Not long after they started Johnny began to realize that Roger had let his emotions distract him from his ability to retrace their path back to headquarters. Johnny sensed that they had become lost in enemy territory. He feared that keeping on the track on which they found themselves would mean riding in circles in a dense forest. Osborne seemed totally crushed by Letitia’s rebuff and paid little attention to where the road might take them. Up ahead through the trees a cluster of buildings came into view.
“Captain, we could stop up there and ask directions,” he said, pointing to the tiny farmstead.
For the first time Roger snapped at him, impatience driving his sour mood. “First of all, Sergeant, while we’re dressed like this and still in rebel territory, address me as major. If you make a slip like that when we encounter a patrol that doesn’t know who we are you will arouse suspicion. Secondly, stopping to ask directions will only alert our pursuers to the direction we’ve taken if they question those people in that farm up ahead.”
“Yes, sir,” Johnny said. He kept his face averted, his expression hidden from his superior officer.
Roger paused for a moment, realized how he sounded. “I shouldn’t have barked at you. You’re right of course, we have lost our way. We’ll take the opportunity to ask someone. It strikes me though, that Confederate horsemen chasing us will expect us to be on the main road toward Fredericksburg. We’ll have to exercise caution from here on out. We’re liable to meet them on the way north. They may even be ahead of us by now.
“I have an idea” Roger continued, after some thought. “Go to that farm house and pretend you need to water your horse. In casual conversation ask them how far to the main road to Fredericksburg. Point in a generally easterly direction, they’ll correct you if you’re wrong and set you on the right track. I’ll stay back. It would be unseemly for an officer to ask directions. They would expect I’d have a map.”
Johnny took his horse by the bridle and walked the distance to the cluster of farm buildings. A hard-faced middle-aged woman stepped out onto the porch of the main house.
“I hope you ain’t lookin’ fer vittles to take. We been ’bout cleaned out.”
“No, Ma’am.” Johnny said, “I just need to water the horse, wouldn’t mind a sip myself, though.”
“That’s all you want, go git some from the pump over there. I got barely enough food to do fer my little ’uns, can’t spare no more.”
“No, Ma’am, just water. But I do have a question. Am I headed right for Fredericksburg going that way?” he asked, pointing in an easterly direction.
The woman looked at him quizzically. “You talk kinda funny. You ain’t from these parts are ya?”
“I’m not, but how I got into this army is a long story. I been partial to the Southern cause all along. I got separated from my unit a ways back. Just now I kind’a need to get a steer in the right direction.”
“Well,” she said, “go past the farm a ways, come to a fork, take the right turn. The main road north is up there a good couple’a miles.”
“Thank you kindly, Ma’am.”
“Don’t mention it, hope ya find yer army.”
“I’m sure I will,” Johnny said, tipped his cap and rode back to locate Osborne.
They traveled several miles along the road pointed out by the woman at the farm. Roger seemed to have regained some of his usual self-assurance. Moving at a modest pace along a tree-lined road, the crack of a pistol shot disrupted the stillness of the forest through which they rode. The bullet hissed between them and nearly dismounted Roger with its suddenness.
Johnny reined his horse. “You all right, Captain?”
“Major, remember John, Major? And no I’m not hit.”
“Right sir, sorry. I mean it’s good you’re not hurt.”
A Union cavalry patrol burst from the underbrush. An officer brandishing a pistol shouted: “Hands up, Rebs and dismount. Don’t touch a weapon.”
Both Johnny and Roger offered the gesture of surrender and slid from their saddles. The blue-uniformed officer gave an order to one of his men: “Corporal, disarm these two and bind their hands.”
The soldier came forward stripped both of their sidearms and sabers. He took some short lengths of rope and bound their hands quickly.
“Well, we got us a major and a sergeant,” the Union officer announced with an air of triumph. “You boys lost? What regiment are you with?”
“Actually, Lieutenant,” Roger began, “we’re Union reconnaissance men. We’re on our way back from a mission for General Sharpe.”
“Yeah sure you are. And I’m Abe Lincoln.”
