Sion Crossing

by Anthony Price

“Good afternoon,” he said to the white-haired man.

  “Sit down, Mr. Latimer,” said the polite man. “There is a chair to your left.”

  Latimer allowed the white-haired man some more time in which to react, but received only a blank look of unrecognition. Curiously, although the man in no way resembled Senator Cookridge either in features or physique, he was reminded of the Senator without knowing why. Perhaps there was a type of American, beyond a certain age, and well-groomed and expensively-suited, just as there was a class of Englishman—?

  The eyes left Latimer’s face for an instant, shifting to the polite man.

  “No.” The slightest shake of the head. “No.”

  He had not been identified—any more than he could make an identification: Latimer himself agreed with that conclusion.

  “Sit down, Mr Latimer.”

  Latimer moved the chair. There was nowhere for it which would give him a simultaneous view of them: either by accident, or more likely by design, they had achieved the classic interrogation positioning.

  And, more than that, he was already in two minds about them and slightly disorientated, no longer certain as to which of them—was The Man. In fact … in fact (and the fact was very disconcerting), he had never been caught so exactly in the rôle of nut between the nutcrackers: in the last ten years he had always been part of the nutcracker itself—in the last five he himself had been something like The Man!

  But he mustn’t let himself be disconcerted.

  He sat down meekly.

  “What sort of … ‘civil servant’, Mr Latimer?” The polite man arranged his passport and the map neatly on the desk.

  So there was going to be no mercy: it was First Service on the centre court at Wimbledon on the last day.

  Latimer looked deliberately at the white-haired man. “In so far as it’s anyone’s business … I’m an economist, actually.”

  “An economist?” The polite man was still polite. “You have economic business here?”

  Latimer looked at him. “I have no business here. I was looking at the ruins of the old Sion Crossing house, and a man threatened me with a gun. And then another man threatened me—and that’s why I’m here, Mr—?” He cocked his head. “Mr—?”

  “Economists do not read notices, then?” The question wasn’t shrugged off, it was ignored.

  Notices?

  “They do when they see them.” Play for time. “What notices?” But even as he played, the beginnings of a very nasty suspicion started to form in Latimer’s mind. “What notices?”

  The rimless spectacles gave nothing away. “There are notices at all the entrances to Sion land—to all this property—warning unauthorized persons to keep out, Mr Latimer. They are large notices—they are most explicit.”

  The nasty suspicion was becoming as large as the notices, and almost as explicit. “I didn’t see any notices.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  So did Latimer. “I found a path—” Kingston must have known “—and I followed it. I didn’t see a notice.”

  So he was here because Kingston intended him to be here—

  “Yes.” The polite man smoothed out the map in front of him. “But then … you must have passed the church, Mr Latimer.”

  He had carefully been routed on to a path which did not pass the church. He had been set up.

  “Not exactly.” No other interpretation was possible: he had been set up. “I saw the church through the trees. I think I must have taken a short cut, somehow … If I’ve trespassed, then I’m sorry.” He had to get away from the notices. “I only wanted to see the ruins.”

  “Why? There is nothing to see, Mr Latimer.”

  That was better. Latimer smiled from one to the other. “If you’re interested in the American Civil War there’s a lot to see.” He spread the smile on the white-haired man. “I didn’t know it was still going on, though … Those men in the Confederate uniforms—is that something to do with the parade in Smithsville today?”

  The white-haired man did not resemble the Senator in more ways than features and physique, he decided. Where the Senator had exuded bonhomie and confidence, almost like an actor giving his audience what they expected, this man cared nothing for his audience. Rather, he was hostile and he was so full of doubt that he almost looked frightened.

  So he was not The Man!

  “And you are interested in the American Civil War?” The polite man’s disbelief was not quite so polite this time.

  “That’s why I’m here.” Latimer grimaced suddenly. “Or … that’s why I was there—at the ruins—yes!”

