Chapter 20

Dawn

Major General Carl Schurz poured himself a cup of jasmine tea, freshly brewed from his personal stock. Supplies were generally low and not easily restocked in Virginia. The Union blockade restricted imports to the point of irrelevance, and ever since the North had taken control of the Mississippi River, the eastern confederate states suffered also from shortages in beef and pork and other native products. Eccentricities as jasmine tea were absolutely unavailable.

The tea was Schurz’ very own little luxury, an indulgence to which he treated himself with due reverence, first thing every morning just before sunrise, and this morning was no exception. Clarion wasn’t far, and soon life in the camp would start with its usual busy tension. The men knew they could be sent moving again, and they seemed aquiver, almost buzzing with restless energy and anticipation. For now, however, everything was still quiet, and General Schurz, wrapped in his thick army coat against the chill of the mid-September morning, savoured both the peaceful silence and the hot, fragrant tea.

***

Perhaps the fever was a blessing. Perhaps Adam would be even colder if he weren’t burning from inside—on the other hand, perhaps his hot skin made the fresh morning air appear colder than it actually was.

Or perhaps he was just going insane. One minute sweat made his back prickle and he wanted nothing more than to shed his filthy clothes and let the cool air dry and refresh him; the next he was shivering and chattering his teeth, and longed for an additional coat, a campfire, or—frivolously—for a warm bed.

A bed. A kingdom for a bed, Adam thought and allowed himself to slip into another waking dream.

Crackling from the fireplace, crisp white bed linen, a warm, soft body curved around his, clever fingers sneaking out, touching; the smell of honey in a golden disarray of locks, the warm breath of quiet laughter on his neck, nibbling lips on that spot below his ear, a whisper: “love,” the pull of blessed oblivion, falling, falling, falling—contentment, blissful quiet, peace: heaven.

He was jarred out of his vision as he stumbled, nearly losing his cane in the process, but kept upright by a steady hand under his arm. Hours ago, it had become apparent that Adam’s saddlebags weren’t the only burden to share—that Adam himself was becoming more and more of a liability for the group. In spite of all his rekindled determination his leg wasn’t able to withstand the continued strain, and the surge of new strength that had carried him so far was waning constantly. Toby and one of the other men, who’d never told Adam his name, had taken turns in supporting him after they’d noticed he’d been lagging behind, barely able to stay on his feet.

At one point, he’d asked Toby to leave him behind, to carry on without him, not to risk getting caught because he was slowing them down. Toby had flat-out refused that.

“We’re in this together,” he’d said. “If you stay behind, I’ll stay behind, too.”

“You can’t. You’ll get caught.”

“Then you better keep movin’.”

And so he had kept moving.

No, Adam decided, the fever was not a blessing. It made him vulnerable to the allure of the dreams, of a false sense of security when he should stay alert and attentive. It made his head droop when he should keep his eyes up and watch out for troubles—even though their journey had been almost undisturbed so far.

As predicted, the road was deserted at night. Only once, still in the late hours of blue dusk, they’d heard hoofbeats behind them, and quickly ducked into the underbrush at the side of the road.

A small group of riders had passed by without noticing them. They’d ridden slowly, and Adam had been able to catch snippets of their talk, which had been about women and drinking, and about avoiding Union patrols—and not with a single word about hunting fugitives.

That encounter had remained the only incident, but it had warned them to stay alert and vigilant, to hark into the quietness, and to watch out for movement in the shadows. In the beginning, they’d taken short breaks every once in a while, eaten a little, drunk a little, talked a little. Once they’d even laughed a little—when they’d found that what they thought to be a sleuth-dog tracing them had only been a snuffling weasel.

After that, they didn’t take any breaks anymore. Determined to reach their destination before dawn, they just carried on. Too tired to even talk, too exhausted to think anything beyond putting one foot in front of the other, they just stumbled forward.

On a strange, entirely academic level, Adam wondered if his overexertion was a result of the newly-flared fever, or the fever a result of the overexertion—and if it was possible to establish a quotient for measuring the height of a fever in relation to the amount of sleepless hours. Not that it really mattered, but trying to work it out distracted him from dreaming about soft beds…and soft lips.

