On to Richmond (73 page)

             
Robert didn’t wait for him to say more.  He nodded abruptly, then turned and strode down the steps.  With one last look at Thomas, he vaulted onto his horse and cantered down the road.

             
Thomas watched him go.  Then his head bent in wordless prayer.  All he could do now was wait.  Wait and pray.

Robert raced back to
quarters, scattering people before him as he flew through the streets.  He took no heed and never thought of slowing down.  His frustration had eaten at him for days.  Now there was at least some action he could take.  He would allow nothing to get in his way.

             
“Hobbs!” he called as he swung off his horse. 

             
The youth was at his side in moments.  He had obviously been watching for him.  “Yes, Lieutenant!”

             
Robert looked him over closely.  He was satisfied with what he saw.  He had meant it when he said he would trust his life with Hobbs.  “I want you to leave as soon as possible for Cromwell Plantation.  I have a letter for Miss Cromwell.  I’m sure it will convince her of the wisdom to return.”   He smiled slightly.  “Of course, this lady isn’t like many others.”  Then his voice turned grim.  “If she refuses to return with you, I want you to stay with her.”

             
“Yes, sir.”

             
Robert looked at him and then spoke directly.  “Your odds of protecting her against raiding Yankee soldiers are not very good.”

             
Hobbs grinned.  “I reckon we’ve done a lot of things where the odds didn’t look too good, Lieutenant.  Don’t you worry.  I’ll take care of your lady.”

             
Robert opened his mouth to protest that Carrie wasn’t his lady then shut it.  Any fool could tell he was in love with her.  Why deny it?  “Thank you, Hobbs,” he said instead.  “Good luck.”

             
Hobbs nodded, saluted, and then spun on his heel.  “I’ll have her back here as soon as I can,” he threw over his shoulder.  He ran into one of the tents, and moments later reappeared with a pack and his pistol strapped to his waist. 

             
Robert handed him the reins of the horse he had chosen for him, then stood and watched until Hobbs had ridden out of view.  He had done all he could do. 

Hobbs came to a crossroads and stopped to carefully examine the map.  He had already memorized it.  Every detail was etched in his mind.  But he didn’t intend to take any chances.  He knew how important this was to the
lieutenant.  Careful perusal of the map confirmed what he knew, so he turned right and headed farther east.  Rain had turned the roads to mud, but if he stayed to the side, and out of the ruts created by the wagons, he could press on at a fairly good pace. 

             
He knew from the map that he would be on this particular road for several miles.  He relaxed as the beauty of the day finally began to penetrate his senses.  Already, plum trees and dogwoods carpeted the woods with their pink and white blossoms.  Hobbs took a deep breath and tried to pretend he was back home in his mountains.  If he tried really hard, maybe he could make himself believe he was just heading out on a hunting trip with his dog, Bridger.  Gosh, how he missed that dog! 

             
A sharp crack in the woods jerked him back to the present.  A penetrating look convinced him it had been nothing except the deer peering out at him, but he firmly pushed all fantasies and daydreams out of his mind.  The next crack might reveal Union soldiers advancing on Richmond.  Completely alert, he continued to push forward. 

             
He would not much longer have the luxury of a road to ride on.  The lieutenant had told him it would be too dangerous to stay out in the open.  He would be open game for anyone who might try to stop him.  Suddenly he noticed the white board house Robert had described to him.  It stood in abandoned misery.  Hobbs was sure the inhabitants had already fled to Richmond.  He stared at the house as he rode by.  What would it see in the next few weeks?  Would it still be standing to tell its story? 

             
Riding more slowly now, Hobbs peered into the woods along the trail.  He knew what he was looking for.  Would he be able to find it?  The massive oak Robert had described and penciled in on the map appeared in his view, but Hobbs still didn’t see the trail Robert had told him about.  He vaulted off his horse and carefully led the animal into the woods at a slight break.  He was almost fifty feet in before he saw it, a faint glimmer of a trail that could only be followed in daylight unless somebody knew it well. 

             
Hobbs frowned.  A quick glance at the sun told him he probably would not be able to make it all the way to the plantation before it would be too dark for him to continue.  He debated pressing on anyway but knew that was a foolish idea.  If he got lost in these strange woods, he would be of no help to anyone.  He had maybe forty more minutes of light.  He would get as far as possible, and then he would stop and make camp.  Tomorrow morning he would get up with the sun and keep going.  It wouldn’t take him long from there.  He estimated he was maybe an hour or so from the plantation. 

             
He pushed all daydreams from his mind as he rode, constantly scanning the woods for movement that would indicate an enemy presence.  He had to pick his way around fallen trees and logs, once almost losing the trail in the process.  It was becoming more difficult to see in the waning light.  Finally Hobbs spotted a small clearing and swung down from his horse.  This was where he would spend the night.  Just to the right was a small stream to water his horse. 