  “So?” The not-so-polite man touched the passport. “English economists are interested in the American Civil War?”

  “I don’t know about economists … but you obviously haven’t read Henderson’s book on Stonewall Jackson—” But he could do better than that! “—or Sir Winston Churchill’s History of the English-Speaking Peoples—?” The bastard might not know Colonel G. F. R. Henderson from a stone in Stonewall Jackson’s wall, but he could hardly shrug off Winston Spencer Churchill, by God!

  “Ssso?” Behind that hiss the politeness was wafer-thin now. “Sir Winston Churchill was interested in Sion Crossing?”

  “No.” Latimer wished he could remember what Winston had written in the American chapters of Volume Four, which he had long ago skipped through more as an act of piety than from either interest or need. “But he wrote about General Sherman in Georgia—” That had to be safe! “—and Sherman’s men burnt Sion Crossing, as I’m sure you must know—”

  But the look on the man’s cold accountant’s face suggested quite the opposite. So he turned to the white-haired man. “He burnt Sion Crossing—” Sherman himself had no more burnt Sion Crossing than King George III had burnt Washington, but the guilt was about the same “—as you know.”

  At least there was something there, in the look the-man-who-wasn’t-The-Man gave to the-man-who-might-be. And if it wasn’t recognition, it at least had a hint of doubt in it.

  “As you know—” If that was the way it was, then he must capitalize on their greater ignorance: he must encourage them to dismiss him as an enthusiastic idiot “—though, of course, the Sion Crossing episode isn’t historically important in itself, I admit …”

  He felt himself suspended midway between their doubts. So, at all costs, he mustn’t lose momentum—he must flannel convincingly—as he had once done in Oxford tutorials—

  “Geographically … geographically, it was on the very edge of Sherman’s line of march, although the house was burnt.” Another more recent memory surfaced. “But … Catton—Bruce Catton … he described the march as a nineteenth century equivalent of a twentieth century bombing offensive—” The memory opened up an even more promising line of bullshit “—and, as an economist, I’m interested in the economic effects of such calculated destruction … the devastation not only of the Atlanta industrial complex, but also of the agricultural heartland of the Confederacy—”

  The opening of the door behind him was half welcome and half unwelcome. He didn’t really know whether Georgia had been the agricultural heartland of the Confederacy. It had grown cotton in Scarlett O’Hara’s time, for the mills of Lancashire in England; but, with the Northern blockade, cotton would have been useless … and … could corn be grown in cotton-fields?

  He felt he was running out of his inadequate stock of knowledge far too quickly for comfort. On the other hand, they both still looked slightly bemused.

  But then Joe appeared on his left, seeming ridiculously out of place in his crumpled Confederate uniform beside the bespectacled man’s neat city suit.

  “Yes?” the man frowned slightly.

  Without a word Joe placed a piece of paper on the desk, beside the passport.

  The bespectacled man studied the paper for a long moment. Latimer waited, expecting to receive the next glance, but was disappointed when the man studiously avoided him in preference for Joe.

  “
Is there any word from Smithsville?”

  It was Joe who looked at Latimer.

  “Is there any word from Smithsville?” The bespectacled man repeated the question sharply.

  Joe shrugged. “We only got a coupla boys there ’fore we got word about him—” he jerked his head at Latimer “—an’ less’n we got the others in there’s no way we can cover the town worth a damn.” His face twisted. “Not that ah’d set any store on any of those useless little bastards out there.”

  A nerve in the bespectacled man’s cheek twitched. “They know strangers when they see them.”

  “Strangers—hell! The whole goddam’ town’s crawlin’ with strangers … f’ the parade.” Joe shook his head. “Mebbe if ah wuz there … an’ mebbe Jack—he knows what t’look for … But ah got him on the bridge, ’cause we need a good man there—” He looked at Latimer suddenly. “Ain’t he strangers enough for you, for chrissake?”

  The bespectacled man himself looked at Latimer at last, and his lack of expression was not reassuring. “You have all the approach roads covered?”

