Free Crossing the Deadline by Michael Shoulders Page A

another row of buildings. The wooden structures and a few randomly placed tents keep us from seeing how far the prison goes beyond that.
    Henry stares out at the sea of people. “We’ll never find what’s-his-name. There’s got to be a couple thousand men in here.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Henry,” I say. “There is no John Williams.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    I shake my head. “There’s no John Williams.”
    â€œAre you crazy? What about the paper you showed the guard?”
    â€œIt’s a forgery. I made all that up.”
    â€œDid the governor sign the paper?”
    â€œNo. Governor Morton doesn’t know we’re here.”
    â€œHow did his signature get on the paper?”
    â€œHe signed a book for me. A gift. I studied his hand. It’s not exact, but close enough, I guess. It fooled you and the guard.”
    Henry stares at me and shakes his head slowly.
    â€œWhat?” I ask.
    â€œI can’t tell when you’re lying or telling the truth,” he
    confesses. “What are we doing here, then?” “Gotta see somebody.”
    â€œBut not Williams,” he says, catching on. “Who?”
    I clench my fist and furrow my brow. “The men who killed my brother.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

    Henry Dorman and I walk toward a group of five men gathered near the edge of the ravine. They’re thin, dirty, disheveled, and inadequately dressed for a northern winter. They encircle a small fire, keeping their backs to anybody approaching. “Soldiers, I’m looking for men from the Army of Kentucky,” I announce.
    Without lifting his head, a tall man with sharp fingers motions toward the stream. He says in a frail voice, “Kentucky men are on the other side.” The man wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
    The two of us make our way to the bottom of the ravine, weaving past groups of men clustered around fires, some with their palms out, catching elusive warmth. We step across a thin stream of filthy water and climb the other bank. Wepass men sitting frozen like carved figurines. Their empty stares reveal their bodies are in Indianapolis, but their minds are elsewhere. Henry skims their faces and asks, “This is what we’ll be fighting down South? They look near death.”
    â€œDorman, I doubt they mustered in looking like this.”
    â€œMy God, this is what prison did to them?” he asks.
    Prisoners had constructed clotheslines at the top of the west bank and draped blankets across much of the lines. Just beyond the blankets, five wooden barracks resembling horse stables stand end to end.
    â€œWhich one we going in?” Henry asks.
    â€œOne’s just as good as the next,” I reply.
    After opening the door, we step into almost total darkness. The air is thick with moisture. It smells like rotting cattle and manure. I gag so hard, I feel my stomach trying to come up into my throat. I hear Henry do the same. I use the collar of my coat to cover my nose from the stench and wait for my eyes to adjust.
    Along each side wall, a row of beds stacked four bunks high reach from the ground to the eaves. The bottom bunks are inches off a bare earthen floor. Rags stuffed between planks of wood in the wall keep out some of the wind. Men press so close around an object in the middle of the room thatit’s hidden from view. A pipe leads from the center of the men to the roof. A stove.
    If the meager fire warms the men standing by it, it does little to heat the ends of the building. Too many rags have fallen out, allowing the cold to sweep inside. It’s as frigid where Henry and I stand as it is outside. A moan to the left draws our attention. Although dimly lit, the shape of men huddling under blankets in a bed catches our eyes.
    â€œLook how they’re lying together, trying to keep warm,” Henry whispers. “There’s five or six men under a couple of blankets.”
    I walk