The Ironclad Alibi

by Michael Kilian

  “I can tell you this much, Harry,” she said, almost in a whisper. “There was a child mixed up in this.”

  “A child?”

  “It was to be sold down the river.”

  “A slave child?”

  “I do not know anything for certain, but Palmer was sorely vexed about this child. Arabella, too. There was trouble about it.”

  “Whose child?”

  They had stopped.

  “I’ve told you all I know.”

  Her hand came to his face, and she pulled him close, kissing him gently on the lips. He wished he were far more presentable.

  “Thank you,” he said, as she sat back.

  “I wish you well, Harry. I always will.” She reached across him and opened the coach door. “Go now. Take care. And do leave this city. I do believe your name is on a list.”

  He got out with great reluctance. “Louise …”

  Samuel abruptly slapped the reins, and the coach jolted into motion. Louise kept back, out of view.

  Harry’s arm was beginning to feel numb.

  The Union Hospital in Georgetown, run by Harry’s friend the Army surgeon Colonel Phineas Gregg, was considered an exemplary institution, but hardly compared to Chimborazo. It was an immense establishment of one hundred fifty separate buildings sprawling over forty acres. Someone at the Davis’s dinner party had told him the establishment could handle three thousand patients.

  Six month’s before, it would have been hard to imagine such a need. Now, with all the death and sickness in the military camps, it was doing a brisk business.

  Most of the structures were wooden, but Louise had deposited him before a brick building of imposing size. Fighting back dizziness, he stumbled into its foyer, startling a clerical type who sat behind a small desk.

  “I need to see a doctor,” Harry said, indicating his arm.

  “Sir, this is a military hospital.”

  Harry pulled out the letter from General Lee, holding it aloft.

  “I’m enroute to Gosport for naval service,” he said. “I’m Colonel Raines’s son. I’ve been attacked by robbers.”

  He must have seemed about to pitch over, for the clerk suddenly rose and came around to take hold of Harry’s good arm. “Come with me,” he said.

  Harry was led down a corridor to a large waiting room, where a half dozen sickly looking soldiers were seated, one of them asleep or unconscious and lolling back against the wall. Harry was given a wooden chair with arms, and was grateful for it. The clerk wrote down his name in a small ledger book, then departed.

  Not only was this hospital cleaner than Colonel Gregg’s; it was the neatest and tidiest place he had ever seen. His family’s own plantation house had not been this well scrubbed when readied for one of his mother’s dancing parties.

  The physician, when Harry was finally brought to him, seemed amiable and competent enough. He was also greatly curious about Harry’s wound.

  It was less serious than both had feared. Once his coat had been removed, his shirt sleeve rolled up, and the flesh of his upper arm washed, he could see that it amounted to a deep score across the skin just below the shoulder, a gouge that could have been made as easily by saber slash as bullet. The bleeding had mostly stopped. The cut was a thick red channel, welling at the edges.

  “Gunshot, you say?” said the doctor, peering close.

  “Yes, I was set upon by thieves in an alley.”

  “Too much of that now.”

  The doctor stuck a probe into the cut, in two places, each strike sending lightning bolts of pain up Harry’s neck and skull. Taken by surprise, he called out at the first, but held steady at the second.

  Then the physician took to squeezing the muscles around the wound, pressing thumbs hard against the bone. Harry clenched his teeth so tightly together he feared they would break.

  “Some torn muscle tissue,” the doctor said. “The bone’s intact. You are lucky your assailants were such bad shots. An inch to the left would have smashed the bone, and I would have had to take the arm off. Robbers, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are no powder burns. Did they rob you from afar?”

  “The gunshot came later. First, they beat me up a bit.”

  The doctor shifted his attention to Harry’s head, sticking his thumb and fingers in a variety of places, all painful.

  “Hmmm,” he said, then pulled back. “I’ll sew up the arm.” He went to a tray that sat on a table, taking from it needle and thread.

  “One moment, sir,” Harry asked. “Have you whiskey?”

  “The sewing won’t take long.”