             
He took care of his gelding, then reached into his saddle bag and pulled out some beef and hardtack.  It would have to do.  He grabbed his blanket and wished he could build a fire, but it would be a dead giveaway of his position.   As the sun dropped, the air cooled tremendously, reminding him it was still early spring.  He found a log to huddle up against then pulled the blanket around him.  He was perfectly comfortable.  He had spent days in the mountains of Virginia with less than this. 

             
Hobbs had barely dozed off when crashing in the woods jolted him awake.  His horse snorted and pulled back against his lead in protest.  Hobbs was instantly on his feet, crouching and waiting for whatever was headed his way.   He pulled his pistol from his waist and cocked it.  He wouldn’t go down without a fight.  His heart pounded as he waited for whatever was headed his way. 

             
Moments later a figure on horseback emerged from the darkness, obviously startled to see Hobbs.  The man swore and fumbled for his pistol.

             
“Touch that pistol, and I’ll put a hole through you, mister,” Hobbs said in a sinister voice, glad for the darkness that would cover his youth.  For now he was content to just let the other man know he was armed. 

             
The man swore again and raised his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot,” he said sharply. 

             
Hobbs examined the intruder.  He was not dressed in Union blues.  He also didn’t have the appearance of being a Union spy.  His accent clearly marked him as a Southerner, and he must be someone from around here if he was confident enough to follow this trail in the dark.  “Who are you?” Hobbs demanded. 

             
“My name is Adams,” the man replied.  Slowly he lowered his hands.  “You a Confederate soldier?”

             
“What’s it to you?”

             
Adams didn’t answer that question.  Instead, he asked another one.  “You from around here?  Ain’t many people who know this trail.”

             
“Seeing as how you’re at the end of my pistol, it seems I should be the one asking questions,” Hobbs responded coolly.  “What are you doing skulking through these woods at night?”

             
“Good God, man.  You call that skulking?  I was making enough noise to raise the dead.  I sure didn’t figure anyone to be on this trail.  Everybody in this area already hightailed it for Richmond.  Everybody with any sense, anyway.  I’m on my way there myself.”

             
When he paused for a breath, Hobbs had to admit the man was probably telling the truth.  He certainly hadn’t been skulking.  Anybody would have heard him coming. 

             
Adams continued.  “I just got back from a trip and found out my wife and kids already took off.  I’m trying to find them.” 

             
He had interjected a caring tone in his voice that made Hobbs immediately suspicious.  It was easy to tell it was fake, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.  Not every man had a good relationship with his wife.  Hobbs was pretty sure Adams was just trying to reach safety while he still could.  He could have even left his wife behind. 

             
“What kind of trip?”  Hobbs still held the pistol on him.

             
“A slave hunting trip,” Adams responded immediately.  “Just got back from risking my life in Philadelphia.  Got home and found out I’m probably about to lose my home, too,” he said bitterly.

             
Hobbs frowned.  He had no use for slavery, and he certainly had no use for slave hunters, but it at least explained why a healthy male of conscription age was not wearing Confederate gray.  Slave hunters were exempt from army service.               

             
Slowly, Hobbs lowered his pistol.  “They’ll stop you at the city gates for a pass,” he said abruptly.

             
Adams let out a fast sigh of relief and swung from his saddle.  Now that he knew Hobbs was not going to shoot him, he seemed to have a lot of questions.  “How close is the Union army?”

             
“They’ve taken Williamsburg.  They’ll probably stay there a couple of days.  Then they’ll march on,” Hobbs said grimly.  “You’ve picked a good time to get out of here.”

             
Adams nodded.  Then his mind seemed to turn to more immediate problems.  “How do I get a pass into the city...?  What’s your name, anyway?”

             
Hobbs shrugged.  He saw no reason not to tell him.  “Hobbs. And I don’t know too much about passes.  You’ll have to ask at the blocks.”  He paused.  “I’m sure they’re going to allow refugees from the country in, but it might help if you know someone of influence.”

             
Adams thought for a moment.  “Do you know a fellow by the name of Thomas Cromwell?”

             
Hobbs hesitated.  Something in him was telling him to be very cautious.  This did not seem like the kind of man to be close to Thomas Cromwell.  “Why?” he asked carefully. 

             
“I know Cromwell.  Used to be the overseer on his plantation.  I’m sure he would vouch for me.”

             
Hobbs looked at the man carefully in the little light that was left.  He didn’t like the narrow lines of his face or the beady look in his eyes.  Alarms were going off inside, and he knew to listen when that happened.  Slave hunters had a reputation of being mean and brutal.  He couldn’t see Thomas Cromwell having a man like that as an overseer.  “You say you used to be his overseer?  What happened?”