C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
The voice trailed off, the hand relaxed and the patient slumped back on the cot. Preston slipped across the aisle just as the two bluecoats arrived. Fearing that Wiley would regain consciousness and identify him, Preston escaped the tent and made his way round to the position he'd held before. Kneeling by the stiff cloth wall, he could hear the conversation as clearly as if he had been amongst the men.
“…it don't look like Ol' Wiley is about to wake up any time soon, Joe. We best not shake him anymore or the sawbones will be raisin' hell with us.”
“Well, the Cap'n din't die on us yet. He made it through that wagon ride yestiday without bleedin' to death too. Lucky for him that lady din't shoot off his privates, she come damn close.”
“Well, the rapin' ol' bastard ain't gonna be using that for a long time soon. Might be the doctor man's agonna have to lop 'em off anyways.”
“They say that woman was some kin' a princess back where she come from. Col'nel Diamond, he brought her here all the way from Spain… Kilt some Spaniard bastard in a sword fight over her…”
“Ya ever see her?”
“Na, but I heerd she's a looker. Ol' Wiley was sure after her. He had a grudge to settle with the Col'nel, but he wanted that woman too.”
Preston heard a slap and then another as one of the voices said, “C'mon, Cap'n, wake up. We got some news for ya.”
“He's daid to the world, Joe, ain't gonna rouse him up none 'til he's ready.”
The eavesdropper was interrupted when an angry voice shouted, “Hey! Why are you lolly-gagging around out here? Get back in there and start toting that stretcher. We haven't run out of casualties yet, leastways not that I've heard.”
Startled, Preston jumped to his feet and turned to see a red-faced, blood-stained man wearing the ubiquitous bivouac smock.
“Now git to it!” the man ordered.
Preston bowed his head submissively and slunk away toward another tent.
Certain he was clear, Diamond shed the filthy smock, changed direction and headed to the picket line were he had hitched his horse. Rascal had been impatiently pawing the sod, weary of the raucous camp action, the scent of death and the flies that found sun's warmth sufficient to bring them out of their winter cracks. The boy snugged the cinch, swung into the saddle and rode toward Conception and home. Confident that Captain Wiley would not be discharged from the clinic ?unless of course, he died? Preston determined to return the next day. He was frustrated for not having heard “the news” referred to by one of Wiley's confederates.
Hunger had filled the gap where his stomach used to be and Preston dug through a saddle bag for the cold lunch packed prior to departure that morning. Though the gelding was eager to trot, Preston held him back to keep the sandwiches from jiggling apart. This reduced speed saved the youth serious injury when he was unceremoniously jerked from the saddle by a taut rope, strung just above saddle height, across the tree-lined trail. Preston had the breath knocked out of him but he regained his feet instantly. In the gathering dusk he saw someone moving along the edge of the trees. Soon a small bandy legged man, his rifle pointed at Preston's midriff, stepped onto the road. The ragged stranger, long past his prime, stepped close and squinted into the boy's face.
A high voice squeaked, “Why, yer jest a pup, you are! Fine horse for a pup though. I don't cotton to killin' pups, I don't, but ya do anythin' foolish, Ol' Betsy here,” he patted the rifle stock, “she'll be ablowin' a hole clean through yer young hide. Got any spare coins with ya? ”
Preston had raised his hands to show the stranger he meant no resistance. Now he shook his head.
“No money, huh? Well, that do seem odd, considerin' the horseflesh an' rig yer sportin'. 'Pears t' me ya might have somethin' a poor feller could use?”
The conversational tone switched to a hostile growl. “Now empty yer pockets an' be right quick about it.”
Preston lied again; in a pleading voice he said, “I just have a money belt, but it's empty.”
“Yeah? Ya don't say? How about I take a look at that there money belt jest in case ya missed a half dime or two.”
Diamond nodded and, with noticeably trembling hands, reached to his mid section. Seconds passed as he fumbled with a non-existent buckle. The holdup man hopped from one foot to the other, his overeagerness eventually allowing Ol' Betsy to drift off target. The metallic click of a cocking hammer resounded in the stillness; the Colt had appeared magically. The greedy eyes of the highwayman grew large as, too late, he realized what Diamond had done.
“Drop the rifle, mister. I don't cotton to killing old dogs, but this Colt doesn't care at all.”
