It took four days of hard riding along mountain trails and back roads before they reached the last low ridge between them and Owen’s farm. During that time, they sighted only occasional Union patrols along the main road. Still, they thought it best to avoid the Valley Pike. With no ammunition to spend, the two were unable to take advantage of any game they happened upon except an occasional squirrel or rabbit curious enough to get caught in a snare.
When at last they reached the ridge that protected his farm on the eastern side of the little valley, Owen galloped ahead to the crest, unable to contain his excitement. When Matt joined his brother at the top of the ridge, he found Owen sitting silent and disconsolate. Below them, the fields were black and scorched. The house was a pile of charred timbers around the stone fireplace, its chimney standing like a solitary grave marker. The two brothers stared dejectedly at the remains of the second Slaughter homestead burned to the ground, the first having been the cabin that had claimed the lives of their parents.
With thoughts of his parents’ fate with the burning of the original cabin, it was all Owen could do to keep from choking on a sob. He looked fearfully at his brother and gasped, “Abby.” Then he kicked his horse hard with his heels and drove recklessly down the slope. Matt followed, instinctively scanning the valley back and forth with his eyes, cautious in case there were Union soldiers about.
Owen was out of the saddle before his horse came fully to a halt, frantically pulling burnt timbers this way and that, searching for what he hoped he would not find. He picked up broken pieces of dishes and scraps of singed cloth, remnants of his life, now destroyed. Finding nothing whole, he finally sank to his knees defeated, tears streaming down his face.
Matt watched his brother’s sorrowful return to his home, in silence to that point. Then he sought to comfort him. “We’ll find Abby and the boys,” he said. “We’ll rebuild the house. The Yankees burned the crops, but they couldn’t hurt the ground. We’ve still got time to plant this spring.” He paused to judge if his words were enough to rally his brother. “You know, Abby most likely took the boys to my cabin. Maybe the Yankees didn’t find my place.”
Owen looked up hopefully. “Sure, that’s probably where they are. Come on!” In the saddle again, they loped off along the river, following a narrow trail that led through a wooded gulch to a small meadow beyond. There, at the far end of the meadow, the simple log cabin remained, apparently unmolested by Union troops. The brothers galloped across the open expanse of grass.
“Ma!” Jeremy exclaimed, “Somebody’s comin’.” The nine-year-old ran to fetch his mother. Abby Slaughter moved to the window. Six-year-old David clung to his mother’s skirt as she peered out to see who it might be. Not certain if her eyes were deceiving her, she continued to stare at the two riders driving hard toward the cabin. In the next instant she was sure. It was Owen and Matt. Suddenly she felt as if her strength had deserted her and she almost collapsed, forcing her to hold on to the windowsill for support. There had been no news after the fighting at Cedar Creek and the Confederate retreat. The only word that had reached the tiny valley was that hundreds of men on both sides had been killed. Abby had tried to steel herself to the possibility that Owen would not be coming back. But in her heart she feared she could not survive if he had perished.
She wiped the tears from her eyes, her fearful expression replaced by one of joy as the riders approached. She ran to the door, almost knocking David to the floor in the process, hurrying to greet her husband. Owen leaped from the saddle to meet her. Matt, grinning with pleasure, dismounted and watched the joyful reunion. Abby released Owen long enough to give Matt a hug, then flew into her husband’s arms again, her sons clinging to their father’s legs.
“We saw the house,” Owen said, “at least where the house once stood.” He looked at his wife, reassuring her. “Don’t you fret, honey, me and Matt’ll build us a better one.” Matt nodded in agreement. Owen continued. “It’ll soon be time for spring plowin’. We’ll have us a garden goin’ in no time, and we can stay here till Matt and I can build the house back.” He turned to his brother. “If that’s all right with you, Matt.”
Matt grinned, surprised that Owen would even bother to ask. “Of course it’s all right,” he said. “I’m just sorry it’s so small.”
Abby placed a hand on her brother-in-law’s arm. “I don’t know what we would have done if the Yankees had burned this cabin down. I don’t know where the children and I would have gone.”
