Free Only the Gallant by Kerry Newcomb

sacrifice his life for the Confederate or any other cause. Elmo Dern had instructed the clerk to drive Ophelia Tyrone’s wagon thirty miles down the river road to a point where a locomotive would meet them and load the supplies, carriage, and the daring young sister of Colonel Bon Tyrone onto a freight car bound for Vicksburg. Dobbs was supposed to have returned to Memphis with the wagon. Now the timid little man feared he’d return in irons to await execution. A federal soldier lifted the tarpaulin covering the wagon bed and peered in at what appeared to be a brass bed frame and various boxes and barrels of fruit, salted meats, wine, and toiletries all destined for Major General Earl Van Dorn, compliments of his old comrade at arms, General Sherman. War was one thing, friendship another, and there seemed no reason why the two couldn’t coexist.
    But the courtesy between generals was the furthest thing from Ophelia’s mind. Her own situation became more and more precarious with each blow from the stock of the soldier’s musket as he battered the padlock until the catch released. Several of his friends had gathered around to see what treasures might be contained in the trunk.
    “You have no right!” Ophelia continued to protest. She snatched up the buggy whip and stepped out of the carriage.
    One of the soldiers slapped his sleeve. “The color of this here uniform gives us the right, missy.”
    “By heaven, here’s a find,” the first private exclaimed as he stared at twenty-four brown glass bottles of French brandy. He grinned. “Those generals sure are a thirsty bunch.”
    “No drier than I am right now,” another of his friends mused.
    The buggy whip cracked. One of the soldiers howled, clutched the seat of his pants, and hop-stepped out of the way. The others scattered as Ophelia attacked. The private by the trunk tried to take a bottle with him.
    “Put that back,” Ophelia warned, and nicked the tip of his ear with the whip.
    “Yeow!” The private backstepped, lost his balance, and landed on his rump in the dirt. The bottle shattered on a rock.
    “Dammit woman!” the private growled. “That’s a waste of good … ” His voice trailed off as the liquid’s distinctively pungent fumes assailed his nostrils. “Brandy, my ass. That’s chloroform! Sergeant Appleton!” The private scrambled to his feet and pointed at the woman. “Train your guns on her, boys. She’s smuggling contraband to her Rebel friends.”
    The mood of the soldiers abruptly changed. They were no longer amused by the antics of a defiant young girl. Suddenly she was poison in their midst. Rifle muskets were leveled at her. A soldier caught up the reins to her carriage and kept the mare from wandering off.
    Sergeant Appleton, an efficient-looking man with thick black sideburns and thinning hair, emerged from the cluster of tents set just off the road. He headed for the carriage, where the private quickly related his discovery. Sergeant Appleton looked at Ophelia, his features stern.
    “Are all those bottles like the one Jones broke?” he asked. The woman remained silent. “I can smash ’em and find out for myself.”
    “They contain chloroform,” Ophelia said, resigned to her fate. There was no point in seeing the medical supplies she had hoped to smuggle to Vicksburg needlessly destroyed. No doubt they would find the surgical instruments once the barrels of “salt pork” were opened.
    “Then I’m afraid I must place you under arrest, ma’am,” Appleton replied, touching the leather brim of his blue cap. “And I fear it’ll go hard for you, no matter how pretty you be.” The sergeant wagged his head and wiped the perspiration from his face with his forearm.
    “Rider comin’,” said Private Jones. Appleton shifted his gaze. Ophelia turned to look and recognized Jesse riding at an easy pace along the Memphis-to-Vicksburg road. Her heart sank. Now she was caught in another lie, pretending to the second lieutenant that