C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Still clutching the revolver grips, the boy turned around slowly. He recognized Conception's only physician. Hair thin and greying, green eyes red rimmed and sunken from extended hours of work, Doctor Filmore wasn't a young man anymore, though he appeared trim, fit and, except for a temporary pallor and lack of sleep, healthy. He smelled of disinfectant. Twisted spectacles rested askew on his nose. A trickle of blood trailed over his forehead, around the left eye, and down a smoothly shaved cheek. Diamond assumed the doctor had hit his head when he fell.
On the street Preston heard the driver speak to the horses, then the grudging squeak of wheels needful of grease as the buckboard rolled off along the avenue.
Filmore said, “You are the Diamond boy, aren't you? I put several stitches in your, what was it… leg, or arm, a few months ago?”
Preston nodded. “My arm, sir.”
Realization dawned in the green eyes as a shadow of horror passed over the doctor's face. “Folks here thought… we… I mean, we had heard you were missing…. Soldiers passed through here yesterday with bodies on a wagon. The town people heard it was your family….”
“They killed my parents, one of the murderers escaped.”
“Oh, God! This war is so terrible! Common folks are turning into murdering beasts! I… I am so sorry to hear of your loss… Mr. Diamond… I…”
“Preston. My name is Preston, Preston Diamond.”
“Of course… yes… Preston…I remember now…”
The boy studied the older man. At length he said, “You've taken a cut on your forehead. I heard one of those men slap you and then the other one said you were knocked out.”
The doctor touched the tender area on his head; his fingers came away with blood on them. “Yes, I tried to restrain them from moving my patient but they insisted… violently.”
“Your patient,” Preston asked, “did he arrive here during the night one day ago?”
Filmore said, “I am not at liberty to reveal patient information, Preston.”
“I think he is the man who attacked my mother… she shot him with his own gun. Hit him low down, maybe in the guts or through the hip. I saw him ride away and he couldn't sit in the saddle. Does your code prevent you from giving information about murderers and rapists?”
The physician stepped over to the entrance, closed the door, turned to face the youth and said tersely, “Follow me.”
Preston looked around while the physician attended to his minor injury. The modest operating room was nearly spotless, except for the doctor's own blood on the polished floor. A rumpled cot that must have been the patient's bed stood in the middle of the room. Rows of bottles, jars and canisters filled a double shelf that ran the length of one wall. Clean linen and an assortment of polished steel instruments rested on a short counter. Small tin tubs, a wash stand and extra blankets were on a second, smaller countertop at the opposite side of the clinic. Another doorway, probably leading into the doctor's private residence, stood closed. The place reeked of disinfectant, salves, and an assortment of pharmaceuticals.
Doctor Filmore seated himself in one of two chairs and waved Preston into the other. “What are you planning to do, Preston?”
“Unless you have something to tell me, I have nothing for you,” Preston hedged.
He detected no humour in the doctor's faint smile. “I asked for that, didn't I?”
Preston shrugged.
Filmore puffed out his cheeks and expelled a long breath. “The wounded man did come pounding on my door quite early in the morning; I'd say it was about four o'clock. He had been shot, at close range, through the pelvis. Blood loss should have killed him and I do not know how he was able to stand, much less walk. But no internal organs were damaged and I was able to pluck the bullet out without difficulty. If he had remained in my care, I would give him better than a fifty-fifty chance. Now I am not so certain he will be alive tomorrow.”
“Why did those men come for him?” Preston asked.
“They mentioned something about a desertion charge if the patient was not taken to the army hospital. In retrospect, that may have been a ruse if the injured man is, in fact, one of the killers. In that instance, had there been more people involved, they wouldn't want to risk having the man talking to authorities.”
Preston bit his lip as he considered the statement made by one of the men when they loaded the patient in the buckboard: “He won't die. If Cutler Diamond didn't kill him nothin' will.” Obviously those fellows were aware that Wiley had participated in the Diamond Farm massacre.
“Do you have any information about the injured man? Anything at all? I heard one of the murderers referred to him as Wiley… Can you confirm that?”
The doctor's green eyes appraised the youth. “Tell me what happened last night.”
As Filmore listened attentively, Preston recited the painful incident valiantly holding back his tears though a sob escaped when he spoke of his mother. Tears trickled down the cheeks of the doctor when the boy had finished.
“You are a true soldier's son, Preston Diamond. I am glad you were able to avenge your mother's murderer. But I caution you on trailing the conspirators further. A lone boy hunting men of that grotesque nature will stand no chance.”
Preston ignored the advice. “Any information you can give me will help. Keep this conversation between us. It is best if people believe I did not survive the attack.”
“The man's name is Captain Everett Wiley of the Union Army. I found his credentials in a pocket of his trousers; I had to go through his effects in case he died.” As an afterthought, Filmore admitted, “And to ensure payment for my services… sometimes patients believe physicians' labour comes free.”
