“You’re from John Hunt Morgan, young man?” She shut her parasol with a snap, held it as if she was considering its use as a weapon.
“Yes, ma’am. General Morgan, Confederate Army—”
She sniffed. “You’ll find their captain at the inn, probably. Yankees and whiskey apparently have an affinity for one another. So John Morgan’s coming to pay us a visit?”
“Maybe, ma’am. And where may I find the inn?”
“Straight ahead,” the girl answered. “You really are Morgan’s men?”
Kirby did not have a hat to doff, but his bow in the saddle was as graceful as Drew’s.
“That’s right, ma’am. My, did we know what we’d find in Bardstown now, we’d bin ridin’ in right sooner!”
“Suh!…Louisa!” The elder lady’s intimidating glare was divided, but Drew thought that Louisa got more than a half share of it.
“No offense meant, ma’am. It’s jus’ that ridin’ ’bout the way we do an’ all, we don’t git us a chance to say Howdy to ladies.” The Texan’s expression was properly contrite; his voice all diffidence.
“The inn, young men, is on down the street. Drive on, Horace!” she ordered the coachman. But as the carriage started, she pointed her parasol at Drew as a teacher might point an admonishing ruler at a pupil. “I hope you’ll find what you’re looking for, young man. In the way of Yankees.…”
“We generally do, ma’am,” Kirby commented. “For us Yankees jus’ turn up bright an’ sassy all over the place.”
Drew laughed. “Bright and sassy, then on the run!” For the success of his present mission and all those listening ears he ended that boast in as fervent a tone as he could summon.
“See that you keep them that way!” She enforced that order with a snap of parasol being reopened as the carriage moved from the shade back into the patch of open sunlight.
“That sure was a pretty girl,” observed Driscoll as Drew and the Texan wheeled back into line with him. “Wish we could settle down heah for say two or three days. Git some of the dust outta our throats and have a chance to say Howdy to some friendly folks—”
“You’d be more likely sayin’ Howdy to a Yankee prison guard if you did that,” Drew replied. “Let’s find this inn and the garrison commander.”
“That’s the proper way of layin’ it out—the inn an’ then business. Yankees an’ whiskey go together; that’s what she said, ain’t it? I maybe don’t weah no blue coat regular, but whiskey sounds sorta refreshin’, don’t it, now?”
“Just so you only think that, Anse, and don’t try any tastin’,” Drew warned. “We make our big talk to this captain, and then we move out—fast. You boys know the drill?”
“Sure,” Driscoll repeated. “We’re the big raiders come to gobble up all the blue bellies, ’less they walk out all nice an’ peaceful, leavin’ their popguns behind ’em for better men to use. I’d say that theah was the inn, Rennie—”
They saw their first Yankees, a blot of blue by the horse trough at the edge of the center square. And Drew, surveying the enemy with a critical and experienced eye, was sure that he was indeed meeting either green troops or militia. They were as wide-eyed in their return stare as the civilians on the streets around.
Kirby chuckled. “Strut it up, roosters,” he urged from the corner of his mouth. “Cutthroats, banditti, hoss thieves—jus’ downright bad hombres, that’s us. They expect us to be on the peck, all horns an’ rattles. Don’t disappoint ’em none! Their tails is half curled up already, an’ they’re ready to run if a horny toad yells Boo!”
To the outward eye the three riding leisurely down the middle of the Bardstown street had no interest in the soldiers by the trough. Drew in the middle, the white rag dropping from the barrel of his carbine, brought the black a step or two in advance. Just so had Castleman ridden into Lexington earlier, and that had been at night with a far more wary and dangerous enemy to face. The scout’s confidence rose as he watched, without making any show of his surveillance, the uneasy men ahead.
One of them broke away from the group, and ran into the inn.
“Wonder who’s roddin’ this outfit,” Kirby remarked. “That fella’s gone to rout him out. Do your talkin’ like a short-trigger man, Drew.”
They pulled rein in front of the inn and sat their horses facing the door through which the soldier had disappeared. His fellows edged around the trough and stood in a straggling line to front the Confederates.
“You!” Drew caught the eye of the nearest. “Tell your commanding officer General Morgan’s flag is here!”
The Yankee was young, almost as young as Boyd, but he had less assurance than Boyd. Now the boy stammered a little as he answered:
“Yes…yes, sir.” Then he added in a rush, “General who, sir?”
“General John Hunt Morgan, Confederate Cavalry, Army of the Tennessee, detached duty!” Drew made that as impressive as he could, whether it was worded correctly according to military protocol or not. It was, he thought with satisfaction, a nicely rounded, important-sounding speech, although a bit short.
“Yes, sir!” The boy started for the door, but he was too late.
The man who erupted from that portal was short and stout, his face a dramatic scarlet above the dark blue of his unbuttoned coat. He stopped short a step or two into the open and stood staring at the three on horseback, that scarlet growing more dusky by the second.
“Who…are…you?” His demand was expelled in heavy puffs of breath.
“Flag from General Morgan,” Drew repeated. Then to make it quite plain, he added kindly, “General John Hunt Morgan, Confederate Cavalry, Army of the Tennessee, detached duty.”
“But, but Morgan was defeated…at Cynthiana. He was broken—”
Slowly Drew shook his head. “The General has been reported defeated before, suh. No, he’s right here outside Bardstown. And I wouldn’t rightly say he was broken either, not with a couple of regiments behind him—”
“Couple of regiments!” The man was buttoning his coat, his red jowls sagging a little, almost as if Drew had used the carbine across his unprotected head. “Couple of regiments…Morgan…” he repeated dazedly. “Well,” sullenly he spoke to Drew, “what does he want?”
“You’re a captain,” Drew spoke crisply. “You’ll return with us to discuss surrender terms with an officer of equal rank!”
“Surrender!” For a moment some of the sag went out of the other.
“Two regiments—an’ you have maybe eighty or ninety men.” Kirby gazed with critical disparagement at such Union forces as were visible.
“One hundred and twenty-five,” the officer repeated mechanically and then glared at the Texan.
“One hundred and twenty-five then.” Kirby was willing to be generous. “All ready to hold this heah town. I don’t see no artillery neither.” He rose in his stirrups to view the immediate scene. “Goin’ to fight from house to house maybe—?”
“General Morgan,” Drew remarked to the company at large, “is not a patient man. But it’s your decision, suh. If you want to make a fight of it.” He shrugged.
“No! Well, I’ll talk…listen to your terms anyway. Get my horse!” he roared at the nearest soldier.
They