War (5 page)

They built a replica of the
Titanic.
They could have built Hobson’s Corner, too.

Silently. Without anyone finding out. A whole village built in total secrecy.

It was possible. Maybe.

But maybe not.

Platt was walking up the street now, poking open some doors, kicking open others.

“Where is everybody?” Jake asked.

“You should know,” Schroeder said acidly. “You live here.”

Cedarville. Remember your history, Branford.

Of course. The people in Hobson’s Corner were evacuated to Cedarville right before the battle, in case the Rebels attacked. Only a handful of people stayed behind. But where were they?

“I — I meant the ones who didn’t go to Cedarville,” Jake said.

“Nobody,” Platt called out. “Anywhere.”

“If they left, they would have told us,” said one of the men.

“Unless the Rebels came in and got ’em,” said another.

“From where?” Schroeder snapped. “Our camp is smack in the middle of their only access route. Are you suggesting the Rebels went two hundred extra miles, around the mountain, then doubled back? Because that’s what they’d have to do.”

“They would do it,” Platt said, “if they knew where we was. And jus’ maybe they’d send ahead a small, innocent-looking spy to our camp.”

The men fell silent.

And they all looked at Jake.

Jake gulped. “Whoa, guys, don’t jump to conclusions. I’m — ”

“ — in big trouble,” Schroeder said. “Colonel Weymouth is not kind to soldiers who break his trust. Platt, you and Williams check the Cedarville Road. Morris and Johnson, you check across Pine Street, down to the field — ”

“What about the boy?” Platt asked.

“I’ll go with him,” Samuelson volunteered.

“Find where he
says
he lives,” Schroeder said, rushing off. “And if he’s lying, take care of him.”

Samuelson pushed Jake toward School Street. The other men started off, grimly clutching their muskets.

“Wait!” Jake protested. “That’s unfair! You wouldn’t — ”

“Just show me your house,” Samuelson whispered.

“Okay, okay.” Jake tried to collect his whirling thoughts. “But I’ll tell you right now, my family’s not going to be there.”

Samuelson nodded grimly. “Of course not. They’re in Cedarville.”

“But — Schroeder said — ”

“Schroeder and Platt belong in a cage,” Samuelson grumbled. “I know you’re not a spy. The Rebels have been reading us for some time now. We all sense it. Sniper fire, stolen plans, strange noises at night — they’ve been going on for days. And if you ask me, Weymouth’s strategies leave us wide open. No, if there
is
a spy, he’s been among us — he wasn’t sent ahead only now. They need an outsider to blame. They’re grasping at straws. You came along at the wrong time, Jake.”

Samuelson fell silent. When he and Jake reached School Street, they turned left.

They passed a tiny wooden shack. Beyond it was a cornfield.

Where the middle school and football field should have been.

The road went straight … past Sycamore Street, Linden …

Spruce.

Jake shivered. The path felt so familiar under his feet. But the houses, the trees …

Home.

There it was.

Jake couldn’t breathe.

In front of the house was a huge scraggly yard. A shack where the garage should have been.

No screen door. No bay window.

The door hung open, swaying in the breeze.

“Want to look inside?” Samuelson asked softly.

Jake barely heard him. He was walking through the front door. Looking.

Plain dark-wood chairs sat stiffly in the living room. The floors were bare and wooden, covered only by old oval rag rugs. The kitchen was simple — cupboards, basin, counter.

Only the shape was the same. The frame. The dimensions …

It was his house. He knew it in his bones.

He walked from room to room, under the lintels he knew so well, the ceilings that were a little too short because the people were so much smaller then.

Not then.

Now.

A
sudden boom snapped Jake out of his reverie.

Thunder?

Jake looked around for Samuelson.

He walked to the kitchen. He could see the sky through the window — clear, sunny —

A shout.

From the backyard.

CRRRRACK!

That wasn’t thunder.

He ran to the back door and threw it open.

Samuelson lay on the grass. Bleeding.

Just beyond him, in the woods, was a group of men.

Dozens of them.

Armed.

And dressed in gray.

Rebels

Theirs.

“N
O!”

Jake grabbed Samuelson’s arm and tried to drag him inside.

“Save yourself, Jake,” Samuelson rasped. “Leave … me.”

