Chapter Eighteen

The town was coming alive to greet the day. The rattle of a door somewhere up the street caught Ezra’s attention and he followed the sound to Potter’s store. Gloria Potter pushed the tall double doors of her mercantile wide, propping them open with a barrel of new broomsticks and a crate of fresh pears. The storekeeper’s widow bustled back inside in search of more wares with which to lure in prospective customers, and Ezra took the opportunity to duck across the street and down the alley between the Undertaker and the Post Office.

The back street offered little respite. Smoke was already rising from the tent encampment of Wu’s laundry. He saw a few slim figures moving back and forth between the steaming outdoor vats as they tended to the fires, but they paid him little notice. He hurried on past the loading dock of Watson’s hardware store and around the corner of the Barber Shop until he reached the blessed haven of the Saloon’s back door.

He paused for a moment, sheltering beneath the stairs that descended down the outside of the building as he struggled to regain his composure. He wasn’t sure what stung worse, the raw mess of his back, or Buck’s implied accusation.

He closed his eyes, willing away the old, sick feeling and shoved back the memories, the sharp, sulfurous smell of the gunpowder mixed with the tang of smoke and blood. He drew in one long, ragged breath and focused upon the soft sounds of the town coming to life around him, driving back the agony that echoed in his head, the screams of dying horses and dying men. As a rule, he did not talk about the war, because he did not like to think about it. What had begun with one kind of hell had ended in another, and when he had crossed the Missouri that fateful August night, it might as well have been the Rubicon. He had pointed his horse west and known that he would never return.

When he felt the iron bands of his self control returning, he spared a quick darting gaze up and down the empty side street. Assuring himself that he would not be noticed, Ezra circled around to the front of the building and began to climb the exterior staircase, his hand gripping awkwardly at the railing. He flexed his unresponsive fingers and frowned. Perhaps he’ deal himself a hand of cards, he thought, solitaire or La Belle Lucy. The simple mechanics of shuffling and dealing would stretch his fingers and soothe his mind.

First McAllister and now Teale… the past was truly coming back to haunt him. He felt the nervous, edgy feeling scrape along the periphery of his senses. He doubted either man would have remembered him. It had been so long ago, a different time, a different place… a different name. Even so, Buck’s inquisition had been more than enough to unsettle him.

But he hadn’t lied, he told himself. Not completely, anyway.

He had never been to Lawrence.

8888

Josiah sank upon weary knees before the simple altar and bowed his head. Allowing his mind to float free, he attempted to channel his worried and restless thoughts into something that resembled prayer. He should pray, he knew. A man was dead. That it was a man who apparently had both wife and family didn’t make it rest any easier, nor did the fact that he was at least partly responsible for it. Still, he could not muster much regret or repentance. Had he followed another course, it might be Chris Larabee he would have been praying for, rather than the lost soul that Ezra had named as Sam Teale.

Ezra…. There was something going on with Ezra, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. That was the trouble with Ezra, he always knew just a little more than he would say, and he wasn’t likely to reveal anything unless it was to his benefit. Whatever else there was that he knew about Sam Teale –and Josiah suspected there was something—getting it out of Ezra was going to be like pulling teeth after the way Buck had jumped him.

Lord, look after Ezra. Help him to heal and find the way back to the path of righteousness…

It wasn’t like Buck to fly off the handle so readily, either. He was generally more easy going, but the very mention of Quantrill had been enough to set Wilmington’s hair trigger. He supposed it wasn’t really a surprise. He’d known Buck was from Kansas originally. It would have made sense that he’d have joined the militia to defend his home territory during the war. The news of the Lawrence massacre had made all the papers at the time, including the dog-eared copy that had somehow found it’s way into the bottom of a packing crate at the peaceful temple monastery where Josiah had sequestered himself during those years. He still remembered the headline from that yellowed article… a bloody harvest… men and boys cut down among the corn…. He shook his head. If Buck had actually ridden into the aftermath of that bloody raid, then it was no wonder the mere mention of Quantrill would have made him that angry. Experiences like that left scars that were deep and indelible.

