Unholy Fire (38 page)

“Have you considered the possibility that he might have temporarily lost his sanity and needs someone like you to save him from this folly?”

“He is as sane as you or I,” was the reply.

He led us through the legion of wounded that now lay everywhere around the mansion until we arrived at a row of brick-faced cottages that had once housed the plantation slaves. As we went past them, I saw the shadowy form of someone standing in one of the doorways. Glancing back, the figure disappeared into the darkness.

Just beyond the last cottage was a mound of earth built into the side of a low hill. An open door protruded from it at a forty-five-degree angle to the ground. From the acidulous smell emanating out of the dark hole, it was obviously an underground fruit cellar.

“I already put up my vegetables for the winter,” said Val.

“Nevertheless, it will be your quarters until our telegraph operatives at Aquia have received word from Washington,” replied Lieutenant Hanks.

As we were about to descend the stairs, Billy Osceola suddenly appeared out of the darkness. He took Lieutenant Hanks by the arm and pulled him a few feet away from us before whispering something into his ear.

“Conduct a search immediately,” said the young officer.

I knew that, in a small way at least, their plans had already gone awry, and that Amelie had somehow evaded their capture. I wondered then if it was she I had seen standing in the doorway of the slave cottage. There was no way of knowing just then.

“You will have to forgive the accommodations,” said Lieutenant Hanks, as he sent us down the stairs.

The massive door dropped into place behind us, and we were plunged into total darkness. It was like being buried in an ancient tomb. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I stumbled over several low objects. Behind me, I heard a match striking one of the beams over our heads, and a moment later, its guttering flame illuminated our surroundings.

We were standing on a packed earth floor, about eight feet beneath the ground. Constructed of rough logs over a stone foundation, the fruit cellar extended almost twenty feet into the darkness. Rough-hewn ceiling beams and cross timbers braced the earth barrier above us. There were no outlets for fresh air aside from the thick oaken door that was held in its frame with heavy iron strap hinges. The overpowering smell of moldering fruit and vegetables filled the air.

Val removed an inch-long chunk of candle from his uniform blouse. After putting his match to it, he handed me the candle stub and motioned for me to follow him. For the next ten minutes, he slowly worked his way around the perimeter of the cavelike chamber, using a small spade to test the walls and ceiling joints. Most of the floor area was covered with barrels and bins of potatoes, apples, and onions, along with kegs full of pickling brine and fermenting wine.

“When we escape,” Val said, as if it was already a foregone conclusion, “I will try to reach the telegraph station, although from what the lieutenant just said, the conspirators may have control over the flow of traffic there. There is no assurance that they won't try to prevent us from sending a wire to Washington or that it would even be delivered at the other end. Someone must also ride overland to the capital.”

Knowing how adroitly his mind worked, I was not surprised at how quickly he was already defining our next objectives. At the same time, I knew which role would be mine.

“I will endeavour to find a winged Pegasus,” I said.

“It will take Sam at least seven hours to reach the capital by packet boat … maybe longer with all the traffic on the Potomac,” he said, removing his watch and glancing at it.

“This whole thing is simply incredible,” I said. “Perhaps General Hathaway will not follow through with it. At heart, he is a gentle man.”

“Yes, he is,” replied Val, “but personal grief has unhinged his mind. Make no mistake that he will carry out his plan.”

“How far is it overland to Washington?” I asked, as Val began to rummage through some unlabeled sacks along the wall.

“About sixty miles due north,” he said. “From what I heard on the way down here, there are no regular Confederate units operating to the north of us, but there could be irregulars or cavalry. You will have to be careful. The bridges may be out. But if fortune is with you, and you are able to find a fresh mount or two, it should be possible for you to get there before him. In any event, you must try.”

“I'll do my best,” I said.

Returning to the staircase, he said, “Unfortunately, there is only one way out of here,” he said, “and that is the door above us.”

Planting the candle on the lowest step, Val slowly mounted the wooden stairs and disappeared into the gloom overhead. He was up there a minute or two before coming back down.

