C. C. Phillips
C. C. Phillips
Though Captain Everett Wiley had vanished, Preston now had a direction. The time had come to switch to heavy artillery. It was time to find Uncle Ulysses.
Preston watered his horse at a clear running little brook. Noticing his reflection in a quiet pool he decided to change his appearance in order to present himself to the army. He dismounted and dug a handful of muck from the bank of the stream, then smeared bits on his face and clothes trying to make his outfit look more worn and ragged. The wool cap took on a soiled appearance and his dark hair hung in greasy tendrils. The bay did not look the part but Preston could do nothing about that now.
The boy no longer kept to the trees nor sneaked quietly through the shadows to avoid the Union Army, but actively sought the troops, hoping to locate a dispatch rider or a man of rank to pass on the letter. He was careful not to inadvertently stumble onto the Grey Coats though that army should have been stationed at or beyond the combat area.
The constant boom of artillery sickened Preston for it reminded him of the Alexandria field unit. The medical bivouac would be busy again this day. How abominable that countrymen should rise up against each other in murderous slaughter! How sad that the pretty farm girl had lost a brother on either side. In the heat of battle one may have killed the other without being aware of what he had done. Preston knew for certain that honest soldiers like his father were not among the condemned, but now he wondered, do the perpetrators, the leaders of nations who declare war, do they go to Hell? They ought to.
Now the scream of the heavy shells could be heard as they whistled through the air; a sound like Hell itself ripping apart at the seams; Hades was running out of room. The big stud pricked his ears and pranced in anticipation of the action. Preston was too close to the conflict.
A mounted company of soldiers, Blue Coats, emerged from a treed lane and crossed an open field angling away from the battle zone. Preston swung the big horse, putting it into a gallop so as to intercept the group. A haggard young man bearing the insignia of a captain led the riders. He did not draw rein or call a halt as the lone rider closed in beside him. The men were dishevelled, hollow-eyed and weary, nodding in the saddle as they rode. Many wore dirty bloodied rags on seeping or dried bloodied wounds; their gaunt and trembling horses plodded on, no longer fearing the black abyss the very edge of which they trod.
The captain's tired eyes brightened. “Union Army horse, sonny, I'll be trading ponies with you. Fact is, I would commandeer your nag even if it wasn't government property.”
Preston ignored the awkward statement. Swelling his chest, he said, “I got me a message of the most ut-ter-most importance to give over to the firs' dispatch rider or officer of rank I seen. 'Pears to me you be that officer, Mr. Captain, seein's hows youse don't got no dispatch rider in this here outfit.”
A tired sneer crossed the officer's features. “Just who did you bring this message from and who is it for, farm boy? We don't have time for carrying love letters; we're fighting a war and trying to stay alive.”
With grimy fingers, the note bearer fished the message from a shirt pocket and offered it to the outstretched hand of the captain. Before releasing the paper the boy said, “M' book learnen' ran out afore I got to readin' but I kin tell ya this here note is from Second Looootenent Tweed an'….”
The officer snatched the note. “Never heard of no Lieutenant Tweed….”
“I reckon he's a fresh officer out'en West Point, least ways that's what I heerd. The feller it's intended fer is….”
“General Grant!” The captain reined in his horse and raised an arm to stop his riders. “But it makes no sense… Do you know some shavetail, name o' Tweed? What does this message mean?”
Preston shrugged. “I seen a right shiny officer what ain't got a full beard yet, he could'a be'n Tweed. Anyways, they jis tol' me, 'git this paper to Gen'l Grant'. I already tol' ya I cain't read, so I got no notion what the words is… They gimme a five cents an this here nag an said, 'Git goin.'”
One of the soldiers had sidled up and the captain passed him the letter. Preston protested, “I don' figur' that note is for ever'body to be readin'.”
The newcomer's lips moved slowly, then he reread aloud:
“Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant: There is a diamond in the rough. Contact Second Lieutenant Rufus Tweed, post haste.”
He sniffed the page, folded it and passed it back to his superior. “Smells sorta nice, like a woman's perfume or somethen', but makes no sense to me, Cap'n Barnes… Even so… I'd be making certain it got to the General.”
Grinning inwardly, Preston wheeled the stud and called over his shoulder as he put the horse to a trot, “Yessir, Cap'n Barnes, I 'spect you will be wanten' to make certain that there note gits to Gen'l Grant.”
Preston heard Barnes groan something about Grant being a long way from here, and the telegraph lines were probably down. He kept on riding, hoping to put as much distance as he could between himself and the company before the army captain remembered his threat to requisition the war horse.
Diamond had left the Union soldiers behind and pointed his father's horse toward Conception and home when ravens congregating in a copse at the far end of a field drew his attention. Carrion? carcasses of horses, cattle, slaughtered wildlife? were in abundance throughout the war ravaged countryside, but Preston felt an urgency to investigate this particular corvidae attraction. He noticed that the birds were loud and flighty; they hadn't settled and this could indicate the presence of something wounded or near death. Approaching the grove, he noted that the ground sloped downward to form a small depression. Trees ringed the perimeter and water of a pond shimmered through the naked branches. The ravens lifted from their perch hurling raucous obscenities at the intruder as they wheeled and dove overhead. At the point where the largest concentration of the scavengers had been, Preston espied a large dark object, probably an animal, lying near the water's edge.