Lord, help Buck to forgive…and be forgiven…

Of course, Buck wasn’t the only one needing help on that count. This whole mess had stirred up a dark wind in Larabee’s soul, and Josiah could sense the beginnings of the storm that was brewing inside the man. It was the burnt homesteads that had triggered it, of course, but the attack on the Clarion had driven it home in a way that he doubted anyone could have anticipated, least of all Chris Larabee himself.

Chris had always been a hard man to figure. At first glance, he didn’t appear to give a damn about anything beyond where the next drink was going to come from, but once you chipped away at the blackened veneer of his soul, you could see that he did care, and deeply. It was hard to imagine the grim, aloof figure that stalked the streets as a husband or father, but a body see how that kind of loss could turn a simple rancher with a hell-raising past into the dark, cold-eyed killer that was now Chris Larabee. Somewhere beneath howling pain, the guilt, the anger and the death that followed it, fragments of that other man still lurked. You just never knew when or where they would appear. It was often only flashes: a brilliant, boyish smile offered to a prostitute, an unexpected jibe traded with Buck, or a spur of the moment decision to take Billy Travis fishing. Whatever it was, it was a small spark of sunlight in the darkness that the gunman exuded, and anyone who knew Chris well enough took pleasure in those rare moments whenever they could be found.

There were times, though, when the broken pieces of that other man surfaced like bloody shards of glass and the simple raw pain of it was too much to look upon. He’d seen it in the wild-eyed lunatic who’d torn up the bar in Purgatorio screaming for Fowler to come out in play. He’d heard it in Larabee’s howl of anguished rage as the killer had run back into the collapsing wreckage of the burning barn, taking both vengeance and answers with him. Later, there had been that unholy, twisted little side-job in which they’d taken on a job protecting Chris’s former paramour, Ella Gaines, only to discover that she had been the one who’d hired Fowler to kill Chris’s wife and son. When it was finally over, he’d wondered if there was anything left of the man Chris Larabee once had been.

Chris had spent the first week of his recuperation sitting on the boardwalk wrapped in his blanket, speaking to no one. It was only by chance that Josiah, pausing to tie his horse in front of the mercantile, had happened to witness the arrival of that last letter from Ella Gaines and the odd, stilted exchange between Chris and Mary Travis. He’d seen the look that had crossed Mary’s features when that photograph of Chris and Ella had slipped from the folded page, and he’d heard Chris call after Mary. It was practically the first word anyone had heard the man utter in three days, and though he was not one to eavesdrop, it had caught his attention. As it turned out, there was nothing to overhear, for whatever Chris had thought to say, he did not say it, and Mary had gone back in to the Clarion without another word. Still, he’d been close enough to see the expression on the gunman’s face, and if he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought it to be regret.

It was hard to say what, if anything lay between Chris and the widow Travis. They were both smart, spirited, determined individuals who each in their own way relished a good fight. They were also both deeply scarred by their pasts. In the last two years they had formed an alliance of sorts. It was a vague kind of friendship that was based upon respect, shared ideals, and –not infrequently—mutual exasperation. It might well have become something more, had they not been so wary of each other. Given all that they’d been through together, and all that they knew of each other, Josiah frankly hadn’t understood the reason for that wariness…until the night the Clarion had almost burned.

Chris had come out of the newspaper office with both guns blazing, but when the shooting had stopped and the riders vanished, he’d turned back to look for Mary and Josiah had seen the man’s features, lit in the few small flames that had still licked at the window. Larabee’s face had been ghost-white and there was no denying the intensity of the emotion in his eyes. Even unspoken, and rigidly contained, Josiah knew sheer terror when he saw it, and in that instant, he realized that Chris Larabee must be reliving a horror that he had previously only been able to imagine. Perhaps there was more between the gunman and the pretty newspaper woman than anyone imagined, but whatever it was, it had been enough to send Chris off to stir the hornets nest.