  “Damn right, ah have!” Joe accepted the question. “But ah wouldn’t count on boys t’do man’s work, if that’s what you want—huh?” He gave Latimer another look, coldly appraising, and then came back to his master. “He’s the one, then?”

  The bespectacled man stopped looking at Latimer. “We will bring the departure plan forward, as a precaution.”

  “To when?”

  “To … immediately, shall we say?” The man watched Joe, and so did Latimer.

  Nothing changed in Joe’s face except his eyes, which went as blank as if a light had been turned off behind them. “That’ll be mebbe an hour—” Joe looked at his watch “—if that’s the way it is—?”

  The bespectacled man seemed satisfied. “Yes.”

  Joe looked at Latimer. “And him?”

  “We have matters to discuss … Mr Latimer and I.”

  Latimer didn’t like the sound of that. And, from the way the white-haired man had stirred and sat up during the exchange, and now from the look of apprehension on his face, neither did he. In fact … although it must be a trick of light, or maybe it was a reflection of his own fear … but in fact the man seemed to have aged shockingly in the last minute. The lines on his face seemed deeper, and there was a hint of silver stubble on his cheeks; his well-cut suit hung on him as though it was too big—or as though he had crumpled inside it under the pressure of a world which had suddenly become a size too small for him.

  “My friend—” The bespectacled man also seemed to have caught the change in his colleague “—of course, you will have things to do? But we have an hour … and you are not unprepared.”

  The elderly man levered himself out of the chair and stood up slowly.

  The bespectacled man glanced at Joe. “What are you waiting for?” he snapped. “You know what to do.”

  “Sure.” Joe looked at Latimer. “And him?”

  “I told you. I will ring when I want you.” The man—The Man—waited for Joe to withdraw. Then he turned back to the old man. “Do not despair. He is competent, and we are well-prepared—we are efficient … as you have cause to know.” He projected calm confidence at the old man. “And you know also that we have talked of this moment, my friend … It is not a time of shame and defeat—it is a time of victory, and of honour and recognition to come.”

  The old man’s face was grey. He stared at The Man for a moment, and then at Latimer. He no longer appeared to be frightened, but Latimer saw that he was on the far and darker side of fear, beyond hope, for which there was no word in the dictionary.

  “I have things to do,” the old man said to himself.

  “And we have things to do,” said The Man.

  Latimer waited.

  “So, Mr Latimer …” The Man collected Latimer’s belongings into a neat pile on top of the paper Joe had delivered. “So you are here because … long ago Sion Crossing burned—yes?”

  The trouble with that was that it was true, more or less if not quite, thought Latimer.

  “Yes.”

  And the trouble with that—the trouble even with the exact truth—was that it was not going to be good enough. And that was a far greater trouble. In fact, it was the last and greatest trouble of all here and now. Because, although he didn’t know who this man was, he knew what he was now—he knew the type as well as he knew Joe’s type. So he knew, even more surely than he had known with Joe, that he was fighting for his life.

  And he had one hour in which to fight for it—

  Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,

  And then thou must be damned perpetually—

  Or maybe less than that—

  He shook his head, and tried to smile disarmingly. There was the desk between them, and he was no fighting man anyway. And then there was an armed Confederate on the verandah below, never mind Joe somewhere in the house behind him; and the woods were crawling with other armed men. And he was half a world away from any help.

  “No?” The Man correctly interpreted the smile as surrender.

  “Not exactly.” He had to play the cards in his hands, but he had only one trump. And in this game instinct inclined him to lead with it. “Do you know Senator Cookridge?”

  God! It was a high trump—he could see that from the surprise in The Man’s face. Had he played it too soon?

  “I know … of him—yes?”

