A Fine Likeness

For Almudena, my wife

And Julián, my son

And for Edward Stu Bailey (1949-2011)

who always enjoyed reading my books

I wish you could have read this one, my friend

CHAPTER ONE

September 19, 1864

The road between Rocheport and Columbia

Boone County, Missouri

Jimmy Rawlins gripped his rifle and hoped his friends couldn’t see his hands shake. Peering through the underbrush, he scanned the dirt road’s gentle curve as it disappeared around an outcropping of rock topped by a tall oak. That was the way to Rocheport, the way the supply wagon would come.

He darted a glance to either side to check if everyone was in position, hidden in the thick forest that pressed in on the road like a green wall. Elijah Bogan lay underneath a dense shrub to his left, a pale blonde boy of seventeen with a broken-toothed grin on his face and a Colt six-shooter in his hand. He was close enough that Jimmy could have touched him, but barely a third of his body was visible through the leaves. Jimmy knew Hugh and Albert Milligan lay further away but couldn’t see them at all.

To his right, Morgan Whiteside nestled against a spreading black oak, his dark features set in concentration as he aimed down the double barrels of his shotgun. Past him crouched the Kid, barely a shadow in the dim half-light of the forest.

Morgan looked at Jimmy’s hands and grinned. Jimmy gripped his rifle tighter to stop them shaking as Morgan nudged him and made a startled face, shaking all over like he’d seen a ghost. Jimmy frowned and looked back down the sights of his rifle, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the bright midday glare of the open road.

Calm down, Jimmy told himself. Waiting is the worst part. Think of something nice. See that rock by the bend? Looks like the one you and Eliza used to sit on down by Squaw Creek. Wish I was there now. Quiet, you got your duty. You’re no slouch, not like that Henry Gibbs who’s always sparking Eliza with his fine ways and nice horses. Henry Gibbs never did a damn thing for the South. What’s his business kissing Eliza at the corn shucking? Sh. Quiet now. Don’t get mad. Got to be calm in a fight, not mad.

A thin brown haze smudged the blue sky beyond the bend.

The wagon? Riders too, by the looks of it. If it’s too many don’t risk it. Morgan will call you yellow but he knows you ain’t. Aw, but why do my hands always shake?

An open-topped wagon rattled around the bend, flanked by five riders wearing blue. The riders carried muskets and peered into the underbrush.

Let ‘em get close. The boys will wait for your shot. They respect you. They voted you captain because you’re the toughest (except for Morgan) and the smartest (except for Elijah) and at nineteen you’re the oldest.

Well, nineteen next month.

The driver sat stoop-shouldered in his seat, sweat staining his blue uniform black, a forage cap shading his eyes from the heavy sun. He let the horses have their reins, not bothering to hurry them. The creak of wagon wheels and the soft clop of hooves on dirt grew louder in Jimmy’s ears, as did the rising whir of the cicadas sounding out from the forest. Jimmy aimed for the driver’s head. The sight on his rifle tracked the man’s slow progress along the road. Jimmy’s hands no longer shook.

Just a few more feet. You’re fine. Do it just like last time. But you almost got killed last time. Sh. None of that. Think of something nice. Eliza sitting on that rock and dipping them pretty white legs in Squaw Creek. Eliza and Henry kissing at the corn shucking. That yellow, sneaking son of a… Sh. All serene.

Jimmy squeezed the trigger and a loud crack jabbed his eardrums. Through a gritty plume of smoke he saw blood erupt from the driver’s neck. The man jerked to the side, fell off his seat, and got crushed under the wheel of his own wagon.

Bushwhackers! one of the riders shouted.

The forest lit up with the flashes of rifles and pistols. One rider toppled off his saddle with a bullet in his forehead. Morgan leapt to his feet with a rebel yell and set off his shotgun. The blast from the first barrel hit a soldier and his mount. The horse reared, screaming, and Morgan let loose with the second barrel, horse and rider toppling over. Bullets grazed two other horsemen and they flinched in their saddles.

The sole rider who hadn’t been hit raised his rifle and cocked it with his thumb. Jimmy threw down his own rifle and drew a pair of pistols.

Morgan bellowed and ran into the road, blazing away with a revolver at the man about to fire. The rider’s shot went wild as Morgan hit his arm. The soldier ducked in his saddle and yanked on the reins with his good hand, hollering as Morgan shot him in the side. He dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped down the road. His two comrades sped after him.