“Check our saddle bags,” Roger said. “Our Federal uniforms are in there.”
The lieutenant opened the bags, extracted the blue uniforms and held them up to display to his men. “We’ll just take you two back to the colonel and see which side you’re on. Get shot as spies, more likely.”
Roger and Johnny stood, their hands bound, before a Union cavalry colonel in his tent at an encampment near Culpeper, Virginia. The lieutenant from the patrol that had taken them into custody presented the Union uniforms and the saddle bags stripped from their horses.
“We searched them as well, Colonel. We found these documents in the Major’s inside pocket.”
He handed the Colonel the papers and stepped back. The Colonel read it with a grave expression on his bearded face. “Tell us again why you say you’re in Confederate uniforms and carrying Union blue in your saddle bags, and why you carry identification from both armies”
“Colonel,” Roger began, “I’m Captain Roger Osborne and this is Corporal John Madigan. We’re on a secret mission from General Sharpe. We’ve just returned from Richmond where we disrupted a Confederate spy ring. If you would send a telegraph message to the General’s headquarters, they’ll confirm our story.”
“Why then, are you carrying a detailed report of Union troop movements?”
“That was a document we seized from a woman courier in Richmond. We handed her over to the Chief Provost’s office …”
“You brought a Confederate courier to their own counter-spy people and you expect us to believe this tall tale?”
“It was ruse to distract them …”
“If I find that you are deliberately trying to mislead me, Major, I will have you summarily shot as Rebel spies.” He turned to the patrol lieutenant, “Have our telegraph clerk send a message to General Sharpe’s headquarters and ask if they know who these men are. In the meantime, have them kept under close watch. If we don’t get a satisfactory answer confirming their identity, direct a firing squad to be assembled.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant answered, and left the tent.
A sergeant and a squad of men took Johnny and Roger to a security tent where they remained under guard. Hours passed before Roger and Johnny found themselves brought once again to the colonel’s tent.
“You men are in serious trouble,” the Colonel said. “The telegraph operator at Sharpe’s headquarters refuses to acknowledge our signal. It appears to me, Major,” he said addressing Osborne, “That you are trying to delay my investigation into your true identity. If you are rebel spies you won’t even merit prisoner of war status. I don’t have time for this kind of dissembling. Your side of this war has dealt quite ruthlessly with our espionage people. Retribution is the only lesson to be taught here. A firing squad will likewise deal with you both in the morning.”
“Sir,” Johnny said, “May I ask why they rejected your signal?”
“Apparently they will not respond to messages sent from machines they don’t recognize. Too often telegraph wires have been tampered with to send false messages or intercept our telegraph traffic. It is a security precaution. We have no choice but to treat you as spies intending to masquerade as Union soldiers. I will issue the order for your executions forthwith.”
Johnny became suddenly light-headed with the prospect of a mistaken execution. Roger began to protest: “Sir, believe me, we are members of your army. Our mission went awry …”
“Having no way to verify your fanciful story, I intend to proceed as ordered,” the colonel said.
Johnny made one last effort to correct the misunderstanding. “Colonel, if I may. I should have mentioned it earlier but it slipped my mind.”
“What is it, now?” the colonel snapped. “Don’t waste any more of my time.”
“Sir, there is a code word and a recipient you can use to verify our identity. I apologize for not telling you sooner.”
“Well, what is it?”
“The National Detective Service in Washington should acknowledge this code name. May I write it out for your telegrapher?”
“I’ll afford you one last chance,” the colonel said. “Write it on this slip of paper.”
The Colonel took the written message, read it quickly and handed it to the sergeant in charge of the escort detail with instructions to take it to the telegrapher. “Return these men to the security tent to await execution, Sergeant. Then deliver this message to our telegraph operator. It’s probably just another stall. In any case, have it sent just to be sure we aren’t mistaken.”
Early the following morning, Roger and Johnny arose to the sound of the harsh voice of the sergeant who had charge of the guard mounted over them through the long dark hours of their captivity. Both prisoners had spent a sleepless night.
“Let’s go you two, time to say good-bye.”