“Any indication of Wiley's current posting?”
“I know nothing more than what I have given you. I expect the abductors will take Captain Wiley to the field hospital in Alexandria. It is the nearest.”
Next morning Preston rose early, saddled Rascal, a young and fiery gelding, and rode hard to Alexandria. The .44 Henry hung in its scabbard on the saddle; the Colt lay tucked out of view in his waistband; a throwing knife ?a gift from an Arapaho youth? was strapped round his calf and concealed under the trouser leg. Rufus's pleadings and predictions of ill fate had gone unheeded. Preston Diamond believed, in order to preserve his sanity, he must not quit… even if it drove him beyond the breaking point.
A burst of rifle fire put Preston on the alert and he rode cautiously through a wooded area in hopes of a better view. The volley was repeated and Diamond recognized it as a military salute. Emerging on the edge of the trees, Preston drew rein when he espied a line of Union soldiers, rifles in hand, standing at attention; a group of army officers, regulars and civilians stood solemnly in a congested circle partway up the sloping, grassy hillside; new gravestones and markers littered the field. Alexandria Cemetery. Two flag-draped caskets were simultaneously being lowered into a double grave. Preston considered the fanfare: Every day dozens of men were being buried without ceremony in graveyards scattered throughout the zone of conflict; why the military funeral with full colours and salute on this occasion? Must be for an officer of high rank or distinction. The double grave….
Colonel Cutler Diamond and his wife, Constantina.
A lump rose in the lad's throat; a choking sob escaped; tears squeezed out between tightly closed eyelids. Feeling the rider's tension, the high-spirited horse fidgeted and danced. Preston backed Rascal farther into the brush, dismounted and held the reins. Alone, he stood silent in gut-ripping, heart-wrenching agony watching the interment of his mother and father.
He wanted to run to them, to stop the shovels, to scream that it was all a lie. “Don't bury them! Let them out!” But he remained lost, transfixed, long after the crowd dispersed.
Diamond sensed a slight pressure on his shoulder, the horse snorted and pulled back on the reins. Glancing to the side, he saw his father. Sadness haunted the powder blue eyes but a reassuring smile rested upon his handsome features. Beside Cutler, Preston's black haired mother stood; the light of love shone in her dark eyes. She reached out; fingers as light as shadow brushed the boy's cheek. Preston raised his hand to hers but could not grasp it.
We are with you, Preston, his father murmured. We shall never leave you, my son.
Constantina nodded and said, Siempre mi hijo: “Always, my child.”
Preston tried to throw his arms around her but the embrace was empty. He could not hold her; he could not feel her warmth.
Tears formed in the dark pools of Constantina's eyes. A glittering diamond rolled down each cheek. In her native Spanish she said, We cannot touch you now, you must only feel our love.
Cutler Diamond drew his wife close and said to Preston, I am sorry for leaving you, there are so many things we should have shared. Know that the track you have set upon is the right one, for the evil that came to our family lives on. You will see that justice prevails.
“ You will see that justice prevails.” Not a command; not a prediction; the words were spoken simply: a matter-of-fact statement.
Preston brushed a sleeve across his blurred eyes and nodded acknowledgement.
Cutler Diamond continued, You will find information in the military journals I wrote beginning the day of my entrance into the army. The collection contains other documents you will need as well….
“Can't you give me direction, Papá? Why don't you stay with me? We could do this together…”
With all my heart I wish that could be the way, my son, but we can no longer be of this earth. We will guide you with our undying love and that is how you will know that we are near. Do not be afraid, for Fear is never an ally; it will only confuse your judgement. Remember too, in all things, trust in yourself.
Again Preston sensed the loving touch of his mother's hand on his face. She stepped close and kissed him softly on the forehead; the gentle sweep of a butterfly's wing. His father reached out as if to rumple Preston's hair; a breeze in the willows. We love you, son.
Their images faded. Preston blinked and they were gone. He lifted a hand to his cheek, then to his forehead where his mother's lips had caressed. “I love you, too,” he whispered.
Rascal grew impatient and Preston was forced to face the present. The grief, the black abyss, receded. Melancholy, a not unkind emotion, crept in. Preston Diamond knew his parents would always be near and that realization gave root to confidence. The lad faced the graves across the clearing; awkwardly, he saluted his father, then blew a kiss to his mother. In spite of his tears, he smiled, knowing they were not truly buried in that cold damp earth. Preston shoved a foot in the stirrup, mounted up and rode back through the woods.
A weary company of mounted soldiers on fagged horses were riding toward him so Preston reined off the trail to await their passing. He fell in beside the rear-most of the bluecoats. Fingers crossed he said, “My father is injured and in an army hospital near here. Can you give me directions?”
