C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
The late winter sun rose with renewed warmth as determined rays rousted resistant crystals of frost from the depths of the wagon ruts leading up to Diamond/Tweed farm. Icy dew drops transformed into wavering wisps of mist, then vanished under the onslaught of a breath of breeze. Soggy remnants of slushy snow in shaded areas, under trees, or in depressions where light did not reach, began to trickle and shrink. A preview of spring.
Diamond led Rascal from the corral, tied him in front of the barn and methodically went about the business of saddling. Though there still remained much to do on the farm, as always there would be, Preston could delay no longer. Today he would take up the trail of the injured Captain Wiley.
In the short week (made shorter by the
storm) since the boy's hiatus from the hunt, he and Rufus had accomplished a fair amount of work: in addition to the construction of the hen coop, the barn roof had been patched, harness mended, equipment repaired. The pair had cut and peeled saplings for corral rails, replaced damaged poles in the existing enclosure and built a second, larger pen. Rufus's songs filled the air as the freed man poured his soul into the work; he planned to begin working the ground as soon as the fields dried sufficiently.
Preston would not be there to help.
Rufus did not attempt to dissuade his young partner. Over the past few days, he had witnessed the haunted, screaming torture in the boy's eyes, saw the damp tracks of wretched tears, watched the burning seething anger and sensed the smoldering fires of vengeance as a regiment of conflicting emotions marched through Preston's scarred and scared mind.
And Rufus prayed.
A man of strong emotion, tears filled the black fellow's huge eyes as he held the reins and Preston swung into the saddle. “Yo got to watch yo back, Press. De comin' after yo now. It ain' righ', dem mens murd'ren yo fambly, an' I knowd yo be doin' de righ t'ing now, Press. I don' knowd why yo got dis all on yo shoders an' n'body hepin' yo, but las' nigh', m' mammy, she tol me, de Lor' he watchin' ober yo, Press. M' mammy she tol' me dat las' nigh'.”
Preston took up the reins and touched his friend's hand. As the gelding danced away, Diamond said, “Thanks, Rufus. I'll be careful… I'll be back.”
Rascal wanted to go and the rider gave him his head. The wind on Preston's face and the freedom of the pace fanned smoldering embers and rekindled the fire of youth temporarily dampened by melancholy and haunting memories. In a few minutes the gelding had carried him within sight of Conception, and though the animal fought the bit, Preston reined in and brought the horse to a walk. Diamond kept his eyes open for trouble as he sorted his thoughts.
The previous night, Diamond had determined a direction though, today, destination remained vague: In the final entries of Cutler's last journal, he had found the information his father had spoke of at the field cemetery near Alexandria. Cutler Diamond had known, or strongly suspected, that a treasonous clique had formed within the blue-coated Army:
“There are persons within the Union Army who are responsible for the deaths of our own commanding officers. A traitorous conspiracy runs deep, our senior rank are being murdered. Though the Confederate 'Sharp-shooters', with their long range rifles, have accounted for many casualties, including officers, I am convinced that these snipers did not shoot General Taggart at Shiloh. The report of Major Stevens' killing on the battlefield at Vicksburg is highly suspicious as well (there are too many conflicting stories, none of them entirely plausible). This morning, I received a report that Brigadier General Monroe has been stabbed to death while studying a topographical map in his field tent. I find it quite inconceivable that ' a Confederate soldier sneaked into camp and knifed the general' in broad daylight. How convenient, ' No witnesses were present… junior officers could not account for the murder.' More evidence is required, however, my immediate duty is to preserve the lives of those in my command and this does not permit time for an investigation. Foremost, I fear for the life of my dear and trusted friend, Ulysses, but I also believe President Lincoln may be in danger.
If my men can take this hill in the next several days I shall ride to Washington. I must discuss this with General Grant at the earliest moment….
Colonel Diamond's notes correlated the report Davy Brannigan had given. Preston had scrutinized the journals and shook out every leaflet and paper in the apple crate, but he had not found any names or additional information concerned with a possible conspiracy. Perhaps Cutler had confided in his wife while home on leave, but Preston had heard nothing. The fact that his father would take time for leave under these critical conditions seemed totally out of character as well. Colonel Diamond's notes stated an urgency to talk with General Grant, but when Cutler was home, he had mentioned that Ulysses was still at Richmond. Had he been awaiting Grant's return to Washington?