The steady hand and penetrating gaze instilled a quaver in the older man's voice, “Ya cain't kill me afore I put a bullet in ya, boy, so this 'ere stand-off ain't gonna go yer way atall. Now I say ya drop the pistol afore my Betsy gits a notion to vent'late ya.”
Preston didn't flinch. “No sir, I'm betting I can kill you twice before you can pull the trigger once.”
Maybe the holdup man really did believe he could beat the lad. Maybe he was so desperate for a bottle of whiskey, a plate of food or whatever else his sour mind craved, that he didn't care. Maybe he simply lacked good judgement. Ol' Betsy's barrel hadn't quite come on target when a hole appeared just below the left lapel of the filthy frock the thief wore. A second hole, half an inch higher, joined the first. The rifle discharged in the dirt as the fellow pitched forward on the trail. The hushed silence that followed was interrupted by the “chink” of spent cartridges landing on the hard pack of the track. Preston dug in his trouser pocket for two of the bullets he had taken from the exhumed corpse yesterday. Thumbing them into the empty spaces in the cylinder of his revolver he jogged after his horse; the gelding had shied away from the shooting.
Back in the saddle, Diamond had time to reflect upon the killing. When he'd shot the murderer in the kitchen of the Diamond home, Preston suffered a horror of guilt that made him sick to his stomach; two days later, a similar encounter did not have the same effect. The sordid scoundrel, now laying dead on the trail, had intended to steal the horse and everything else of value; he had shown no compunction in regard to shooting his victim. Preston weighed these thoughts on the scales of what was rapidly emerging as his own brand of justice. He had already lost everything worth caring about. Righteousness, so clearly defined under his parent's direction, now became nebulous. His jaw set in grim determination. He did not wish to become a killer, but he would yield nothing without a fight.
The army would find the corpse and dispose of it better than he could.
Twilight had folded to full darkness but Rascal's unerring instinct brought Preston home. Though the curtains were pulled, Diamond could see that Rufus had a light burning in the kitchen and the smell of wood smoke from the parlour fireplace hung in the air. The lad could not suppress a sob as he thought of the happy times, the comfort, the love shared under the roof of the country cottage. His mother, having lived so many years in army quarters, had been happy to have a place of their own.
Rufus emerged from the house when he heard Washington, the mule, braying. This announcement was soon followed by an exchange of whinnies between the horses in the corral and Preston's mount.
“Dat you, Press?” Rufus asked, ineffectually peering past the yellow glow of a lantern he carried.
“Yes, it's me, Ruf. I have to see to my horse. I'll be right in.
The black man came closer and the beam played on the glistening flank of the gelding. “Na, Press, Rufus he'p yo wid dat pony. He look like he be'n worken' sumpun hard.”
“We came home at a steady pace,” Preston admitted. “He's a good horse for being so young; knew his way back when I wasn't sure where we were.”
Rascal was cooled out and rubbed down. Rufus gave the horse a drink, then tied him in the barn and Preston tossed a fork full of hay in the manger to keep him occupied for the night. Preston ran a lingering hand over Rascal's flank and gave the horse a final pat.
“Have you moved yourself into the house yet, Ruf?” Preston asked.
The new partner hesitated. “I brang sum m' stuff, Press, but I nebber brang ebryt'ing. An' I don' wanna mobe in yo folks' room.”
“Well, you can take your time with that, Rufus. I'm not anxious to walk in there myself.”
Tweed, holding the lantern high, led the way to the house. The evening had grown cold and Preston relished the warmth from the fire, though another coldness hit him upon crossing the thresh-hold. Rufus noted the pain in his young friend's eyes. “I knowd it be te'bble lon'sum roun' here, Press. Yo folks dey lef' a big hole in all de worl' when dey go.”
Preston offered no response as he shucked his coat and hung it on the hook behind the door.
Tweed crossed the kitchen, picked up a wooden spoon from the table and began stirring a pot on the cookstove.
The boy spoke to his friend's back. “I saw them today, Ruf… I saw the funeral… and after everybody went away… Mother and Papá came and stood beside me… they talked to me… they talked to me, Rufus… they really did….”