That alone bothered Josiah. It was not like Chris to go looking for trouble in these situations. He generally preferred to stand his ground and let it come to him, secure in the knowledge that sooner or later it would come back. Of course Chris did occasionally ride off to Purgatorio when he had a burr under his blanket, but that was different. That was personal. It was more a form of self-punishment than anything else. Chris had ridden off alone this time, too, but to Eagle Bend instead of Purgatorio. It made Josiah suspect that the motives for this expedition were personal as well, but he didn’t think it was guilt that spurred the gunman this time. It was fear.

Not that fear is a bad thing, Lord. Help Chris to use it wisely. He’s afraid he won’t be there this time …that he won’t be able to stop it, and maybe he won’t. Maybe we won’t. But if that’s the case Lord, don’t let it paralyze him. Help him to use his fear, Lord. Fear can strengthen a man.

Then there was Mary to think about. It was a hard thing, a woman alone with a boy to raise in a country like this. She had more than enough breaks against her without adding her name to the hit list of these faceless men. The trouble with Mary was, when she knew she was right she wouldn’t back down. If this kept up, she would continue to speak out against it. There would be more fiery editorials from the Clarion, and there would be more fiery riders coming after her. He had an idea of what Chris was up to. He was looking for something, anything to draw these men away from town, away from Mary. It wasn’t necessarily a bad idea, but it could be risky if they didn’t take the bait. Splitting their force was a bad tactical move. In a fight like this, it would have to be all or nothing, and if Chris chose wrong… Well, it just didn’t bear thinking about.

Look after this town, Lord. Look after Mary. Keep her safe. I don’t think he can stand to lose everything again…

Mary wasn’t the only one in need of looking after. Ezra, Nathan, JD… none of them were one hundred percent. Ezra was pretty much out of the fight for the foreseeable future. Nathan’s arm was healing, but it was still plenty sore and JD? Well, the kid had shambled down the street this morning with a gait that was a lot closer to ninety than nineteen.

Give us strength, Lord, to stand against this enemy. Protect us and preserve us in the fight that is to come.

It would help of course, if they really knew who it was they were fighting, rather than a bunch of faceless ghosts. Oh, they had an idea, they had a name or two, but nothing they could take before the Judge to stand in a court of law. Not that proving anything was the real concern at the moment. The real concern was not knowing if the man standing next to you at the bar, the man walking past you on the street, the man selling you a pound of coffee over his store counter, might not be the man who would shoot you in the back in the middle of the night. Vin had been scouting the country and keeping a wary eye for much of the past three days, but it was hard to spot anything unusual when you didn’t know who you were looking for. He’d been watching the tracks, coming in and out of town, looking for the red roan gelding with the long stride and the crooked foot, but he hadn’t seen it. Likewise, Judge Travis had had little more to report on either Detweiler or McAllister when he’d arrived on last night’s stage. Though McAllister traveled in high political circles, little was known of his close associates. The trail seemed cold on every front.

Sustain Vin in his vigilance, Lord. Help us to find them before they strike again…

He opened his eyes, his mind suddenly devoid of thought, though the restlessness remained. He couldn’t think of anything or anyone else to pray for. He stared for a long moment at the rough wooden cross upon the altar. That was the trouble with prayer, he thought. Even when it cleared your mind, it didn’t make you any easier about the trouble you were in.

The preacher expelled a long, slow breath. After all these years, he should know better than to brood about it. No amount of praying ever persuaded the Almighty to fix your problems for you. Rather, He expected you to fix your problems for Him. Irony, that, but then from what he could see, the Creator was great believer in irony.

When nothing else came to him, he reluctantly crossed himself and prepared to rise. He had the niggling thought that he’d forgotten something or someone, but knew it would come to him later.

It came sooner than expected.