It also distracted him from the fact that he spotted the notion of pink on the eastern horizon, the promise of sun-up, daylight—and new threats.

The others must have noticed the subtle change in the colours of the night, too. In silent agreement, they all picked up speed, drawing on last reserves, anxious to get into safety before the concealing night fell. They didn’t know how far they’d made it already, how close to the Union headquarters they might be—surely it couldn’t be too far away anymore, could it? They must be almost there, perhaps just one more mile, or two, or even less than a mile, or—

And then it was over. Abruptly, suddenly, irrevocably over. A dog’s bark, a bellowed order “Hold it!” and the clicks of rifles being cocked put an end to their flight. In the dim light of the beginning dawn, they faced half a dozen or so guns trained on them, a panting and snapping bloodhound straining at its leash, and then an oily voice, “My, my, what do we have rooted up here, huh?”

***

General Schurz had just emptied his third cup of tea when his solitude ended. Lieutenant Di Scompiglio, the general’s new adjutant, entered the tent precisely six minutes later than expected, bringing with him a waft of cold air, the smell of morning dew, and a bundle of papers.

“Dispatches, Sir,” he said with a lazy salute and threw some telegrams on the general’s desk.

Schurz cleared his throat. “And good morning to you, Lieutenant,” he said in a pointed, but not unfriendly voice.

The young officer ducked his head. “Good morning, Sir.” He reached down and arranged the telegrams, shoving them into a small tidy pile before he looked up again. “New orders, I believe, Sir.”

Almost like a puppy waiting for his masters approval, Schurz thought as he saw the captain’s eyes, and he hid a grin. “Very well, we shall see—what the…?”

He was interrupted by loud voices in front of the tent. Then the canvas at the entrance flapped open and, along with another draught of fresh air, two corporals accessed the office tent.

Schurz drew himself up. “Gentlemen?”

“Corporals Fenman and Moeller, Sir.” The soldiers stood to attention. “On sentry duty tonight.”

“Report, Corporal.”

“On patrol, we picked up six persons. Five negroes and a white man.”

Schurz sighed. That wasn’t something uncommon. The newly established headquarters of the Army of the Potomac must appear like a piece of the Promised Land right in the middle of the slave country. The tempting nearness encouraged slaves to try and escape from their masters, and while some lucky refugees made it to the safety of the camp, others were caught before they’d even got close.

Patrols occasionally found horrific evidences of failed flight attempts in the near vicinity of the camp: not all slave hunters brought the escaped men and women back to their owners, but instead tortured and killed them where they’d caught them and left their bodies lying in the dirt or hanging on trees as a warning to others.

This time, however, it seemed they were lucky to have caught a slave hunter before he could pursue his dirty business. Of course, now this man had to be protected from being used as a warning to others himself. Union soldiers were no saints, either.

“Only…the white says he’s one of us.”

“Pardon?”

“He says he belongs to the Union Army. Can’t prove it, of course. But, Sir…” The Corporal looked at Schurz almost apologetically. “Sir, he says you know him.”

Well, that was something uncommon. Despite himself, Schurz was intrigued. “So, I’m supposed to know him. Can he prove that?”

“He says his name’s Cartwright, Sir, Adam Cartwright, and that you’ve met.”

Adam Cartwright. Yes, he knew Adam Cartwright. And yes, he had met Adam Cartwright, who’d brought him regards from his wife, one of Schurz’ most memorable students in London all those years ago: the outspoken Countess of Barnstoke. He remembered his amusement as he’d thought that Cartwright must be a very courageous man to marry the countess. Later everything he’d heard about the man’s performance had proved that he was fearless and spirited, yet considerate and level-headed; and Schurz had intended to promote the man to the rank of lieutenant right after the battle at Gettysburg. But it never came to that because Adam Cartwright was—

“He’s dead. Cartwright died at Gettysburg.”

“He sure looks dead,” the corporal said with a short smile, then shifted his features back to seriousness. “Sir, he says he’d been captured and then escaped from the rebels. Seems quite certain you can identify him.”

