Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  I smiled back. “So it would seem. He’s really adorable.”

  “Thank you.” She tucked the little girl behind one arm and stuck out her hand in my direction. I touched her gloved hand, warm and soft in mine. “I am Mrs. Elizabeth Crandall. This is my daughter, Alice, and my son, Reid.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Laura Tru . . . I mean, Elliott.”

  She nodded at the wedding ring on my finger. “Are you going to see your husband?”

  I shook my head. “No. What about you?”

  “I hope to. Isaac does not know I am coming—he actually told me not to, that it would be too dangerous. But I know General Johnston will never let the Yankees into Georgia. I hope to reach my husband so we can celebrate a Confederate victory together.” Her voice sounded forced, and her sad eyes belied her true feelings.

  I smiled broadly. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you and his children.”

  Reid arched his head back and I lost my grip. He slipped from my arms just as Elizabeth let go of Alice and extended her arms to catch him. Seeing her chance, Alice headed straight across the aisle and landed smack in the middle of Matt’s lap. Matt’s head rolled forward groggily as he awoke from his nap, and his eyes focused on the plump toddler in his lap. Alice looked solidly up into his face, let out a loud hiccup, and began to scream. I grabbed her before she could catch a second breath and began patting her solidly on the back.

  We rode for several hours, chatting about children and recovering her wayward toddler from other parts of the car. In midsentence, I was jerked from my seat by the sudden screeching of the train’s brakes. People left their seats and raced to the windows, straining their necks to see what the problem was. Leaning my head out the window, I spied three soldiers in gray galloping alongside the train. We continued to slow until we came to a complete stop. Two of the men dismounted and entered the engine.

  A man standing next to me, wearing a long duster coat and a straw hat, stuck his head out the window and shouted to the remaining soldier on horseback. “Why have we stopped?”

  The soldier rode up to our window and called back, “We have orders to search for a passenger. She is believed to be a Yankee spy and might be on this train.”

  “Who is she? And under whose orders?”

  “Her name is Laura Elliott, and she is traveling with a man. Major Stuart Elliott has issued the orders to search the train.”

  My breath came in deep little gasps. Stuart was alive, and I couldn’t shout with joy at the news. Instead I felt my blood flood my skin, warming it. I glanced at Elizabeth and found her staring at me, her eyes wide. Then I looked over to where Matt had been sitting. He was gone.

  The man in the long jacket continued. “Will this take long? I am headed for Dalton to take a photograph of General Johnston. I do not want to be late.”

  “Sorry, suh. We are under orders. We will have to detain this train until we can examine every passenger on it.”

  “Damn,” the man said, as he slid his hat off and wiped his forehead. “Begging your pardon,” he said, indicating Elizabeth and me.

  The engineer appeared at the door to our car, followed by the two soldiers. I caught Elizabeth’s eye, and she gave me an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Everybody off the train. We are under orders to have every person on this train interrogated. Everybody off the train.”

  Children screamed and people grumbled as we all piled off. Great puffs of smoke climbed over the people, and the hot smell of steam and metal filled the air. I spotted Matt standing near the passengers from the first-class compartment. He didn’t acknowledge me.

  The soldiers started with the people from the first car. Knowing it would be a long wait, we sat down a distance away from the other passengers, Alice on my lap. Elizabeth sat next to me, cradling a sleeping Reid. “Do not worry,” she whispered to me. “I will take care of it.”

  “Why would you risk yourself for me? How do you know I’m not a Yankee spy?”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then. I did not think so. But you are obviously in trouble and need help. You have been an enormous help to me. Let me repay the favor.”

  “Thank you.” I didn’t know what she had planned, but I knew it couldn’t be any worse than the reason I was on the train in the first place.

  The man with the long duster coat and wire-rimmed spectacles approached us. “Pardon me,” he said, doffing his hat. I stared at his face, with the dark, pointy beard and unkempt brown hair. He looked vaguely familiar. “Would you two ladies like to sit for a photograph?”

  The last thing in the world I wanted at that moment was to call attention to myself. But Elizabeth yanked me to my feet and said, “Yes. We would be delighted.”

  “Forgive my manners, ladies. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Mathew Brady, photographer. And if you will allow me and my assistants to fetch and set up my equipment, I would like to capture your images for the sake of history.”

  I had to forcibly keep my mouth from hanging open. Now I knew why his face seemed familiar. My father had several books of his famous Civil War photographs, one with his picture emblazoned on the front cover.

  Elizabeth introduced us, giving me the last name of Crandall, and I stepped forward to see the man up close. “I’m familiar with your work. I’d be honored.”

