Two for Home

Chapter 5-1

Chapter 5

Thanks to Sharps’s lack of height and boyish face—which it seemed both the general and Colonel Sebring had counted on—and the lazy drawl that returned with a little work, no one paid him much heed, and he was able to get the job done. He even managed to help some men escape from a small prison camp in the dead of winter. Colonel Sebring passed that deed on to the general, and he’d been praised for it. He couldn’t stick around though. There was more work to be done, and he had to do it.

At least up until April of the following year, he did it. Although by then the war had ended, Colonel Sebring still had work for Sharps to do, and he did it willingly.

By sheer chance Sharps learned of the plot to assassinate the president, and he searched desperately for someone to give that information to. The colonel was on leave, however, visiting his farm in Maryland and the wife who had just given birth to a healthy baby boy. The general wasn’t in the capital, and no one was available who would believe Sharps—that accent and that damned baby face.

He determined to go to Ford’s Theater and deal with the situation himself, but by the time he got there, it was too late. The president had been shot, and by later that morning, he would be dead.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sharps,” Colonel Sebring assured him when he returned to the capital and found Sharps in a rundown boarding house, spending his time getting drunk. “If those idiots had just listened to you—”

“It’s this damned face of mine. They thought I was just a fool kid and wouldn’t believe me.” Sharps peered blearily at the colonel. Was he observing Sharps thoughtfully, or was it in disgust? Dammit, Sharps wished he wasn’t so hungover. He remembered Captain Marriott’s warning after he’d shot the Rebel colonel and regretted he hadn’t taken the words to heart, although considering this situation…“At least it wasn’t on my birthday.” Although it was near enough.

“Look, I have other jobs for you. They’ll pay well, I promise.”

Sharps shrugged. “I’ve got nowhere better to go.” He’d used all his cash money on rye whiskey, and since he had no idea where Captain Marriott was, he reckoned he might as well help out the colonel. Anyway, with so many men returning home from the War, jobs would be scarce. “I’ll take it, Colonel.”

“Good. Take a bath, write your father—tell him you’re well and you’re staying on in the job I’ve given you but nothing more.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve got no paper.”

The colonel tugged on his lower lip, then nodded. “I’ll see you have some. Do you expect him to write to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Will he grow worried when he doesn’t hear back from you?”

“No, sir. I’m not much of a letter writer, and Pa knows that.”

“Still, he might grow concerned. Have him send any letters to Shadow Brook.”

Sharps nodded. He knew that was the colonel’s farm.

“All right, then. After you’ve bathed, come meet me at the Sticks and Stones.” He raised an eyebrow.

“I know where it is, sir.” It was the tavern where Sharps had gotten his whiskey. He held his breath and waited for the colonel to say he’d assumed as much.

Colonel Sebring didn’t—of course he didn’t. He was a gentleman. What he did say was, “I’ll have paper for you there. Once you’ve written to your father, you’ll eat, and I’ll explain what we’ll be doing.”

* * * *

What we’ll be doing…

By the spring of 1868 three years later, Sharps had had enough of what they were doing—enough of bloodshed, of cruelty, of deceit. He gave his final report to Colonel Sebring and collected his pay, along with a pouch containing a bonus that would tide him over until he decided what he wanted to do.

“I want to go home, sir,” he said as he tucked the pouch in the bottom of one of the custom-made saddlebags the colonel had given the men who worked for him and which Sharps had swapped out his kitbag for. He’d sent home the commendation the general had promised him years before, although it had been signed by President Johnson and not President Lincoln.

“I understand, Sharps. I’m sorry to see you go, but I won’t try to talk you out of it.”

“Thank you, sir. I-I hope you’re not disappointed in me.”

“Never.” The colonel hesitated for a moment, then continued, “You did excellent work. If you ever find yourself in a jam, I’d suggest falling back on your face.”

Sharps touched his cheek, confused, and the colonel gave him a rueful smile.

“No one would look at that face of yours and see you as anything but an inexperienced boy. Now,” he said more briskly. “If you ever need anything, feel free to get in touch with me. You know my direction—Shadow Brook Farm, Maryland.” The colonel rested his palm on Sharps’s shoulder for a moment, then pulled him into a hug before he stepped away. “Good luck and Godspeed.”

The action startled Sharps. The colonel had never been the demonstrative sort.

“Good luck to you, too, Colonel.”

Colonel Sebring gave a curt nod and strode out, leaving Sharps to pack his clothes into the saddlebags. Whatever remained went into his haversack.

Sharps sent word to Pa, letting him know he would be on his way, and then he caught a train heading north.

He was going home to Brooklyn.