colonel produced a handkerchief and used it, explaining, 'I spied the buggy. Fortunately, none of my men did.'
Charles put the glass down. Shook his head. 'I don't understand. Why —?'
'I had to pursue her, but nothing said I had to catch her. I didn't like making war on women, and I still don't.'
With an owlish blink, Charles replied, 'Damn shame some of your boys didn't feel the same way. Sherman and his stinking bummers. The damage done to South Carolina went beyond all bounds of —'
Abruptly, he stopped. A new flintiness showed in Prevo's eyes.
He hadn't touched his whiskey. Charles drew a hand across his mouth.
'I apologize. What you told that clerk applies to me, too. The war's over. Sometimes I forget.'
Prevo glanced at his mutilated right hand, resting beside his glass. 'So do I, Charles. We all paid. We'll all remember for years.'
At ten past five, on the street outside the hotel, they parted with a firm handshake, friends.
At the Baltimore & Ohio terminal on New Jersey Avenue, amid a great crowd of departing passengers, Brigadier Duncun and Maureen, carrying the baby, boarded the cars. Duncan settled the Irish girl in her seat in second class — he had first-class accommodations — then returned to the platform to find his porter and make certain every piece of luggage was loaded.
The platform clock showed 5:35 p.m.
145
Studying house numbers, Charles moved along the block with a slight unsteadiness left over from Willard's. Should be one of these, he thought, a second before his eye fell on the tin numeral matching that written on the paper. Something choked in his throat a moment, and he began to sober quickly.
The house had a dark, abandoned appearance. Every drapery closed. No lights showing in the spring dusk. Panicky, he bounded up the steps to the door, knocking hard.
'Hello? Anyone in there?'
More pounding, attracting the unfriendly notice of a couple rocking on their porch across the street. Behind the house, he heard sounds. Wheels and traces, a horse. He ran to the end of the porch just as a buggy passed, driven by a stout middle-aged woman with a portmanteau on the seat beside her.
'Ma'am? May I speak to you?' A glance had told him the buggy had come from the shed in back of the house.
She turned her head, eyes widening at the sight of the bearded, threatening figure leaning over the porch rail. Mrs. Caldwell's instinctive reaction was fright. She whipped up the horse.
'Wait! I have to ask you something —'
She turned into the street. Charles vaulted over the rail, landed in the side drive with a jolt, raced in pursuit of the buggy, which was gathering speed. The man and woman rose from their rockers, their expressions showing fear of the deranged-looking man chasing the vehicle.
Panting, Charles pumped his arms until he drew abreast of the buggy. 'Please stop. It's urgent that I locate —'
'Get away from me!' Mrs. Caldwell flailed at him with the buggy whip, stung his cheek. Charles's instinct for defense took over. He shot his hand across to clamp and drag on her wrist.
'
Struggling with him, she was forced to rein the buggy to a halt. 'The law,' she cried. 'Someone call the law.'
'Damn it, woman, listen to me,' Charles said, breathing hard. 'I need to find General Duncan.'
Releasing her, he stepped back. The whip in her right hand shook, but she acted less alarmed. 'I didn't mean to scare you — I apologize for grabbing you that way. But it's extremely important that I locate the brigadier. That's his house back there, isn't it?'
Guardedly: 'It was.'
'Was?'
'The general has left for a new military post.'
Charles's stomach knotted. 'When?'
'He is at the B & O station at this moment, departing at six. Now, sir, I insist on knowing who you are and the reason for this alleged urgency.'
'Six,' Charles repeated. 'It must be almost that now —'
'Your name, sir, or I shall drive on immediately.'
'Charles Main.'
She acted as if he'd hit her. 'Late of the Confederate Army?' He nodded, thinking. 'Then you are the one —'
'Move over,' he said suddenly, climbing up and practically shoving her to the far side of the seat. 'Better hold the rail. I'm going to catch that train.
He slapped the reins over the horse. Mrs. Caldwell screeched, clutching both her hat and the rail as the buggy shot forward like a bolt released from a crossbow.
Mrs. Caldwell was convinced she would die on the breakneck ride to the depot. The bearded man, the one Brigadier Duncan had sought so diligently, then given up for lost or dead, rammed the buggy through impossibly narrow spaces in evening traffic, causing pedestrians to scatter, hackney drivers to swear, dray horses to rear up and whinny. Rounding the corner into New Jersey, driver and passenger saw a water wagon looming ahead. Charles hauled on the reins, braked, veered, and stood the buggy on its left wheels for a moment. Mrs. Caldwell uttered a scream as the right ones came crashing down, the buggy missing the back end of the water wagon by inches.
Axles howling, wheel hubs smoking, the buggy jerked to a stop directly in front of the station, whose outdoor clock showed a minute after six. Leaping out, Charles flung the reins at the stunned woman, remembering to shout, 'Thank you.' He plunged into the depot like a distance runner.
''Train for Baltimore?' he yelled at a uniformed man rolling an iron gate shut.
'Just left,' the man said, pointing down the platform toward an observation car receding behind billows of steam. Charles turned sideways to squeeze through the opening. 'Here, you can't —
Almost at once, he had three station officials in pursuit. They were older and in poor condition; he was lean and desperate. Still, his lungs quickly began to hurt from the exertion. And he was losing the race. The train was already out of the roofed shed.
He saw the end of the passenger platform ahead. It was too late to brake his momentum. He jumped for the tracks.
He landed crookedly. His wounded leg twisted, hurling him onto the ties. 'Get that man!' one of the pursuers howled.
Hurt and panting, Charles pushed up, gained his feet, and ran again, harder than he had ever run in his life. His beard flew over his shoulder. He thought of Sport. Sport could do it. Sport would have the stamina —
That drove him to greater effort. He came within a hand's length of the rear car. Reached for the handrail of the steps. Missed his stride again and almost fell — The rail receded. Concentrating on a memory of Gus's face, he put everything into a last long step.
He caught hold of the step rail with both hands. The train dragged him, his boots bouncing and bumping. He kicked upward with both legs, knowing that if he didn't, his legs might be pulped under the train.
One boot slipped on the metal step. He nearly fell off. His wrists and forearms felt fiery, tortured by the strain. But he pulled —
Weak and gasping, he staggered upright on the rear platform, only to see the car door open and a broad-