He patted her hand gently. “Well, you know you’re welcome to the cabin as long as you need it.” He smiled at Owen. “Matter of fact, I think I’ll sleep in the barn. I’ve spent so many nights sleepin’ with my horse till I’m not sure I can stand being shut up in a cabin.”
“Bless you, Matt,” Abby whispered. Then realizing that the two men were probably hungry, she said, “Come on inside, and I’ll fix something to eat. I’ve got some corn left, and a little piece of side meat. There may be enough flour to make a little gravy.”
Matt and Owen exchanged glances. Then Owen spoke. “Is that all the food you’ve got?” When she nodded silently, he asked, “What happened to the money I buried under the comer of the corn crib?”
“Owen,” she exclaimed in despair. “It’s all gone—long ago.” When she saw his look of disbelief, she insisted, “You’ve been gone for over a year. All we’ve had to eat for the last six months is some corn and some side meat from time to time from Reverend Parker and his wife. The only way I could get food for the children was to borrow money from Zachary Boston.” She read his eyes and pleaded her case. “I had no choice. My babies were hungry. He said it was all right, and that you could just pay him back when you came home.”
Owen shook his head. Zachary Boston was about as unlikely a man to help a neighbor in need as anyone Owen could think of. I guess the war does peculiar things to people, he thought. Maybe it taught an ol’ skinflint like Zachary Boston to give a helping hand. “I’m real sorry, honey. I’m sorry it’s been so hard for you. But I’m home now. We’ll get that place up and runnin’ again.”
Abby pulled a chair back from the table and sat down, suddenly overcome with a feeling of exhaustion. She had not let herself dwell on the hardship of having spent so many long months of waiting, not knowing if her husband would return to her. It had been her endeavor to never look beyond the day that was presently before her, trusting in God to take care of things. It had not been easy when weeks would pass with no word of Owen’s unit, or even where the fighting was. But now she sank back against the chair, watching the two brothers eat the meager repast she had scraped together, and she knew that everything would be all right again. Owen was home.
She didn’t realize that she was smiling as she gazed at the two strapping young men. Though dirty and unshaven, they looked beautiful to her. Owen was the shorter by an inch, but heavier through the chest and darker of complexion. She turned her gaze toward her brother-in-law. Matt, the fairer of the two, had always put her in mind of a mountain lion, moving with a wild grace that seemed effortless. There was something different about him. He had grown a mustache. She smiled warmly at him when he glanced up to meet her gaze. Then she looked back at her husband. It was so good to have them back, both of them. The long, empty months were finally over.
* * *
The next month passed quickly, with the two brothers working every day to restore the house and prepare the scorched fields for planting. Seed was supplied by Reverend Parker, who insisted that Owen could repay him by coming to services every Sunday. Matt even attended one Sunday in order to personally thank Parker for his help.
Owen’s farm and Matt’s small strip of land by the river were not subject to much traffic from the world outside. It was almost May when word of Lee’s surrender reached the little hollow deep in the valley. The news was met with stoic regret from both Matt and Owen, but it came as no surprise. As far as they were concerned, the war had ended in March when they had retreated up that mountain along with their officers.
Some of the men at church had brought news that Union soldiers had been posted in Lexington, and the area was officially under martial law. The news was somewhat unsettling, but the brothers and their closest neighbors didn’t anticipate seeing any soldiers in their isolated part of the valley. There was no time to worry about who won, anyway. Now was the time to recover what had been lost in that unfortunate struggle between North and South. All that mattered was the land. There were no plantations in the Shenandoah Valley, no slaves to be freed. Every man they knew worked the land with his own back, and the two brothers set out to reclaim Owen’s farm with a determination that already showed dramatic results. By the first of June, crops were in the fields, and the house was almost completed. It was at that time that Zachary Boston made his appearance.
A lawyer by profession, Zachary Boston had never been held in high esteem by many who had dealings with him. He kept a small office in a crossroads settlement called Rocky Bottom, about eight miles from Owen’s farm. When most of the men marched off to defend the valley, Boston stayed behind to take command of the Home Guard. A short, pinched man in his mid-forties, he always rode a big black Morgan stallion. Matt recognized the horse before Boston was close enough to see his face.
