C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Diamond had mulled over the idea that Wiley had come for him and not Colonel Unzer. Why would the conspirators want Unzer dead? Wasn't having him out of the war sufficient? Yet someone had sent the note warning Corporal Peters that Unzer would be at Citadel Landing. Presumably that note wasn't to remind Peters to wish the colonel well. But, if Captain Wiley had come to Unzer's in search of Preston, others must know he was there, too. Maybe it was time for Adam Forsythe to move. He would have a better chance across the Patowmack than in this city.
Colonel and Mrs. Unzer argued against Adam leaving. “They'll be hunting you on that side of the river, too. The farm won't be safe.”
“I'll keep moving, they won't be able to find me because I know the area better than they do. Besides, I'm worried about Rufus.”
Rebecca said, “I'll come along. You promised to take me to your farm someday.”
“I'm sorry, Rebecca, not now. Neither of us would have a chance in the carriage. I have to be able to outrun them… or catch up to them. And, Colonel Unzer needs you here.
“If they set a date for the trial, or if General Grant returns, send a message to Conception post office. I'll be in the town sometimes.”
While Preston saddled Rascal and collected his necessary possessions, Rebecca fixed provisions for him to carry in his saddle bags. The wife of a soldier, she knew well what to send on a long trek. She came out to the stable and stood, hands on hips as he tied his gear on and stuffed the bags. There were tears in her eyes and she gave him a motherly hug before he swung into the saddle. “God go with you, Adam. You will always have a home here. When this is over… when this is all over, I want you to come live with us; the Grant's have enough children and we never had any.”
She watched until Rascal and his rider disappeared around a corner.
At the outset, Preston had thought to take the Conception Ferry. It was closer than Citadel Crossing and he had heard that the Union Army had put the boat back in service. But what would he find in Conception? He was worried about Rufus and the farm; General Grant's signature wouldn't mean much to men of the calibre Preston now sought. But if Preston were there, he and Rufus would be targets every minute. The farm had been invaded twice already.
When the fork in the road forced a decision, Preston rode to Citadel.
Resolved to cross the Patowmack on the road to Alexandria, Diamond now considered what it was that had made him choose this route. Corporal Peters might be at the ferry, and beyond that were the people who signed their names F and K. Were they the reason he had changed his mind? It did not rest on a fourteen year old to find the conspirators who had infiltrated the ranks of the Northern Army. Captain Wiley, the man Preston swore to kill, was already locked up. Why would Preston want to become involved further? The answer entered his head, not as a thought, not as a subconscious reminder; it was just there in a clear and unmistakable voice: “You will see that justice prevails.”
Cutler Diamond was guiding his son.
Rascal carried Preston at a brisk trot and, in less time than it had taken with Unzer's carriage, horse and rider arrived at the crossing. Evening stillness had slipped in unnoticed; Preston heard the shouts and clamour of the ferry crew before he sighted the river. The boat was on the opposite shore taking on passengers, so he reined Rascal into the willows and, screened from view from below, waited for the ferry to come in. Through the budding branches of the willow trees, Preston could discern the tops of canvas wall tents on both sides of the Patowmack. The Union Army had sufficient men bivouacked to cover a Confederate attack on the crossing front and rear. Was Corporal Peters among them?
Diamond saw no double chevrons on the ferry ride. Maybe the corporal was on the day shift. Darkness had fully descended when Preston reached the opposite side of the Patowmack. Rascal had been nervous about boarding the boat; on his last ferry ride, the gelding had had to swim to shore. On firm ground again, the pony was eager to put miles between himself and the water.
There had been no Alexandria bound passengers and Preston rode on alone in the silence. Not wanting to wear down his mount, he held Rascal back, the muffled thud of hooves on dirt became a soothing rhythm. Diamond wondered abut the strange events of the crossing at Conception Landing. Why had the stranger shot the ferryman? Did the killer mistake the burly, bearded boatman for General Grant? Grant had been in civilian clothes and he had worn a hat similar to the captain on the ferry. But, the shot was not much more than two hundred yards, surely the man didn't make a mistake? The subsequent cutting of the cable was a question, too. Why did the stranger do that? Perhaps it had simply been insurance against pursuit.
There had been a horse at doctor Filmore's clinic when Uncle Lyss and Preston had ridden through Conception. Preston tried to recall… no, it wasn't the same horse that showed up later at the landing. The horse the shooter rode that day had been ridden a good distance and not too sparingly either. Preston had not noticed a brand, nor other distinguishing markings on that animal.
The last time Preston had stopped at Filmore's clinic was when he sought help for Davy Brannigan. The doctor had said Captain Wiley was there that day with another man, a reddish-blond, handsome fellow with three chevrons on his sleeve. Filmore hadn't been sure, he had decided on three, but was it two or three chevrons? Maybe it was only two, and the fellow in question was Corporal Peters, perhaps now bivouacked at Citadel Landing. But that did not seem important right now. Preston needed to find the man who sent the letter to Peters; the man whose first or last name had the initial K.
