she had paled at this turn in questioning. "As the Lord is my witness," Mrs. Hastings said, "the Major was alive when I left."

Watts pointed toward the back office. "Time to do what we should have done at the start. Everyone into the back office, we are going to examine the scene. But touch nothing!"

"Is . . . are the . . . remains still there?" Mrs. Hastings asked.

Watts snorted. " Gettysburg is no place to be afraid of dead men, today." He led the way back.

Someone had covered the Major with an oilcloth, but he remained where he fell. Watts whipped the oilcloth aside. He knelt, and peered at the blade imbedded in the Major's throat. He examined the wound closely, then swiftly pulled the blade free.

"Bayonet, Springfield issue," Watts said, holding up the long, blood guttered blade. "You think a woman could stab her lover in the throat with that, Spofford?"

"Known some mighty mean women in my day," Spofford said. "And who knows what a women spy would do? I've heard some of the worst spies ever hung were women."

Watts spoke to Mrs. Hastings. "Did you see this bayonet when you were here with the Major?"

"Well, I don't know if it was that exact bayonet, probably fifty thousand of them in town. But the Major did have one stuck in the desktop. He was using it as a candleholder."

Watts took the bayonet and drove the tip into the desktop. He looked around for a candle, and found a stub on the floor. He pushed the candle stub into the bayonet ring intended for the gun barrel.

"Makes a fine candle holder. Now, the Major was stabbed when he stepped into the room, so his killer was already in the room, standing by the desk."

Watts placed himself by the desk, pantomiming as he spoke. "Killer stands alone in the room by the desk, breaking open the lock box. Major McVay enters, surprising the spy. Spy grabs the bayonet from the desk and stabs the Major." Watts snatched the bayonet, toppling the candle stub onto the floor, and pantomimed the short brutal attack.

Watts looked at the toppled candle. "It was well after dark. The candle would have developed a goodly pool of melted wax. The hot wax would have spattered and burned. Doctor Hastings, may I see your arms?"

The Doctor had already rolled up his sleeves, against the stifling heat and humidity. He held his arms out, palms up, which Watts examined closely, finding no burns.

Watts looked at Mrs. Hastings who, without being asked, quickly rolled up her light blouse sleeves and held out her arms for inspection. “No burns,” Watts observed.

Captain Murdock suddenly stomped in, flushed and angry, blocking the door toward which Spofford had been edging. The Captain bellowed, " Watts , I gave an order. Why is that spy not at the end of a rope."

Watts ignored him. "Show me your arms, Spofford."

The room went silent. The whirring of locusts from the nearby trees drifted in through the open window. Spofford concealed his hands in his pockets, and made no move to show his arms.

Watts started toward Spofford, his walk heavy with intent.

A single cannon shot broke the silence, then another. Everyone in the room stopped to listen. Then a terrible cacophony, as if every cannon in the world had opened up and fired at will.

A corner of the room exploded in a crash of splintering wood, and blazing sunlight flooded the room.

5.

The concussion threw Watts to the floor, where plaster and lath from the shattered walls pattered as it fell around him. Cannon strike, Watts knew instinctively. Probably a rifled gun overshot, a quartermaster killer.

Watts flexed his hands and feet, found them still working, and patted himself quickly but found no bleeding injury. Mrs. Hastings started screaming, and Watts peered through the settling dust to see her clinging to the Doc, both looking terrified but unhurt. Watts looked around for the others, and swore loudly. Captain Murdock had taken a large splinter through the thigh and lay on the floor bleeding badly; Meigs knelt beside him, applying compression to keep the Captain from bleeding to death. Meigs himself bled from a wound in the shoulder.

Spofford had disappeared in the chaos.

Watts limped to Meigs' side and examined him. Meigs' shoulder seeped blood, but the wound did not appear mortal.

“Did you see Spofford?” Watts asked.

“Jumped through the new doorway that cannonball made,” Meigs said, grimacing in pain.

Watts limped to Doc Hastings, pulled Mrs. Hastings off him, and shook the Doc hard. “Get your wits about you!” he shouted. “We have two injured men here, who need your help. Understand?”

Doc Hastings nodded. Watts pushed the Doc toward the wounded men, limped to the ruined section of farmhouse wall, and jumped through in pursuit.