“Looks like we got company,” Owen remarked, pausing to watch the rider approach. He dropped his hoe, and he and Matt walked to the edge of the field to meet their visitor.
“Afternoon, boys,” Boston offered as he pulled up before them, the big Morgan stamping aggressively and snorting at Owen’s mule. “I heard you boys had gotten back from the war.”
“Boston,” Owen acknowledged. “What brings you out this way?”
“Just checking on my property,” Boston replied. He paused to take a long look around him. “You boys have done a helluva lot of work out here, but I can’t understand why you’d trouble yourselves to work someone else’s land.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” Owen retorted. He didn’t like Boston’s tone.
“I’m talking about you working my property.” He said it as if explaining to a child. “Didn’t your wife tell you she sold me this land in exchange for supplies?”
Both brothers were stunned for a few moments. Unable to believe his ears, Owen could only stare at the smug face while he searched for words to reply. “Like hell she did,” he finally blurted. “This land belongs to me. It was my father’s, and now it’s mine.”
“I’m afraid I’m gonna have to differ with you on that,” Boston insisted. “I bought it fair and square. I’ve got the paper with her signature on it to prove it.”
Owen became frantic as he realized the spindly lawyer was deadly serious. “There’s been some mistake. Abby said she signed a loan or somethin’ for some food, and that’s all. I aim to pay you back for that.”
“Well, now, that mighta been all right if you had met the payoff deadline, but you didn’t. Your wife put up the farm as collateral. It’s a simple business deal. I wish I could help you, Owen, but business is business.”
“Why, you low-down son of a bitch . . .” Owen started for him, but Boston, anticipating such a move, pulled his horse back and drew a revolver. Matt caught his brother by the arm, lest his anger cost him his life. Boston continued to back away, his pistol leveled at Owen. “This is my land,” Owen roared. “Get your sorry ass outta here and don’t come around here again because next time I’ll be carrying a gun.”
When a safe distance away, Boston turned his horse, and called back. “This ain’t the last of it, boys. The law is on my side, and I’d advise you to get off my land.”
* * *
Work effectively finished for that day, they returned to Matt’s cabin. A thoroughly shaken Owen immediately questioned his wife about the so-called loan. Confused and frightened, Abby swore that there was never any mention of putting the land up to secure the loan. She maintained that it was a simple loan, supposedly out of the goodness of his heart, for a little food. She remembered that Boston had produced some papers, but she didn’t take the time to read all the wording. He had told her that it wasn’t necessary, anyway. Her babies were hungry, so she signed.
Owen sank down heavily at the table. He said nothing for a long moment while he thought about the devastating blow to their lives. After a long silence, he looked at his wife, whose tears were streaming down her face as she realized what her carelessness had cost. For a moment, his eyes softened. “It ain’t your fault, honey That slimy snake took advantage of you. I’ll straighten this thing out. We’ll go to court if we have to. He ain’t gonna get away with it.” He looked then at Matt. “We’ll go see Judge Crawford.” He glanced back at Abby. “I reckon he’s still around Rocky Bottom, ain’t he?” She nodded in reply, her face a picture of desperate hope.
* * *
Judge Lionel Crawford listened attentively to Owen’s recounting of the underhanded deal Zachary Boston had forced upon Owen’s unsuspecting wife. His comments on the situation were not good news to Owen, however. “If he’s got a quit claim on the property, like he says, there may not be anything you can do about it. If the case was to come before me in my court, I’d throw the scalawag out on his ear. The problem is I’ve got no jurisdiction here anymore. The whole valley is under military law and Union regulators. I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m real sorry. I truly am.”
“Well, I ain’t givin’ up my land,” Owen said to Matt as they stepped off the judge’s porch. “I’ll shoot the son of a bitch if he shows up again.”
“Well, that would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Matt scolded. “That would leave Abby and the young’uns in a fine mess when they hauled you off to jail.”
“It ain’t right, Matt,” Owen complained.