Diamond's thoughts turned to the Brannigans. Did Davy get well? What about Amy and Lily? Were the provisions he brought enough to keep them? He blushed in the darkness as he thought of Lily's kiss. He pictured her standing by the wash tub.
He almost didn't get off the road in time when a unit of soldiers came by.
Rascal heard them first and his head came up. Preston jerked the reins to stifle a whinny. He cut the horse to the left and crashed through the trees along the edge of the road. A few yards inside the timber, Preston stopped the gelding and climbed out of the saddle. He held Rascal's nose and listened. A faint but steady “clunk” drifted on the night. Soon he could hear the jingle of traces and then the plodding of hooves, the squeak of saddle leather. There were more than a few men in this unit. The sounds grew more distinct; grunts and the occasional muttered oath could be heard. Dull light from a waxing moon filtered through feathery cirrus clouds. It wasn't pitch black, but the night was dark. As the company passed by, against the skyline, Preston counted twelve mounted men. Four pairs of long ears indicated two span of mules were in harness and they were pulling something heavy. Near to, the “clunk” became a “clank.” An artillery gun.
The unit passed by and Diamond waited until the last “clunk” faded before coming back onto the trail. He wondered why the army was moving a single cannon at night.
The answer to that came about half an hour later when a blast of artillery fire boomed across the stillness. Citadel Crossing was under siege. The crackle of rifle fire, deadened by distance, followed the sound of the heavy gun. The cannon ripped several more rounds off before the din faded. Were Confederate troops making one last effort to attack Washington? Preston wasn't riding back to find out.
The sound of a creek had Rascal twitching his ears and Diamond decided to make camp. He fought his way upstream, the brush being thick near the water course, and came to a small opening. He slipped the bridle off, loosened the cinches and, holding the halter shank, allowed Rascal a drink from the stream. Preston did not light a fire for fear the light would attract trouble. He dug some of Rebecca's provisions out of the saddle bag and had his meal while grazing the gelding at the same time. He tied the horse to a tree then stretched out on the dead grass with a blanket around him and his coat over top. It wasn't the bed at Unzer's but it would do.
Grey light and the distinct “clank” of machinery told Preston he had woken up alive. He tossed off the blanket and slipped into the coat, then went to Rascal and once again put his hand over the horse's nose to prevent an errant whinny. The military unit passed by out of Preston's view. The patrol was headed toward Alexandria, Diamond decided they had had a successful encounter at Citadel Crossing or they would not have been on the road this morning.
Rascal was given water and a chance to graze while Preston dined on jerky and a biscuit. Mounted up, Diamond elected to cut across country to intersect the trail that went to the army hospital. It may not be a shortcut but he would not come up behind the grey-coat unit. The sun had taken a hesitant look at the day, climbed out of bed and then hid behind some low cloud on the eastern horizon. The day wasn't overcast enough to confuse directions; Preston pointed Rascal southwest.
He came out on the trail about a half mile from the army hospital camp and rode on toward it. The place did not have the same bustling frantic stir as on previous visits. The war was winding down; fewer battles; fewer wounded; fewer dying. The dead did not decrease. Preston tied Rascal on the picket line. He dressed in a smock and walked through the camp. No one paid him any attention and he found employment with the scrubbing detail. His plan was to glean any information he could. He would eavesdrop on conversations, listen for names, search through any correspondence he may lay his hands on, anything that may lead to a person who went by the initials K or F.
The tall lad who had elected Preston assistant stretcher bearer on another occasion, recognized the dark haired youth. “Where ya be'n, Sunshine? Ya jest show up around here when it suits ya? Maybe a wallop alongside the ear hole would remind ya to come a little more reg'lar.”
Preston ignored the sneering voice as he sloshed out a tub of bloody water. The sneerer was not to be put off. He stepped in front of Diamond and said, “Hey, I'm talking…”
The sentence was cut short by an accidental splash of filthy water on his trousers. “Sorry,” Preston said.
'Sorry' wasn't a word the taller kid had any use for. He put up his fists and started dancing from side to side in front of the wash boy. Diamond gave him the rest of the water, then waded in.
The fight was short lived.
Preston cut his teeth in the rough and tumble wrestling of the Indian boys he grew up with in the forts. His opponent here was some kind of pugilist. He handled his fists fast and well and obviously had training. A right jab hit Preston 'along side the ear hole,' a left bloodied his nose. When Diamond ducked inside the fists to protect his face he received a powerful punch to the abdomen. He was lifted off his feet and propelled backwards. Preston managed to land standing and the wind was not completely knocked out of him.
But the scrap was over.
The vicious body blow had landed on the Colt tucked under Preston's coat. The bigger lad, wailing in pain, was cradling a smashed and bloodied fist.
Preston wiped his nose with his handkerchief, picked up the tub and went to the creek for more water. Diamond figured he had gotten off lucky. That kid would have dished out a good whipping if he hadn't smashed his fist. The fellow knew how to fight, and Preston decided he ought to study this subject as well.
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