A rider was approaching. The misty rain and low gray sky had obscured Billy's vision until the rider was very close. Of course, he hadn't been looking all that hard, since it was highly unlikely that the rebels would have gotten this far without someone noticing. He thought about calling for his sergeant but that fine man was warming himself by a fire in a hut with a deck of cards, a bottle of cheap booze, and several cronies. Sergeant Grimes had told Billy only to call him out into the rain if it looked like Jesus Christ or the rebel army showed up.
Since it was highly unlikely that the one rider coming from the direction of Baltimore was either Jesus or the advance of the rebel army, Billy decided he could handle the situation by himself. He would not call Sergeant Grimes. The sergeant was a surly drunk and Billy wanted nothing more than to drive his bayonet right up Grimes's big fat ass.
Billy shifted his rifle. It was a little awkward since it was so large and Billy so small, but he was glad he did. The rider might be wearing civilian clothes, but he carried himself like an officer and the clothes were damned expensive-looking. Billy particularly envied the waterproof rain gear that must have kept him fairly dry. The rider was clean-shaven, looked muscular, and had piercing eyes that seemed to look right through Billy, who automatically drew himself to attention. It was impossible to gauge the man's height, but based on the length of the stirrups, Billy surmised that he was at least a little taller than the average man.
Nor was the rider unarmed as Billy had first thought. There was a knife in one boot and a cane resting across the saddle that was thick enough to carry a blade within it. Billy thought there was probably a pistol under the rain cape. Hell, why not Billy concluded. A person alone on the road needed all the protection he could get. If this man wasn't a high-ranking officer, he sure might be one soon. Billy was convinced the stranger wasn't one of those fat and puffy congressmen who all looked like they'd rather die than be out in weather like this.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Billy said.
Nathan Hunter looked at the bedraggled private and smiled. “Afternoon yourself, Private. How'd you get the honor of guarding this forsaken place all by yourself?”
Billy grinned back. “Short straw, sir.” He didn't add that asshole Grimes didn't like him.
Nathan flipped him a small coin that Billy managed to catch without dropping his rifle. “Buy yourself something warm to drink, and next time stay out of trouble.”
“Thank you: sir.”
Nathan had been impressed by the way the boy had shifted the rifle and caught the coin. Most people would have dropped one or the other. In the early days of the war, it would have been the rifle. “You know how to use that thing?”
“Yes, sir. Used it fine at Bull Run. There're a couple of rebs that won't fight again.”
Nathan was impressed. “You're a good shot?”
Billy pulled himself up proudly. He still wasn't that much taller than the rifle. “Sir, if I can see it I can shoot it.”
Nathan didn't laugh at the bravado. It was a time when young boys were becoming men through the simple act of firing a bullet through another man's brains. The young soldier had lost his innocence in a battle that didn't have to occur, and would never be a boy again. Nathan shivered, but not from the cold. He wished the boy well and rode on into Washington, DC.
Behind him, the flap to the tent opened and a large man in a flannel undershirt and wearing military pants peered out. He had no boots and his socks were filthy.
“What the hell was that about,” yelled Sergeant Grimes.
“Just one harmless rider,” Billy yelled back.
“You sure he wasn't a rebel spy?”
Billy stifled a laugh. Grimes saw rebels everywhere. If it weren't so rainy, he'd see his shadow and be afraid of it. Grimes grumbled something and went back to his card game.
Nathan Hunter's first visit to Washington had been as a small boy. He had visited his uncle, who had served one term as a congressman from Indiana. Nathan recalled the city as being little more than a raw small town with more than a hint of the frontier about it. That had been more than two decades ago, and Nathan had been there since then and seen the city expand and grow but little.
Nathan's uncle had managed to get him into the Military Academy at West Point just before Nathan's father, another Indiana lawyer and politician, had died in a wagon accident. Nathan's mother had died trying to give birth to what would have been a brother for Nathan.
The last time Nathan had been to his nation's capital, it had been with his wife, Amy, at his side. Dear Amy, he thought sadly, How incomplete his life had been since the moment she had died. He shook his head. So much death had touched his family, and now so much was touching the entire country.
As he rode, he digested the immense changes that had occurred since the beginning of the war with the Confederacy. The sleepy frontier town of Washington was still raw: but no longer sleepy.
Despite the bad weather, the streets were clogged with people and animals. There was a newness about the nation's capital that astonished first-time visitors, in particular those from more elegant European cities. The unpaved roads generated clouds of dust in the dry weather and oceans of mud in the wet. There were many streets where modern buildings faced farmland, and the handful of stone-and-marble government buildings, such as the Treasury and the Patent Office, always seemed to be in the wrong spot. Construction was racing on, but still the dome of the Capitol was incomplete and protected by wood, and the Washington Monument little more than a stone stub that inspired many crude phallic jokes. The old City Canal cut across the Mall between the unfinished Capitol and the President's House, and ran near the building that was Mr. Smithson's death bequest to the country. The canal was fetid and stank with the rot of small animals. As he passed it, Nathan saw several dead cats floating in it and wondered how they'd gotten there.
The President's House was commonly called the White House and Smithson's was called the Smithsonian Institute. Temporary barracks and office buildings had been thrown up almost everywhere, and with little apparent planning to house the large garrison that guarded the city. The effect was to increase the sense of rawness of the place. Washington City was very much a work in process.
The streets were clogged with civilians. Many walked, while others rode carriages and wagons, rushing God only knew where. Alongside them, formations of soldiers marched to wherever their duty called. If there was a plan, it looked like no one knew it. At one point, a small herd of cattle pushed its way through the crowds, driven by laughing drovers who seemed to enjoy the disruption they were causing. In a little while the unknowing cattle would be beef filling soldier's bellies. They would join the growing herd at a place called the White Lot at the southern end of the White House grounds.
Less than a year before, about fifty thousand people had lived in the city, and now it had doubled and was continuing to grow. God only knew where they were all going to sleep, and he began to hope that he truly had his own place to rest.
The streets were so congested that he congratulated himself on having arrived on horseback, rather than in a carriage. He might have been drier in a carriage, but that would have been the only advantage. Many carriages were stuck in traffic or were wallowing up to their axles in stinking brown goo, while his horse easily picked its way through the mess. Of course, sometimes Nathan drew glares as he guided the horse across some private property, or through pedestrians, but he didn't let it bother him.
Finally, he drew up to his destination, a large house on a low hill in the prestigious Georgetown area, overlooking the Potomac River. Nathan was pleased to see that there was a stable behind the house, and wondered if that was where he would be sleeping. At least it would be dry, he thought.