The previous heat-drenched torpor had been transformed in a few short moments into riotous activity. Men ran in all directions; some to rejoin their units, some for better shelter, some for the rear and safety. Solid shot from the rebel cannons threw geysers of rich soil as they punched into the fields. Exploding shells burst in the air like fireworks, all brilliance and smoke, spitting fragments that whistled and whirred. Watts peered toward the distant firing lines, and saw rebel shells passing well over the heads of the thousands of Union soldiers defending the ridge. The Reb gunners were overshooting again. The Union cannoneers answered with counter battery fire, their guns gouting smoke that grew denser by the second. The sound from the heavy cannonading coalesced into a continuous thunder; Watts could see the muzzle flashes, but could not make out the sound of any single cannon over the deafening roar.

A cannonball struck twenty yards away, showering Watts with chunks of turf. The rebel batteries may have been overshooting the battle lines, but they were thoroughly pounding Watts ' position in the Union rear. Better move, and quickly. Watts limped to the front of the house, only to find the carriage smashed to kindling by a cannonball, and their horses sprawled dead on the ground.

The battle lay to the east of Watt's position. The army's wagons were parked in the field to the west. Companies of soldiers, until now spared the fierce battles of the previous days by the light duty of guarding the wagons, were ramming musket bullets and running to defensive positions. Drovers were yoking mule teams, preparing to haul the wagons in hasty retreat, as the Union Army had retreated many times before. The wagons were parked in long rows, and Watts could see soldiers scrambling for cover behind and under the wagons. That is where Spofford would hide. Watts ran toward the wagons as fast as his bum knee would allow, achieving only a limping, hopping gait.

Watts reached the wagon park and scanned the rows quickly. Nearly fifty in the first two rows alone, the canvas covered wagons were a rabbit warren of places to hide. In their military sameness no wagon appeared more inviting than others as a hiding place, so Watts started on the nearest. He dropped to the ground and looked underneath, and saw only a young frightened soldier taking cover. Watts limped the rear of the wagon and pushed aside the canvas flap, saw only piles of knapsacks, probably belonging to some regiment now on the battle line. The soldier hiding under the wagon, no doubt detailed as guard, shouted something in protest, but his words were lost in the din from the cannonade. Watts shouted back, trying to convince the soldier to help him search for a spy, but he could not make the boy understand, and Watts continued alone.

Watts limped between the wagon rows, searching the loads. He searched among the baggage, between the crates of powder, boxes of shells, cartons of hardtack and barrels of flour. He saw soldiers, some nervously performing their guard duties, some skulking from their duties on the firing line, but not Spofford. Some of the guards shouted protests when Watts searched nearby wagons, but did not interfere when Watts moved quickly on.

Watts finished searching the first two rows of wagons; he counted twenty more rows ahead. Too many. Watts massaged his aching knee a moment, then continued his search, faster now.

Watts had worked halfway down the next wagon row when he heard a guard behind him say “Take anything from that wagon, son, and I'll have to shoot you.”

He could hear the guard; the cannonade must be slacking off. He turned to see an old soldier of about fifty years who, while calm and serious, clearly had not prepared his musket to shoot Watts .

Watts explained to the old guard that he was in an urgent search for a suspected spy and asked for the old guard's help. While he spoke, the cannon fire died away completely.

Watts looked to the east, and could see the Union soldiers on the battle line breaking cover, rising from where they had hugged the earth to avoid the murderous cannon shells, forming into blue lines that stretched into the distance, from the rocky hills to the cemetery and beyond, as far as eyes could see through the dust and smoke.

Soldiers were breaking cover around the wagon trains as well. Nearby officers had sensed the impending infantry attack, and were shouting orders to bring up more mules.

“Won't be long now, Rebs will be coming hard,” the guard said, with the calmness of an old man who had seen most everything the world could offer.

“Will you help me find this damn spy?” Watts asked.

“Can't help you, son. We have to get these wagons hitched up, fast. The Rebs may break that line, and likely we will have to skedaddle to keep from losing everything. But I'll pass the word about your business, so no one will think you're looting.”

Watts thanked him, and continued down the wagon rows, flipping aside canvas covers, searching rapidly, moving on.

Soldiers rushed by leading mule teams, kicking up a thick and choking dust. Watts heard coughing coming from the wagon just ahead. Watts rushed to the back of the wagon and flipped aside the canvas; a soldier leapt from the front of the wagon and fled. Watts had not seen the soldier's face, but instantly recognized the lank blonde hair and knew that he had rooted out Spofford.

Watts circled the wagon and saw Spofford running, threading his way between soldiers leading and hitching mule teams. Watts shouted to the soldiers to stop him, but the soldiers reacted too slowly; Spofford escaped from the wagon park and headed across a wheat field in the only direction open to him, toward the distant Union battle line.

