Near Enough to Home pt. 3

[Concluding the short story "Near Enough to Home"]

You can say this much for being tied up, Sanderson thought. At least I didn't have to haul that thing down to the river. The boat was a big, ugly, flat-bottomed thing that must have weighed nearly a thousand pounds. It didn't look like something that should be used on a river in flood.

Across the Ohio and downstream a little were the ramshackle docks and warehouses of Cairo, the Illinois town from which the Federals had launched their futile attempt at keeping western Kentucky in the Union. Further west, and rendered invisible by the low cloud and haze that persisted though the rain had stopped, was Thompson, on the Canadian side of the Mississippi just south of its confluence with the Ohio. Sanderson thought again about is chances for getting back there. They hadn't improved, he decided. In fact, they were probably worse, since his captors could easily decide to turn him over to the Federal authorities across the Ohio. With no one to vouch for his mission, he'd be all too easily condemned as a spy. And me not a single step closer to finding Scott.

"I suppose this is where we say good-bye," the sergeant said to him. For one brief moment Sanderson hoped he was going to be released. But as soon as he thought it, he knew the hope was misplaced. The deserters had decided they didn't need him any more, that's all.

"I see you've decided to let him go," the colonel said. He'd been seated on a large rock while the deserters tried to maneuver the boat alongside in such a way that he wouldn't have to be carried far.

"And what makes you think that?" the sergeant asked. He drew the massive Colt from its holster.

"You still need me if you're to avoid punishment once we're across the river," the colonel said. "And I'm not crossing without this man."

"With a mind like that it's no wonder we're losing," the sergeant said, to tired laughter from the others. "What makes you think we're going back to Illinois? I'm thinking we'll just cross all the way over, to that fine Canadian frontier we've all heard so much about. Arkansas is near enough to home for my tastes." The sergeant sneered at Sanderson. "By rights it should've been ours anyway, if you English hadn't stolen it from us."

"I don't recall the Louisiana Territory being yours to claim," Sanderson said. "As I've read it, it was the French and the Spanish the British took it from."

"Should have been ours. If that bastard Jefferson had've been quicker with his wits when Bonaparte died, we'd have drove you English right off this continent." The sergeant cocked the pistol.

Sanderson knew he should be calm, should be agreeing with this idiot, anything to keep the man occupied, to keep him from getting angrier. But Sanderson didn't care anymore. If I'm going to die, he decided, I'm going down fighting. "It seems to me," he said, flexing his wrists behind him, "that you Americans already tried that once. Nelson and Wellington whipped you forty years ago, and I haven't seen anything in you to make me think we should be worried now."

"It seems to me," the sergeant said, "that I've put up with your damned smug superiority long enough."

"Don't do something you'll regret," the colonel said from his rock. He tried but failed to stand up. "If you're determined to go to Canada you still need this man. Don't go making a mistake when you're so close to getting what you want."

"What I want is not to hear anything more from you," the sergeant said. He spat decisively. "Don't think I don't know you, colonel. I know you, all right. I made the mistake of voting for you six years ago. This," he said to Sanderson, "is one of the political geniuses who got us into this mess that you're so superior about. Went to Congress talking about preserving the Union, and what did he do? Voted against annexing Texas. Voted to condemn the men who tried to filibuster Cuba into the Union. We couldn't get him out of Washington fast enough. And now he's pleading for your life? You picked a poor lawyer, Englishman."

I'm tired of you, Sanderson thought. He said nothing, though. Instead he forced his wrists apart with all the strength in him. After a second's hesitation the frayed cord snapped. Sanderson thrust his right hand through the vent in the back of his duster and into the holder under his shirt. He drew the Currie.

"You son of a bitch," the sergeant said. As Sanderson aimed at his belly, the sergeant smiled crookedly. "Go to hell," he said, and pulled the trigger.

The Colt exploded like the First of July.

The sergeant stared, shocked into silence, at the bloody wreckage of his hand. He was still staring, still silent, when a musket ball spattered his brains across the stones at the river's edge.

Sanderson jumped backward as the sergeant's body topped and fell. What the hell happened? I didn't pull the trigger.

"Drop the weapon, sir."

Sanderson looked up. At the top of the bank a confederate soldier reloaded a smoking musket. Beside the soldier, a white-clad officer pointed at Sanderson.

"Captain Stewart," Sanderson said. "It's about time."

* * * *

"Might I ask why you've taken my pistol?" Sanderson hadn't protested at first, but now that the surviving deserters had been chained together and were being marched up the bank he was becoming worried.

"I can't think it would be prudent," said Captain Stewart, "to re-arm a spy after only just apprehending him."

"A spy?" Without wanting to, Sanderson began to laugh. He shook and spasmed for an embarrassingly long time, and when he was able to lift his head it was to find the white-clad captain glaring death at him. "My apologies, captain," he gasped. "It must be nerves; I haven't slept for several days now." When Stewart's expression didn't change, Sanderson returned the glare. "What in the world possessed you to think I was a spy?"