Jimmy leapt out into the open and fired at the receding figures. His friends did the same. Once or twice a rider jerked in his seat, but all managed to keep a hold of their mounts and get back around the bend, fleeing for their camp at Rocheport.

Daaang! Morgan shouted. You see them Feds run? They’ll be to California by sundown!

They’ll think twice before using this road again, laughed the Kid as he grabbed the reins of the wagon team and calmed the horses.

The horse Morgan had shot lay on its side pawing the ground, breathing in great gusts as it tried to get up. Jimmy leveled his pistol and approached, a sharp eye on the Union soldier lying slack jawed beside it. Jimmy gave the man a kick. He felt limp, unresisting. The horse made another attempt to rise but slammed back down into the dust, its coat spattered with blood where half a dozen pellets had pierced it.

Sorry partner, Jimmy whispered.

He aimed his pistol and closed his eyes. The crack of the shot wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of the horse’s head thudding into the dirt.

Jimmy let out the breath he’d been holding and turned around before opening his eyes. He swallowed to steady his voice and called out to a pair of lanky boys who’d emerged from the woods, looking as alike as two halves of a split log.

Hugh, Albert, fetch your horses and ride down a ways to keep a lookout. Morgan, check that wagon. Kid, you help him. Elijah, what in hell you doing?

What I always do, Elijah said as he waved his hands over the dead body of one of the riders, making strange signs with his fingers. After a moment he pulled a dirty bottle from the inside pocket of his overcoat. He uncorked it and put the opening close to the mouth of the dead man, whispering:

Come to me, come to me, your immortal soul shall never be free.

Elijah, Morgan called out as he rummaged through the wagon, you are one sick son of a bitch.

Elijah corked the bottle and stood up, his grin showing a broken front tooth.

Come say that over here, he invited.

Morgan mumbled something Jimmy couldn’t catch, lowering his head so the brim of his hat covered his eyes, and continued to search the wagon.

Jimmy shook his head and checked his pistols. Three shots gone from each. He pulled a pair of fully loaded ones from the deep pockets on the sides of his loose shirt and put them in his holsters. He put the used ones in the pockets. No time to reload them now. They needed to get any munitions they could find from the wagon and be gone. Jimmy ran to fetch his rifle as the twins rode out from the brush. Hugh headed down the road in the direction of Rocheport while his brother Albert went the other way toward Columbia.

Jimmy picked up his rifle and wiped a bit of dirt from the stock. It was a Sharps, the finest made, taken off a Kansan he’d killed a few months back. He slipped a cartridge into the breech and slung it over his shoulder as he sauntered back toward the wagon.

We want their guns, Captain? the Kid asked.

Jimmy smiled. He liked the Kid. Only fourteen but a fine shot and a fine rider, and the only one who called him Captain.

Naw, Jimmy replied. Them Springfields are no good for our type of fighting, and we don’t want these here government nags neither. You keep checking that wagon.

A second later Morgan let out a whoop and raised a barrel over his head.

Powder! he shouted.

Just one barrel? Jimmy asked, running over to him.

Yep, but big enough to blow a blockhouse if we set it right.

Good, anything else?

Only commissary stores, Captain, the Kid said.

No percussion caps?

Nope.

Hey, Jimmy? Elijah’s voice came from beneath the wagon.

Jimmy bent down.

What you skulking down there for? he asked.

Elijah patted the wagon driver’s corpse on the shoulder. Blood trickled from holes in the soldier’s throat and stomach.

‘Cause that’s where he is.

Quit fooling around and help, Jimmy said.

Elijah waved the dirty bottle.

Oh, I’m helping, don’t you worry on that score. But I got a question, Jimmy. I gave him this slug in his belly as he fell, so I got a claim on him despite you plugging him too. But you see, the soul comes out of the mouth, and you done given him another one. Which one should I hold the bottle up to?

Jimmy grimaced and stood up without answering.

It’s all right, Elijah continued. I’ll hold it up to the hole you made in his throat. It’s closer to the heart. Come to me, come to me, your immortal soul shall never be free.

Morgan jumped off the wagon, the barrel of gunpowder tucked under his arm. The Kid opened a few more boxes and sacks before turning to Jimmy.

Nothing else but hardtack and tinned beef here, captain. Grandma Wyatt will cook us up something better than that.

Elijah crawled out from under the wagon and stood up. He grinned and held the corked bottle in front of Jimmy’s face. Jimmy flinched, then cursed under his breath. He had promised himself he wouldn’t do that.

