C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Two more shallow, unadorned graves were added to the solemn burial ground on Diamond/Tweed farm. Two riderless nags were stripped of their outfits and let loose down the lane. Two more treasonous murderers were erased from Captain Wiley's company.
As he rode to Alexandria next morning, Preston considered Rufus's part in the attack. The black man's timely intervention had unquestionably saved Preston's life, but Rufus had gone into such a wailing terror that Preston feared one or the other of the armies would come down upon them. “I dun nebber hurt nobody in my whol' lif', Press!” the man had howled. “Dey gwyne hang dis black man fo' sho'. Nobody nebber belieb us dat I 'as 'tecting yo, Press. Dey jus' gwyne say, 'dat black, he kill a white man and dey fetch up de rope righ' den.”
It had taken Preston an hour to stop the mournful carry on. At last, as they shovelled dirt upon the bodies in the quiet darkness, Rufus accepted that it was better he and Preston were burying the intruders than if it was Preston being laid to rest. “You don't tell anybody, I don't tell anybody and the dead men don't talk,” Diamond had advised.
Preston's thoughts eventually faded and his attention focused on the present. Though still attuned to self-preservation he, for the first time since his parents' murders, began to appreciate the world around him in a less fearful manner. On this day, the sun, the animals, even the treed and gently rolling land itself, seemed particularly oblivious to the black and evil cloud of war hanging over the human element so bent upon its own destruction. Mothers Earth and Nature would not be held responsible for the inexplicable barbarities mankind inflicted upon his own; the ladies of creation believed humanity had been an error in design by the Master Architect.
Preston felt the warmth of the mid morning sun, saw the blue of the cloudless sky, heard the call of a flock of geese high overhead and began to take note of the creatures stirring in the brush beside the trail; the smell of the earth and trees teased his nostrils and a taste… a taste familiar yet somehow new: the taste of life, of being alive, rested in his soul. Realization dawned that he had a life to live even though his mother and father would not be there to share it. Diamond avowed to his horse and the creatures close enough to hear that he would finish this task and have it buried with Captain Everett Wiley. He would not throw away a lifetime on useless burning anger and hatred.
“When Wiley is in Hell.”
The hospital camp had not changed overnight, but Captain Wiley had disappeared. Preston searched the bivouac, he even looked in the privy. Queries of the medical staff were useless and Diamond obtained no answers from the corpses in the outdoor morgue other than the fact that Wiley was not among them. Returning to the tent where the bluecoat had been convalescing, Preston, clad again in a blood stained smock, questioned conscious patients in proximity to Captain Wiley's cot. Only one of the wounded had been alert enough to recall the officer. The soldier told Preston that Wiley had fashioned a crude cane from a stout branch broken from the makeshift coat rack and hobbled out of the tent. That had happened at first light and the patient had not returned. The injured man was adamant that Wiley had left under his own steam; no one assisted him.
Preston went out into the bright morning sunshine. The air was fresher than inside the stale and stinking tent but it still wasn't conducive to deep breathing. An ambulance with two attendants on the seat and two wounded soldiers jouncing in the back rattled past. The groans of pain overwhelmed the youth and he had to be away. Stashing the smock, Preston slipped through the hubbub and, upon reaching his horse, swung aboard, tightening the cinch as he trotted away.
Cannon and musket fire boomed in the distance as Preston rode cautiously through a pattern of small fields hewn out of the wilderness. He had no plan and no direction. Wiley could have gone anywhere and Preston felt a mild relief to be putting distance between himself and the canvas shack medical unit. When saddling up this morning, Diamond had swapped the fleet gelding he had ridden hard yesterday for his father's big raw-boned cavalry mount. This animal had no fear and, though not as fast as the young horse, was durable and steady. It was during this several seconds of reflection upon his father's pride in the animal that the horse stumbled, then started to limp. Drawing rein, Diamond slipped out of the saddle and began to lead the stud, watching closely to sort out which quarter the dark bay favoured. In a short while Preston discovered the problem: a stone lodged in a shoe, back left leg. As the boy fished the hoof pick out of the little case attached to the rear cinch, his hand passed over the brand and he groaned aloud, “Stupid!”
If Preston were caught riding a U.S. Army branded horse he would have plenty of explaining to do in a hurry.