Schurz stroked over his beard. Cartwright. He had sent his former secretary, Paul Hansen, to Cartwright’s home to inform the countess of her husband’s demise. He’d always had a soft spot for the well-read lady, who’d been so different from the bloated aristocrats with which he mostly had to deal, with her surprising interests in politics and social justice—and the art of newspaper making. When he’d learnt of Cartwright’s death, he had found anything except a personally delivered message to his widow completely inappropriate. It had been more than just a gallant gesture—it had been a late bow to a kindred spirit.

“Bring him in.” It was worth a try, wasn’t it? Perhaps it was time for a small miracle. Perhaps there would be a reason to send another, much happier message to her ladyship. Perhaps the story was true, and there was a man his soldiers could look up to. A hero. Fodder for the troop’s morale.

What the corporals dragged in didn’t look like a hero, and certainly didn’t look like the man he claimed to be. Adam Cartwright, as Schurz had known him, was a man with the powerful constitution of a dray horse, tall and broad-chested, with shiny black hair, the healthy tanned skin of a man used to working outdoors, and with bright intelligent eyes. A man who’d stood proud and straight, his pose perfect and his attire flawlessly neat.

The ragged, filthy scare crow the corporals held upright between them bore no resemblance to the man Schurz remembered. This man was emaciated, almost skeletally thin, his face gaunt and what was visible of his skin underneath the days worth of stubble appeared dull and ashen-grey; the overgrown hair was matted and clinging to his scalp. The worst, though, were his eyes: fever-bright, they still looked…extinct. There was no spark, no light. They were almost dead.

Although his attempt at standing to attention failed miserably, his voice was steady, if croaky. “Sergeant Adam Cartwright, Sir. We met shortly after I enlisted.”

Schurz frowned. The man could be Cartwright—or he could be any man. “I’m sorry, I don’t seem to…”

“Leopold Hohmeyer introduced us. Perhaps he can—”

“Sergeant Hohmeyer is dead. He fell at Gettysburg. I’ll need something more to be sure you are who you claim to be.”

“Leo is…? I knew he was missing, but I’d hoped…well…” Pain flickered over the man’s face, but he allowed the emotion to be seen only for a brief moment. “Sir, when we met, we talked about my wife. She was your pupil in London.”

“Yes…?”

“You said she…” He emitted a short, soft laugh, and his dead eyes lit up—like embers rekindled by a fresh breeze. It changed his whole face, and suddenly there was a fire that seemed familiar. “You said she was more interested in your involvement in the German Revolution and the hidden meaning of Die Forelle than in properly pronouncing ‘ouch.’”

“Auch,” Schurz corrected automatically. Die Forelle—The Trout—and Lady Juliet’s very imaginative analysis. Yes, he remembered having told that story in a conversation of which only he and Cartwright could know. He smiled. So…a happy message for her ladyship after all. “Sergeant Cartwright, I’m very glad you made it back to us. I expect a full report as soon as you have recovered from…your ordeal, but for now—Sergeant?”

Cartwright’s face had gone slack while Schurz had been speaking, and now it lost what little colour there had been in it. Schurz saw the man’s eyes rolling back and his body going limp, but before he slumped down to the ground, the corporals tightened their hold on him and kept him standing.

“Sir?”

Schurz waved his hand emphatically. “Hospital, quick.”

He watched the corporals half-carrying Cartwright out, and then kept gazing out of the still open entrance at the camp’s tents, that glowed in a curious blend of orange and pink in the merry light of dawn.

Good news, indeed. Not just for her ladyship. Whatever Cartwright’s full story was, he had escaped from Confederate imprisonment, and that was the kind of tale that made the rounds. The kind of tale that created legends—and heroes: leaders the men would follow everywhere, blindly and without fear. Exactly what the XI Corps needed.

Schurz sat down at his desk and absently picked up the telegrams Di Scompiglio had deposited there earlier, shuffling the papers without really looking at them. Eventually he arranged them into a neat stack, put them back and decisively smoothed them down.

“Lieutenant.” He looked up and cleared his throat. “Get a promotion document ready.”

Di Scompiglio jumped in his seat. The paper he’d just been folding into what looked like a boat flew out of his hands and onto the floor. “Whazza…?”

“Lieutenant!”

“Sir, I’m sorry, Sir. I…I didn’t quite catch that. ”

Schurz glared. “Lieutenant Di Scompiglio, do get a promotion document ready. Now. If you please.”

