With my back to the far wall, I dropped to the floor and pulled out the canvas-wrapped pouch from inside my uniform pants. When I removed the gun, it was wet to the touch, and droplets of water stippled the barrel. I had no way of knowing whether the loads were spoiled in the last two cylinders, but there was no other weapon to fight him with anyway. Pulling back the hammer, I set the gun on my left knee and aimed it toward the storeroom beyond.
All my senses seemed sharpened … the sound of the rain dripping through the holes in the roof, the odor of wet bird droppings, and my own smell, sour with stale sweat. My eyes were focused on the narrow view through the doorway when I heard what sounded like the creak of a floorboard, followed by the touch of an icy breeze on my face.
Several minutes went by. The sound was not repeated. I kept the revolver pointed toward the open doorway. Every thirty seconds or so, another lightning flash would brilliantly light up the next room. As I sat there shivering from the cold, it struck me that I still had a mission to carry out, and that the president’s life might rest in my hands. I began to silently berate myself for the panicked actions that had brought me to this place.
What if I had simply imagined that it was Billy back there on the road? I had only seen his image for an instant. And even if there had been another rider on the road, what if he had just been a farmer looking for lost livestock? The more I thought about it, the more I knew it was sheer cowardice that had driven me to race off the bridge at the cost of my horse and then to this unnecessary refuge.
Standing up, I slowly walked through the door into the large storeroom, the revolver pointed ahead of me. In the first feeble glimmer of dawn, I could now see that the floor was entirely bare. There was no place for Billy to hide.
The doorway at the end of the storeroom stood open, and the path was clear to the front entrance. I was almost to the edge of the doorway when I suddenly remembered that I had closed the storeroom door behind me.
At that moment, a blast of frigid air from the shattered floor joists above my head caused me to glance up. That is what saved my life … seeing the shadow, that monstrous shadow, poised on top of the door.
Incredibly, Billy had somehow scaled the door itself, and was perfectly balanced along its narrow edge like a gigantic predator bird. Almost paralyzed with terror, I had no time even to aim the pistol as the massive form leapt toward me. I do not remember pulling the trigger, although a moment later the gun exploded in my hand.
As the weight of him drove me down on my back, I heard a short, fierce scream, followed by a searing pain in my chest. Then the back of my head slammed into the floor, knocking me unconscious.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I came alive again to the sound of rain drumming on the roof, as well as a curious, repetitive whistling noise. Trying to sit up, I was jolted by the same searing pain in my chest and forced to lie back.
It was only when I turned my head that I saw the circular metal shank of a bayonet sticking out of the left side of my chest. I knew that it had gone all the way through me because I was pinned to the floor. Billy was lying face down just beyond my shoulder. The strange whistling sound was coming from him.
For a moment I just stared at the hilt of the bayonet as if I could somehow will the blade to remove itself from my chest. It stayed there. I reached over with my right hand and grasped the shank firmly in my closed fist. Then, I tried to lift my chest from the floor while pulling upward on it. All I succeeded in doing was to faint.
When I regained my senses, Billy was still making the same noise. He had not moved, and I realized there was nothing else for me to do but again try to unstick myself from the floor. Once more I took the hilt in my right hand and tried to pull it up. Maybe I had loosened the blade in my first attempt. This time it came free.
I knew from my wound at Ball’s Bluff that the only reason the pain was even bearable was because I was still in shock. I also knew it would wear off before very long. My first decision was whether to remove the bayonet from my chest. In the hospital the one man I had known with a bayonet wound had assured me that it was always a mistake to remove it since that would make the wound bleed more. Instead, he recommended going straight to an army surgeon for assistance.
As far as I knew, there was no surgeon within miles of me. However, it was leaking very little blood at that point, which meant that no artery had been severed. Since it didn’t affect my ability to draw breath, I also knew that the blade had not punctured my lung. The most severe pain was centered near my shoulder, and I surmised that it might have glanced off the left shoulder blade.