Preston had not intended to ever tell anyone about seeing his deceased parents. He feared his sanity may be in doubt. Rufus's hand stopped stirring, slowly he turned, the huge eyes growing larger as he faced the boy. Preston bit his lip wishing he had not mentioned anything.
“Dat's de truf ain' it, Press? Yo see'd yo folks t'day?”
“I could see them, Ruf, but I couldn't touch them. They talked to me and Mother kissed me on the forehead. Then they faded away; but I know they are with me… they are here, right now, in this room.”
Tweed smiled, his teeth brilliantly white in the dark face. “I knowd dey's here, Press. Dey's here wid dey son.”
“You believe me, Ruf? Really?”
The black man turned back to the stove, resumed a slow meditative stirring and spoke as if talking to the pot. “When Rufus jis' a tad, he nebber got no Pappy an' den his Mammy die. Rufus he lef' all lon'. He go to m' Mammy's grabe an' lay dere an' cry for awful long tam. Dey ain't nobody roun'… jis' Rufus an' de grabe. An' den m' mammy, she 'pear, stan'in' righ' der'. She say, 'Rufus, yo be'n a fine boy o' mine. An' I knows yo gwyne be a fine man, too. I don' wan' leabe my on'y son alone on dis lan', so I come to yo an' I say I be wid yo all de tam. When ebber yo need yo mammy, I be righ here. I be righ' here so yo ain' nebber lon'y. Sumday dey won't be no mo' slave an' Rufus be free man. Yo mammy agwyne be der' on dat day too, Rufus. Mebbe sumday, dey even be a black man pres'den' dis country too, Rufus. Mebbe dat black man pres'den' be m' boy Rufus an' I be der' on dat day, too. I be wid yo all yo lif' but yo don' seein' me, I be righ' der' wid yo.'”
Rufus's hand had stopped stirring and he turned back to Preston. “Press, I know'd yo see'd yo Mammy an' Pappy. Dey same m' mammy, on'y we cain't be seein' dem no mo' but dey still der'.”
Diamond stepped over to the stove, reached up and placed a small hand on the big shoulder. “Thank-you, Ruf. Thank-you for believing me.”
Rufus beamed. He said, “Yo bes' eat sum dis grub. It call' Rufus Stew.”
The stew was hot, spicy and delicious. Preston insisted on washing the dishes though Rufus had trouble accepting the idea. Preston said, “You cook, I do the dishes. I cook, you do the dishes. That's fair, except my cooking isn't up to yours, so you may have to do most of the cooking to keep us from starving.”
Though the hour had passed for a proper bedtime, Preston located the apple crate of army journals in his father and mother's bedroom and toted them down to the parlour. Rufus watched in silence as Preston tenderly sorted through his father's memoirs. Powder-blue eyes blurred and an errant tear escaped as he recalled watching Officer Diamond meticulously record the daily entries. There were over twenty books in all. Many of them had received rough treatment having literally gone through the war. At the bottom of the box he found the first journal; it was entitled “United States Military Academy, West Point, New York.
Briefly scanning the daily entries, Preston began to construct a mental picture of life at the Military Academy. He had always thought his father had gone to West Point for army field training, but the notes revealed that there had been considerable text book learning and college studies as well. It seemed as though his father had enjoyed penmanship and many of the entries were written as by a skilled storyteller. A page turned and the name Cadet Everett Wiley leaped out. Hungrily, Preston studied the entry in detail. Without his being aware, the read switched to a narration; Cutler Diamond's strong and steady voice filled Preston's mind:
“Cadet Everett Wiley has become a thorn in, not only my side, but the sides of half the cadets here at West Point. The man is a born trouble-maker, a constant agitation among his fellows.
Though he is without scruples in dealings with colleagues, the man is a boot licking sycophant in the presence of senior officers. His subservience is quite repulsive though the officers appear to lap up the attention like a cat at a bowl of fresh milk.
In stature, Everett is a short man, about five feet and six; sturdily built, he would weigh perhaps one hundred and sixty pounds. Sandy haired, pig-eyed and large-mouthed. His rather grotesque nose is somewhat larger this evening, for today I lost patience with the inveterate scoundrel: In accordance with his pernicious nature among his fellows, I caught Wiley mercilessly whipping a horse. The animal struggled wildly but the cadet had him secure and was laying the quirt on heavily. Upon my demand that he cease the thrashing, Wiley, his blood up from the sport, turned the whip on me. I'm not a man to take advantage of a smaller fellow but I will not stand for a whipping from a sawed-off bully either. We had a brief tussle and Everett came away with the swollen nose mentioned previously. I believe I have made a mortal enemy this day, for men of his stature will pardon no slight….