“Yes, Sir. For whom?”

“Why, for Sergeant Cartwright, of course. He will be promoted lieutenant.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And, Di Scompiglio, send a telegram to Major Harrington. Cartwright has to be removed from the death roll. And the family must be informed.”

“Yes, Sir. Um, Sir, which first?”

“Which? Which which?”

“The, err, promotion or the tele—”

“The telegrams, naturally. The administration has to be up to date. See to it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Schurz sighed. Sometimes he missed his former secretary. Paul Hansen had been so much more efficient.

He picked up the telegrams again, and finally read them—still distracted at first, but then with increasing attention. Emitting a low whistle, he read one a second time, digesting it word by word. Finally, the comparatively quiet weeks of reorganization came to an end for him and his men: the XI Corps would be cut lose from the Army of the Potomac and dispatched westwards to succour the Army of the Cumberland at Chattanooga, Tennessee.

They had been sent again to front and centre.

***

“…and therefore this court declares William Robert Coulston not guilty as charged. Mr. Coulston is to be released from detention immediately and unconditionally. Court adjourned.”

Billy-Bob sagged in his seat, head buried in his hands. There were some subdued cheers from the audience, that were almost drowned out by the usual overall mumbling and shuffling of chairs and feet.

Joe found it difficult to swim against the stream of outward-pressing spectators, but eventually he made it to Billy-Bob’s seat. He proffered his hand.

“Congrats, Billy-Bob! You’re a free man now.”

“Well, yeah, thanks to ya. I know that.” Billy-Bob frowned and looked around the room—everywhere but at Joe’s hand. He crossed his arms.

“I told you everything would turn out all right.”

“Reckon ya done said so.”

“What’s the matter? You’re free. Let’s go and celebrate. I’ll pay.”

“List’n, Cartwright, yer done whatcha said ya’ll do, and I reckon I hafta be mighty thankful fer that. But I still ain’t got no job, and I figger there ain’t no one givin’ me no job in this here town ‘cause I’m still the one who’d been shootin’ atta Cartwright.” He leaned back in his chair and spit on the floor. “Seems ta me, there ain’t no reason fer no celebration.”

Joe cringed. “Billy-Bob, I told you I’ll think of something. I promise you I—”

“Seems yer gotta do a lotta thinkin’ then,” Billy-Bob drawled. He scratched his head, then fingered his jaw and squinted at Joe—and grinned. “Won’t go an’ jest smack a man so easy again, will ya?”

Joe grinned back. “Nope, I reckon I won’t.”

“Good. But I ain’t gonna wet ma dry withya anyway. The boys are waitin’ fer me o’er there already.”

He stood, waved over at the entrance, where Joe could see some men waiting, and left without another word. Joe was about to shout after Billy-Bob, but he was stopped from doing it by Pa’s hand on his arm.

“Let’s go, Joe.”

“But, Pa—”

“Let’s go.” Pa squeezed Joe’s shoulder, then pushed him into motion and led him outside.

Joe tried to find Billy-Bob in the crowd, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Most probably he was already “wetting his dry” in the Bucket of Blood saloon with his miner-friends.

“I just don’t understand—”

“Billy-Bob is not your friend, Joe.”

“But I—”

“Joe.” Pa took his shoulders and turned him around to stand face to face. “Billy-Bob is glad that he’s a free man. And he’s thankful you spoke to his favour at court. But, after all, from his point of view, you are the reason he got into this mess to begin with.”

Joe sighed. “Yeah, but I just wished…”

“That he’d forgive you the way you forgave him?”

“I guess…yah.”

“Come time, he will. I’m sure of it, Son.”

“Not if…Pa, he needs a job, and I promised him I’ll see to it.”

“So.” Pa tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “And how exactly are you going to do that?”

Joe put on his most winning smile. “I thought that perhaps I could talk to Mr. Hamish from the mine.”

“Hamish made it very clear that he doesn’t want to see Billy-Bob anywhere close to the Ophir anymore.”

“But that was before Billy-Bob was cleared. Now he has no reason—”

“Billy-Bob is a drinker. Hamish might not want a drinker down in the mine.”