The troopers had dug two graves side by side a short distance outside the tent encampment. Johnny and Roger stumbled toward them with their hands bound, staring in horror at the burial sites. The terror of an inescapable fate gripped each one; their despair intensified by the knowledge that a grievous mistake would soon take place with them as victims. The lieutenant who had captured them stood facing the yawning burial pits with a detail of fifteen troopers staring fixedly ahead. They stood in the position of parade rest, rifles at order arms, butts touching the ground. The escort sergeant placed Johnny and Roger roughly before each excavation.
Johnny asked: “Was a message sent to Washington last night?”
“Don’t ask me, sonny. I ain’t the telegrapher. Hold still while I fix these blindfolds.”
The lieutenant drew his saber and called the firing squad detail to attention. Before he could give the next order another voice echoed over the open ground.
“Lieutenant, Lieutenant, hold it, wait.” A messenger from the telegrapher’s tent raced across to where the lieutenant stood with his firing detail at the ready.
“What is it?” the lieutenant asked with impatience.
“Sir,” the messenger said, “they’re ours.”
“What,” the lieutenant snarled, “who’s ours?”
“These two,” the soldier pointed at Roger and Johnny. “We received an answer from Washington. They are who they say they are. The colonel canceled the execution.”
The lieutenant, barely concealing his exasperation, gave an order and the execution detail came to attention and marched away. The sergeant removed the blindfolds and hand restraints.
Roger exhaled loudly and rubbed his wrists. “That’s as close as I ever want to come to dying for no reason.”
Johnny paused for a moment to allow the circulation to return to his hands and the color to seep back into his cheeks. “There have been too many close calls for me, Captain. I hope this war ends soon.”
“Let’s get out of these dreadful uniforms,” Roger said. “I’ll have to take the blame for this near disaster. I didn’t pay attention to where we were going.”
“Do you think they’d stake us to breakfast, after almost shooting us?” Johnny asked.
“That’s the least they could do,” Roger said with a rueful shake of his head. “By the way, John, that was quick thinking on your part last night. What did you tell them your code word is?”
“It’s Caleb 13.”
“How did you come to use that?”
“It was my code name with the detective’s when I sent coded messages.”
“Does it have a particular significance?”
Changing into their proper uniforms Johnny explained the Biblical origin of the code signal. “I remembered it just in time.”
“This was altogether too close for any comfort,” Roger said. “My knees turned to jelly back there.”
“Mine too,” Johnny said.
When they returned to General Sharpe’s headquarters Captain Osborne and Johnny received orders to report to the General. The General and his staff, assembled as a board of inquiry, demanded a full explanation. Hearing Johnny first, they emphasized their requirement for a report from him with nothing but the absolute truth. He gave a full account of their mission but omitted to mention the reason he believed the Captain had gotten them lost.
They summoned Osborne next and inquired as to the whereabouts of the woman he set out to rescue and how the near fatal capture of him and his corporal took place. Roger tried to maintain his bearing as a soldier and an officer. He gave as detailed and truthful a report as he could manage.
“That was an ill-advised mission, Captain,” General Sharpe said. “It almost cost you and your corporal your lives. I regret permitting you to convince me of the validity of such an undertaking. I don’t wish to destroy your career completely but after this your usefulness as an undercover operative has ceased. Your work up until now has been exemplary but I think you pose a risk to future operations. I have authorized your immediate transfer to General Grant’s staff. You may be of some use to him in evaluating enemy dispositions in the field. You know I could have you sent to the infantry, but in acknowledgement of your past service, I’m recommending you as a capable staff officer. That is all, dismissed.”
Johnny returned to the telegraphers’ tent and began anew his training as a clerk and telegraph operator. While on duty he read an intercepted and decoded message sent from the Confederate spy service in Richmond to President Davis which came across their wire: An effort by enemy infiltrators to kidnap a citizen of Richmond and discredit a valiant courier in our service has been thwarted. The enemy agents escaped but no damage has occurred to our espionage network. Signed, John H. Winder, Brigadier General, C. S. A.