C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Again the ferry boat was incoming when Preston, Ulysses and the two soldiers returned to Conception Landing. General Grant had decided to take Preston to Washington and set him up there. “Mrs. Grant travels with me when she can. We find a safe place for her and the children to stay as near as possible to my command; it isn't a great deal different from your life in the forts. But you've had enough of frontier living and, in accordance with your father's wishes, I'll find quarters for you in the capital. When this war is over and I am settled, you will move in with my family.”
Preston had been reluctant to abandon his search for Captain Wiley, but he considered that there may be a thread to trace in DC. Maybe someone knew where the wounded traitor had gone. Maybe Wiley was in Washington now. It seemed unlikely the fellow would return to Conception, in any event.
Diamond knew the war had thrown the Capital into a state of turmoil. His parents had taken him there twice in the last two years. The trips had been army business for Cutler and an outing for Constantina, but Preston had been appalled at the horrendous living conditions. Homeless crowded the streets, children were sick and starving, horses and soldiers were everywhere. Preston did not doubt that General Grant would find accommodation for him now; Uncle Lyss was the president's right hand man.
Preston was astride Rascal with his father's cavalry mount in tow. Good horses were in high demand and General Grant had deemed the stud to be Union Army property. Rufus was left with the mule and an older mare the Diamond's had purchased with the farm. Cutler's cavalry saddle remained on its post in the Diamond/Tweed barn.
When the cavalcade had left the farm, one soldier rode ahead about a hundred yards and the other trailed the same distance behind. Grant had stood in the stirrups to study the four mounds of fresh dirt just beyond view of the trail. He said nothing and his features showed no emotion when he shifted his focus to his young companion. They rode in silence, allowing the horses a faster pace. This time the company rode through the town. Preston noted that Doctor Filmore had a buggy, a different one from the other day, and a saddled horse, a dark coloured mare, picketed in front of his clinic. He wondered if the good doctor had seen any more of Captain Wiley.
The same gruff fellow who had been at the helm on the morning trip was steering the boat when it coasted to shore this afternoon. There were four civilian passengers incoming; two on foot, two mounted. No one other than General Grant, Preston and the two soldiers were waiting at the Conception side. Soon, the freight crew arrived to meet the barge.
The bearded boatman glared as his passengers debarked then growled at the others to stand by until the freight was unloaded. Ulysses cautioned Preston, “Don't pay the ferryman until he gets you to the other side.”
On this crossing, Preston noted, there were a different pair of crewmen, one black, the other white; they helped the freight people transfer cargo from barge to wagon and vice versa. The exchange went quickly and soon the surly Captain motioned the new passengers aboard. He muttered something about Grant's bay mare as she balked at being led onto the boat. The boat was loosed from its moorings and the crew hauled the boat into deep water. A rider on a hard ridden horse raced up to the river and called for the crew to come back, but the ferry captain ignored him.
The boat was about two hundred yards out when Preston again looked back at the shore. The freight wagon had left the landing; the late arrival had hunkered down behind the mooring pillar. His legs and a fraction of the lower torso could be seen on either side; he was peeking around the piling but his head was obfuscated by the rifle he aimed toward the barge. Preston shouted for General Grant to duck down but at that instant a puff of smoke rose from the gun barrel, a deadly whizzing hissed past Preston and the ferryman took the bullet in the head. The delayed report of the rifle boomed across the water as the barge captain pitched overboard into the swirling Patowmack. Rifles were jerked out of scabbards and the bluecoats opened fire on the sniper. Socks, the general's mare, started plunging and rearing. Preston fought to hold Rascal as he tried to avoid the kicking, squealing bay. From the corner of his eye Diamond watched the rifleman. He wasn't preparing for another shot; in the midst of the soldiers' bullets, he calmly stood up holding something in his hand that did not look like a rifle; there was a silver flash of steel as he raised both arms over his head and swung down.
An axe.
With two vicious strokes he severed the heavy rope that crossed the river to guide the ferry.
The black crewman momentarily released his grip on the cable and when he grasped at it again, the unexpected tug of the line knocked his head against the stanchion; his eyes rolled into his head and he fell face first onto a pile of feed sacks. The white lad also let go, and now stood dazedly watching the current take the boat..
Ulysses barked, “Man the ropes! Soldiers to the ropes.”
