"Rennie!" So summoned, Drew reported to their new commander.
"Know anything about a Thomas McKeever livin' in this section?"
Drew's memory produced a picture of a round-faced, cheerful man who liked to play chess and admired Lucilla's pickled watermelon rind to the point of begging a crock of it every time he visited Red Springs.
"Yes, suh. He's Union—got two sons with Colonel Wolford. Owns a big farm and raises prime mules—"
"You know him personally?"
"Yes, suh. He's a friend of my grandfather; they used to visit back and forth a lot."
"Then he'd know you." Campbell's fingernails rasped through the stubble on his chin.
"So Rennie heah could be one of our prisoners, suh. That theah might convince Mistuh McKeever we's what we say—" the trooper pressed his point.
"Could be. It's gospel truth we ain't goin' to get far with our bellies flat on our backbones. And it might work. Now, all of you men, listen...." Campbell explained, gave orders, and put them through a small drill. A dozen men without any Union uniform loot to distinguish them were told to play the role of prisoners; the others exchanged and drew out of saddlebags pieces of blue clothing to make their appearance as the Eleventh Ohio.
"They ain't gonna expect too much." The trooper who had first urged the plan was optimistic. "We can pass as close to militia——"