  “Please.”

  The doctor frowned, then went to a cabinet, removing a bottle of inexpensive spirits and a glass. He poured it full, then handed it to Harry, sitting back impatiently.

  Harry nodded his thanks, then raised his injured arm and poured half the whiskey in the glass into the cut. It took all of his dwindling self-control to keep himself quiet.

  “What are you doing?” the doctor asked.

  “Something I learned. It’s supposed to have a salubrious effect.”

  He drank the rest of the liquor, as the doctor commenced his seamstress work. When done, having wrapped Harry’s arm in a clean dressing, he rose, and then yawned.

  “I would say you are not fit for naval service, or any kind of service,” he said. “Not for a while.”

  “You said the arm was not serious.”

  “It’s not—at least yet. No, it’s your head. Two bad contusions there. I’m amazed you’re on your feet.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Go home now. Take some rest. The Navy can wait. With the Yankee army still up by Washington, they won’t have need of you just yet.”

  He poured himself a glass of whiskey, then called to his orderly for the next patient.

  The words “go home” came languorously upon his spirit. Over the last several years, he had both yearned to return to Belle Haven and despised the idea. Now, it occurred to him, going there was exactly what he should do.

  But he wasn’t through with Richmond yet.

  Harry’s dizziness hadn’t abandoned him, but it hadn’t incapacitated him, either. He could walk, slowly, though he feared his endurance might flag, as he had much ground to cover.

  As he had done at General Hooker’s Union Army military encampment in Washington so many weeks before, Harry moved along innocently through the Chimborazo compound until he came to a string of saddled officers’ horses tied to a long rope. There were soldiers about, however, and one of them took note of him as he stepped near a large and healthy-looking bay gelding. Moving away, Harry at last came to a low building he took to be a stable, and so it proved to be. The only occupant was a black groom.

  The South’s perverse insistence on suppressing Negro literacy was, with luck, going to cost it one saddle horse.

  Harry went up to the man as boldly as his infirmity allowed, thrusting General Lee’s letter at him and demanding that he saddle a mount.

  “I’m on a mission for General Lee at the War Department,” he said.

  The man looked uncertain, if not dubious.

  “I was waylaid by Yankee sympathizers, which is why I’ve come here. I’ve been attended to by a physician but now I must complete my mission.” He jabbed his finger at Lee’s signature three times. “General Lee’s orders. Now get me a horse.”

  The man did so, but reluctantly, and with no dispatch. It was an uncomfortably long time before he reappeared from the back stalls with white-stockinged chesnut mare with a sickly eye. The cinch appeared to be loose and Harry stepped close to tighten it himself, wondering if he was dealing with negligence or sabotage. He couldn’t really blame the man either way.

  “You got to sign the book,” the groom said.

  “Where is it?”

  The black man led him slowly toward the main door, where a cloth-bound ledger lay on a wall shelf. He handed Harry a stubby pencil.

  There were surpr
isingly few entries. Harry signed himself, “Captain Harrison Raines,” which was true enough, though the Confederates wouldn’t be aware of that fact.

  He hoped.

  Climbing clumsily into the saddle, Harry hesitated before putting heels to the mare’s flanks. The soldier who had eyed him suspiciously back by the officers’ mounts was now standing just outside the door.

  Giving him a swift, dark, and disdainful look as a riposte, Harry left the stable at a brisk trot. He passed through the gate with no one in pursuit.

  He was not far from Miss Van Lew’s house, but there was too much folly and too little promise in that. Instead, he headed for the Mayo Bridge that led to Manchester.

  The coach was in the drive, the horses standing calmly in their traces. Harry presumed that Louise had alighted somewhere in the city, but there was no way of telling. If she had come to Mills’s house, he would be happy to find her. He was in need of allies, and she had shown him she was that, no matter where her other loyalties lay.

  Tying the mare to the porch railing, he went up to the door. He was about to knock, but thought upon it, and did not, turning the knob instead. As he guessed, it was unlatched. He stepped inside and stood a moment, listening, hearing nothing. He remained there for several minutes. There was only the ticking of a clock.

