Gods and Generals - Jeff Shaara [62]
At last, there was the Sacramento River, the wide, calm waters that fed San Francisco Bay. Here, the rider knew, there would be time to rest, to play a bit, the wild and restless city, where the prospectors drank beside the rough men of the sea. But there was no play until the sacks were delivered, and the rider pushed his horse just a little harder as the town of Benicia, the walls of the old fort, appeared over the low hills. He dropped the sacks into the hands of a waiting officer, and both men saw relief in the eyes of the other, the rider because his duties were over, and the officer because they had some news.
Now, letters and papers went south, to Los Angeles, held by the leather pouches of the army, carried by soldiers this time, not the free and rugged civilians who brought the news across the great expanse of prairie and mountain and desert. Now they rode in numbers, protection from bandits who did not know what the pouches carried but knew there could be value, there could always be value. The soldiers were well armed, rode only during the day, and arrived at Los Angeles more rested, with horses that could take them back home.
Lewis Armistead saw them first, a cloud in the distance rising above the narrow road from the north. He was on his horse, had just left the Hancock home, stuffed with a truly marvelous dinner, and was now riding back toward the depot, the camp of his men.
The soldiers rode up fast, saw his uniform and slowed. He saw the faces, men who had ridden all day, hard dust on their burnt faces, the horses sagging, soaked in the lather of the hard ride.
The soldiers pulled up beside him, saluted, and he saw one officer, a captain, an unusually high rank for this duty.
“Major . . . Captain Billings, sir. Company D, Sixth Infantry. Oh . . . Major Armistead, sir.”
“That’s right, Captain. You’re a long way from home.”
“Major, these are handpicked men, a security detail. My orders came from General Johnston himself. We are to deliver these pouches to Captain Hancock, and in your presence, sir, if that is possible. The general was quite insistent in his instructions, sir.”
Armistead felt a twinge, deep in his gut, a small icy hole. “Gentlemen, I have just come . . . well, follow me. Captain Hancock’s house is just . . . there, up this road.”
He led the men up the narrow strip of hard dirt, halted his horse in front of the small house with stucco walls and low, flat windows. The men dismounted together, stood ready, looking out in all directions, away from the house, standing guard. Against what? Armistead wondered.
He led the captain to Hancock’s door, pulled back a rickety screen and knocked.
It was Mira who greeted them, smiled at Armistead and started to say something funny, a joke, to tease him about his appetite. Then she saw the captain, the brown leather bags, saw past them to the horses, soldiers with guns, and stepped back, pulling the door open wide. She nodded for the two officers to enter, then went to find her husband.
Armistead led the captain inside and waited with him. From the rear of the house, the room where his children had been put in bed, Hancock came out in civilian clothes, smiling at the words of his son. Armistead looked at his friend, but did not smile, said, “Captain, this man has ridden from up north, has some information.”
“Captain Billings, sir. Company D, Sixth Infantry. I have orders from General Johnston to give this to you personally, and in the presence of Major Armistead.”
Hancock took the bags, looked at Armistead, the smile gone. “Thank you, Captain. Is this . . . all?”
“Yes, sir. This concludes my mission. If you will excuse me, I will escort my men to a convenient campsite, and we will return to Benicia in the morning.”
“Captain,” Armistead said,