By the time Watts limped to the edge of the wheat field and primed his handgun, Spofford had escaped beyond pistol range. Watts limped in pursuit but found the field pocked with cannon shell craters, which he skirted around, knowing his knee would not survive any more jumping. Spofford was now far ahead, leaping easily over the shell craters, and opening up the distance between them.

Watts swore. He returned to the wagon park as fast as he could, and quickly found the old guard leading a team of four mules.

“I need a horse, quick!” Watts shouted.

The old guard shook his head. “Got no horses, son. Cavalry's got ‘em all. Got some good mules, though.”

Watts looked at the mules, frowning. Typical army mules, slow and dumb, but sinewy and tough.

“Give me one I can ride,” Watts said.

The old guard snorted. “Hell, I'll give you one. As far as riding, well, good luck son.”

The mule had only a hitching collar, no saddle or bridle. Watts swung up bareback, and took the mule by the ears. He kicked the mule into a slow trot, cursed the beast for its slowness, and steered with knee pressure and ear twisting across the blasted fields toward the battle lines, in pursuit of Spofford.

Watts scanned the battlefield rear as he crossed the cratered wheat, but Spofford was nowhere in sight. He passed the field hospital, and stopped to survey the mob of wounded men waiting their turn outside the surgeon's tents, but Spofford was not hiding among them. He rode past several regiments of blue-coated infantry, a reserve force standing at the ready for their turn in battle, Pennsylvania men, grim and nervous. Watts peered closely at the ranks of waiting soldiers, but still he did not see Spofford.

“Get off that mule,” one of the reserve soldiers shouted at Watts . “You're mounted like some damn fool officer, and there are sharpshooters ahead.”

“Can't walk, so got to ride!” Watts shouted back, and a few of the soldiers cheered.

The booming of cannons again began to roll began across the battlefield, and Watts knew the rebel infantry charge had begun.

The ineffective rebel bombardment had destroyed few the Union cannon batteries, and the concussions of the Union cannon rattled Watt's clothes as the gunners fired exploding shells toward the advancing rebels. Watts ' view was blocked by the Union lines and could not see the rebel charge coming, but he sensed the charge was massive; the Union soldiers had strained forward to pack the battle line tightly, massing their guns to meet the enemy. The Union soldiers held their fire, waiting for the rebels to approach within perfect musket range, and for their officers to give the order.

The order sounded, and the Union infantry opened up as one, the gunfire merging into a sound like the tearing of some giant celestial sheet. The cannon fire took on a ripping quality as the gunners switched from exploding shells to case shot, which shredded upon leaving the cannon barrel, hurling a swath of lead balls into the attacking rebels.

Watts had never seen a more massive or furious battle; men firing, officers shouting, smoke rolling, runners bringing ammunition to the front, wounded men moving to the rear. Watts cursed and fought off his deep desire to take up a musket and help his side win, but he had other duties this day.

An hour had passed since Watts had last seen Spofford. The traitor could not have passed through the Union lines, not with this battle raging. Likely, he had hidden himself among the soldiers on the battle line, one blue clad traitor among a hundred thousand patriots. Watts rode slowly along the battle line, searching for the weasel thin man with dirty blonde hair.

The firing reached a new crescendo. Watts halted his mount on a small rise, and from this vantage saw that the Confederate infantry had consolidated into a mass attack on the center of the Union line, a bare hundred yards to the left of Watts 's position. The Union men held for a moment. Then blue-coated soldiers began to trickle toward the rear. Now more men were running for the rear, and Watts watched horrified as the trickle became a torrent.

Watts kicked the mule into faster motion, riding toward the rupture in the Union lines. He could hear the Confederates cheering now, sensing victory. Watts scanned the ground, looking for a musket to take up, desperate to throw himself into the breech to help stem the looming disastrous collapse.

More cheers erupted, Union men this time. New ranks of reserved men, fresh Pennsylvania troops, had countercharged and were driving back the now outnumbered Confederates.

And then Watts spotted the skinny, yellow haired soldier. Spofford must have hidden himself among the reserve Pennsylvania troops, and now surged forward with them. Watts felt a rush of energy. He had the traitor now, there could be no escape. Watts was kicking the mule forward when the Pennsylvania men, Spofford among them, collided with the attacking Confederates. The orderly ranks collapsed and disintegrated into desperate knots of hand-to-hand fighting.

Watts kicked the mule again, but could only achieve a slow trot as he threaded his way through the battle chaos toward Spofford. A spent musket ball nickered by, passing just over the head of his mount. Watts felt the mule shy and rear beneath him, lost his sweaty grip, and impacted the ground with the flat of his back, the air whooshing from his lungs. Watts regained his feet, struggled to suck wind into his lungs, and saw the mule fleeing at a gallop. Watts cursed. The mule had never shown such talent for speed when Watts was riding him.