The pebble was easily extracted and the horse stopped limping within a quarter mile, but Preston now began to fret about being seen on the Union Army mount. The boy's quick mind worked feverishly and he soon concocted a ruse to say he was delivering a message for someone and had to pass it on to the nearest company of soldiers he encountered. Diamond considered, “Who sent the message? To whom should it be delivered?” The story would be more plausible if he had real characters, especially someone of rank. Also, the excuse would be more readily accepted if written down.
Written messages require pencil and paper.
Preston kept to cover until he espied an occupied farmhouse, an anomaly among the vacated and the burned ruins of the pillaged. As the horse picked its way across an open field, the rider studied the dwelling and surroundings: Outbuildings and a small pole corral were in disrepair. A mule, one long ear lazily akimbo, stood partially screened by a tall red cedar. A milk cow, Preston could not tell from this angle whether it was in or out of the corral, chewed its cud and switched its tail. A colourful flock of chickens pecked at something in the yard near the house. Laundry on a line flapped briefly on a passing breeze, then went limp. A small lady in long white house dress, bonnet and apron worked at a wash tub near the door of the home.
The incoming rider hailed the house from a distance then rode up slowly. The lady did not seem surprised by his call and Preston soon found out why: a gun barrel protruding through a crack in a dilapidated shed followed his every move. The farmer and his wife had seen him coming.
Only thing, the lady doing laundry could not be the farmer's wife, for she was just a slip of a girl, probably not much older than Preston. The lad had not paid much attention to girls in his young lifetime; they were no different than boys, far as he had determined.
This one was.
She was pretty, though the smile Preston imagined she had did not reach her face. Caution showed in her brown eyes as she brushed a soapy hand across her forehead to remove an errant wisp of reddish gold hair. Diamond was not surprised she failed to invite a stranger to step down from his horse; no one trusted anyone these days and young girls were not brazen in the hinterland. The lady's frequent glance further betrayed the rifle barrel Preston had seen; strangely, the gun covering him did not make him nervous.
As his father had taught him, he swept off his hat, then said, “Hello, Ma'am, I…” His voice broke and he blushed a deep red on his dark features.
The smile was more than he had imagined.
He tried again. “I was wondering if I might have a piece of paper and borrow a pencil for a few minutes. I have to send a message to Lieutenant General Ulysses Grant of the Union Army.”
This statement could have been a colossal fib, only it wasn't. Diamond had made the decision as he spoke; other than Rufus, Uncle Ulysses was the only person he would trust. There was not the slightest trace of braggadocio in his voice as he mentioned the North's famous general as casually as if the officer were his… well, his uncle.
The young lady frowned, a hint of embarrassment crossing her features. Before she could reply Preston guessed the source of her shame. “I know folks don't have much to hand in the line of writing materials. If you have none to spare, that is okay… I could peel a piece of birch bark but I don't have a pencil….”
The girl found her voice. “I do… I have a few pages of stationery that belonged to my mother. It's… it's quite pretty, came all the way from England.”
“I can pay you,” Preston offered. “I don't have much, but I could give you a half dime. It is kind of important that I send this message to Unc… to Lieutenant General Grant as soon as possible. Of course, if you' re on the Confederate side you may not want to help the Union Army….”
“It's not that, I'm not choosing, I've lost a brother on both sides.” She reached a decision, “I'll fetch the paper.”
The cavalry horse stood patiently while Preston, using a short slab board across the saddle horn for a table, wrote a brief note on the fancy stationery. The paper was a light rose colour and had a hint of lavender, not the sort of letterhead normally addressed to an army general. Diamond extracted a half dime piece from his breast pocket and handed it to the girl along with her pencil stub. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of the coin.
Preston misinterpreted. “Isn't that enough?”
“No… I mean, no, it's too much… I only gave you a piece of paper….”
“It is special paper and worth more than five cents to me… Um, my name is Preston.”
The smile returned and the sunlight backed away. “I'm Lily.”
The blush returned to Preston's face and he touched a heel to the stud. “Nice to meet you, Lily….”
On the far side of the decrepit little yard he reined in and turned to look back. Her gaze still held him as she stood by the scrub board and pile of washing. Preston waved to her, then saluted the gun barrel still pointed in his direction. He gave the bay its head and galloped for the distant tree row.
Whether fickle circumstance, fair coincidence or confused Fate, it turned out that Lily should show up again in the near future, but that one vision of the pretty poverty stricken lass standing beside the wash tub would go a long way in easing Preston's nightmares.2
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