That makes nine, Elijah said. Only four more to go.

Before Jimmy could reply a pistol shot rang out in the distance. He spun around. It had come from the direction of Columbia. Everyone drew their guns. Elijah tucked the bottle inside his shirt, drew a pair of pistols, and began to whistle.

Out of the shimmering haze a figure rode into view. In a moment they saw it was Albert. A black line appeared in the distance behind him, seeming to float in the heat rising off the road. It separated into silhouettes and resolved into a column of blue-uniformed riders.

Into the woods! Jimmy shouted.

Albert slowed his steed and headed into the underbrush while Jimmy and the rest hurried for the tree line.

The two Union officers in front fired their revolvers. A bullet snapped into the front of the wagon, making the team of horses rear. With a steady hand Jimmy aimed a pistol at the soldiers as the dusty road filled with the roar of gunfire.

CHAPTER TWO

Captain Richard Addison flinched as a bullet whined past his head. He saw the supply wagon sitting in the middle of the road with the bodies of three Union soldiers nearby. The bushwhacker on horseback disappeared into the brush as another one appeared from around the bend up ahead and did likewise. Addison hunched low in his saddle and aimed his revolver at the four bushwhackers on foot by the edge of the road, their features obscured by the clouds of smoke belching from their guns.

One carried a powder keg.

Get him and get them all, Addison thought, and aimed for the keg.

He squeezed off a couple of rounds but missed as the guerrillas ducked into the woods and were swallowed by the greenery.

Dismount! he ordered, reining in his horse.

He vaulted from the saddle and drew his saber. Next to him Lieutenant Anthony Bruin bellowed at the twenty men behind them, Fourth men take the horses, the rest of you fall in!

Fifteen men hurried into a ragged line and cocked their rifles as five others grabbed the reins of the horses and led them to the rear. Addison gritted his teeth.

Slow, too damned slow.

A bullet cracked out of the woods and buried itself in the shoulder of one of Captain Addison’s men. The private reeled backwards and half a dozen of his comrades ran to hold him.

Get back in line, you cowards! Lieutenant Bruin shouted, grabbing one of them with a beefy arm and flinging him forward. He can take care of himself.

Addison spun back toward the tree line and raised his saber.

Forward!

He advanced at quickstep, moving to the left side of the line as Lieutenant Bruin moved to the right.

Lively now, lively! No hanging back! Bruin shouted.

Thin tongues of flame flicked out of the greenery. A soldier thudded onto the road as he got hit in the leg.

First men, ready, aim, fire!

Five of the men on the line shot a volley into the woods.

"Forward! Wheel left. I said left!"

The line of Union militia moved into the woods, breaking through the lush wall of leaves and into the dark recesses of the forest. The shadowy forms of the bushwhackers flitted between the trees ahead of them, half obscured by foliage as they retreated up a low hill.

Second and third men, ready, aim, fire!

Another volley crashed into the woods, but Addison didn’t see any of the rebels fall.

Fix bayonets and advance.

Brush is too damn thick, can’t see fifty feet. Damn, they’re getting away.

Despite himself, Addison hurried forward, unaware he was leaving his men behind. They had taken advantage of the fix bayonets order to stop, not wanting to get too far into the brush with the rebel guerrillas, and no amount of cursing from Lieutenant Bruin would hurry them.

Leaves and vines swatted at Addison’s face as he struggled on, puffing up the slope, the bushwhackers fading to dwindling shadows. Briars scraped his hands and tore at his uniform.

Not forty feet away one of the bushwhackers darted out from behind a tree and froze, as surprised to see Addison as the Union captain was to see him.

Addison pulled up short. Despite the gloom created by the thick canopy, he could see the guerrilla clearly—a youth whose unshaven face showed barely a whisker, with grubby blond hair down to his shoulders. He wore the typical loose guerrilla shirt, with pockets big enough to hold pistols and cartridges, its front elaborately embroidered by some sweetheart. Across his back was strapped a Sharps rifle.

But Addison barely noticed these things as he stared at the young man’s face.

That face—angular features, prominent chin with a slight cleft in the middle, round blue eyes looking straight into his, just like…

Nathan?

Addison’s voice snapped the guerrilla out of his reverie. He leveled his revolver and fired.

Addison cursed and ducked behind a tree. A moment later a second bullet gouged a furrow through the side of the trunk. Fragments of bark stung Addison’s face.

You fool, that’s not Nathan!