  While I kept a stealthy eye on Matt for any signal, and the soldiers worked their way down the line of passengers, Mr. Brady’s two assistants hauled a large trunk out onto the grass and began setting up the equipment. The famous photographer made a big fuss about ensuring a sleeping compartment inside the train was set aside for a darkroom. One assistant was sent racing back to the train with large sheets of dark cloth.

  They set a large wooden box camera atop a tripod and began adjusting it while I kept my eyes on the approaching soldiers and Matt.

  A soldier began talking with Matt, and he pulled out a white envelope and handed it to the soldier for inspection. He scanned it briefly, showed it to his companion, and then handed it back before stepping toward the next person in line.

  “Ready, ladies, when you are.” I turned back to the famous photographer, who had taken off his hat. The children began to fuss, so Elizabeth left my side to see about them. I absently fingered the chain around my neck, feeling the rises and falls of each link, the metal warm in the afternoon sunshine. My hand fell to the key at the bottom of the chain, and I grabbed it to tuck it into my dress. As the metal object slid smoothly down the skin on my neck and chest, I froze. The image of a sepia-toned photograph of a woman in nineteenth-century clothing flashed across my memory. The woman, who bore a strange resemblance to me, had been wearing a large key on a chain.

  “Ready? Do not move!” I stood still, not daring to breathe and feeling my body temperature sink. I stared at the hunched shape under the dark cloth and wanted to laugh. The pieces in this unbelievable puzzle were starting to fall into place. My only hope now was to finish the puzzle without losing any of the pieces. I pulled the necklace back out and placed it in the middle of my bodice. An exact replica of the old picture.

  A fly droned past my ear, but I remained still to allow for the long exposure time of the film, and thought wistfully of my iPhone, which took pictures with the press of a button.

  The soldiers had reached our group just as the shutter clicked. Elizabeth came to stand next to me, a squalling child under each arm. “Here, take one,” she said, thrusting Reid at me.

  I grabbed him, the odor of baby spit-up and milk filling the air. I looked up as a soldier approached. “Ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat.

  I looked into somber brown eyes, trying to enlist his sympathy.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I have to ask you a few questions.”

  Reid gurgled and burped in response. Something wet and warm drizzled down my wrist and und
er my sleeve. “I understand. But please make it quick,” I said, holding Reid out in front of me to illustrate my point.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “What is your name?”

  “Laura Crandall,” I lied, without hesitation.

  “Are you traveling alone?”

  I glanced at my small companion. “Not exactly.”

  His weary expression didn’t change. “May I see your traveling papers?”

  “She is with me.” Elizabeth came and stood next to me, a finally still and quiet Alice perched on her hip.

  His gaze took in Elizabeth from head to foot. “And what is your relationship with this woman?”

  She looked him in the eye. “She is my sister-in-law. We’re going up to Dalton to visit my husband, her brother, who is fighting for our glorious cause.”

  She straightened herself to her full height, which was all of about five feet, and stared at him down the length of her nose.

  “May I see your traveling papers?”

  Elizabeth unfurled a piece of paper from Alice’s hand and gave it to the soldier. He glanced at it quickly and looked back at Elizabeth.

  “It does not mention a traveling companion.”

  Elizabeth stared back at the man, unblinking. “No. I am afraid it was all last minute. This dear woman insisted on accompanying me to help me with my precious children. I just do not know what I would have done without her.”

  To prove her point, I knelt down, laid the baby on his back, and began to unwrap his diaper. “Elizabeth, do you have a clean nappy? He really needs to be changed.” I looked up at the soldier, who was busily looking at everything but us. “Any more questions?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am,” he said quickly. “I think I have heard all I need to know. You are both free to reboard.”

  Hastily rewrapping Reid in a fresh diaper, I then scooped him up and followed Elizabeth and Alice back to the train. As I stood on the bottom step, somebody grabbed me from behind. I gasped and turned around. Matt stood there, holding my carpetbag. “We need to go.”

  Elizabeth looked down at me with a sad smile, and I handed Reid to her. “Goodbye, Laura.” She studied my face for a moment. “I hope you find what you are looking for.”

  Our hands touched for a moment before Matt pulled me off the step. Then, with one last look at Elizabeth and her children, I ducked and followed Matt under the train to the other side.

  I brushed off my skirts, not having had the time to pull them up before being made to crawl on all fours under the train. “Why are we leaving?”

  Without answering, Matt pulled on my arm and began running across an empty field toward the cover of a forest approximately one hundred yards away. Turning his head toward me, he spat, “Because your damned husband is at the other end of the train.”

