Then I questioned her a little. She had walked twenty-two miles over railroad ties.
She was Beavers’s wife.
She said to me: “You are his counsel, I believe?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and I have done everything I could to save him.”
“No, you have not,” she answered. “You have not made the point that he was never legally enlisted as a soldier, I’ll warrant! He’s over forty-five and can’t be conscribed. He was pardoned out of the penitentiary on condition that he should enlist, but the court-martial had no proof of that. There’s nothing whatever to show that he’s a soldier; and if he ain’t a soldier, he can’t be punished for desertion. I’ve come to tell you, for he would never think of it.”
I jumped to my feet. I called a sentinel, and told him to take the woman to the guardhouse and make her as comfortable as possible. I mounted my horse and galloped to the station. I roused the telegraph operator two hours before his time. He was a sleepy fellow, but he was accustomed to taking imperative messages out of hours. I gave him this one to the war department:—
Beavers to be shot to-morrow morning. No proof whatever he was ever soldier. If not soldier, could not have deserted. Too old for conscript law, and no proof of enlistment except Governor Letcher’s telegram. Telegram not under oath, not legal testimony. Witness not subjected to cross-examination. As counsel, I demand stay in this man’s case.
I rode back to the guardhouse, and found that a new member had been added to the battery. The company was known as Lamkin’s Battery.
We named the new member “Little Lamkin’s Battery,” to distinguish it, I suppose, from the big one.
Beavers sat all that morning with his wife’s hand in his, and Little Lamkin’s Battery in his arms.