“I know it ain’t, but we still haven’t heard what the Yankee regulator has to say. Maybe he’ll see what a stinkin’ trick it was.”
* * *
“I’ve been expecting you, Slaughter,” Captain Harvey Mathis said when Owen and Matt were shown into the office over the feed store. The entire building had been confiscated by the occupying Union troops, it being the only structure large enough to meet their requirements. “Mr. Boston said you would be showing up here hoping to get a piece of land from him.”
Owen was surprised to hear that the captain knew Zachary Boston. “Yessir,” he replied respectfully, after a quick exchange of glances with Matt. “That piece of land belongs to me. It’s always been in my family, and he took advantage of my wife’s desperation while I was away.”
“While you were away at Winchester and Fisher’s Hill,” Mathis quickly retorted. “Boston said you boys rode with Early’s troops in the campaign for this damn valley.”
“Yessir,” Owen replied. “We rode with General Early.”
“I was at Winchester, and I was with General Sheridan when we routed your cavalry and chased you out of Waynesboro.”
Owen simply stared at the gloating Union officer for a few moments, struggling to maintain his calm. “The war’s over as far as I’m concerned. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with the war.”
“No, I suppose not.” He got up from his chair. “Let me make this short, Slaughter. I’ve already seen the quit claim deed. It was signed and witnessed. As far as I can see, it’s a legal document.”
“Witnessed?” Owen exclaimed. “Witnessed by who? My wife said there wasn’t anybody there but that low-down swindler. He stole my land!”
“Maybe he did,” the captain replied impatiently. “It’s hard to say which one of you is lying. But he’s got the legal claim.” He smirked as he added, “I guess you just lost another battle, Reb. You boys oughta be used to that by now.”
Matt could see that Owen’s short fuse was already lit. Fearing that his brother might do something foolish, he said, “Come on, Owen. There’s gotta be somebody higher up we can see.”
But Owen just stood there, fuming, his fists clenched. Finally he spoke. “You low-down Yankee scum. I shoulda known better than to even bother with a son of a bitchin’ bluecoat.”
“By God, that’s gonna cost you, Reb. Your mouth just landed your sorry ass in jail.” He yelled for his clerk in the next room. “Private! Take these men into custody!” His call was met with silence, for the private at the desk outside had taken advantage of an opportunity to slip downstairs to fetch a cup of coffee.
Seeing no immediate response to the officer’s summons, Matt tried to defuse the incident. “Hold on, Captain. There’s no call for trouble. We’ll just be on our way.”
“The hell you will,” Mathis shot back, and drew his pistol from his holster. With the weapon leveled at Owen, he said, “Some of you Rebels just have to learn the hard way.”
Owen, smoldering to that point, could contain his anger no longer. When Mathis turned his attention toward Matt, Owen lunged forward, driving his shoulder into Mathis’ gut, landing both bodies on the floor. They struggled violently, each trying to gain control of the pistol. Caught as much by surprise as the officer had been, Matt moved to intercede. But before he could reach them, he heard the sharp report of a gunshot. The sudden sound reverberated in the small room like a cannon, and the two struggling bodies became still. Shocked by what had just happened, Owen slowly disengaged himself from the unmoving body of the Union officer. Mathis lay dead, killed instantly by the pistol ball that had entered beneath his chin, tearing into his brain.
“Oh, God. . . . Oh, God,” was all Owen could utter at the moment, as his world came crashing down around him. “I didn’t mean to kill him.” He looked helplessly at his brother, his eyes pleading. “What am I gonna do?”
Hearing the sound of running footsteps downstairs, Matt quickly moved to close the door and lock it. Then he went to the single window and looked out. Just a few feet below the window was a shed roof. “Here’s what you’re gonna do,” he ordered, taking command of the crisis. “Go out the window, and don’t stop till you get home. I’ll take care of things here.”
Confused, Owen hesitated. “What about you? I can’t leave you here!”
Matt grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the window. “Listen, Owen, we ain’t got time to talk about it.” Already, he could hear the private running up the stairs. “You’ve got Abby and the boys to worry about. I’ll take care of this. It was an accident.”