Watts had lost sight of Spofford, but he had to be somewhere in the chaotic fighting near the low stone wall. Watts limped toward the front lines, scanning the blue clad soldiers as he went.

More cheering broke out among the union soldiers, and Watts realized the Confederates had broken off their attack, and were beginning to retreat across the bloody and littered battlefield.

And then Watts spotted the traitor again. Spofford had shed his blue tunic and now wore only his dirty undershirt, blending in with the irregular uniforms of the Confederates. Spofford had switched sides, a turncoat Confederate, and was retreating with them. Watts cursed. Spofford was nearly out of reach.

Watts halted at the very front of the Union battle lines, where many Union soldiers were firing at the retreating Confederates. Moving forward in pursuit of Spofford meant either death by friendly fire or certain capture by the Confederates. Watts glared at Spofford fifty yards ahead, beyond capture and retreating fast.

Watts searched the ground around, and grabbed up a discarded musket. A live copper percussion cap glinted from the firing nipple. Watts thumbed the hammer to full cock, aimed at Spofford, and fired. When the smoke cleared, he saw Spofford, unwounded and still retreating. The musket ball had missed.

Perhaps Spofford heard the bullet whistle past his ear, for he turned for a moment, and his face creased with a grin as he recognized Watts . Spofford mocked Watts with an obscene gesture, and continued retreating with the rebels.

Watts cursed again, and searched the ground for another unfired musket. But the men on the ground nearby were a cannon crew, killed when overrun by the rebel attack, and they were armed with barrel rammers and swabs, not muskets.

Then Watts saw the unmanned cannon.

A friction primer protruded from the cannon touchhole, lanyard still attached and ready for firing. Watts stepped to the rear of the cannon, and found it aimed about five degrees to the right of Spofford's position. He heaved hard on the trail handspike, and corrected the cannon's aim. Watts limped to the left of the cannon, so as not to be crushed by the recoil. He grabbed the lanyard and yanked it back sharply, igniting the friction primer and touching off the main charge.

The cannon boomed and recoiled as the double load of canister exploded from the barrel, hurling iron shrapnel and lead balls, scything all life before it.

6.

The Confederate army retreated out of range and the Union infantry ceased fire. Soldiers in blue cheered, shouted, laughed, and waved their flags and hats, intoxicated with their victory after many long months of bitter defeat.

Watts liberated a mule from a wrecked caisson and rode forward from the lines. He rode slowly, letting the mule pick its footing carefully among the dead and wounded men. He spoke softly to the wounded men he passed, told them not to worry, the ambulances would be up soon, they would be well.

He found Spofford sprawled on the ground, pierced a dozen times by the canister shot, dead as Caesar. Watts dismounted, searched the body, and found the stolen cipher disk hidden in Spofford's shirt. Then he stood for a moment, breathed in the freshening air as the battle smoke dissipated on the afternoon breeze, and enjoyed for a moment his own private victory.

Watts had finished tying Spofford's body across the back of his mule when a cavalry Major reined to a halt nearby.

“Friend of yours?” the cavalry Major asked.

“Hardly,” Watts replied. “I'm taking this traitor somewhere lonely to bury, so these brave men lying hereabouts won't spend eternity with the likes of him.”

“My colonel noticed you sat that mule well during the battle. Have you served as a cavalryman?”

“Do you know any self-respecting cavalrymen who ride mules? I'm with the Illinois 20 th Infantry.”

“I know the 20 th , good skirmishers. That your specialty?”

“It was, before I took a ball to the knee. I want a combat assignment, but I can't march too well. I'm on special detached duty today. But usually I'm a cook.”

The Major snorted in disgust. “Oh, you're much too good a rider for that. My Colonel wants to know if you would accept a transfer to the cavalry.”

“As cook?”

“No, Dogrobber, we have plenty of those. We've suffered the depletion of our effective men though, and we need good horse soldiers.”

“Well, Mother raised no cooks. I have sorely wanted to get back to proper soldiering. Let me get this traitor into a rocky grave, and I'll come find you to sign the papers.”

The Major instructed Watts on where to find his unit, and turned his horse to leave.

“One more thing,” Watts called, pointing to his bare tunic sleeve. “Will I be having my Sergeant's stripes back?”

“Well Dogrobber, come by later and we'll see what my Colonel can arrange,” the Major said, and rode away.