  That was something to be built on. “I’ve known him for years. Tom and I are old friends—we share the American Civil War as a hobby, you see.” The lies came to him like old friends repaying long-forgotten debts. “He was in London just recently, and he asked me to do him a favour.” The more he could hint at his own importance, the more The Man might be inhibited. “I first met him when I was over here as the Prime Minister’s economic adviser in ’75 … and then, after that, when I was with the embassy—that was when I got to know his family.” He shrugged, self-deprecating. “I’d never have met the President, but for him … so I owe him a favour or two, even apart from friendship—and apart from how jolly interesting this Sion Crossing business is, you know …” He gestured vaguely, as though to something they shared.

  “What favour?” The Man had recovered a little too quickly for comfort, in spite of all his name-dropping.

  “Well … you know the Sion Crossing story—?”

  “Tell me, Mr. Latimer.”

  Latimer frowned. “But you must know—? Surely—”

  “Tell me, Mr Latimer—if you please.” The steel glinted through a hole in the velvet.

  “Well … there was the gold shipment from Atlanta, in ’64—you really don’t know?” Latimer feigned incredulity.

  The Man’s face became implacably hostile.

  “Very well—all right!” Latimer couldn’t pretend not to have seen that anger, with the seconds ticking away. “There was this shipment of valuables from the Atlanta bank, when Sherman’s army started to encircle the town … But it wasn’t very big—most of it was worthless paper, in fact … And it only got as far as here—at Sion Crossing, anyway.”

  The Man seemed to be holding himself in check. “Continue.”

  “Well …” He had to get Lucy Cookridge’s father’s facts right “… then some of Sherman’s bummers came here, when his army was marching to the sea—”

  “Bummers?”

  “Foragers.” For the first time Latimer really believed that The Man knew less about the Civil War than he did. “Their job was to sweep up all the supplies for the army, and then to burn what they couldn’t take with them.” He searched for an analogy. “Like the Germans retreating through Russia in the last war—‘scorched earth’, I think it’s called … But it’s an old military tactic—the Romans were experts at it … Latin vastare, ‘to lay waste’—”

  “Come to the point, Mr Latimer.”

  “That is the point. A party of Sherman’s men came here to take the food and burn the house.” He blinked at the man.
“You’ve seen the ruins in the woods?”

  A single nod. “So they burnt the house. So?”

  “Ah … well, you see, it wasn’t quite as simple as that. You see … Tom Cookridge has been doing this research—Tom and I, that is.”

  “On Sion Crossing?”

  “No … At least, not to start with. He—we … have been following this Iowan regiment, which fought all the way from Chattanooga to Atlanta, and then from Atlanta to the sea. And these foragers were from that regiment. And … we’ve been collecting original material—letters and diaries, and such like. And stories that have been handed down … And we’ve got this particular letter, which contains the real story of what happened at Sion Crossing.”

  “The real story?” There was a curious expression on The Man’s face. “What story?”

  “About the Sion Crossing treasure. They’d buried it in the garden, for safety. But when the soldiers came … There was only this one woman in the house, and two negro servants—the men were away at the war, the slaves had all run off … But she couldn’t bear for them to burn the house, so she offered them the treasure instead—to show them where it was in exchange for sparing the house.”

  “But they did burn the house, Mr Latimer.” The Man looked at his watch.

  “Yes. But that was because one of the servants had gone to get help—there was a Confederate militia company that had just passed through, and wasn’t far away. And they arrived just as the Iowans had recovered the box. So there was a fight—that was when the house burnt.” Latimer nodded. “It was a running fight. The Iowans were outnumbered, and they had to get back across the river—the creek—where their comrades were. And the box was too heavy, so they broke it open, and shared out the gold coins … Or rather … they just grabbed what they could, and ran like hell.”

  The Man nodded slowly. “And—?”

  “The Confederates killed several of them, with the gold on them … In fact, they probably got the ones who tried to take the most gold.” Latimer shrugged.

  “And that is the real story?” The Man stirred behind the desk.

  “No—that’s the official story,” said Latimer hastily. “That’s the story everyone knows, you see.”