“No, Matt,” Owen insisted. “It ain’t right. I killed the son of a bitch.”
“Dammit, just do as I say! Think of your family. They need you. I don’t have any family. Hell, I can do some time in prison. Nobody’s depending on me. Now, go, dammit, before they break in here.”
Still feeling guilty for letting his brother take the blame, Owen nevertheless did as he was told. Matt had barely closed the window when the door was smashed open. He turned to face the clerk and a sentry who had been posted downstairs. Seconds later, an officer and two more soldiers burst into the room, weapons drawn.
Matt raised his hands. “Take it easy, boys. This was an accident.” That was as much as he had an opportunity to say before the lights went out in his brain, the result of a solid blow from a rifle butt from behind.
* * *
“I believe you cracked his skull good and proper.” Matt heard the voice, but he wasn’t sure where it came from.
“You reckon you kilt him?” Another voice asked.
“It don’t really matter,” the first voice answered.
Painfully, Matt opened his eyes. The effort of raising his lids seemed to intensify the throbbing pain in his head. A third voice, this one slightly familiar, asked, “Matt, do you know where you are?”
He strained to focus on the face peering down at him. After a moment, he recognized the tired features of Dr. Benjamin Bates. “Yeah, Doc, I know where I am,” he managed.
“I believe you might have suffered a concussion,” Doc Bates said. Then glancing up at the soldiers gathered around him, he added, sarcastically, “Thanks to these brave lads.”
The comment brought a snicker from the two soldiers standing closest to him. The officer, a lieutenant, pushed forward to have a closer look at the prisoner. “He’s damn lucky they didn’t shoot him, the murdering Rebel trash. Now, I expect we’ll have to give him a trial before we hang him.”
Ignoring the comments, Doc Bates questioned his groggy patient. “What happened, Matt? Can you remember?”
Matt took a few moments to compose his thoughts, still waiting for the room to stop spinning around him. Bates was about to repeat the question when Matt spoke. “It was an accident, Doc. The damn fool pulled that pistol and it accidentally went off.”
“Ha!” the lieutenant scoffed. “Right under his chin, too.”
The captain’s clerk stepped forward. “There was two of ’em in here when I went downstairs. What happened to the other one?”
The lieutenant turned to look at the clerk. “Is that right?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned back to face Matt. “What happened to the other one?” He repeated the question.
His mind clearing now, Matt answered. “He followed that soldier downstairs and went on home. He said there wasn’t any use in arguing any more. He wasn’t even here when the damn fool shot himself.”
“How come I didn’t see him?” The clerk demanded.
“I don’t know,” Matt replied. “Maybe you were interested in somethin’ else.”
“Well, I guess that leaves you holding the bag, doesn’t it?” The lieutenant concluded. Staring down at Matt, he said, “So Captain Mathis shot himself, did he?” He stepped over to look at the body more closely. “I guess he fell outta his chair and landed over here on the floor, and scraped the skin off of his knuckles in the process.” He turned back to Matt, a wry smile on his face. “I believe a six-year-old coulda come up with a better story than that. We’re gonna use some new rope to hang you, Reb.” He stepped back and ordered the guards, “Get him outta here.”
* * *
There was no jail in Rocky Bottom. An empty corn crib behind the feed store served the purpose temporarily. Although the door was padlocked, a man could easily break out a few slats in the wall of the crib to affect an escape. The only thing preventing such an escape was a twenty-four hour guard detail, posted with its only duty to keep an eye on the prisoner.
The lieutenant was inclined to hang the suspect without further delay. The facts of the murder were blatantly apparent to him, but standard operating procedure required that a provost marshal be summoned to rule on the case. A rider was sent to Lexington to request such action. Matt spent a chilly night, sleeping on the bare planks of his makeshift jail. Early the next morning, Owen showed up.
“Are you all right?” Owen asked upon first sight of the bandage around his brother’s head.
“Yeah, it was just a little love tap,” Matt replied, anxious to discourage the worried expression on Owen’s face.