A soft rap echoed on the front doors of the church and he turned to see Nathan’s anxious figure hovering on the stoop. Glad as he often was of the man’s company, he’d rather have delayed this particular visit. Nathan would be wanting word of Rain, and for the life of him, Josiah did not know what to tell him. Pulling himself slowly to his feet he cast his eyes heavenward one final time.

“Lord, help me,” he muttered fervently, and then turned to open the door.

8888

Orrin Travis sighed and pushed back the plate of cooling bacon and eggs, his appetite waning in the light of the news Larabee had brought him.

“Sam Teale,” he said slowly, his tone regretful. “I’d never have thought it. Evie’s bought her dry goods from the man for years.” He shook his head, his expression grim. “This won’t go over well back home in Watsonville. A lot of folks liked Teale.”

Chris said nothing, fully aware of the uncomfortable position in which this turn of events had placed the Judge. He watched silently as the older man extracted a cigar from his breast pocket and extracted a small, sharp gentleman’s knife with which to clip it.

“There will likely be a demand for an inquiry,” Travis said, trimming the end off the cigar and returning the knife to his boot. “You have any evidence to back you up?”

Chris shook his head. “Just my word and Josiah’s and a bullet in my bedroll the same caliber as Teale’s rifle.”

Travis sighed. “In times like these, that may not be enough. I’ve argued enough cases in my day to know how easy it is to turn testimony. Folks will be just as likely to believe you and Sanchez shot and killed an innocent man and blew a hole in your own blankets to cover it up as they would that a well-known storekeeper tried to assassinate you while you slept.”

Larabee said nothing. He knew well enough his uneasy reputation. He had, after all, spent the better part of the last five years making it. At the end of the day, he really didn’t give a damn what anyone might believe of him save the men he rode with and, oddly enough, the man seated across the table from him. He wasn’t certain what it was about Orrin Travis that had drawn him to a job he hadn’t wanted in a town he hadn’t particularly cared to linger in. Still, there was a steel in the old man that he’d had to respect and an air of command that he’d found himself following in spite of his best intentions to resist.

The judge lit the cigar and drew deeply on it for a moment as he considered the situation. He exhaled a brief puff of smoke and sighed. “It’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” he said quietly. “If Teale’s any indication, then it will be difficult to say who you’re up against. It could be anyone –the Sherriff in Yellow Butte, the post master in Ridge City,” he nodded towards the bustle of activity outside the small window of Mary’s living quarters that looked out onto the side street. “For all we know, Old Man Watson could be one of them.”

Chris smiled wryly. “I doubt that. He’s a dyed in the wool Yankee.”

Travis shook his head. “Still doesn’t change the facts. They can hide in plain sight. You can’t. –Neither can Mary.” He cast a meaningful glance to the new wainscoting that had been patched in along the fire scarred woodwork and the press, which was still spread in several pieces around the room awaiting new parts.

A grim expression crossed the gunman’s dark face. “I can’t tell her what to print, Judge. It’s her newspaper. She’s got a mind of her own when it comes to that.”

“So did my son,” Travis grunted. “It got him killed. I’d rather not see my grandson become an orphan.”

“I can’t do much about it if we don’t know who they are,” Chris said grimly. “What did you find out about Leon McAllister?”

“He appears to be a rather powerful man with a somewhat undetermined past,” Travis said mildly. “A great favorite with the Territorial Governor, as it happens.”

Chris scowled. That was not good news, especially when one considered the fact that Mary had been very nearly killed last year by a paid assassin hired by the Territorial Governor to silence her forthright editorials supporting statehood.

“Mary said he came from Mississippi. She told me he was one of the pro-southern radicals looking to rebuild the Old South in the western territories.”

Travis nodded. “He’s not alone, either. That Colonel you boys ran up against a couple years back was just one of many.”

The judge took another puff of the cigar as he warmed to his subject. “There were several renegade Confederate officers that took their men and fled to exile in Mexico rather than surrender. Leon McAllister was one of them. For awhile there was even a colony of Confederate exiles living near Veracruz. Sterling Price, McAllister’s old commander was the head of it.”