Using the tree as cover, Addison fired back. The youth flinched and ran up the slope. Addison aimed carefully with his last bullet, sighting down the barrel at the guerrilla’s exposed back, pulling the trigger…

…only to hear an ineffectual click.

Damn government percussion caps, Addison muttered.

The sound of running feet made him spin around. His men ascended the slope in a ragged line, bayonets fixed.

It’s about time! he barked.

With this lot you’re lucky they’re not still in Columbia, Lieutenant Bruin grumbled, remembering a moment later to add, sir.

Reload, the captain ordered. We don’t want to be drawn into an ambush without having bullets in our guns. Lieutenant, how many shots do you have left in your pistol?

Two.

I’m out, but no time to reload. Wish we had as many revolvers as those bushwhackers.

Each soldier tore open a cartridge and poured the powder into the barrel of his rifle, then tamped down a ball and wadding with his ramrod before fixing a percussion cap beneath the lock. Cocking the lock made the gun ready to fire. Addison paced as the men went through the motions. A trained soldier could reload and fire a Springfield rifled musket three times in a minute. With his men it was more like two.

Addison thanked God the guerrillas had run so easily. At this rate they could have filled them with enough lead to give every cabin in Boone County indoor plumbing.

Finally the last click of a cocked lock told him his men were ready.

Advance, Addison said in a low voice, and be quiet about it.

The men crept uphill. Addison peered through the underbrush, wishing he had a second pistol, or even a musket, anything but a saber. They crested the ridge and came to a flat wooded area that stretched a few dozen yards before sloping down into a deep hollow. Addison motioned his men forward. None too quickly, they followed.

Addison could hear the distant gurgle of a stream at the bottom of the densely wooded ravine. They worked their way down slope, the sound of the water growing louder.

The men spun to the right as half a dozen riders burst from behind a thicket and galloped off into the brush not thirty yards away.

Fire!

A dozen muskets thundered at the same moment, the bullets whickering through the forest, tearing leaves and snapping off branches. None of the riders fell. For a brief moment Addison saw the boy with the Sharps rifle riding a beautiful roan mare, and felt a strange relief to see he had survived.

***

The sun glowed red behind the Union militia as they rode into camp just west of the town of Columbia. Captain Addison sat grim in the saddle at the front of the column, his men riding by twos behind him. At the rear came the supply wagon, carrying the dead and wounded.

Addison wondered about his actions. He knew a steamboat had docked at Rocheport and that a supply wagon from it was bringing food and powder, and he knew the wagon had an escort, but a nagging worry in the back of his mind had bothered him all day until he had arranged a detail to go out and meet it.

I should have saved myself the bother, he thought. It was bad luck coming upon them when we did. I got two men wounded for nothing.

But something else troubled him—that guerrilla in the woods.

I must be mad for stopping and staring like that. But he looked so much like him.

The column came to an open field dotted with white tents. By the road stood a timber blockhouse two stories high, equipped with loopholes for guns. Nearby stood a stable and two small cabins, one for his own use and the other a hospital. A ditch and a low earthen embankment surrounded the camp. Two cannon faced the road, their muzzles a pair of malignant eyes covering the western approach to Columbia.

Lieutenant Bruin, get the wounded to Doctor Long and put Company B’s dead somewhere until we can return them to Rocheport, Addison ordered.

Yes, sir.

As the lieutenant gave orders, a wave of fatigue washed over Addison. His back ached and he tried to rub it without the men seeing. At fifty he felt too old to be galloping around after guerrillas. Five years ago he could ride across the countryside all day without feeling the strain, but the war had aged him.

Addison looked about the camp as he passed through a breach in the embankment. He commanded a hundred men, not nearly enough to guard the road to Columbia, search local houses for weapons and spies, and hunt down bushwhackers like he was supposed to do. As he dismounted, a black man ran up to take his reins, one of the runaways from Arkansas the army had pressed into service.

You clean him up good, you hear? Addison patted the horse’s flanks and smiled. Kingmaker came from fine Kentucky stock, sired from his father’s best stallion.

That guerrilla rode one almost as nice. Rode well too, he mused. Taken off some farmer, most likely; no government-issue nag is half as good as mine or his.

Addison shook his head. He needed to stop seeing Nathan in every young stranger’s face.

A skinny, middle-aged man in a baggy lieutenant’s uniform ran up to him.

Sir! They’ve come! he said, raising his hands and grinning.

The pistols? Addison turned to him eagerly.