Cutler Diamond's integrity would never allow him be less than truthful. He coached his only son to follow that example. “Every lie you tell takes a little away from the man that you could be.” Preston knew his father would have that wry smile, reserved only for his son, when he heard the boy's fib.
A young private, not many years Preston's senior, pointed to a fresh bandage on his hand. “Jes, come from there. You'll be findin' it down this trail 'bout two mile. Busy place, bunch o' tents, ya cain't miss it.”
Thanking the soldier, Preston wheeled his horse and rode back along the wagon road.
The hospital was a collection of large, straight-walled canvas tents. The grounds reeked with the stench of improper sanitation facilities, horses, blood and death. Groans of pain, cries of anguish and delirious outbursts of the fevered and dying reverberated throughout the camp. Harassed and haggard medical people, many on the run, a few in somnambulate drift, were tending to the sick and injured as best they could. After hitching his horse, Preston asked a pair of young men carrying a stretcher where he might find his father. The lad who responded simply said, “Look around. No one knows where anyone is. We stop the bleeding, amputate the limbs and bury the dead. We don't keep much records around here.”
Preston did not wish to announce the name Captain Wiley for fear of drawing attention or arousing suspicion. It was possible that Wiley was already dead. A washing line of stained linen stretched across a corner of the camp. Preston donned a half-dried smock and assumed the role of medical assistant. He moved through the tents checking occupants of the low-slung cots but it was a futile effort for he had not been able to see Wiley's face at Doctor Filmore's clinic yesterday. Alongside many of the cots various personal articles hung on temporary hangers made of tree branches stuck in the earth. As the hours passed, Preston perused the clothing for a blue frock coat with captain's insignia on the shoulder bands. Often the wounded thought the lad was their son or brother. They asked how things were on the farm; they asked to be taken home. Several times rough hands grabbed at him; terrified eyes stared hollowly from the confines of the makeshift beds. Medics gave Preston orders and he was pressed into service aiding the transfer of patient from stretcher to cot or carrying away a soldier for whom the war was over. Among the dead were a few that looked younger than Diamond.
Preston Diamond was sturdy for his age and could handle one end of the stretcher as well as a grown man. While lugging a body to the temporary morgue, he passed near a tent he had not previously entered. He heard a voice speak the name Captain Wiley. Stepping up the pace so as to hurry back to the canvas wall, his partner at the rear of the stretcher complained, “It's not a race. We ain't soon gonna run out of dead men.”
At the morgue, Preston passed the conveyance to his temporary colleague. “You take it back, I have to talk to someone.”
“Tain't none of these so'jurs gonna answer ya,” the older lad retorted, but he took the folded stretcher and trudged off.
Making sure to keep his shadow off the tent, Preston sidled up to the canvas wall. The steady thrum of hospital staff mingled with moans and cries of patients. Hearing nothing to advantage, he elected to venture inside. Stepping through the flap at the front, he slipped to one side of the huge tent. A half-dozen smocked individuals were bustling about; Preston blended in while threading his way unobtrusively among the cots. Estimating the position where the voice may have been located, the pseudo medic paused to adjust the head bandage of an unconscious patient. On the temporary clothes hanger, two cots further along, Preston espied a blue frock-coat bearing shoulder boards and captain's insignia. Nerves on edge, Diamond shifted along past the next cot, placing himself directly beside the captain's coat. A name along with brief medical information hung by the bed: Captain Everett Wiley; apparently the medical staff did keep records of the officers.
The wounded man raved in delirium. “She shot me! Roddy, Gilly, get me out of here! She shot me… I'm dying.”
Diamond looked down upon the man responsible for his mother's death. The fellow wasn't pretty: several days stubble growth showed the grey in his whiskers; twin white scars ran down his right cheek like claw marks and a more recent livid red gash stood out on the forehead. Wiley appeared quite short in stature though it is difficult to judge the height of a prone man. The patient did not reek of blood and death as had some of the others Preston had worked with this day; probably Doctor Filmore had been more thorough in his care than the temporary army hospital.
Preston savoured the comfort of the heavy Colt pressing against his middle, the strap of the knife belted around his calf. His hand inched toward his boot; it would be so easy to pull the blade and slit this bastard's throat as had been done to Señora Diamond…
`“Lieutenant Diamond, is that you?”
Preston straightened.
“Yeah, that's you, Cutler… only you look so young? Are you still in West Point?”
Preston's blue eyes burned into the fevered yellows of the wounded man. The frail voice continued, “I swore, I'd kill you someday, Diamond… I thou… I thought we did… How come you're so young an'…”
Preston glanced away and saw two soldiers threading their way through the confusion of medics, patients and cots. They were the pair who had visited Filmore's clinic yesterday. Preston made to leave but a powerful grip twisted his wrist. “Diamond, I'm talkin' to…”
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