“I see Davis and two other men-they could be Mallory and Toombs, the men who left the other day,” said Rook, pointing to the boat. He spoke in a low voice, even though there was no chance he could be overheard. “I wonder where Corporal Clark is.”
Suddenly Davis broke off his tirade. He took a step to the left and Rook had his answer: Clark was sitting down, his face blank. Davis said something and the two others grabbed Clark by the arms, stood him up, and spun him around. Rook thought he saw them bind Clark’s wrists behind his back just before they shoved him down a set of steps leading into the galley.
When Clark disappeared, the two soldiers pulled out of view entirely.
“They’ve got Clark below the cabin, and it looks like he’s a captive,” said Rook. “Davis, Mallory, and Toombs are still on the barge, and Stephens is on lookout right beside it.”
“If there are others, they’re in the galley.”
“That could be, but there can’t be much room down there.”
“Did you see the cargo?”
“No. Whatever it is, it’s in the hatch and not visible.”
Springfield moved to the edge of the building and peeked around the corner. When he came back, he saw Rook examining a pistol. It was a Colt Army Model 1860 revolver, a .44-caliber gun with an octagonal barrel nearly eight inches long. Rook opened the chamber to make sure it was fully loaded. All six bullets were there. Satisfied, he put the pistol back in his belt. He looked at Springfield and gestured to the sergeant’s holster. “You may want to make sure everything’s in order,” said the colonel. “I want to end this right now.”
“It’s two against four-maybe more,” said Springfield.
“Shouldn’t we get some help?”
It was a smart question. Yet involving more men would mean involving Scott. Rook knew that would be a mistake. “I’m not sure we have time to call for assistance,” he said. “Clark’s in there and we have to help him. They may have taken him below for something worse than an interrogation.”
“Very well.”
“Give me five minutes, then walk up to Stephens,” said Rook. “Engage in small talk. I’m going to circle around and try to get on that boat. Don’t let Stephens see me, and be ready for action.”
Rook went up the block toward Bridge Street and worked his way back to the canal from another alleyway. He looked at the boat holding Clark, this time from the opposite direction, where he had a better view of its stern. Davis leaned on the rudder and glared into the galley but did not move. Stephens continued to stand alongside the boat. Between Rook and these two men was another boat, and it did not appear to have anybody on board.
A team of mules sauntered by, and Rook fell behind them. He walked in a crouch toward the deserted boat. When he was right next to it, he hopped on board. An empty mule shed at the other end of the boat kept him from seeing Davis, but had a clear view of Stephens. The little man did not appear to have noticed him. His eyes instead were locked on Springfield, who now strolled toward the Southerner from the other way.
“Hello?” A voice from the galley startled Rook. The colonel reached for his gun as he heard a foot hit the steps leading upward. “Weaver? Is that you?”
A black-haired man in a white shirt and brown trousers came up from the galley. “Hello?” he said again. Suddenly he stopped, seeing Rook squatted down and pointing a pistol at him. The man raised his hands above his head, and Rook put a finger to his lips. The man froze in place, but his eyes shifted to his right and down. Rook followed the man’s gaze to a rifle leaning against the wall of the boat’s cabin. Rook knew he had to act quickly.
“Are you for Union?” whispered Rook.
The man nodded. Rook weighed his options. He assumed the man was from western Maryland because that was where so many of the canal workers came from. The C amp;O Canal cut right through their territory. The people of western Maryland generally were unionists, and many of them supported the Lincoln administration even though they lived in a slave state.
“Then in the name of the Union, either get back down in the galley or take your rifle and come with me,” said Rook, rising to a full stand. He was glad to be in uniform-he thought it would help win the man’s confidence.
The man thought for a few seconds and then picked up his gun. “My name is Higginson,” he said, holding out his hand. Rook grasped it and introduced himself.
“We have a potentially dangerous situation here,” he said.
“A man’s life may be at stake.”
“Just tell me what to do,” said Higginson.
“Is there anybody else on board?”
“No. We unloaded this morning, and everybody’s gone for the afternoon.”
“Very well. Then it’s you and me. I’m hoping that we won’t need to fire these guns, but I’m certain we’ll have to show them.”
A minute later, they scrambled the length of the boat, each in an awkward hunch. Reaching the mule shed, they remained in a stoop and paused. Rook could hear Springfield talking to Stephens.
“…so as I was saying, I’ve always been fascinated by how the locks work on the canal. It’s really ingenious how you fellows get up, down, and around the rapids and falls.”
Then Rook heard another voice, coming from the cabin. “Is there a problem here, Officer?”
It was Davis. Rook could not see him, but he pictured the scene: Stephens and Springfield on the edge of the canal, Davis looking at them, and two others below with Clark. With the collaborators separated and distracted, now was a good time to strike, he thought.
Rook drew his gun and looked at Higginson. “Ready?” he asked in a whisper.
Higginson gripped his rifle. He looked nervous but nodded. “Let’s do it.”
Both men hopped onto the roof of the mule shed. Rook now had a plain view of Davis. There was a gap of about seven or eight feet between the end of Higginson’s barge and the start of Davis’s. Rook took a few steps and hurtled himself across, crashing into Davis. The big man slammed into the floor of the cabin. He took a bad blow to the head. Rook fell down too, but he regained his balance quickly and stuck his gun in Davis’s face. The commotion caused Stephens to turn around, which forced his attention away from Springfield just as the sergeant shoved him into the canal. Higginson remained standing on the mule shed of his boat, with his gun trained on the steps leading into the galley.
As Stephens thrashed around in the water-“I can’t swim!” he hollered-Springfield boarded the boat. Rook pointed to Davis. “Guard him,” he ordered. Then the colonel ran to the galley steps. Mallory was starting to climb them from below, but Rook kicked him in the face, knocking him backward.
The colonel scurried into the galley. It was small and dark, but he saw Clark sitting in a corner with Toombs hovering over him. “Hands up,” shouted Rook, pointing his gun. The man obeyed. The whole encounter, starting with Rook leaping onto the boat, had lasted about fifteen seconds.
“The dogs have found something,” said Tate, holding the end of a long leash.
“I think we’re getting close,” said Hughes.
The overseer knew the fugitives were nearby-the marks in the mud along the riverbank about half a mile back, where Portia and Joe apparently had rested, were fresh. The dogs had become ecstatic when they stumbled on that spot too. But then they fell silent and prowled around for a scent that suddenly had gone dead.
Tate suspected that the dogs’ barking had warned the runaways, who then raced into the creek. There was no way to tell whether they had gone upstream or downstream, though. Downstream seemed the likelier path, because upstream led to the plantation he and Hughes had seen from the road. So they set off downstream, leaving behind their own horses, which were too big to be of much use in the forest. Ahead of them on leashes, a dog raced along each side of the creek checking for the right smell.