Pistols, sir? the lieutenant blinked.

Yes, Lieutenant Pratt, the pistols. I requested pistols from the general.

Oh, no, I meant the preserves! Mrs. Thomas promised us some preserves, if you recall, and she sent a boy out with them. They’ll go well with dinner, don’t you think?

The captain sighed.

Report, lieutenant.

Report, sir?

You did take a detachment to Obediah Miller’s farm to look for weapons, did you not?

Oh, yes sir. Terribly rude gentleman, sir. Said all sorts of scandalous things about our regiment, but we found no weapons.

Too bad, I’d love to get some solid evidence against him.

Well, he did use profanity, sir.

Did he declare support for the Confederacy?

Not that I recall, sir.

Then we can’t throw him into prison. Better luck next time.

We did have good luck, sir.

How so?

The preserves, sir.

Addison stormed off toward his cabin in search of a nap and some privacy. On his way he passed another of the escaped slaves stirring a big cauldron from which rose an acrid odor. He recognized Rufus, an older buck who seemed to be a bit of a leader among the contrabands in these parts. Addison didn’t understand why they all deferred to him; he looked as scruffy as the rest.

Addison peered into the cauldron.

Good God, Rufus. Salt pork again?

Yes cap’n, your favorite.

And don’t tell me you’re cooking beans with this.

All right, cap’n, I won’t tell you I’m cooking beans with this. Want me to break out some hard tack?

No, the men have suffered enough for one day, Addison grumbled. Why can’t you cook something else for a change?

I cook what they give me.

Addison frowned, not liking his tone, then shook his head and walked to his cabin. Not even the Negroes showed him respect.

He had barely sat down at his desk when he heard a knock at the door.

Come in, he groaned.

Lieutenant Pratt entered holding a pile of papers.

"Your mail, sir. A message from General Brown, a letter from your wife, and I added a copy of today’s Columbia Mirror. You’re in it again, sir."

Thank you, lieutenant. That will be all.

Addison smiled as the lieutenant closed the door behind him. Good old Tom Chandress writing him up again. He put the letters to one side and opened the newspaper. He hesitated, then picked up the message from the general. Best to get that over with first.

"To Captain Richard Addison, Cmdr Co. A, 90th Enrolled Missouri Militia

Sir,

I received your query of the 10th inst. regarding a supply of revolvers for your men. While I agree they would be most efficacious in fighting the guerrilla menace plaguing our district, I am afraid that we do not have the funds to equip every militia with side arms. The new Springfields you received last winter will have to suffice. Let me remind you that it is because of the great number of bushwhackers in your part of the state that you were issued with these rifled muskets, most militia being armed with the older Enfield or Austrian models. We have provided you with the best firearms available, and I know that you will do your duty to the best of your ability.

Regarding my previous message of Wednesday inst., our scouts in northern Arkansas have indeed confirmed that General Sterling Price has moved across the Arkansas River with a large rebel force. His intentions and numbers are at this time unclear, but it appears he is heading for Missouri. As Price is in constant communication with many of the worst bushwhacker bands, you may expect increased activity in this and surrounding districts.

I am, sir, your most obd’t servant,

Brigadier General Egbert Brown, Commander, District of Central Missouri"

Addison tossed the letter onto his desk. What was he supposed to do, chase gun-toting, beardless youths around the woods with a saber? Had General Brown ever seen one of these bushwhackers? They all carried four pistols at least, supplied by sympathizers or stolen from Unionist civilians, and could get two dozen shots off for each one his men could. Addison picked up his pen, dipped it in an inkwell, and drafted a reply.

"To Brigadier General Egbert Brown, Commander, District of Central Missouri

Sir,

Today at about two o’clock in the afternoon a supply wagon from Co. B, 90th Enrolled Missouri Militia, headquartered in Rocheport, was sent toward my position from that place, guarded by six men. They were attacked by bushwhackers not four miles west of my position on the Rocheport-Columbia road. Three men of Co. B were killed and the others driven off. I was leading a patrol out to meet the wagon and came upon the bushwhackers as they were in the process of looting it. We scattered them, driving them into the woods. Two of my men suffered wounds in this fight. The rebels’ losses were…"

Addison paused, pen poised over the paper.

"…unclear as the bushwhackers are in the habit of removing their dead and wounded from the field.

I must stress once again that my men are sorely outgunned by these rebel outlaws. If we had been equipped with just one pistol each, I am confident that we would have killed or captured the entire band. I feel duty bound to most humbly repeat my request for more appropriate weapons with which to fight this menace.