Jake heard the clomping footsteps. He turned.

A Confederate officer loomed over him. A barrel-chested man with a pockmarked face and long, stringy black hair.

“We don’t kill the small fish,” he said. “Just the full-grown ones. So back off.”

He dug the butt of his musket into Jake’s chest and pushed him aside.

Then he took aim at Samuelson.

“Don’t shoot him!” Jake leaped at the man.

He stepped back, grinning. “Brave little fella. Okay, have it your way.
You
kneel down, nice and easy, and give me all your big brother’s weaponry. Then I want you to yell your little head off. Just in case your friends haven’t heard us yet. Lure the big fish to us.”

Jake glanced uneasily at Samuelson. “What’ll you do to him?”

“JUST DO IT!”

Samuelson nodded. Gestured toward his musket.

Jake knelt beside him.

Grab it.

Shoot them.

Put them out of their misery.

“Do … exactly what they want,” Samuelson said, his voice barely a whisper.

Jake slowly removed Samuelson’s musket and dagger. They were both much heavier than he expected.

The Rebel officer was aiming at Jake now.

Jake stood. He approached the man, holding out the weapons.

SMMMACK!

The door.

Jake looked over his shoulder.

A face.

Red hair.

Overmyer.

In the kitchen doorway. Staring at Jake. At the weapons. At Samuelson.

“What the — ?”

A shot interrupted his sentence.

Overmyer dived back into the house. The kitchen window exploded in a hailstorm of glass.

“FI-I-I-I-IRE!” shouted the Rebel leader.

CRRRACK!

CRRRACK! CRRRACK! CRRRACK!

No time to think.

Jake pulled Samuelson into the house. Shoved him into the kitchen.

Overmyer was slumped over a basin, eyes closed.

Shouts. Behind them, inside and outside the house.

Platt. Schroeder. Morris. Williams. Johnson.

KA-BOOOOM!

The house next door. Jake could see it out the side window. Collapsing inward.

“They have cannons!” shouted Schroeder.

Cannons?

Jake leaped toward Overmyer.

He was breathing. But unconscious.

Jake grabbed his musket. Felt its weight.

Its power.

The feeling.

Jake’s body was coiled. His teeth clenched.

Do it, Jake.

Just do it.

He ran to the back window. Fell to his knees. Took aim.

Fired.

Click.

Nothing.

CRRRRACK!

The window above him shattered.

“Get down, you fool!”

It was Schroeder.

He pulled Jake to the floor.

“AAAAAAGGHHHHH!”

Platt was running through the house now. Toward the back door, musket drawn. His face was crimson, his eyes the size of baseballs.

Deranged.

“NO-O-O!” Schroeder yelled.

“THEY KILLED JOHNNNNSONNNNNN …” Platt yelled.

He sprinted into the backyard, firing into the trees.

At least three Rebels fell. Two more rushed Platt from either side, aiming their muskets at him.

Platt ducked. The shots crossed over his body. The two men lurched into the air, then fell to the ground, each the other man’s victim.

Jake cringed.

With a deafening
BOOM,
a nearby tree burst into flames.

“RETREAT!” shouted Schroeder. “We’re outnumbered!”

Morris headed for the front door.

Schroeder lifted Overmyer.

Jake linked his arm around Samuelson’s shoulders. But Samuelson was limp.

“That’s … him!” Overmyer was pointing to Jake. His motions were feeble but his eyes sharp and accusing. “I saw him helping the Rebels. That’s the spy!”

They’re playing right into his hand.

“I
T WAS A MISUNDERSTANDING,”
Jake insisted. They were in the woods now. Almost to the camp. He and Harrington were struggling to drag Samuelson over the path. “When Samuelson comes to, he’ll tell you — ”

“WHO ASKED YOU TO SPEAK?” shouted Schroeder from behind him.

Any minute Jake expected the Rebels to fire. The escape from Hobson’s Corner had been slow going. Samuelson was unconscious and heavy. The others had gone on ahead to prepare the encampment for attack.

But now they were approaching the ridge, and the Rebels hadn’t followed.

The camp was in pandemonium. As they carefully moved Samuelson down the path, men were shouting instructions, loading muskets, bridling horses, shouting the news.