Not even sure I could pull it all the way out anyway, I decided to leave it where it was. Sitting up, I removed the match safe from the pocket of my uniform blouse, and unscrewed the top with my right hand.
I turned Billy over on his back, and struck a match against one of the flooring planks. The reason he was making the odd whistling noise was immediately apparent. The bullet had reduced his handsome face to a red cavernous mask. Small bubbles of blood and saliva surrounded the opening where his mouth had been. Above the shattered mess, his big onyx eyes were staring back into mine with a mute appeal.
I knew what he wanted me to do. There was only one round left in the revolver. I held the barrel next to his head and prayed it would fire. When the hammer fell uselessly on the wet gunpowder, he groaned and shut his eyes.
I started to shake again. Unlike the tremors brought on by my laudanum addiction, this was the deep shivering of a man slowly freezing to death. My soaked uniform was already stiffening, and with each breath, I produced a little trail of condensed air.
If the president’s life had not been in the balance, I would have chosen a different course just then, remembering the fireplace in the next room. Instead, I told Billy that I would send back help as soon as I could.
The only thing I took from him was his rubberized cape, and that was to give me some protection from the storm. Mercifully, he drew his last breath while I was putting it on.
Back outside the first thing I heard through the relentless rain was the neighing of a horse. In my confused state, I thought for a moment that the gray stallion had somehow escaped his tomb at the bottom of the river and was, miraculously, alive. Then I realized it had to be Billy’s animal.
Following the cries to a copse of trees behind the mill, I found a small mare with its forelegs hobbled. Looking her over, I could discern the impact of the animal’s long, harrowing pursuit of me in her exhausted eyes and trembling legs. Nevertheless, I had no choice at that point but to see if she had anything left. Just as I would discover in myself.
Careful to avoid touching the hilt of the bayonet, I removed the rope from around her forelegs and led her up to the roadbed. My left arm was almost useless. I gripped the pommel of the saddle with my right hand. With my left foot in the stirrup I slowly pulled myself up onto her back. Turning north, we continued up the trunk road toward Alexandria in the pouring rain.
It could not have been more than five miles to the Potomac River, and Billy’s horse turned out to be as gentle an animal as I could have wished for. She seemed to sense my infirmity and almost floated along on the roadway as if trying not to inflict further pain. I was content to allow her to walk at her own pace, which was slow but steady.
As we plodded along, I imagined the people of my Maine island stirring awake in the same first glint of dawn. My father lived his life by such routine that I could actually see him making the long climb to the top of lighthouse hill to extinguish the huge incandescent lamp that served as a beacon to mariners from Brunswick to Bar Harbor. In my mind’s eye, my mother was preparing his breakfast of oatmeal, brown sugar, and milk in her little kitchen.
I looked up to see a crow flying over my shoulder. It was headed in the same direction we were and moving at a speed I could only envy. Closing my eyes again, I found myself daydreaming that the crow had offered me a ride, and I was arriving on his back at the president’s mansion. A great lass
itude came over me.
I must have passed out then, coming awake some time later to behold another chill, dismal morning. Although I was grateful to discover it had finally stopped raining, my head was swimming with nausea. I somehow became convinced that if I didn’t hold tight to the horse’s neck, I would drop off the edge of the world. As I leant forward, the head of the mare rose up to meet the shank of the bayonet, causing me to scream out in agony as grinding bolts of pain raced to my brain. For the next few minutes, it was all I could do to remain in the saddle.
I knew that I was still in Virginia when I looked up to see an elderly gentleman on a handsome black horse coming toward me. My cape had fallen open, and as he drew closer, his eyes widened at the sight of the bayonet protruding from my chest. I waited for him to offer me assistance, but he made no greeting of any kind. Instead, a small grin played over his lips, as if another Union soldier had gotten exactly what he deserved. That look alone was enough to give me what I needed to last another two miles.