After hitching the stud to a sturdy tree limb, Preston broke a path through the tangle and came up beside the fallen creature. He did not spend a lot of time studying the dead, saddled horse, for he heard a groan nearby and sought the source. A Confederate soldier, at least a fellow wearing the grey coat of the rebels, lay stretched out in the tall reedy grass between trees and pond. Dried blood stained the dirty tunic, fresh blood seeped from a hole in the upper left arm or perhaps the shoulder; Preston couldn't tell because of the skewed position of the man's overcoat. He checked the soldier's breathing: it came in harsh rasping breaths and the fellow's forehead was hot with fever; he muttered incoherently.
Diamond retrieved his father's canteen from the saddle, lifted the injured man's head and forced a few drops of water between the puffed blue lips. The soldier swallowed and opened his mouth for more. Preston gave him another sip then eased his head back onto the grass.
The wound turned out to be high on the shoulder. Preston washed it, plugged the holes ?the musket ball had passed clean through? with cloth torn from his own shirt then applied a rudimentary bandage using the same material. During the operation the patient, a young man not much more than a boy, groaned and called out for his mother and father. There were other words he muttered but Preston could make out none except the several times repeated, “Lily”.
It was the second time today Preston had heard the name. He was far too astute to believe it a coincidence. The injured rebel may well have been trying to make his way home, at least his wounded horse would naturally do this if it had been from the farm where the wash girl named Lily lived. If Preston's calculations were accurate, the farm lay maybe a mile, certainly not two, to the southeast of this spot. Could he somehow move the rebel without being seen? What if he was caught? A person in civilian clothes, riding a Union Army branded horse, administering to a Confederate soldier could not expect leniency from the Blue Coats.
The sun had less than two hours of light left; already the temperature was dropping. Preston checked his patient: the fellow would not last long without better lodgings than a bed of grass and reeds beside a brackish waterhole. If the fever didn't kill him, the chill of night would. Preston could not risk a fire, he couldn't wait for darkness. There were no options, the wounded man had to be moved. Soon.
Preferring to travel light in case of flight, Preston had left his rope at home. There was no lariat on the dead horse. Using leather straps cut from the cinches and reins of the Confederate soldier's gear, then tying the saddle blanket across two fallen trees set in parallel, Preston fashioned a crude travois such as he had seen the Indians trailing to the posts out west. He poked the narrow ends of the poles through his stirrups, hooked the rig to his saddle then carefully loaded the patient on the conveyance and strapped him in.
There was still more light than Diamond felt comfortable with as he led the stud away from the copse; at every plodding step of his father's horse he feared an army unit would come charging across the field. Luck held and the company reached the relative safety of the tree edged border. The clumsy travois prevented travel within the shelter of the scrub timber so Preston continued along in the darker shade and protection as near as possible to the trees. He could not proceed in a beeline and had to follow the rough pattern of the tree margins trending east and south. It was a nerve-racking trip for the rescuer and a painful jouncing journey for the wounded soldier. Preston stopped several times to readjust straps and check on the patient whose groans and mutterings had increased.
Though Diamond approached the farm from a northerly direction this time, and evening was descending, the alert but silent rifleman had him covered before he crossed the yard. The laundry had been removed from the clothes line, the wash tub and scrub board put away. Preston hailed the house, though he could see someone watching him through a window.
Lily came out, hands on hips and stared suspiciously at the lad leading the horse.
Preston left his hat on, but said, “Sorry to turn up on your step again, Ma'am, but I've brought a wounded man. He kept asking for 'Lily' and I thought he may be an acquaintance of yours.”
The frown of suspicion moved over to allow a fleeting frown of fear that, in turn, yielded to a look of open concern. Lily strode to the travois and lifted Preston's coat from the face of the wounded man. “Davy!” she gasped. Turning to Preston, she said, “He's our brother! We had heard he was killed!”
Preston dropped the reins and went to the girl. “We best get him inside. He's lost blood and has a bullet clean through the top of his shoulder. The fever was on him earlier, but I suspect he will have the chills by now.”
Lily stood up and waved to the rifle sentry. “Amy! Come quick! It's Davy! He's been shot!”
A young girl, smaller than Lily, but similar in features, tumbled out of the shed, and, rifle in hand, ran to the group. Preston unhooked the makeshift travois, then, using it as a stretcher, he and the young ladies lugged the unconscious soldier inside the shanty. They laid him on a straw mattress resting atop a homemade slab board bed, then the girls rushed about heating water and preparing to change the temporary bandages. The rescuer went out to tend to his horse then returned to the shack. Someone had lit a lantern as the daylight had faded. Lily paused from her work and looked at Preston, an odd expression on her face. She said, “Thank you so much for bringing our brother home. I only hope we can keep him alive. I don't know much about doctoring or helping the sick…” She looked around the barren kitchen. “We don't have much for medical supplies either… Our mother died before the war started. Father was killed in a logging accident and our brothers joined the armies. Until you brought Davy back to us, it has been Amy and I here alone.” She sounded apologetic.