“I brought you some corn bread. I didn’t figure the Yankees would feed you.” He started to hand it through the slats, but the guard quickly stepped forward to intervene. After making sure there was nothing more than corn bread being passed to the prisoner, he permitted Matt to accept it.
“Thanks,” Matt said. Then primarily for the guard’s benefit, he added, “I shoulda listened to you, and left when you did, but how did I know that captain was gonna shoot himself?”
“Matt, we’ve gotta get you outta here,” Owen whispered. “They’re not going to give you no trial.”
“Listen to me, Owen.” Matt was deadly serious. “I’ll take care of the situation here. Your responsibility is to Abby and the boys. I’m afraid you’ve lost your farm. That was bad luck. Don’t go blamin’ Abby for gettin’ taken by that weasel. She was in a bad way when he cheated her. At least you’ve got a roof over your head. You’re welcome to my cabin and my little piece of land for as long as you want it. The land ain’t half the size of yours, but it’s good fertile land. You can get a helluva lot more outta that land than I ever could.” Owen started to protest, but Matt cut him off. “Don’t worry about me. Just do like I tell you, and everything will be all right.” He gave his brother a smile. “Hell, they saw it was an accident,” he lied, “and said I probably wouldn’t get much prison time. I’ll be home before you know it.”
Owen was reluctant to leave, but he eventually agreed to go and leave Matt to his own devices. “It’s best this way,” Matt assured his brother. “There’s just one thing you could do for me, and then I don’t even want you comin’ back here anymore. Just see if you can find out where my horse is, and let me know. All right?”
Owen nodded and turned away. In less than an hour’s time he returned with the information that Matt’s horse was in a stall at Monk Weiner’s livery stable. He could have guessed that. Some of the settlement’s citizens had been critical of Monk’s willingness to do business with the Union Army. The two brothers exchanged deep glances, the elder realizing fully what the younger was sacrificing for him and his family. “You take care of that family of yours,” were Matt’s parting words to his brother.
* * *
The Union provost marshall in Lexington wasted no time in investigating the death of Captain Mathis. A detail of one officer and six enlisted men arrived in Rocky Bottom before dark. The investigating officer, Captain Wilford Belton, asked to see the prisoner as soon as they arrived. He was appalled when led to the corn crib behind the feed store. “This is what you’re using for a jail?” Belton asked, hardly believing his eyes.
Plainly defensive and somewhat embarrassed, Lieutenant Foley tried to explain that a suitable jail was in the not-too-distant plan, but there had been no time as yet to start the project.
“Why, hell,” Belton mocked, “with a little bit of a running start, a man could run right through the side of that corn crib.”
“Yessir,” Foley replied sheepishly. “But that’s why we keep a guard on it twenty-four hours a day when there’s a prisoner in there. Captain Mathis was planning to request some materials to start a jail.”
“Well, I hope to hell so.” Belton turned his attention to the prisoner then. He studied the young man seated against the side of the crib intently. “Another belligerent Rebel who doesn’t know he’s been whipped,” he remarked aside to Foley. To Matt, he demanded, “What unit did you serve with, Reb?”
Matt, who had been studying the captain as closely as he himself had been studied, hesitated a moment before replying, “Twenty-Second Virginia Cavalry.”
“Twenty-Second, eh? I guess they didn’t teach you to stand up in the presence of an officer.”
“Not a Yankee officer, I reckon they didn’t,” Matt replied.
A wry smile creased the captain’s face. “Still got a few burrs, ain’t you? Well, let me tell you what happens to smart young men like yourself who murder an officer of the U.S. Army. We’re gonna take you back to Lexington in chains, so all the other Rebs can see you. Then we’re gonna hold a trial, so that everybody knows we stand for justice. Then we’re gonna hang you in the square to teach the rest of your kind a lesson.” He turned abruptly on his heel, and addressed Lieutenant Foley. “You make damn sure you keep a guard on this man all night. We’re starting back first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Foley replied, and saluted smartly.