I am, sir, your most obd’t servant,

Captain Richard Addison, Cmdr Co. A, 90th Enrolled Missouri Militia"

That unpleasant duty finished, the captain eyed his wife’s letter sitting on his desk, and picked up the newspaper. The headline read, Further Proof of the Depravity of the Notorious Bushwhackers!!!

Under it was a sketch of what appeared to be a two-headed eagle, the heads on elongated necks looking to the left and right. It had a bulbous body and was trampling several tiny people who screamed from disfigured faces as its claws dug into their backs. The caption read,

"This is a sketch from life of a figurine, about five inches tall, discovered on the body of a bushwhacker killed in Howard County, in a skirmish near the western boundary of Boone County. A grotesque travesty of our proud national symbol, this two-headed eagle and its screaming lost souls is nothing more than a bestial, barbaric shame upon our fair land. The rebels have added idolatry and devil worship to their long list of crimes. When will a cleansing hand wipe this pestiferous scourge from our great state?"

Addison shook his head and leafed through the paper. It didn’t take long to find the mention of him.

"Rumors have reached this paper of a new advance by the rebel General Sterling Price upon our state. Residents of Columbia need not fear. Even if his rebel horde reached these parts, and that is so unlikely that one might rather wish for it to rain frogs, he would meet a warm reception from our very own Captain Richard Addison. While only one of many company commanders in our district, his ability and gentlemanly nature shine forth like a diamond among the gold of the Missouri militia. For who can forget his great victory in the first month of the current conflict, the crushing blow he gave the rebels on the very threshold of Columbia, at the Battle of Three Creeks? When, with brilliant leadership worthy of Grant or Sherman, he captured a large rebel force, inflicted heavy losses on them, captured a huge cache of most deadly weaponry, and ended secessionist recruitment in this part of the county for several months? This writer had the honor of serving beside him on that glorious day, and a no more fearless, ferocious, finer man has graced a uniform since the age of Alexander and Achilles. Loyal Unionists may sleep soundly knowing Captain Addison is on the watch, and they may show their gratitude by patronizing Addison’s Drygoods Emporium, located at the corner of 8th St. and Broadway."

Addison chuckled. Dear old Tom. If only their glorious day at Three Creeks had been a sign of things to come. Yes, Tom had been there with him, and the whole affair happened down at Three Creeks, but those were the only truthful things in the entire article.

It had been in May 1861, three years and a lifetime ago. The previous month rebels had fired on Fort Sumter, and in Columbia secessionists drilled on the grassy quad of the state university, led by Moses Gibson, his and Tom’s old schoolteacher. The man was past seventy, but could still stir up a firestorm of rhetoric and shoot a musket with the best of them. Addison had been in charge of the Columbia militia back then and took care to avoid any confrontation, partly because he didn’t want any blood on the streets and partly because some of his best friends had joined Gibson. News had just come that rebels had seized the Federal arsenal at Liberty in western Missouri, and, worried his old schoolteacher might try the same with the town militia’s meager store of old muskets and rusty sabers, he had put the men under arms and had them camp in his own pasture just half a mile outside Columbia. They even wheeled out the little old cannon from in front of the courthouse, a relic of the war of 1812 that they fired once a year during the Fourth of July celebrations.

On the night of May 10, Tom had come to his home. He always lurked around the telegraph office to get news for his paper, and he’d just gotten word that the Missouri State Guard at St. Louis had been surrounded and captured by General Lyon and charged with insurrection against the government. Lyon claimed the guardsmen planned to take the Federal armory in the city, so he went out with several regiments of Unionist militia, German immigrants mostly, surrounded the State Guard camp, and forced them to surrender without firing a shot. On the way back into town a rebel mob started throwing rocks, the Germans panicked and fired into the crowd, and St. Louis plunged into a night of rioting. The telegraph message had been vague about casualties, but they included some of the German militia and many civilians.

Addison had been thunderstruck. Governor Jackson was a secessionist and would surely use this as an excuse to get his way in the General Assembly. Secession, the question on every Missourian’s mind since Lincoln’s election, had just been decided on the streets of St. Louis.

Tom was ecstatic.

Now we can clean up this state, Richard, the editor said, slamming his fist into his palm as he paced the length of Addison’s front parlor. "Get every God-damned secech traitor thrown right into the calaboose. Make this state livable