  Mills had an office in the house, just off the central hall. Harry went to it, seating himself at the rolltop desk, which had been left open. The cubbyholes were full of papers, but they all seemed to be tradesmen’s bills or had to do with nautical matters beyond Harry’s ken. A locked drawer quickly yielded to his pocketknife but contained little he thought of interest, until he came to an affectionate letter written in an elegant feminine hand, but unsigned. Reading through it, he decided it was not from Louise. There was not a single Shakespearean allusion. He guessed it was a quite different lady, perhaps a married one, well born, and possibly from one of the James River plantations.

  He was wasting time. Poking here and there one last time, he decided to move on, heading upstairs.

  Palmer and Arabella Mills had not shared the same bedroom. His was a shambles, smelling of whiskey. Hers looked as though she had just left it. Her hairbrush and other oddments were still in place on the dressing table by the window. Some pieces of jewelry and a small miniature had been left on a night table beside the bed.

  Looking through a clothing chest, he found only neatly folded dresses. Hatboxes produced hats. A chest of drawers contained stockings, camisoles, and corsets. He began to feel disgusted with himself.

  More quickly now, he went through the rest of the house. He returned to Mills’s office, at last finding one of the items he had sought: an inventory of Mills’s slaves. There were three belonging to this house—Samuel, Estelle, and another named Eben. A total of twenty-seven were listed as attached to the main Mills holding downriver.

  There was no reference to a child attached to either Estelle’s name or Samuel’s. He wondered if it could be Eben.

  Unsatisfied, Harry went to the kitchen at the rear of the house, and then out back. There were more dependencies to this house than he’d expected—a coach house and stable, a large shed, and two small cabins he took to be slave quarters.

  One clearly was Estelle’s, a neatly but cheaply furnished one-room abode with a fireplace but no stove. It backed up to the woods at the edge of the property and would have been amenable to “discreet” visits, if Caesar Augustus had been of such a mind. There should have been no need of a clash with Arabella, unless she’d come upon them by accident.

  The other cabin was of the same dimensions, but quite dirty. It contained of all things a rusty and tarnished spittoon. There was a small slab of chewing tobacco on its central table.

  Harry started for the stable, and the living quarters he judged to be in the loft above it. Crossing the yard, however, passing a brick, open-air fire stand obviously used as a forge, he caught sight of something and turned to it.

  In the ashes was a small, half burned piece of rope and a fragment of cloth that, on closer inspection, proved to be a portion of a coat or jacket, scorched and frazzled on the edges. It had a lining of now grimy silk and two tarnished but intact brass buttons. He could tell by the way they were placed on the coat that it was a man’s garment, and that another button that should have been there was missing.

  Pondering this find, he heard a crunch of heavy feet in motion. Turning, he looked up to see the coachman Samuel coming at him, an axe held high over his head.

  Chapter 20

  Harry had time only to do one thing, and he had no idea what that thing might be. But through some strange alchemy born of the wedding of anger to fear, his brain was induced to function. As the onrushing man raised the axe higher for the intended blow, Harry threw himself down to the ground, his motion toward his attacker. This put him within the arc of the axe’s swing, and caused him to roll with some violence against Samuel’s legs. The coachman, off balance, tumbled forward and down, his axe sliding from his hands.

  Though his injured arm stung with renewed pain, Harry was able to rise to his knees and reach for his pistol. Unfortunately, he was not able to bring it into play. Instead of going for his axe, Samuel flung himself upon Harry, bringing to bear a decided advantage in weight, strength, and malice. A knife had somehow come into his hand. The blade flashed past as Harry rolled once more.

  The black man came upon him again, but this time Harry was able to arrest the knife-wielding arm, though it took both his hands to hold the weapon off. With his free hand, his assailant gripped Harry’s throat. The light of the day began to fade. All he could hear was the fierce strain of his own breathing and the loud thumping of his heart. He gathered what strength he had, attempting first to kick Samuel in a painful place, then twisting the arm with the knife.