Perhaps the letter addressed to Ulysses Grant would contain more information. Preston slipped a hand inside his coat, and touched the envelope tucked in the pocket of his shirt; his father's unfinished journal lay in one of the stuffed saddle bags.
Toward General Grant was the direction Preston had chosen to ride.
A pretty chestnut mare standing between the wooden shaves of a canopied buggy at the clinic watched with mild interest as Rascal and Preston trotted past. He wondered where Captain Wiley and the “tall, reddish-blond, sort of a handsome…” bluecoat described by the physician had disappeared to when they left Filmore's place over a week ago.
Preston's jaw clenched; he hoped Wiley was alive and in plenty of pain wherever he may be.
The chosen road would lead first to Washington. Preston intended to find news of General Grant and then find him. Though the issues were inevitably tied together, Diamond had decided to temporarily abandon the vengeance trail in favour of delivering the letter his father had written and, more importantly, Cutler's words concerning a conspiracy.
The missive written on Lily's lavender scented stationary may have been lost or intercepted. Had he received it, Uncle Ulysses could not fail to understand the message nor would he ignore it, but the man was President Lincoln's top general, firmly locked in the throes of a civil war; there would be little time for his own family let alone the son of a friend. It could take months…. That same 'son-of-a-friend' now considered how insignificant his appeal may appear in the eyes of Uncle Lyss.
Conception Landing lay on the south-east side of the village, or, more accurately, the village sprang up north-west of the landing: someone had to cross the river before the town could be built. The barge that carried passengers, freight, animals and vehicles across the wide Patowmack was inbound, about a quarter mile out, when Diamond reined into the clearing along the shore. Several people had arrived ahead of him and Preston nodded a solemn greeting. A black couple and three ragged children huddled in silence on a small floating dock moored along the shore. Two bluecoats squatted on the ground holding the reins of a pair of hip-shot horses; though they made no comment, the soldiers cast envious eyes upon Preston's gelding.
A farm wagon hitched to four horses and loaded with bulging grain sacks pulled into the landing; a farmer drove the team while a second man holding a rifle sat on the load behind him.
Preston returned his gaze to the ferry. It had swiftly cut the distance. The boat rode low in the water, its deck had little free space. At the stem, a bearded man, dressed in rough clothing and slouch hat, held the halter shank of a saddled and nervous bay mare. The captain of the barge, also sporting a growth of whiskers, stepped past and growled something Preston could not hear. From his vantage point astride Rascal, Diamond briefly scrutinized the load: two blue coats stood beside two more saddled horses; four walk-on passengers were seated on their duffel; a varied assortment of cargo lay strewn and heaped along both rails; besides the captain, there were two crewmen. The horse at the front reared and the bearded man's hand rode up the shank seeking a tighter grip as the animal came back down. “I told you to hold that bloody horse!” the boatman growled. The man on the halter did not seem at all troubled by the unruly horse, nor the shouts directed his way. The iron-on-iron screech of protesting heavy hinges broke across the distance from barge to shore as the operator cranked on a winch, allowing the beaver tail to fold down into docking position. The river slapped and swirled around the wooden ramp as it touched the water. The mare's eyes rolled but she didn't fight. Preston could now see that she had four rather exaggerated even white socks.
A pair, driven by two young men, and pulling an empty buckboard, swung into the landing at a trot. The nigh lad hauled on the lines and the team pranced to a stop. His partner hopped down, made his way to the front and began tying the horses to a snubbing post. Diamond surmised they were the barge's freight crew.
When Preston again focused on the boat it was only feet from the landing. The swarthy boatman, heavy rope in hand, timed his leap to shore, then quickly moored the barge to a sturdy pillar. Diamond glanced around and noticed the bearded chap keenly studying him; more accurately, studying Rascal. The stare shifted to meet Preston's gaze. The slouch hat dipped to cover the man's shaded eyes, but Preston caught the slightest wink of recognition.
Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant.
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