* * *
There was no doubt in Matt’s mind that events would happen precisely in the order that Belton had stated. A trial would be no more than a formality and the prelude to a hanging. The question before him was when to attempt escape, for he knew that he would opt for a bullet in the back instead of a rope around the neck. It required little thought to decide the best chance for escape was before morning when he would be trussed in irons and turned over to the captain. Watching the sentry walk his post around the makeshift jail, Matt tried to calculate the odds of breaking through the flimsy boards of the corn crib and attacking the guard before he had time to react. He immediately rejected that plan, knowing that he would probably still be stuck in the slats when the guard shot him. It was going to have to be done slowly, loosening one slat at a time, so that at the precise time, all boards could be removed at once. It would take time, but he figured he had all night.
Under the wary eye of the first soldier posted to watch him, Matt got to his feet and moved around his wooden cage. Pretending to stretch his muscles a little, he glanced at each corner post of the crib, looking for signs of a loose slat. When he decided upon the corner that looked the weakest, he sat down against that post, and waited for the guard to lose interest in him. Once the guard shifted his attention to something else, he began to quietly push against the bottom board, exerting all the pressure he could manage. It was not an easy thing to do with his hands behind his back while still facing the guard. He had almost decided that his plan was impossible when he felt the slat give a little, enough to wedge his fingers between the board and the post. Encouraged, he tried to twist the board back and forth, staying with it until he was finally rewarded with the loosening of the two nails securing it to the post. Satisfied that he was making progress, he started on the next board up.
The guards were rotated on two-hour shifts. Their routine was predictable. At the start of their tours, they usually paced around the corn crib a few times before taking a position by the door. There they remained until boredom prompted them to take another turn or two around the caged prisoner. It was Matt’s good fortune that none felt an inclination to examine the nails holding the slats on the sides. He worked steadily until he had the nails loose in two slats. Then, supposedly getting up to stretch, he moved over to the next post to begin the procedure again.
The afternoon sun faded away behind the ridge west of the tiny settlement. Working continuously in the twilight and into the dark, Matt strained against the rusty nails holding the side boards on the crib. Lucky for him, the crib had been constructed to hold ears of corn, and not Confederate prisoners. Not long after darkness fell, Lieutenant Foley made a visit to the crib. Satisfied that all was in order, he soon departed. There was no concern on his part that the prisoner had neither food nor water. The guard, evidently confident that the lieutenant wouldn’t be back before morning, took advantage of the dark to make himself comfortable. With his back against the wall of the feed store, he sat down facing the crib.
As the guard rotation continued throughout the night, the diligence to duty was less in evidence as each soldier came on duty again, intent only upon completing his two-hour tour and getting back to his bed. Sometime shortly after midnight, Matt had succeeded in loosening two boards to the point where a firm shove would remove them completely. That part of his escape completed, he waited for the right moment to attempt the dangerous part of his plan. It arrived in the wee hours of the morning.
“Where the hell you been?”
“I ain’t late,” his relief answered. “I’m right on time.” He stepped aside while the other man grabbed his rifle, and prepared to depart. “Anything goin’ on?”
“Nah,” the first soldier answered. “He’s just settin’ in his cage, sleepin’.” He did not linger to make small talk. “I’m headin’ for my bed,” he said in leaving.
Matt sat slumped against the corner post of his cage. He pretended to be asleep when the guard took a single turn around the crib. Seeing nothing out of place, the soldier wasted little time in settling himself comfortably against the rear wall of the feed store. In a short time, Matt heard the steady drone of snoring. It was time to act. Pressing a shoulder against the loosened boards, he began to apply a firm and steady pressure. The rusty nails squeaked in quiet protest as they were backed out of the posts, followed by a soft clump when the board fell free to land in the dust. Although muffled, the sound was enough to make Matt look back quickly in the direction of the sleeping guard. He held his breath for a moment, watching, until certain the sound had not been sufficient to disturb the soldier’s repose. He then returned to his task, forcing the second board from the posts. As soon as it dropped to land on top of the first slat, he squeezed his body through the opening to freedom.