Chris frowned. “As in General Sterling Price?”

“The same,” Travis confirmed.

“Price was a Missourian. McAllister was from Mississippi. Mary told me he’d served under Beauregard, not Price.”

“He served with both of them,” Travis said. “From what I’ve gathered, McAllister enlisted with Beauregard, but later transferred to the western forces and ended up serving with Price. He was with Price at Pilot Knob and Westport when they tried to retake Missouri. They were driven back to Texas, and from there they took what was left of their men and fled to Mexico.”

Travis drew deeply on the cigar and expelled another cloud of blue white smoke as he continued. “When the Veracruz colony went under, Price went back home to Missouri. He died a few years ago. McAllister stayed. He enlisted with Maximilian served another eight years in the Mexican army. He returned to the territories last year. He’s been making inroads with the Territorial Governor to oppose the statehood issue ever since.”

“It would make sense,” Chris said slowly, “if McAllister figured on cutting the territory out to be its own country, rather than a state.”

“You’d think they’d have learned the folly of that the last time,” Travis said. “If the Southern states weren’t strong enough to secede from the Union, I don’t know how they’d think a territory could get away with it.”

“They might figure a territory’s different,” Chris observed. “It’s not a part of the union to begin with.”

Travis nodded. “It did work for Texas… for a while.”

“Missouri,” Chris murmured, a stray, intangible feeling worrying at the corner of his mind.

“What?”

“Missouri,” Chris said again. “General Price was from Missouri, and McAllister was with him on that last Missouri raid.”

“What of it?” the judge asked.

Chris straightened in his chair as he mentally fitted the pieces into place. “Sam Teale was from Missouri, too.”

Travis fixed him with a scrutinizing gaze. “Was he? I don’t recall as I ever heard him mention it.”

“He mentioned it to Ezra,” Chris said. “According to Standish, Sam Teale rode with Quantrill as one of his scouts. Nearly all of Quantrill’s men were from Missouri. In fact, I seem to recall hearing that Quantrill started out serving under Price in the Missouri Guard before he went partisan.”

Travis frowned. “You think there’s a connection?”

Chris shrugged. “Could be. Could be just coincidence, too.”

Travis turned back towards the window, deep in thought. “How did Standish come to know this?”

“Says Teale told him one night when they both got deep in the liquor.”

The judge scowled. “Most of Quantrill’s men still have a bounty on their head. A man would have to be pretty deep in his cups to let slip with something like that.”

“Ezra does have his ways,” Chris said mildly.

Travis turned back from the window to face Chris. “You believe him?” he asked, bluntly.

Chris tilted his head as he considered the question. “About Teale? Yes.”

“But?” Travis prompted, recognizing that there was much unspoken in that response.

“Ezra never tells all he knows,” Chris said, “let alone how he came to know it.”

Travis took another puff on the cigar, inhaling deeply to rekindle the smoldering fire. “I first crossed tracks with Ezra Standish, in Fort Laramie in ’65, just before the war was over. There was a stack of wanted posters on him all the way there from Abilene for fraud.”

Chris said nothing.

Travis expelled another soft cloud of smoke. “For a lot of men fleeing the war, Kansas was a short ride from Missouri.”

Chris said nothing.

“What do you suppose he did during the war?” The Judge asked softly, wondering around.

Rising from the table, Chris picked up his hat. “Same as the rest of us, I reckon,” he said, fitting the black flat brim low over his brow. “He did what he had to.”

888

May 1st, 1863

Spring Hill, Tennesee

“General? There’s a feller here to see you. Says you sent for him.”

A soft, feminine giggle was stifled as an irritable male voice replied. “Well? Who is it?”

Ezra presented himself in the opening of the parlor door and snapped a smart salute. “Captain Smith, sir, reporting as requested.”