“They have left only one man to guard us,” he said, “and he is breathing heavily from the croup. More important, there is no lock on the door. It is held in place by a heavy plank that runs through two iron elbow joints on each side of the frame.”

“We are going to have to get him to open it for us then,” I said.

“Perhaps. Or we will open it ourselves,” he said cryptically.

A course of rough wooden shelving covered the closest wall. It held small garden tools, along with a number of small paper sacks that appeared to contain chemicals and plant fertilizers. As he began sniffing his way through them, I picked up an apple from one of the bins and bit into it.

“Yes … eat something,” he said, grabbing three of the sacks along with a ball of twine and bringing the pile over to a small farm table near the foot of the stairs. “You are going to need all your strength in a few minutes.”

Using a tin ladle, Val began dumping small portions of the powdered compounds onto the table. Then he filled the ladle with some oily liquid from one of the casks and hand mixed the substances together into a small mound of paste. Cutting a foot-long length of twine, he coated it with the mixture and set it aside. He scooped up the mound of paste in both hands, and was carrying it toward me when the low sound of voices reached me through the door.

“Listen,” I said, racing up the stairs.

I was sure that I had just heard Amelie. When I placed my ear against a crack in the timbers, the pitch of her resonant French accent became unmistakable. She was talking to the guard, and there was a flirtatious lilt to her voice.

Val motioned me to back away from him. Slowly climbing the stairs, he quickly applied the paste like a poultice around the protruding bolt ends below one of the elbow joints. When he was finished, he went back to the farm table, returning immediately with the foot-long section of twine. Inserting it into the paste, he backed down the stairs and picked up the candle stub from the lowest step.

“What about Amelie?” I asked, realizing what he was about to do.

“Don't worry,” was the reply, as he held the candle to the dangling end of the twine, “this is only Greek fire.”

His homemade fuse sputtered into life, the flame hissing loudly as it moved rapidly toward the poultice charge. Retreating down to the foot of the stairs, Val picked up an axe handle that was leaning against the earthen wall. A few seconds later, the tongue of fire reached the charge, and it ignited with the loud flash of a signal rocket. The door seemed to shudder in place as the fire continued to burn white hot for a few moments around the iron bolts.

The timbers were still aflame when I vaulted up the stairs and drove my right shoulder into the side of the door where Val had set the charge. It gave perhaps an inch, but remained solidly in place. From outside, I could now hear the sounds of two people fighting.

When I heard the woman cry out in pain, I dropped down two steps and hurled myself upward against the door again. This time the wood around the elbow joint gave way, and the door burst open.

I came up out of the ground to find the guard grappling with a still battling, but badly outweighed Amelie. His musket was lying next to him on the ground. Picking it up, I automatically pulled back the hammer and swung the stock in a short arc at his head. He dropped like dead weight.

Behind me, Val emerged from the cellar, saying, “I have to reach the telegraph right away.”

A masked lantern was lying between Amelie and the fallen guard. As she stooped to pick it up, the lamp's masking shield dropped free, and we were suddenly enveloped in a narrow cone of light. I reached down to cover the glass again, but it was too late. The sound of approaching footfalls reached my ears, and a shot rang out from the darkness.

“Johnny,” I heard Amelie groan.

She slumped backward into Val's arms.

Someone was still running toward us, firing as he came. With my rifle at waist level, I led him from the spot where I had seen his last muzzle flash and fired, seeing the white blur of his face emerge from the darkness just before he fell.

Val had already lowered Amelie to the ground. Although I couldn't see where the ball had taken her, Val quickly found the entry wound in her right leg, high on the thigh. He tried to stanch the heavy flow of blood with his right hand.

“It may have clipped an artery,” he said, removing his belt with the other hand while continuing to clasp the thigh. As he strapped the belt tightly above the wound, her eyes fluttered and closed.

“Be on your way,” he growled.

I stood looking down at her, unable to move.

