Pemberley Ranch - Jack Caldwell [4]
“I’m a doctor and these are my patients. I won’t leave!” The soldiers ignored him and began searching the belongings of the patients. “What are you doing?”
“Searching for contraband,” said what appeared to be the leader of the band as he fingered a pocketknife. He put the object into his pocket and picked up a book.
One of his fellows laughed. “‘Contraband!’ Oh, good one, Pyke!”
“Since when is a man’s Bible contraband?” Bingley cried. He moved to confront the man Pyke. “Put that back!”
Suddenly, Pyke drew a knife. “Resistin’ the surrender, mister?” he growled dangerously. “You don’t want ta be doin’ that—no, sir.”
During the whole time, Darcy had lain quietly, pretending to be asleep, all the while slowly reaching beneath his cot. As Pyke gestured at Bingley with his knife to the enjoyment of his fellows, Darcy whipped out his saber and threw himself at their tormenters. Sweeping backhanded, he struck one on the head with the pommel, stunning the man, before grasping Pyke with his left arm about his throat, threatening him with the sword and using him as a shield against the last soldier.
Darcy stared at the third man with a cold, deadly look. “You will not threaten the doctor while I live.”
“Don’t do anything!” cried Pyke. “He’ll kill me!”
“No, he won’t,” came a voice from the entrance to the ward. “Drop that sword, Johnny Reb.” Darcy turned, forcing Pyke between him and the new threat. He saw a dark-haired man in a blue captain’s uniform holding a pistol on him from his left hand.
“I am Captain Darcy,” Darcy said in his best command voice. “Are you in charge of this rabble?”
“I am, Captain. My name is Whitehead. Release that man, or I shall be forced to shoot you.”
“Your men, Captain, were stealing from sick and wounded men and were about to attack a doctor. This is strictly against the rules of war. Tell them to stand down.”
Captain Whitehead’s mouth twisted into an amused grin under his pencil-thin moustache. “Were they? Very well.” Whitehead barked out an order and the two Yankee soldiers backed away, holstering their pistols. “Good enough, Captain?”
Darcy hesitated a moment, then slowly withdrew his strong left arm from Pyke’s throat. Pushing the frightened corporal away, Darcy reversed his sword and offered the pommel to Whitehead. “My sword, sir. I am yours to command.”
Whitehead holstered his pistol and took the weapon. “A fine saber, Captain. Where on earth did you get it?”
“It’s Spanish, sir—fine Toledo steel. It’s been in my family for four generations.”
“Hmm.” Whitehead inspected the workmanship with ill-disguised envy. “You would hate to lose it, I am sure. Well, have no fears, Captain.” Whitehead glanced at his men standing behind Darcy and nodded. Bingley saw the men move to his friend and cried a warning, but it was too late. A moment later, Darcy lay sprawled insensible on the cave floor. Bingley tried to help, but a soldier seized him, pinning his arms behind his back.
Whitehead walked over to the prone man and laughed. “Yes, Captain, I would not concern yourself over your sword. You’ll have no need for it where you’re going.” He turned to his remaining men. “Take this man prisoner—hold!” As the two lifted Darcy from the ground, Whitehead rifled through the unconscious man’s pockets.
“You bastard!” cried Bingley as he struggled in the soldier’s grip. “You’re no better than a common thief!”
“Now, now, Doctor,” Whitehead remarked as he withdrew Darcy’s pocket watch, “there’s nothing common about me at all. Besides,” he turned to Bingley, “you’re a Rebel and a traitor. You’re fortunate that I don’t shoot you out of hand where you stand.”
“You won’t get away with this,” Bingley vowed.
“Oh, I think I will. You are nothing. I’d keep quiet if you value your parole.”
Bingley threw a rather strong curse at Whitehead, and the officer lost all good humor.
“Very well, Doctor. Take him away, boys.”
July 5
Major General Ulysses S. Grant, commander of the victorious Army of the Tennessee, sighed as he enjoyed an after-supper cigar and whiskey in his