A slim womanly shape darted away through the door at the far end of the parlor as Major General Earl VanDorn peered around the edge of the rocking chair drawn close to the hearth and studied his visitor carefully.

“Captain Smith,” the General hesitated as he selected his words. “I would say you are out of uniform, but that would not appear to be an entirely accurate statement.” He smiled at Ezra’s attire. “Frankly, I’m astounded you had the nerve to walk through camp.”

Ezra glanced down at the soiled and bloodstained sky blue trousers and the dark blue sack coat that he wore. He returned his gaze to the General, now rising from the rocker to approach him.

“Well,” he allowed, “I did have the benefit of an escort. My apologies, Sir, I have only just returned from reconnaissance.”

Van Dorn nodded. “I see.” He walked a slow circle around Ezra, taking in the standard, Federal issue carbine sling from which a well-worn .56 caliber Sharps hung. He reached out and fingered the gleaming carbine.

“I don’t suppose you were fortunate enough to secure any rounds for that weapon?”

Ezra shook his head. “Alas, no. The man I took it from suffered fatal depletion of his cartridge box, but I imagine with a little ingenuity some adequate rounds can be fabricated.”

“Indeed,” Van Dorn replied. “The Sharps is a fine weapon. Five rounds per minute to the three our boys usually get with a musketoon.” He shook his head. “Give me a battalion of those, and I’d have given Sam Grant plenty more to think aboutat Vicksburg.”

“Yes sir,” Ezra replied, still not entirely certain of the purpose of this meeting.

Van Dorn moved towards the sideboard where a crystal decanter sparkled tantalizingly in the firelight. “Bourbon, Captain Smith?”

Ezra nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

Van Dorn poured healthy measures of amber liquid into two cut crystal tumblers and handed one to Ezra, then waved him to a chair beside the fire.

Unhooking the Sharps from the leather sling, Ezra propped the weapon beside the hearth and took a seat across from the General. Van Dorn returned to his rocker and brought the bourbon to his lips, taking a meditative swallow before speaking.
“Your reputation precedes you, Smith. You have come to me very highly recommended.”

Ezra took a sample of his own drink. It burned with liquid fire from his lips to his stomach. He would have preferred whiskey, but when in Tennesee… He set the glass down carefully. “Might I ask by whom?”

“Colonel Keppler, for one,” Van Dorn replied. “He’s spoken admirably of both your scouting abilities and your… other talents.”

Talents, Ezra thought mildly, which typically involved sneaking across Union lines and into Federal encampments to gather information. His representation of an Irish brogue was improving rapidly with use these last few weeks. Thank God for the immigrants flooding the Federal ranks. He’d likely have been caught long before now if it hadn’t been for his ability to bury his Southern accent in the lilting Irish inflections.

“Ben McCullough also seemed to hold you in some esteem,” Van Dorn added casually.

Ezra sobered at the thought of Brigadier General Ben McCullough, killed more than a year ago scouting enemy positions at Elkhorn Tavern –or Pea Ridge—as the Yankees called it. “And I him,” he said quietly. “We’d have held the day at Elkhorn Tavern were it not for his loss.”

“We’d have held Arkansas,” Van Dorn said gruffly.

The General reached for the cigar left smoldering on a saucer at his right hand and drew several deep puffs to rekindle its glow. He expelled his breath in a long blue cloud of smoke.

“I should have listened to him when he advised me not to march on St. Louis,” Van Dorn grumbled, “the only success we had in that whole damnable campaign was thanks to his reconnaissance. It makes me wonder what else he was right about.”

“Sir?” Ezra said carefully, sensing that the General was carefully circling to the heart of the matter.

Van Dorn considered the neat ash that was building on the tip of the cigar. “If I recall correctly, Captain, you played a key role in General McCullough’s intelligence gathering efforts for the St. Louis expedition, did you not?”

“Yes sir,” Ezra replied, though he sincerely wondered if Van Dorn would consider three months pretense of whoring, drinking and gambling his way up and down the Mississippi river from Helena to St. Louis as “intelligence gathering.”