Jake heard the same phrases over and over: one dead … two injured … town empty … don’t know how they got past … must have been tipped off … didn’t follow us … don’t know why.

Jake knew why.

They’re moving in from both sides now.

They have us just where they want us.

When they’ve gathered themselves within striking range, we’re dead.

Now Orvis was rushing out of the supply cabin. “Is he … ?” he called out.

“Not yet,” Jake replied.

“I help.” Orvis nudged Jake aside, putting his arm around Samuelson.

Suddenly Jake felt a hand grabbing the back of his collar. “This way, swamp rat.”

Platt.

Jake tried to protest, but Platt was pulling him across the camp, weaving through the panicked throng — and right into Edmonds’s tent.

“Just try to escape,” Platt said, gripping his gun. “You’ll make me and my blunderbuss very happy.”

“You need me out there,” Jake insisted. “I can help!”

“The way you helped at Hobson’s Corner? The way you set us up? Why, I’d shoot you right here if n Edmonds didn’t say to keep you for him.”

With that, Platt turned away and stood at attention, keeping sentry.

Jake straightened his collar. The tent was large. No people. Just a table in the center, covered with a map.

Jake moved closer.

The map showed two long mountain ranges with a wide pass between them. In the pass was a big red circle.
The camp.

At the top of the map — north — the pass became a forest that eventually ended at a village, marked by crudely drawn houses and a church.
Hobson’s Corner.

From the south, large black arrows labeled with the word
REBELS
pointed into the pass.

From the camp, blue arrows pointing south. Edmonds’s plan of attack.

No post in the mountains. No guard watch to the east or west. No reconnaissance.

This was amateurish.

Stupid.

Hobson’s Corner was wide open to a sneak attack.

No wonder the Confederates got through.

What was he thinking?

“You left him in there ALONE?” thundered Edmonds’s voice.

Jake spun around.

Edmonds was barging into the tent. Wild-eyed, drenched with sweat. He pushed Jake aside and grabbed the plans off the table.

“Sergeant Edmonds,” Jake said. “I can explain — ”

BLAAAAM!

They both turned.

Now Corporal Rademacher was storming inside, his pistol smoking.

Only Platt’s legs were visible. Flat on the ground. Platt was howling with pain.

Rademacher shot him.

“You trigger-happy fool!” Edmonds said.

Rademacher pointed his pistol at Jake. “He let that schoolboy Rebel in here. And I aim not to let him out!”

No.

Jake backed away. “I’m not a spy! I can help you!”

“RADEMACHER!”

A deep voice. A new one.

Rademacher froze. He lowered his gun, cursing under his breath.

Jake recognized the man who now came through the tent flap. He’d seen the man’s cracked, faded photo in books — the droopy, walruslike white mustache, the fierce blue eyes and deep-lined skin, the broad shoulders and ample belly.

Weymouth.

“Colonel, our men have identified this boy as the spy,” Edmonds said. “Overmyer saw him aiding the Rebels, looting Samuelson’s body while he was still alive.”

Jake felt impaled by Weymouth’s cold, steely eyes.

“I — I was at gunpoint!” Jake pleaded.” They ordered me to take the weapons. Then they wanted me to shout, so the rest of the guys would come into the trap. That was when Overmyer showed up.
That’s
what he saw.”

“Liar!” Rademacher shouted.

Colonel Weymouth came face-to-face with Jake. “
Would
you have shouted if Overmyer hadn’t come?”

“Well — I — “

Yes.

I would have.

Probably.

“My life was in danger,” Jake said softly.

Edmonds was fuming. “So you’d risk the lives of the other men.”

“Treacherous pond scum — ” Rademacher lunged forward.

Colonel Weymouth turned his head, and Rademacher stopped in his tracks.

“Gentlemen, we have bigger concerns right now,” Weymouth said. “We will keep the young man in the compound jail until we have rid the countryside of our Southern nemesis. Then, if we are still alive, we will conduct a fair trial — ”

“Jail?” Jake blurted out.
Impossible. Not during a great battle.
“What am I going to do there? I won’t be able to fight!”

“And Corporal Rademacher here will be your guard,” Weymouth went on. “Judging from the way he treated Mr. Platt, he’s having a bit of trouble discerning who the enemy is — so we will keep him away from battle.”