“They do. If there any charges to answer over this death he will be tried by a military court martial. Legally he cannot be tried by a Mississippi civilian court.”

General Bragg let his breath out with a whoosh — then laughed.

“I like your brass, major. One lone Yankee officer coming down here and trying to walk outta jail — with a prisoner that the whole South is dying to lynch.”

“I am not alone, General. I have the strength of the army behind me. I have you and your troops to help me make sure that no miscarriage of justice does occur.”

General Bragg rose from his chair and began to pace the room in silence. He stopped to light a black cigar, blew out a cloud of acrid smoke. Pointed the cigar like a pistol at Compton.

“You know what you asking?”

“I do. I was told that if you have doubts about your duty in this matter, that you were to telegraph the Secretary of War.”

“I gonna do just that — Orderly!” He bellowed the last word, then scratched a quick message on a pad as a corporal came in from an adjoining room. “Have this sent to the War Department. Wait there at the telegraph office and bring me back the reply.”

General Bragg dropped back into his chair, blew out a cloud of smoke and looked into the distance, absorbed in thought. Finally nodded.

“This could be the way out of our problems. Trouble is going to happen very soon if something ain’t done. Maybe this is it. Get that man out of here before someone gets kilt. You want a cigar?”

“Not now, thank you.”

“Whisky?”

“It’s early — but I think that I damned well do.”

“Good. I’ll join you.”

The War Department had been waiting for Bragg’s telegram. The answer came at once and was signed by the Secretary of War.

“This is it,” Bragg said, folding the paper and putting it into the pocket of his jacket. “Bring your bag, Captain, because you are not coming back here. First Sergeant,” he shouted.

When they left the hotel the First Sergeant and an armed squad came with them. The crowd whistled and catcalled as they went towards the jail, shouted even louder when the sergeant knocked on the door.

“General Bragg is here. He wants to see the sheriff.”

After a long wait the door opened a crack. Someone inside started to speak but the sergeant pushed the door wide so they could go in. The crowd surged and shouted until the closing door shut them out.

“What you want?” the sheriff said. He was unshaven and appeared to have been drinking.

“I want your prisoner,” the general said. He took out the folded telegram. “Here is my authorization from the War Department.”

“You got no rights in here! I’m the sheriff and I beholden to the judge and the mayor and not to you.”

“Sheriff, this state is now under martial law, so I am afraid that you are going to have to do what I say. Your prisoner is a serving noncommissioned officer in the United States Army, and is therefore subject to military justice. Take us to him.”

Sheriff Boyce fumbled for his gun and the sergeant knocked it out of his hand.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” the general warned. “Sergeant, get the key. Disarm this man and anyone else who attempts any resistance.”

The sight of the armed soldiers had a cooling effect on the warders and deputies. Major Compton and four armed soldiers followed the warden into the iron-barred corridor to the cells. L.D. Lewis heard them coming and jumped to his feet. One eye was bruised and swollen shut; he cocked his head to look out of the other eye.

“Major Compton… what?”

“Open this cell,” Compton ordered. “We’re taking you out of here, sergeant. To Washington City where a court of inquiry will investigate this matter. Let’s go.”

L.D. stumbled a bit when he walked and the major took him by the arm. He shrugged it off.

“I’m just fine, sir. I can walk out of here.”

The general had organized everything in a highly efficient military manner. His troops had sealed off the alley that ran behind the jailhouse. A grocery wagon was waiting outside the door. Four mounted officers from his brigade blocked L.D. and Compton from sight as they climbed into the wagon, were pushed in by the First Sergeant who joined them. The soldier who was driving the wagon flipped the reins and they started forward. There was milling and shoving when they reached the street but the soldiers just pushed their way through the crowd. A moment later and the wagon and the officers were galloping down the street towards the train station.

“The general put together a military train,” the First Sergeant said. “An engine and two cars. Troops going on leave. It’s in a siding and waiting for you.” He looked at L.D. and scowled. “Be smart, Sergeant. Stay out of the South. We got enough trouble of our own.”

“Send our thanks to the general,” Major Compton said. “I’ll see that this is reported in detail to the War Department.”

“Just doing our duty, sir — just doing our duty…”

THE BATTLE FOR DUBLIN

“Looks like we have a welcoming committee, General” Colonel Sam Roberts said, leaning out of the train window.

“Not the British, I hope,” General William Tecumseh Sherman said, standing and fastening his sword belt.

“Not quite, sir.”

With a hissing of steam and squealing of brakes the train from Galway slid to a stop in Kingsbridge Station. Through the open window came the sound of massed cheering — growing louder still when Sherman stepped down to the platform. At least a hundred men were waiting on the platform there, each wearing a green ribbon tied around his arm. A large man with a great white beard pushed forward through the crowd and executed what might possibly be called a salute. “Welcome, your honor — welcome to Dublin.” The crowd fell silent, hushed, listening. “We hear only rumors, nothing more. Could you tell us…”

“I am General Sherman of the United States Army. The soldiers on this train landed this morning and seized Galway City. The British troops stationed there are now our prisoners. The invasion and freeing of Ireland has begun. We now plan to do the same here in Dublin. With your aid.”

The silence was fractured by the shouts of joy that rang out from the listening crowd. Some wept with happiness; they pounded each other on the back. The bearded man had to lean forward and shout to be heard.

“The name’s O’Brian, General, the captain of these volunteers.”

“Then I will ask you to get your men inside the station, Mr. O’Brian, so my troops can detrain.”

The soldiers were pouring out of the cars now, spurred on by the sergeants’ shouted commands. Stout planks were being put into place to unload the Gatling guns. Sherman and his staff followed O’Brian to the relative quiet of the Stationmaster’s office. A map of Dublin was spread out on the table. Sherman pointed towards it.

“Do your men know the city?”

“Jayzus and do they not! Every one of them a Jackeen born and bred and they knows dear old dirty Dublin like the backs of their hands.”

“Good. And the horses?”

“We have them, sir, indeed we do! Begged, borrowed or — begging your pardon — stolen. Two livery stables full of them.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “And men waiting to take you there.”

Sherman pointed to one of his aides. “Get a platoon and follow the guides.” The officer hurried off as the general turned back to the map. “Now, where is Dublin Castle?” he asked and O’Brian touched a thick finger to it. Then, in turn, he pointed out the barracks in Phoenix Park, the Customs House, the headquarters of the Royal Irish Constabulary. One by one they were singled out and orders issued. This attack had long been planned, with troops allotted to attack the individual strongpoints.

The Battle of Dublin had begun. The Gray and Blue troops poured out of the station, each attacking force led by a green-ribboned volunteer, just as the second train was arriving on the next platform: sweating soldiers manhandled the heavy Gatling guns from the flat cars. In the distance could be heard loud neighing and the clatter of hooves.