It was one of the very few times in the last two years that he had actually assumed his own identity, and not one of the numerous aliases he generally operated under. Ezra Standish had been well known on the riverboats that traveled between St. Louis and New Orleans before the war, and given his occupation it was easy enough for those acquainted with him to assume his patriotic and political principles would not be strong enough to lure him away from the gaming tables. It was both a quirk of fate and temperament that had caused him to enlist under a fictitious name. After all, he had a reputation to maintain.

“I believe you were also at Wilson’s Creek?”

Ezra nodded. “I served under General McCullough’s command from the time he set up his Headquarters at Little Rock and established the Army of the West.”

“Then you will also know Sterling Price?”

Ezra hesitated, suddenly wary. He was starting to get a small inkling of where Van Dorn was going with this. He wasn’t sure that he liked it. “Only by reputation,” he said at last. “I confess I never had the honor of meeting General Price in person, though I did occasionally interact with members of his command.”

“And what was your opinion of his command?”

Ezra was silent for a long moment as he designed a tactful answer. “Outside of my training with General McCullough’s forces, I have little experience with military matters, sir. I would hesitate to offer an opinion.”

Van Dorn snorted. “Ben McCullough had no such reservations. He said Price’s Missouri Guard was an undisciplined disaster.”

“They did not conform with General McCullough’s standards of military order,” Ezra allowed.

The Major General, overall commander of the Western Army of the Confederate States of America, took several moments to meditate upon this response as he finished his cigar. Stubbing out what remained of his smoke in the china saucer he had been using for an ashtray, he leaned back in his chair and fixed his piercing dark gaze upon Ezra.

“I will be direct with you, Captain Smith,” he said. “The Arkansas campaign has been a disaster. We need a victory in the West and we need very soon. With the Federal forces entrenched so heavily up and down the Mississippi and Grant’s forces pushing from the East, we find ourselves between the proverbial rock and hard place.”

Ezra nodded. None of this was news. Between the camp gossip and the papers holding forth upon every major engagement from here to Virginia like scorekeepers at a croquet match, the dire tactical situation of the Confederate forces was hardly a state secret.

“General Price has advanced a proposal which is rapidly gaining some support both among our command staff and back in Charleston. He seems to feel that raid upon Missouri would allow us to punch through the western line and outflank the Federal forces. He believes that he can capture several key installations which the Yankees now hold. If we can take those positions, we can turn the tables and control the Mississippi.”

Ezra frowned. “A bold plan,” he murmured, “and risky. The Federals are deeply entrenched along both sides of the river and throughout much of Missouri and Arkansas. It is likely that many of those installations General Price wishes to capture are both heavily fortified and serving as major Federal supply depots. They will have plenty of reinforcements at hand, while our raiding force would be necessarily light. We would have to count heavily on the element of surprise.”

“One of Price’s officers, Colonel McAllister, believes he has a solution that may even the odds somewhat. McAllister wishes to provide support to the partisan forces that are raiding the border towns between Kansas and Iowa. He believes that if they can apply enough pressure on the civilian population, then the Federal forces will be forced to intervene. If his band of undisciplined Missouri renegades can successfully distract the Yankees, then it is possible that his raid upon Missouri might succeed.”

Ezra arched one auburn brow. “With all due respect, sir, ‘might’ is a very long way from a certainty.”

Van Dorn smiled. It was a dark, fleeting expression. “That, Captain Smith, is where you come in. I am sending you to Missouri to make contact with these partisan forces of which General Price speaks. I want your full and unvarnished assessment of their strength and capabilities. I also want your recommendations of how they might best be applied in order to ensure General Price’s success.”

“And if I do not find them capable of such an undertaking?”

Van Dorn was silent for a long time. “These are desperate times, Captain Smith. We are becoming desperate men. Whatever you find in Missouri, I suggest you find a way to ensure that General Price’s campaign will prove successful.”