Bridgeford squinted into the distance. “It’s wagons, looks like. And saddle horses alongside.” He pushed Hawks’s rifle barrel away from its aim. “Put that down. They’re our people. I see a gray greatcoat in that first wagon. Don’t suppose it serves a man well in this rain, though. Better than nothing, maybe.”
Hawks shook his head. “I reckon they’re another swarm of fugitives separated from their lines. Poor Danville! They might rather be invaded by the Federals than these starving Rebs-at least they’d bring their own provisions.”
The somber procession tottered closer to the trenches. It was a sorry remnant of an army: walking skeletons shrunken inside their rags, wounded men barely able to stand and others on scarecrows of horses that looked as if they were walking their last mile. One soldier in oilskins clambered out of his trench and waved down the battered wagon. “Where ye from?” he hollered at them. “What news?”
The rain pelted down, making creeks of the wagon tracks in the muddy road. From the wagon the gaunt faces stared back at them, showing no emotion but weariness. Finally the driver of the wagon, a chalk-faced soldier in the tatters of a uniform, looked down at the questioner with an expression that could have been grief-or disgust. “Guess y’all ain’t heard,” he said. “We abandoned the lines near a week ago. Lee surrendered his troops today at Appomattox Courthouse. Somebody said the rest was here, so we come on.”
As the word spread from man to man, soldiers began to crawl out of the sodden trenches, congregating together on the road and questioning the ragged refugees, who seemed anxious to stagger on toward the town. “What must we do now?” they kept saying.
A newly appointed captain, formerly an officer on the Virginia, herded them back to their posts. “Our orders are to guard this town. The Federals may soon be coming after our president. We protect them until somebody tells us different.” He looked around at the men under his command. “Hawks! Bridgeford! Escort these fugitives into town and see that their news is reported to Admiral-er, General Semmes. Tell him that we await further orders.”
Still dazed from this thunderbolt of news, Gabriel felt himself stagger out of the ditch like a stunned ox. He felt Bridgeford’s hand steadying him as he teetered on the edge of the embankment. “Is the war over, Tom?” he whispered, blinking away the wetness from his eyelashes.
“Not for us,” muttered Bridgeford.
“ I wish I was in the land of cotton.”
– DANIEL D. EMMETT,
“Dixie”
CHAPTER 4
THE FLIGHT TO Danville, Virginia, might have been relatively pleasant if it had started later in the day, and if they hadn’t had to change planes in Pittsburgh. Still, it was too much to ask for a direct flight to such a tiny place, Kimball supposed. The possibility of arriving by turnip truck had crossed his mind. He had read all of The New York Times with more than customary thoroughness and had given up trying to find something worth reading in the in-flight magazine when the pilot made the landing announcement. Mr. Huff, who had slept fitfully for most of the journey, was still stretched out in the adjoining seat, dreaming with an unpleasant expression that suggested that he was playing the villain in his own nightmare. Kimball hated to awaken the sleeping dragon, but it had to be done. With some misgivings he nudged Mr. Huff gently and whispered, “We’re coming into Danville, sir.”
With reptilian alertness Huff opened his eyes and leaned over Kimball to peer out the window. “Call that an airport?” he growled.
Kimball longed to point out that Mr. Huff’s own local airport, that of Westchester, New York, was about the size of a potting shed and contained tin-sheeted wooden baggage carousels that did not revolve, but he refrained from comment, rightly suspecting that the comparison would not be appreciated.
They gathered up their briefcases and made their way down the commuter plane’s metal ladder onto the tarmac. A flight of steps took them inside the terminal to a small glassed waiting area, which was empty except for a blond young man, holding aloft a sign that read: I TOLD YOU SO. Nathan Kimball grinned, remembering Mr. Huff’s insistence on being met with a welcoming sign. “I think that must be the sellers’ attorney, Mr. MacPherson,” he said, nodding toward the sign.
John Huff scowled at the placard. “Well, how was I to know?” he demanded of no one in particular. Then he seemed to make up his mind to be charming, because he thrust out his hand and assumed a brisk smile. “MacPherson! Good of you to meet us. When can we see the house?”
A flurry of introductions later, Bill replied, “We’ve been asked to wait until two o’clock to view the house, so as not to disturb the owners. They’ll be out this afternoon, but I think that I can answer any questions you might have.” He consulted his watch. “It’s just on twelve now. Why don’t I give you a quick tour of the city. It’s a rather historic place, you know. And then we can get some lunch at Ashley’s Buffet.”
“Yes, I’m rather interested in history,” said John Huff. “I’ve heard of Danville.”
“Everybody has, thanks to Johnny Cash,” said Bill. “I can show you where the train wreck was, though of course it’s all built over now. There is a historical marker.”
Huff stared at him. “Did you say train wreck?”
“Yes. The wreck of the old 97. It’s a folk song. Johnny Cash recorded it a good while back. Isn’t that how you heard of Danville?” Bill hummed a few bars of the song. “ ‘It’s a mighty rough road from Lynchburg to Danville, And a line on a three-mile grade.’ That’s us.”
Nathan Kimball fought back giggles as he tried to picture Mr. Huff as a fan of country music while that austere gentleman himself seemed to be choking on unspoken comments. Their native guide, happily oblivious to the visitors’ reactions, prattled on about Dan River textiles and pit-cooked barbecue. “And we do have one local celebrity. Have you ever heard of Wendell Scott?”
For the first time Huff looked interested. “General Winfield Scott of the Mexican War? I didn’t know he-”
“No, sir, not him. Wendell Scott, the stock car racer. Richard Pryor played him in a movie called Greased Lightning. He was from right around here, but I think they shot the film somewhere else. They usually do.”
“We’d very much like to see the city,” said John Huff in tones of strangled politeness.
“Of course, if you’re thinking of moving here, you probably have a lot of practical questions about the area,” said Bill. “What sort of business are you in, sir?”
“I am an investor, but American history is something of an avocation for me. I understand this house we’ll be looking at has some historic significance.”
“Yes sir. It dates back to the 1840s, and as you know, it has been used as the Home for Confederate Women since the turn of the century.”
“May I know to whom it belonged before that time?” asked Mr. Huff. “Was it by any chance a Colonel W. T. Sutherlin?”
“No,” said Bill, looking surprised. “According to the information on the deed, the house was owned by a Mr. Phillips.”
John Huff smiled. “Even better!” he declared, and strode off toward the parking lot, leaving the two attorneys scrambling after him to wonder why he had suddenly seemed so pleased.
A. P. Hill had never looked forward to a date with anything like the eagerness with which she anticipated her twenty-minute interview with Tug Mosier. She felt a shiver of excitement at the prospect of defending someone against the most serious of charges: first-degree homicide.
She would have to keep reminding her mother that Tug Mosier was technically innocent until a jury said otherwise, because the word from southwest Virginia was that the Hill family did not think much of the idea of their little Amy associating with the likes of the defendant. In her excitement over her first major case, Powell had phoned home with the news, only to learn that murder cases did not fall under the heading of a godsend in her parents’ estimation. There was even talk of having Cousin Stinky look into the matter, which Powell Hill definitely did not want, because Stinky knew so many good old boys in legal circles that he could probably get her taken off the case (“in the best interests of the accused”) in a New York minute.