Christmas at Carnton (Carnton 0.5)(61)

He tried for a casual yet not too pleasant tone. “Evening, friend . . .”

The man’s head came up. Then, slowly, he straightened to his full height, which was still a good foot shorter than Ridley. He was thicker about the middle, older than Ridley too. In his thirties maybe, or closer to forty, it was hard to tell. The Negro was broad shouldered, and judging by the thickness of his hands and forearms, Ridley guessed that years of hard labor had layered a strap of muscle beneath that slight paunch. He hoped it wouldn’t give the slave a false sense of courage.

“Evenin’,” the man answered, glancing at the stripes on Ridley’s shoulder. “Lieutenant, sir.”

Not a trace of surprise registered in his voice, which went a ways in confirming Ridley’s silent wager. The man’s knowledge of military rank was also telling.

The Negro’s focus shifted decidedly to the Winchester, then back again, and Ridley couldn’t decide if it was resignation he read in the man’s eyes or disappointment. Or maybe both.

Ridley surveyed the camp. Neat, orderly. Everything packed. Everything but the food. Like the man was getting ready to move out. Only—Ridley looked closer—not one cup but two resting on a rock by the fire. He focused on the slave and read awareness in the man’s eyes. “How long have you known I was watching?”

The Negro bit his lower lip, causing the fullness of his graying beard to bunch on his chin. “’Bout the time the coffee came back to boilin’ sir.”

“You heard me?” Ridley asked, knowing that was impossible. He hadn’t made a sound. He was sure of it.

The man shook his head, looking at him with eyes so deep and dark a brown they appeared almost liquid. “More like . . . I felt you, sir.”

A prickle skittered up Ridley’s spine. Part of him wanted to question the man, see if he had what some called “second sight,” like Ridley’s great-grandmother’d had, but the wiser part of him knew better than to inquire. He had a job to do, one he couldn’t afford to fail. Not with his loyalty to the Union being called into question by some. “I take it you know what I’m here for.”

There it was again, that look. Definitely one of resignation this time.

“I reckon I do, sir. It’s what all them others been lookin’ for too.” The slave shook his head. “How’d you find me?”

Only then did Ridley allow a hint of a smile. “I don’t know that I can say exactly. We got rumor of horses being hidden in these hills. I volunteered, you might say, and then just started out. I followed where my senses told me to go. Where I would’ve gone if I was hiding horses.”

The man’s eyebrows arched, then he nodded, gradually, as if working to figure something out. He motioned to the fire. “Dinner’s all ready, Lieutenant. Think you could see fit to eat a mite?”

Ridley looked at the pot of beans and meat bubbling over the flame, then at the tin of biscuits set off to the side, his stomach already answering. The man was offering to feed him? All whilst knowing what he was here to do? Ridley eyed him again, not trusting him by any stretch. Yet he had a long journey back to camp, and the dried jerky in his rations didn’t begin to compare. “I’d be much obliged. Thank you.”

They ate in silence, the night sounds edging up a notch as the darkness grew more pronounced. The food tasted good and Ridley was hungrier than he’d thought. He’d covered at least seventy-five, maybe a hundred miles since leaving camp in Nashville.

Just four days earlier, Union headquarters had received rumor of a slave out in these hills, reportedly hiding prized blood horses for his owner. Word had it the horses were bred for racing and were worth a fortune. Ridley would’ve sworn they’d confiscated every horse there was in Nashville when they first took the city. But he’d bet his life that the man across from him right now was the slave they’d heard about.

He lifted his cup. “You make mighty good coffee. Best I’ve had in a while. And this is some fine venison too.”

“Thank you, sir. My master, he got the finest deer park in all o’ Dixie. Least he did ’fore them no-good, thievin’—” The Negro paused, frowning, then seemed to put some effort into smoothing his brow, though with little success. “I’s sorry, sir. I ’preciate all your side’s tryin’ to do in this war, but there just ain’t no cause for what was done at Belle Meade last year. ’Specially with Missus Harding bein’ delicate o’ health, and Master Harding packed off to prison like he was. Them Union troops—” He gripped his upper thigh, his eyes going hot. “They shot me! Right in the leg. I’s just tryin’ to do what I’s been told, and they shot me straight on. Laughed about it too. And here we’s thinkin’ they come to help.”

Reminded again of another reason he hated this war and why the South no longer felt like home and never would again, Ridley held the man’s gaze, trying to think of something to say. Something that would make up for what had been done to him. But he couldn’t.

Ridley laid aside his tin and, on impulse, reached out a hand. “First Lieutenant Ridley Adam Cooper . . . sir.”

He knew a little about the slave’s owner—General William Giles Harding—from what his commanding officer had told him. To date, General Harding still hadn’t signed the Oath of Allegiance to the Union, despite the general’s incarceration up north last year at Fort Mackinac—a place reportedly more like a resort than a prison—and the lack of compliance wasn’t sitting well with those in authority. Not with Harding being so wealthy a man and holding such influence among his peers. It set the wrong precedent. Union superiors hoped the outcome of this scouting mission would provide General Harding with the proper motivation he needed to comply with the Union—or suffer further consequences.