“I will stay here with her,” he said.

Still, I hesitated.

“You have to go,” he commanded. “You're Lincoln's only chance.”

With a silent prayer for Amelie's survival, I ran for the stables. Passing the man lying on the ground, I saw that it was Lieutenant Hanks. The life was already ebbing out of his eyes as I twisted the revolver free from his clenched fist and shoved it inside my belt. From the direction of the mansion, I could hear more men heading toward us on the run. One of them was shouting orders, and I recognized the voice of Major Donovan.

When I looked back for the last time, Val had not moved from beside Amelie's inert form, but he was already surrounded by uniformed men. As I arrived at the entrance to the stable block, a big mottled gray stallion was being led out by one of the hostlers. He was already saddled, and a uniformed courier was waiting at the edge of the paddock for him.

The horse was stamping his feet and furiously champing at the bit. Each time he angrily jerked back his massive head, the groom was actually lifted off his feet. At least eighteen hands tall, he looked strong enough to reach Maine. I grabbed the reins out of the hostler's hand, jammed my boot into the left stirrup, and flung myself onto his back.

“Hey … stop!” the boy cried, as I jabbed the horse's flanks with my boot heels, and we bolted toward the paddock gate. The courier began running toward me, frantically waving his arms. I turned the horse to avoid him, and then swung back into the narrow lane. The big gray responded to the merest touch, and a few moments later we were racing down the mansion drive at a full gallop.

Emerging onto the road, I took one look back toward Fredericksburg. Raging fires still lit up the city against the night sky. Up ahead, the road was packed with soldiers, dejectedly making their way back toward the encampments. Many of them were dropping their equipment as they went, the debris piling up along the shoulders.

Although it was necessary to slow the horse to a walk, I was grateful for the confusion and disarray that was everywhere to be seen around us. Men had already fallen out of ranks, taking rest wherever they found a place along the route. Someone trying to follow me would find it very difficult to track one man on horseback among the thousands of dazed and disoriented soldiers who choked the road.

As the human traffic slowly cleared, my mount moved naturally into a steady trot. He seemed happy to be in motion and moved surefootedly around the small pockets of men we passed along the way.

Once past the military encampments, we were on our own except for military vehicles and hospital trains. Occasionally, I would overtake men still walking north by the edge of the road; but as often as not, they would scurry into the foliage and disappear. None of them had rifles, and they were almost certainly deserters.

The night was black and a cold wind was coming up as I came to the first crossroad that led down to the wharves at Aquia Creek. For a moment, I considered heading for the telegraph station there at the boat landing; but knowing Sam had operatives in place, I decided to keep going. The only sure way to save the president was to get to Washington myself. I swung the stallion north.

About thirty minutes later, I crossed over a large wooden bridge that spanned one of the tributaries leading down to the Potomac. Slowing down to check my watch, I saw that it was nearing nine o'clock. At the rate we were traveling, I thought it possible that I could reach the president's mansion by early morning.

Once past the bridge, the road never diverted from its northerly heading. It was two lanes wide, with a solid gravel base. There were even macadamized sections within the silent hamlets that dotted the route every few miles. We passed through a succession of low hills. The big gray took even the steepest grades in full stride, never showing a hint of funk or weakness. At times the ancient forest that lined both sides of the road came together in a canopy far above us.

We rode without pause for four hours, stopping only once for me to water the gray in a dark, swollen creek that intersected the road near a sleeping village. With the exception of a baying dog and the rising wind, the landscape was as silent as a cemetery. By then I estimated that we had come close to half the distance to the capital.

Once on the move again, I realized that the temperature was falling quickly. Both the horse and I were warm from our exertions, but as the air got colder, the sweat quickly dried on my body. Without coat or scarf, the wind began to cut straight through me, causing my stomach wound to ache. The only other physical discomfort I felt was centered on my inner thighs. Not used to riding any great distances, the skin there was soon rubbed raw from the constant friction of my rough woolen uniform pants against the saddle.