But it was thoughts of Amelie that kept me going through the recurring paroxyms of pain and nausea until I finally reached the Potomac River. The memory of her sad eyes and sweet face would come surging into my brain like a flood tide, engulfing every other conscious thought, including the agony of my wound. I ached to feel her heart beating against mine again. Just imagining her presence beside me gave me strength. When I recalled her bravery in helping me escape at the cost of her own wounding, I vowed to make her sacrifice count.
We came over another rise, and the vista of Washington suddenly filled the landscape in the distance. At the foot of a long hill, the broad Potomac flowed sooty black against the ashen sky. Riding toward the Union fort that straddled the Aqueduct Bridge, I tried to husband my last remaining strength.
A painted sign next to the road announced that I was entering FORTRESS CORCORAN. The gaping barrels of its cannons were visible along the outer edge of the vast earthworks. No one appeared to be manning the defense lines. At the Aqueduct Bridge, a steady stream of commercial traffic was crossing the Potomac River from the Virginia side over to the capital. A teamster driving a brewery wagon waved me into the position ahead of him.
A long barrier pole lay across the entrance lane leading onto the bridge. Two soldiers were standing next to its heavily weighted base. I pulled Billy’s rubberized cape closer around my shoulders to cover the hilt of the bayonet.
“You look all done in, sir,” the first soldier said in a kindly fashion as he moved past me to examine the paperwork of the teamster on the brewery wagon.
“Less see yor’ders, Cap’n,” said the second one, who wore corporal’s stripes on his arm. Not more than eighteen years old, he was already missing his front teeth.
“I’ve come all the way from Fredericksburg with an important dispatch,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “I must get to the president’s mansion.”
“Frederissburg?” asked the corporal. “Where the big battle’s goin’ on?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s over.”
Nausea was beginning to flood my brain again. I watched as the other soldier raised the barrier pole to allow the brewery wagon to pass across.
“We whup ’em?” the little corporal demanded with a feral grin.
It was obvious that Washington had not yet heard about the defeat. Only victories generated a fast telegraph dispatch, I had learned, and they had been few and far between since the start of the war.
“I’m not at liberty to say, Corporal,” I said, trying to control my dizziness.
With those words, his manner turned sullen.
“I must get this dispatch to the president,” I said again.
“Where’s your dispash case?” he demanded.
The teamsters in line behind us began yelling at him to hurry up.
“It is a verbal message,” I said, “directly from the provost marshal general.”
“I don’t care ifiss from General Burnside hisself,” he came back. “I got my orders here.”
“Aww let him go, Lon,” said the other soldier, who now had to deal with the rest of the traffic by himself.
“Grab his reins,” said the corporal, “I’m gonna find Lieutenant Spoon.”
Shamefacedly, the other soldier took hold of the bridle of my horse.
“I’m sorry, Captain, he said. “Lon’s a peckerhead.”
At that moment one of the freight wagons behind us swung out of the line. There was no traffic coming toward us from across the bridge, and he whipped his mule team into the oncoming lane to avoid the barrier.
“Hold on there!” shouted the private.
The teamster pretended he couldn’t hear him. His hand was cupped next to his ear, and he was shaking his head back and forth as the wagon rolled past. The soldier dropped my bridle and started running after him.
I spurred the little mare in the flanks, and she leaped forward around the edge of the barrier. Grasping the reins with my right hand, I clamped my knees tight to the saddle to avoid falling off as she picked up speed.
We had gone twenty yards when the first frenzied shouts of the little corporal reached my ears. From the way he was screaming, one would have thought that Jeb Stuart was raiding the capital with his entire cavalry corps.
Another armed sentry was positioned in the middle of the bridge. He shouted for me to stop as I drew abreast of him and kept on going. By the time I heard the loud report of his rifle, I was approaching the far end of the bridge.
Two more soldiers were standing at the entrance to the Washington side. One of them was kneeling down with his rifle, and it was already aimed at me. The second was standing up. He, too, lifted his rifle to fire as I galloped toward them.