Undecided at that point, he stood motionless before the sleeping guard. Should he take some violent action to silence the man forever? Maybe take his weapon? The man was sleeping like a baby. Why risk the noise that might result from an attack upon him? In a moment of compassion, he turned and slipped away in the darkness, leaving his guard in peaceful sleep.
Moving silently and quickly through the shadows, he made his way directly toward Monk Weiner’s livery stable. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he estimated that there was little more than an hour before first light, and he knew he could not afford to let daylight find him still in Rocky Bottom. Encountering no one on the dark street, he hurried into the stable, and began a search from stall to stall to find his horse. In short time, he found the blue roan gelding; the horse nickered softly when it recognized his master.
Monk Weiner sat up on the cot he slept on in the back of the tack room. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, and looked around him in the semidarkness. It was too early to get up. Something had awakened him—a sound from the stalls outside the tack room perhaps. He wasn’t sure. He started to lay back again, but then he was certain he heard a sound, and it didn’t sound like one of the horses stamping or snorting. He decided he’d better take a look.
Pulling his boots on, Monk struck a match and lit the lantern by his cot. Passing through the doorway from the tack room, he stopped abruptly when the lantern light fell upon the man cinching up the saddle on his horse. Both men were startled, each freezing for a moment, speechless.
Monk had known Matt Slaughter since Matt was a youngster. Just the afternoon before, he had watched when the Union soldiers escorted Matt to the corn crib behind the feed store. After the awkward silence had extended to several moments, Monk finally spoke. “Well, I thought I heard somethin’, but I reckon I was wrong. I guess I’ll go on back to bed.” He turned around and started back to the tack room. Before leaving the stable, he remarked loudly, “I was afraid somebody might be after that little bit of money hid in that little soda cracker tin under the oat sacks by the back door.” He disappeared then, and Matt heard one last uttering from inside the tack room. “On the left hand side.”
There was no time to express his gratitude; already he could see the first evidence of the new day outside the stalls. Matt knew that he would never forget Monk’s compassion in this moment of crisis. He led his horse out the back door of the barn, half expecting to hear an outcry from behind the feed store at any second. He hesitated for a moment when he saw a stack of feed bags just inside the left door post. Monk had offered the money, but everyone in the valley was suffering from want after Sheridan had ravaged the land. He was reluctant to take what money Monk may have acquired. Time was running out. His situation dictated a surrender to his desperation. He quickly dragged the sacks of oats aside. There, underneath a layer of hay, he found the tin box. Inside was a roll of U.S. currency, along with a stack of Confederate bills. He counted ninety-five dollars in Federal currency. Taking only what he thought he needed to buy a gun and some supplies for the trail, he replaced forty-five, and returned the box to its hiding place. Spying an empty flour sack draped over the end stall, he grabbed it and filled it with oats for his horse. Then he said a silent thanks to Monk, and stepped up into the saddle.
Although first light was rapidly approaching, the little settlement was still quiet. It wouldn’t be for long, he thought. It had to be getting close to the guard change. He wheeled his horse toward the north road out of town, and left Rocky Bottom at a gallop.
Young Tommy Fletcher stopped on his way to work in the stables when he heard a rider approaching on the north road. Whoever it was seemed to be in a hurry. Curious, Tommy ran up the path from the footbridge in time to see the rider pass. “Dang,” he whispered, and ran to tell Monk. Bursting into the open end of the stable, he confronted Monk coming from the tack room. “Mister Weiner!” Tommy blurted. “I just saw Matt Slaughter hightailin’ it outta town on that blue roan we took in yesterday! He was burnin’ up the road toward Staunton.”
“Is that a fact?” Monk replied. “Are you sure it was Matt Slaughter?”
“Yessir, it was him all right. That Yankee officer said we weren’t supposed to let nobody take that horse. Reckon we oughta tell him?”
Monk stroked his chin whiskers thoughtfully. “That we should, boy. That we should. But first we should make us a pot of coffee. Then, after we’ve had our coffee, we should report it to the captain right away.”
Tommy, a bit slow for a boy his age, looked confused for a moment, but then a wide smile crept across his freckled face. “Yessir,” he exclaimed, “I’ll go fetch some water for the coffeepot.”