Preston grabbed the reins of the bluecoats' horses as the men scrambled to assist the lone conscious crewman. The ferry, having lost its tether on the south shore, swung with the current and swept down the river. Preston could see that Grant's strategy was to keep the north shore end of the barge anchored to land, but pulling directly into the current with the keel propulsion out of position was a losing battle for the men on the ropes. The boat was atilt and drifting faster downstream than it was toward shore. The river was climbing aboard; a widening stream made its way through the cargo strewn on deck. General Grant, still holding the halter shank of the trembling mare, shouted more orders. “Preston, fetch the horses to the centre and rear of the boat. Try to hold 'em there.” The mounts were nervous and the antics of the green broke bay were agitating them further. Ulysses tugged a revolver from his coat and shot the mare dead. Preston quickly sorted through the three pairs of reins and found the halter shank belonging to the cavalry stud; he led the big horse forward and the others trailed in a tight group. There was no fear in the eyes of the warhorse and, as Preston had hoped, the bay helped to steady the others. Hoofs slipping on the slanted deck, the animals scrambled astern. With the weight of the four remaining mounts positioned as Grant had directed, the boat slowly righted itself.
The frazzled tail of the line rope could be seen trailing beside the ferry; there wasn't much left. But the swinging ferry was now nearer land and the current was less. Grant stepped over his dead horse and swept up the mooring rope from the deck. Hastily he fashioned a loop around the land line ahead of the men fighting with the thick cable. The General managed to throw two more half-hitches round the rope and, pulling it tight, slowed the pay-out of the line. Gradually it caught and held. Sometime during the melee the black cable man had regained consciousness and was doing his share on the rope. Ulysses said, “That'll do.”
The ferry rode fairly evenly until it swept into the shallows near the river bank. Water dammed up ahead of the raised beaver tail ramp creating more pressure on the straining line cable and the mooring line. Both lines held and gradually the flow raised the prow of the boat enough to shift the vessel closer to shore. Finally the ferry came to rest about thirty feet from the willow lined bank.
“Lower the rear ramp,” Grant ordered the deck hands. “Soldiers, cover the shoreline, watch for an ambush on this side.” In a softer tone he said, “Preston, take my rig from this dead mare and put it on your father's horse. You can drop the reins; those horses aren't about to trot off this deck now.”
Grant paced up and down the deck, occasionally pausing to peer into the willows on the near side and checking the far shore for activity there. The distance was nearly half a mile, and there was no sign of the axeman. Ulysses helped Preston tug the cinches and stirrup from the underside of the dead animal. Cutler Diamond's warhorse was outfitted with the mare's rig; Grant swung into the saddle. From this higher elevation the general could see farther into the thick brush beside the grounded ferry. After a moment he motioned to Preston to mount up then ordered the soldiers to do the same.
From Rascal's saddle Diamond studied the seemingly impenetrable shore line. Though he saw nothing his keen ears caught the sounds of activity in the willows. “Uncle Lyss, there is someone coming.”
Grant said, “There ought to be two more privates awaiting our landing on the Washington side. Can you tell if they are moving steadily or trying to hide their approach?”
The noise had become a steady crashing, drawing nearer. Before Preston could respond, Grant said, “Yes, I can hear them now. It must be our men but keep a sharp eye. Take nothing for granted.
Crashing became splashing and two bluecoats on horseback appeared about a hundred yards downstream from the marooned ferry boat. As their horses struggled upstream to the stranded passengers, General Grant led the way off the barge. The cavalry mount gathered his feet, leaped over the ramp and plunged into the river. Rascal tossed his head and fought the bit but he followed the stud and Preston involuntarily hoisted his boots as the Patowmack swirled around his stirrups. The third horse clumsily made the jump into the water but the fourth lost footing and took a spill on the beaver tail ramp. It went in sideways and the soldier was unseated. The current caught him and he could not touch bottom. Preston was closest and he swung Rascal in front as the soldier swept by. The bluecoat caught Preston's outstretched hand and was able to grasp a stirrup. The water was Virginia winter cold and the fellow was turning blue by the time Preston and Ulysses had hauled him up on the back of the stud behind the general. The riderless horse managed to right itself and, half wading, half swimming, struck out for shore. By this time the soldiers coming to the rescue had arrived; Preston recognized them as the pair who had boarded the ferry when Grant arrived at Conception Landing this morning. Grant ordered them, “Catch up that mount and go fetch the boat crew to shore.”
Preston looked back at the ferry settling in the muddied water; it was a sorry sight; the dead mare lay in the midst of waterlogged freight and the two stranded crewmen looked as forlorn as a chained up hound.
Grant led the group downstream and found the muddied track where the soldiers had entered the river. The horses were put up the slippery bank, fought their way through the willows and reined in in a small clearing. The extra men were let off the horses and, as the wet and shivering bluecoat made to climb into his saddle, Grant advised, “You best build a fire and dry your duds or you'll be catching the fever.”
Preston considered asking Uncle Lyss if this was the reason for not paying passage ahead of time, but decided to hold the thought. Instead, he edged Rascal closer and said, “General Grant, I saw the man aiming and I hollered just before he fired. I don't think he was shooting at you. The bullet went over me; I think he may have hit where he was aiming; I think the ferryman was the target.”
Grant studied Preston a moment. “He would be a right poor shot to miss me by that much… Maybe he was aiming at you?”
<<<Chapter 13 Chapter 15>>>