I never considered stopping. By then I was beyond caring. I saw the muzzle flash from the rifle of the kneeling soldier, and heard it strike with a loud clang against one of the permanent metal lighting fixtures mounted on the bridge abutment.
The second soldier stood with his mouth gaping open as I thundered toward him. My cape had parted with the force of the wind, and he was staring at the bayonet sticking out of my chest as I went by. Perhaps he thought I was some wraithlike ghost from a past battle. He never fired.
I slowed down as we plunged into the crowded streets of Georgetown. The pounding I had absorbed on the mare’s back was making my wound bleed heavily. Although the temperature had risen considerably since dawn, I felt immensely colder and infinitely more weary.
The streets of the city were filled with Christmas shoppers, most of them women. Wearing plumed hats and feathered headdresses, they glided along the sidewalks in pink and gold. The stores were festooned with boughs of evergreens and colorful ribbons.
I cantered down the last few blocks of Pennsylvania Avenue and headed straight for the side entrance of the president’s mansion. Pulling the horse to a stop near one of the covered guardhouses, I managed to drop from her flanks without touching the bayonet. Unfortunately, my legs wouldn’t hold me any longer. I toppled to my knees. Reaching up to grab the stirrup with my right hand, I slowly dragged myself back to my feet.
Staggering like a drunken man, I reeled toward the guardhouse. Two soldiers with buck tails pinned to their caps were standing inside. They watched me coming toward them with incredulity in their eyes.
“Colonel Burdette sent me,” I croaked. “I’ve come all the way from Fredericksburg … must see the president.”
As I swayed back and forth, neither one of them moved or said anything. My principal fear at that point was that I would lose consciousness and be senseless to any efforts to revive me.
“Did you hear me?” I cried out hoarsely.
Continuing to pitch forward, my knees began to buckle again. I saw one of them finally coming toward me, but do not remember him ever reaching my side. I awoke to find myself lying on a couch in a large, high-ceilinged room. Its walls were painted a garish red. For a moment I thought I was back in one of the Marble Alley whorehouses. A young man was peering
down at me. His face was somehow familiar.
“A doctor will be right here for you, Captain McKittredge,” he said.
“John Hay,” I rasped.
He nodded as I spoke his name.
“You told the soldiers outside that Valentine Burdette sent you,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And you want to see the president?”
A portly man with gold-rimmed spectacles and a shock of white hair appeared over his right shoulder. He put down a well-worn leather satchel on the marble-top table next to the couch.
“Is he here?” I asked, grasping Hay’s arm.
“He is about to present some military commendations,” he said, standing up to let the older man reach my side.
“I have … have to see him now,” I said, gasping like a spent fish.
“Dr. Matz must treat your wound first, Captain McKittredge. You have lost a great deal of blood.”
“Sam Hathaway,” I said.
“Yes,” said John Hay, “the general is one of those here to receive a commendation for bravery in action.”
“You don’t understand,” I said.
The doctor was standing directly over me. He grasped the hilt of the bayonet in his pudgy fingers and gave it an exploratory tug. Hay’s face swam out of view, and I felt myself dropping away.
I returned to life to find myself lying alone in the same gaudy red room. Even the far door was painted red. It was shut. Except for the faint noise of street traffic through the shuttered windows, I could hear no sound.
There was no way of knowing how long I had been unconscious, but the bayonet was no longer inside me. My uniform blouse was gone. In its place, a large white gauze bandage was strapped tightly around my naked chest and back. Someone had covered me with a woolen blanket.
I slowly raised myself to a sitting position and moved my legs to the floor. A tufted easy chair stood halfway to the red door. My first goal was to reach it. Using the arm of the couch for support, I stood up. Once on my feet, I willed myself to move one foot in front of the other, shambling forward across the room. I could not turn my body without feeling a stab of white-hot pain in my chest.
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