"You went to the prison encampment without my permission, sir, and the next thing I knew, a half-dozen prisoners—and yourself—had gone missing. It was our good fortune you that were so clumsy. You left a trail a blind man could follow."

"Of course I did! I fell into bushes so many times I was convinced those idiots would figure out what I was about. Look at my face, damn it!" Sanderson leaned forward so that Stewart couldn't fail to notice the cross-hatch of cuts and lacerations. "I'm cut so many times I look like a truant's bottom," he spat. "And you think you found me because I was clumsy!"

"Fine words, sir," Stewart began.

"They're also true," the colonel said. Stewart raised his hands as if to protest, but the colonel silenced him with a look. "This man was treated abominably by his captors, and risked his life to save mine. Rather than arresting him, you should be offering your best hospitality; I'm not without friends in Illinois and other places."

"I'm aware of that," Stewart said. Sulking, he handed Sanderson his pistol, then told two other men to prepare to row the colonel across the river.

Sanderson crouched down to retrieve his boots. "Thank you," he said, turning to face the colonel as Stewart stomped away. "I owe you one."

"We're even, then," the colonel said. "I hope some day to thank you properly for saving my life. You showed fine courage standing up to that homicidal idiot ..." The colonel's voice died away, and Sanderson looked up from the sergeant's body, from which he was in the process of removing the holster.

The colonel was eyeing him carefully, the way one might an unfamiliar snake. "The gun was yours?" he asked. After a moment's silence he said, "You knew. You were expecting that gun to burst."

Sanderson flushed, and got to his feet. "If there had been a way to let you know, colonel, I would have."

"What I don't understand," the colonel said, "is precisely how you knew." His eyebrows suddenly lifted. "Unless you had prepared it that way. Good God."

"I once saw a man lose his hand firing one of those," Sanderson said, pointing at the smashed pistol, which was still smoking. "That was a Walker Colt; they were made for the Texas army, which turned out not to like them that much. Oh, they had their good points. I've never encountered a pistol that packed as much powder in a single charge as the Walker. But the tolerances were awfully loose. Every ninety rounds or so, firing one chamber would set off all the caps and the whole thing would explode. So I got to thinking as how that might come in handy should I ever find myself in a situation just like this one. I made the cylinder a bit more loose than it already was, primed the back of the frame, and then made sure it was loaded with clay balls with just enough lead to keep them from crumbling until they were fired. You'll have noticed that I keep my real gun in a less obvious place." He patted his back.

The colonel whistled long and low. "You are a—wait a minute." The eyebrows dropped and the colonel's eyes darkened. "When you dove at that man back on the road, you knew he couldn't have killed me. So you were just trying to preserve your secret for a little while longer."

Sanderson shook his head. "I couldn't say that, colonel. I wanted to keep him from finding out about the gun, that's true. But I was also trying to prevent him from killing you. I honestly couldn't say which was foremost in my mind."

"Yet another case of you not knowing yourself," the colonel said. "At a hazard to everyone around you. You people are a menace."

"You know, colonel," Sanderson said with a grin, "I think I'm beginning to like this not knowing myself. It can't be a bad thing to keep folks wondering.

"Besides, you people have been sure of who you are for nearly four-score years, and look at where it's got you."

The colonel's face lost all its animation, and for the first time since Stewart's arrival Sanderson was ashamed. "I'm sorry, colonel. That was uncalled for."

"Don't chastise yourself," the colonel said slowly: "I was just indulging in a spot of self-pity. You came a little too close to home, I guess." He looked down at the empty space where his foot should have been. "I look at myself today and I see a failed soldier. You'll have gathered that I failed as a politician too. I suddenly find myself wondering what it is that I'll do with myself when I get across the river."

"There's more than one river you can cross, you know," Sanderson said. "Whatever's happened to you so far, you're a clever man. I'm told there's a new country building to the west, if you cared to share your abilities with us." He extended a hand.

The colonel shook it, firmly. "Thank you for your kind offer," he said. "But something tells me I shouldn't give up on this old country too quickly. Let me go home and see if I can't do something for her yet." He hobbled slowly to the boat, and suffered the white-clad enemy to hand him in.

"Good luck, constable," the colonel said as the Confederate oarsmen pushed the boat away from the bank. "I hope you eventually find your brother."

"I intend to. I'll keep looking in Kentucky for now," Sanderson said. "As long as Captain Stewart doesn't arrest me again. If you come across him in Illinois, will you write me care of headquarters in St. Louis?"

"Count on it," the colonel said as the oars bit into the river.

As the colonel waved farewell, Sanderson said, "If you decide that your future involves politics, colonel, might I suggest you keep the beard? It softens your face, you know. Makes you look as if you know yourself a little bit less than you do."

The colonel laughed at that. the laughter echoed off the water and the shore. It continued to tickle Sanderson's ears as he climbed up the bank and mounted a borrowed horse to resume his search.