Preston slipped a finger between the pages and lowered the book to his lap. Was this entry the “information” his father had referred to? It supplied a motive for Wiley, though the settlement of the grudge had taken nearly two decades. But this knowledge offered nothing in addition to what Preston had already unearthed; nothing to help him see that justice prevails. There must be something more, something deeper….
The journal slipped from Preston's hands jarring him awake. Rufus stood nearby. “Mebbe tam yo gwyne to bed, Press.”
Through bleary eyes Preston tried to focus on the black man. “You haven't moved into my parents' bedroom, Ruf. No reason for you to sleep on the sofa when there is a big comfortable bed waiting for you.”
Tweed nodded. “Mebbe sumday. Mebbe firs' I mobe in dat room beside yo, Press.”
On his return to Alexandria the next morning Preston took a circuitous route, avoiding that part of the trail where he had shot the bandit. In the light of day he wished there had been an alternative to killing the old holdup man. In all likelihood, the fellow was near starving. With the advent of the war, the land had become crowded with misbegotten wretches, rejects and deserters from the armies; fighting, stealing, living hand to mouth on whatever they could get. But Preston knew, had he been clumsy or slow, it would be him, not the holdup man, laying dead upon the road.
“Better him, than me,” Diamond decided.
The young gelding wanted his head and Preston fought to hold him in. Greater pitfalls and booby traps than a lariat stretched across the trail may await the unsuspecting; the possibility of ambush ?shoot first and rob later? kept the youth alert, studying the terrain at all times. The animal used more energy fighting the bit than if Preston had put the heels to him. However, should Diamond need to escape in a hurry, the fleet and powerful beast could certainly outdistance most other steeds in the area.
The hospital bivouac appeared exactly the same though the sight affected Preston far more strongly on this day. Sick to the stomach, dry of mouth, he could not swallow the sour taste rising in his gorge as the ghastly heart-wrenching sight overwhelmed him: Humanity reduced to barbarous, maggot survival amid a katzenjammer of squeaking, rattling wagons, neighing horses, soldiers' shouts, cries, groans, and curses; noisome, putrid stench assaulting nostrils; huge, chill-lazy blue-bottle flies crawling, swarming, buzzing; grotesque and blackened severed limbs; disease: dysentery, malaria, typhoid; everywhere the dead, the dying; bloodied wounded, bloodied medics. Hell.
Preston Diamond dismounted and tied his horse among a string of others on the picket line. He did not don the smock today, but strolled directly to the outer side of the canvass wall where Captain Everett Wiley lay confined. With dichotic ears attuned to the brouhaha of the surrounding camp and the muffled din from within, Preston strained to hear Wiley's rasping voice. Diamond could not risk having the injured man identify him, for the fevered captain had already made a connection between Preston and his father, undoubtedly from their characteristic, powder-blue eyes.
Although the corner where Preston waited was situated away from the beaten path, he was nonetheless conspicuous in his immobility. Most likely, in less time than he required, someone would question his actions or rather inaction and call him to task. Should the two men who assaulted Doctor Filmore be within earshot they could not fail to recall the similar altercation Preston had the previous day. The boy did not want to be caught or found out.
No identifying name or voice reached the ears of the eavesdropper and Diamond grew anxious. Prolonged patience becomes procrastination; Preston abandoned his post, swiped another smock from the line and entered the busy tent. From half a dozen cots away he identified Captain Wiley. The man hunkered in an awkward position on the edge of his bed and Preston could read the agony on his haggard face as he tried to rise to a standing position. A member of hospital staff stood near, supporting Wiley's weight and offering encouragement. Again Preston touched the bulge of the Colt tucked in his waistband. The Union officer managed to stand, at the sacrifice of good posture, and the attendant helped him to take a hesitant step. Like a newborn colt, the man began to totter along with the assistance of the medical aide. Preston drew back as the pair shuffled past and then, at a distance, followed them out of the tent. Wiley made his way to a communal outhouse and went inside, the aide abandoning him at the door.