  This failed to loosen the weapon, but the big man fell sideways and let go of Harry’s throat. He lunged back, half righting himself, just as the sharp and sudden explosive snap of a gunshot crackled through the air. For a moment, Harry feared that the pistol in his belt had discharged, but, if so, he sensed no injury.

  Going for the knife again, Harry found his attacker much less resistant. He’d been grunting, but now there were groans.

  There was another gunshot, and a third, both striking the earth. In panic, Harry thrust himself free, pointlessly putting both hands protectively before his face. A fourth shot zinged close, then the full great weight of the coachman collapsed upon him.

  Harry lay there a long moment, then, taking a deep breath and clenching his teeth, hauled himself free.

  Estelle knelt on the ground not ten feet away. The four-barreled pocket pistol he’d given her still in hand, she was sobbing.

  “Damnation, Estelle,” he said. “You could have killed me.”

  “I’se sorry, Mister Raines. I didn’t mean to hurt nobody.”

  “You have surely killed him.”

  “I’se sorry. He was makin’ like …”

  “It’s all right, Estelle. I’m grateful.”

  With great effort, Harry got to his feet. Samuel was sprawled face down, still gripping his knife. There were two dark circles visible in the dust of the back of his coat.

  “I don’t understand,” Harry said. “How could a black man be so loyal to a household such as this?”

  “Don’ know what to say, Mister Raines.”

  Harry began brushing off his own coat, then wondered at the good of that, and stopped. He went over to Estelle, placing his hand on her shoulder. Her crying had eased, but she was trembling.

  “The time has come to leave this place, and to do so swiftly.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Raines.”

  “I do thank you. But for you, I would have been slain.”

  “Yessir.” She started to rise. He helped her to her feet.

  “Do you know anything about this?” he asked, picking up the burned piece of cloth with two brass buttons.

  “Nossir.”

  “Why burn a coa
t? There’s a shortage, what with this war on.”

  “I don’ know, Mister Raines.”

  “Gather your things,” he said. “We must go now.”

  She stared down at Samuel’s motionless body.

  “We must leave his burial to others, Estelle. There’s no time for it.”

  She nodded, sadly, then turned toward the house.

  She found bread and a chunk of smoked ham in the pantry, adding it to her bundle. Harry paused to return briefly to Palmer Mills’s bedchamber, going to the dressing room. He found two shirts, a waistcoat, a pair of torn riding breeches, and a spare Confederate naval officer’s coat and drum-shaped cap.

  He had suffered much because of the Mills family. He was due a little compensation. He took one of the shirts and the cap and coat.

  Passing Arabella’s room, he stopped, then went within. There was a small, jeweled pin on her bed table, one he remembered from their youth. He felt a bit ghoulish, but he picked it up. Thinking a moment, he then put it in his pocket. Should he flag in what he’d promised, it would be there to remind him.

  He sat a moment on her bed, touching the pillow, and then running his hand over the blanket.

  Something sharp struck his finger. He picked it up. A piece of straw.

  Estelle waited by the mare, who was browsing the dried winter grass, unconcerned.

  “We’re not taking the horse, Estelle,” he said.

  “How come?”

  “They’ll be looking for me on a horse. We’re going to walk—along the river.”

  “Where we goin’?”

  “To a better place.”

  As they started down the short lane that led to the road, Harry looked back and was startled to see an old black man in a wide-brimmed, beat-up hat standing over Samuel’s body, staring after them.

  Estelle kept going.

  “Who is that?” Harry asked.

  “That’s Eben.”

  Stealing a boat proved easier than stealing horses. Wearing his approximation of a Navy officer’s uniform, Harry led the way upriver, following the tracks of the Richmond and Danville Railroad around a curve of the James to where a wide channel separated the southern shore from Belle Isle, on which stood the Old Dominion Iron and Nail works. As Harry remembered, there was an assortment of boats moored or pulled up on the bank. He chose a small skiff, as it would have a low profile on the water.