The truth was, the young family had nothing for supplies, not even any food. Preston met her eyes. “How far is it to Conception?”
“It's about four miles, as the ravens fly… why?”
“I'll ride there; maybe Dr. Filmore can help your brother.”
Fear showed in Lily's eyes. “We… I can't pay anyone to help. All the money Amy and I have left is the half dime you paid us today. We couldn't pay a doctor even if he would come.” Her voice broke. “Besides, Davy fought on the Confederate side, most people around here would rather he died.”
“Dr. Filmore doesn't choose sides. I'll go now to see what he has to say. You keep your brother warm and alive. He'll be needing water; try to give him warm drinks so the chills don't take him when the fever breaks.”
Preston felt he was being bossy and speaking out of turn but, having spent his youth in forts and army barracks, he had experience helping his mother and the army physicians tending the wounded. He turned on his heel and went out to his horse.
The stud, with his ground eating pace and stamina, did not break a sweat on the cross-country ride to Conception. Preston didn't allow the horse to run all out because he was not certain of the terrain nor the exact location of the little town. Also, he had to study his back trail using landmarks he could make out on the horizon in the light of a waning moon in order to be able to find Lily's farm for his return with medical assistance. He mused about the note he had passed on to Captain Barnes. Where would it be now? Surely the message would eventually be delivered. Preston thought about Uncle Lyss and wondered what the General would think when he read the letter. It had been Grant himself who had used the term, “Diamond in the rough,” in reference to Preston's lovely mother living in the frontier conditions of Fort Humboldt in California. By the time the note reached the General, he would have heard of the Diamond murders. In his saddle bags Preston found the grub he had packed for the day. He ate ravenously for several minutes then stopped, suddenly feeling a twinge of guilt; Lily and her siblings wouldn't have much for their supper. The horse would need forage before long, too.
The physician opened the door a tentative crack on Preston's third knock. Recognizing his guest, the doctor gave a relieved sigh and invited the last of the Diamonds into his foyer. “What on earth have you been doing, Preston? Your face and clothes are black with dried mud; your shirt is in tatters”
Preston had forgotten about smearing himself with muck so as to make himself look a tatterdemalion. Later, he had ripped his shirt up for bandages. Now he realized why Lily had given him that odd look. He merely grinned disarmingly in response to the doctor's query, then explained the reason for his visit.
Dr. Filmore listened attentively then said, not unkindly, “Honestly, Preston, there isn't much I could do if I went out there tonight. The bullet passed through, the wound has stopped bleeding and the patient is resting… or he has died. I'll give you bandages, healing powders and an elixir for the fever. At this point, you can do as much for the soldier as I can.”
The doctor followed Diamond out and stood by as he stuffed the bundle in his saddle bags. “Captain Wiley was here today. He was brought here by a Union soldier.”
Diamond stiffened, then, still facing his work, said, “You should have killed him.”
“My professional oath would not allow me to do such a thing. They may have suspected that I knew something, for they watched me every minute and I couldn't get away to alert the town sheriff, but he would have been worse than useless anyway.”
“Was Wiley on horseback?”
“No, he arrived in an army ambulance.”
Preston fastened the strap on the saddlebag then turned, “Probably the rig was stolen from the Alexandria unit. He would do something like that, trying to save his worthless hide while honest soldiers died on the field… Did you treat him? Is he going to live or will my mother's bullet give him the slow and painful death he deserves?”
“I treated him. And, I cannot explain it, but I believe the man will make a recovery. He may be semi crippled for the rest of his days, but he'll live.”
“Well, if I have anything to say about it, 'the rest of his days' won't be that many. Which way did they go when they left here?”
“I'm not sure, the soldier drove the rig toward town centre.”
“Dr. Filmore, can you tell me what the other soldier looked like? That wouldn't be breaking your creed or what ever it is you live by?”
Filmore hesitated, then said, “He was tall… reddish-blond… sort of a handsome man; clean shaven… his clothes were dusty from the trail but neat… he didn't appear to have been of the soldiers who are fighting on the front. I am not familiar with the insignia of the army, but the coat he wore had chevrons on the sleeves.”
“Did you notice how many?”
“Two… no, three; there were three chevrons on his sleeve.”
“A sergeant; enlisted man. Anything else? Any names mentioned?”
“No, nothing other than that he paid my fee for administering to the Captain. I was surprised at that.”
Preston apologized, “I'm sorry, doctor, I had forgotten to pay you for these bandages.”
Filmore protested, saying he hadn't been hinting at that and couldn't accept, but Preston gave the surgeon four bits. He swung into the saddle, looked down at the physician and said, “I may need your services again and won't have money on hand.”
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