Preston sat on a crate while considering his options: Stroll over to the outhouse, yank open the door and blast Everett Wiley to Hell; wait for an opportunity to slip a knife between the officer's ribs; report him to the Provost Corps….
“Git yer skinny ass offen that box and do some work, ya lazy bugger! Ther's people adyin' round here and yer settin' there wartchin'. Now gimme a hand wit' this stretcher.”
Once more Diamond was press-ganged into the medical corps. The soured stretcher-bearer he partnered with this time did not allow Preston to escape, driving him steadily for two hours. When not toting a stretcher, the men were shifting supplies, off-loading wagons or shovelling muck. Preston didn't mind work, but he had more urgent matters to attend. During a trip to the 'morgue' the new medical recruit again espied Everett Wiley's confederates. Preston kept his head down and avoided looking at the soldiers' faces as they stood aside to allow passage of the loaded stretcher. Surreptitiously he watched them angle toward Wiley's hospital wing. He needed to hear what they were saying. An opportunity arrived a few moments later.
“Time for a short break,” the whip said. “Meet me back here in ten minutes, or I'll come ahuntin' ya.”
Preston dashed to the now familiar wall of the tent. Nearby stood a tangled assortment of crates and supplies. He busied himself shifting boxes back and forth, stacking and re-stacking the same pieces. No one noticed; you don't have to work… just look busy.
The voices of the three companions were slightly indistinct but Preston's young ears filtered out the background bustle. “…What d'ya mean Colonel Diamond 'as in here, Cap'n? They had a big funeral an' buried him an' his missus yestiday. Half th' army was there, they damn near called off th' war for the 'casion.”
A rasping voice croaked, “I'm telling you, I saw Cutler Diamond. He stood beside my bed.”
“Mebbe he 'as a ghost or somethin'. You 'as purty deliriust yestiday, Cap'n.”
“It was no ghost… only he looked younger… his hair seemed dark, but he had a hat on… but… delirious or not I would never mistake those damn blue eyes.”
“Well, yer in real trouble if'n he's ahuntin' ya now, 'cause he's come all th' way back from Hell to find ya.”
“Hol' on a minute there, Joe! Cap'n Wiley may have somethin'… Cutler Diamond's kid.”
A crash followed by sounds of cascading wreckage pierced the wall.
“Watch your mouth!” the hoarse voice broke in. “We don't need to shout our business to the whole Union Army.”
“Ain't nobody listenin', ever'body round here's too sick, daid or busy to hear us….”
“Well, I don't care to be sitting around with a bullet through my crotch while the North is looking to nail my hide to the wall for treason.”
A pause ensued then a voice said, “Anaways… Cyril, what was you thinkin' bout the Diamond kid?”
“Weeelll, could be the boy has come ahuntin. If he's cut from the same bolt as the his ol' man, he's got to have more guts than a slaughterhouse.”
“Well, I know what I saw, even if I was full of the fever. Mebbe you two ought to do some scouting around that farm. The boys were supposed to make a clean sweep but things didn't go entirely according to plan… Roddy and Gilly McDonald must have got themselves killed ?bloody fool civilians? and I've been crippled up. There has been no proof that the boy actually died, though I heard shots from within the house.”
“Well, that there was the news we 'tended to pass on to ya yestiday, but you was all fevered up an' outta yer haid.”
“What? What news?”
“Jist that they buried the Col'nel an' his wife, an' I talked to one o' the so'jurs that had be'n at the Diamond place after the shootin'.”
Wiley growled in his gruff voice “Well, spit it out man! What did he tell you?”
“On'y that they buried two un'dent'fied civilians an' that the kid had be'n there first thing in the mornin' but he 'as gone when the detail showed up. They don't know if'n he fell in the river or what happened. He 'as jist gone.”
A groan escaped and Wiley's voice rasped with deadly menace. “Joe, Cyril, you two go up to that farm and finish this thing. We have to cover our tracks or we'll be caught with our pants right down before we get any further.”
“…leave ends tonight. When d' we go?”
“Go right now and be back before you are missed.”
None of the conspirators heard the quiet retreat of small feet leaving the side of the tent.
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