Joe snorted. As if Billy-Bob were the only drinker down there. Heck, most of the miners were drinkers. Joe guessed it was the only way to cope with being constantly deprived of fresh air. The thought alone… Gosh, he was so glad his own job entailed being out on the open range, with a wide clear blue sky above, and horizons far, far away. That view surely didn’t prompt a man to hit the bottle.

Well, and if that just didn’t kill two birds with one stone. “He could work for us.”

Pa looked incredulous. “I don’t want to hire a drinker, either.”

“Pa…”

“And, honestly, the man doesn’t want to take a drink with you. Do you really think he wants to work for you?”

All right, that was a valid argument. “And what about…give him a small patch of land? Make him his own master? There’s that small part far north on the Ponderosa, you know, the one with the little lake by the trees…” He trailed off when he saw Pa shaking his head.

“Joe, do you really want me to give a patch of land to a man who’d shot my son?”

Joe tried not to grin. “Well, it has been known to happen before.”

“I will not…. Oh, well.” Pa threw his hands. “All right, I’ll…I’ll speak to Mr. Hamish.”

Joe giggled. He couldn’t help it, it was too funny. “You’re like Juliet,” he spluttered. Throwing his hands theatrically, he exclaimed in a high voice—much higher than Juliet’s alto, he realised even while he emitted it, “oh, very well!” labouring to let the ‘r’ roll from the tip of his tongue.

Pa glared at him and shook his head, opened his mouth to reply something—but then his face changed in a split second. Only a moment ago all paternal authority and patronising qualms, he suddenly looked like a spooked squirrel. He stared at a point somewhere behind Joe’s shoulder, then ducked his head and mumbled, “Let’s get our horses and go home. Quick.”

“What’s the matter?” Joe frowned. He turned his head, slowly…

“Don’t look,” Pa hissed.

But, of course, Joe couldn’t resist. And he was rewarded with a quite peculiar view: in the distance, he saw what looked like a flock of flamingos but soon turned out to be none other than Widow Hawkins, all pink feathers and quills, who was hurrying up the street, waving a pinkish, frilly bundle of an umbrella at them.

Her voice could be heard even though she was still a few houses away. “Benjamin, Benjamin!”

“Oh, Lord, not now.”

“Pa, don’t you want to say hello to your friend?” Joe lost the battle with the impending broad grin. “Perhaps she wants to invite you for a nice cup of sassafras tea?”

“I don’t—”

And then the widow joined them, breathing heavily. She handed her umbrella to Joe—who fiddled with it for a moment, then tried to hide it behind his legs—and held fast on Pa’s arm. “Benjamin, dear boy,” she wheezed. “I have…I have this…” She fanned herself with a small piece of paper.

“Clementine, what…?”

“Oh, do excuse me, my dear boy.” She took a few deep breaths. “I just met Mr. Beyman from the telegraph office who was on the way to you with this,” the paper fanned with a flourish into Pa’s direction, “and I told him I wanted to see you anyway. He was glad he didn’t have to make the way and so he—”

Pa’s patted the widow’s hand. “Clementine, give it to me.” How he managed to keep any kind of impatience out of his voice was beyond Joe.

“Oh, gracious me. Of course, Benjamin. How very inconsiderate of me. Here you are, my dear.”

Pa took the telegram, read it—and stumbled. Mrs. Hawkins caught his arm and steadied him, beating Joe to it. There wasn’t much left of the loud, exaggerated person who had just cornered them. Instead, there was a compassionate friend, watching Pa with eyes full of concern.

Joe’s grin melted. “Pa?”

The telegram was thrust into Joe’s hand, and he forced himself to read it—and then Billy-Bob Coulston was forgotten, the Ophir mine, little patches of land, and all that; and the future consisted only of one thing: Adam was alive.

Oh, and of the fact that “’Arry’s” tights might be hung over the fireplace at the Ponderosa after all, for Pa had taken Mrs. Hawkins around her waist and was whirling her around, high in the air, laughing like a madman while she was squealing, “Coo, Benjamin, what a jolly good day!”

And that it was, wasn’t it? A truly jolly good day!

__________
However long the night, the dawn will break. ~ African proverb

***