  I yanked my arm from his grasp and stopped. “Stuart’s here?”

  “Damnit, woman. You are sorely trying my patience. Do you want him to find you? You ain’t never going to see your daughter if we do not get away from here real quick-like.”

  The train blocked my view of everything on the other side of the rail cars, effectively blocking their view of us, too.

  Matt grabbed my arm again. “Come on—it is only a matter of time before somebody on the train sees us.”

  With one last look at the train, I lifted my skirts as high as I could and began running to the edge of the woods. Matt quickly overtook me. As I neared the scrubby pines, I stumbled on a root and sprawled on my stomach, the wind knocked out of me.

  The ground rumbled, and I rolled over and stared at the sky in confusion. It wasn’t until Matt towered over me and began dragging me toward the forest that I realized it was hoofbeats. Dizzily, I scrambled to my feet, half dragged by Matt, and looked back toward the train. I recognized Endy first, and then the man sitting astride him, a bright white bandage holding one arm immobile against his side, his body leaning heavily over the horse’s neck.

  Matt shoved me, face forward, toward a tree. I braced my hands against the trunk, tripping around it, and then ran as fast as I could into the dense forest, Matt close behind me. We headed toward a small hill, the pines and overgrowth covering it so completely that it looked like the hump of a great beast. When we reached it, he pushed me down to hide behind a scrub of bushes and then crouched next to me.

  My cheeks stung from the whipping of branches, and small gnats danced around the small trickles of blood, but I dared not move.

  We sat in absolute silence for a long while, listening. Our breathing had resumed a normal pace and my legs had begun to ache, and still no sound from Stuart. Mixed with my joy at finding him alive was my fear that if he found me, I would lose Sarah forever. I closed my eyes and listened, but heard no more than the wind through the leaves.

  From a distance, the sound of the steam engine starting and moving vibrated against the old trunk behind us. The chugging dissipated down unseen tracks, then silence again. Finally Matt shifted and lifted his head. Satisfied that we were alone, he stood.

  A booming sound clouded my ears and Matt seemed to jump, then sprawl backward against the tree behind us. He bounced against the trunk and came to a rest next to me, his hand sliding across my cheek as he fell. I recoiled, seeing the gaping wound in the middle of his chest, white bone visible like a maggot in decaying meat.

  I struggled to my feet, my hands held over my head. “Stuart, it’s me, Laura. Please don’t shoot!”

  “I would not shoot my own wife.”

  Startled, I whipped around, finding him only a few yards away, his hunting rifle now pointed at the ground. I hadn’t heard him approach, and wondered if Zeke had taught him how to move like a Cherokee. Relief and fear flooded me, making my knees shake.

  He took a step forward. “But I would certainly like to wring her neck.”

  I moved backward against a slender sapling, alarmed at the pallor of his skin and the way his eyes darkened as he looked at me.

  He took another step forward and stopped. I watched as his eyes rolled up into his head and his knees buckled as he slid to the ground.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.

  —ECCLESIASTES 1:6

  I dropped to my knees and bent my ear to his face to feel the reassuring warmth of his breath on my cheek. Realizing he had fainted, I unbuttoned his jacket and the top of his shirt, feeling the bulk of bandaging under the thin cotton. Blood had begun to seep through the bandages, making me aware of how serious his wound was.

  “You damned fool,” I said to his closed eyes. “You should have stayed at Phoenix Hall, where Charles could care for you properly.”

  Blue eyes opened briefly. “I am a damned fool—but not for this.” His voice sounded strained, as if it took all his effort just to speak. “It’s not so bad. Bullet passed clean through.” He took a deep breath, his eyelids fluttering. “I am . . . here to take . . . you back with me.”

  I reached under my skirt and began ripping the cotton ruffle around a petticoat. “I can’t go back with you, Stuart.” I had to make him understand, and the only way I could was to tell him the truth. “Sarah’s in great danger. Pamela is holding her hostage unless I help . . .” I could barely say the words. “Unless I help her assassinate General Sherman.”

  He struggled feebly to sit up, but I pressed him down. Gasping heavily, he squeezed words between each breath. “I will not . . . allow you . . . to put yourself . . . in danger.”

  He winced as I struggled to sit him up against the tree. “You don’t have a choice. You can barely breathe, much less chase me through the woods.”

  Narrowed eyes regarded me solemnly. “But my men could.”

  I’d forgotten all about the other soldiers. My hands stilled. “
Don’t. Sarah’s life is at stake. And I’m the only one who can help her.”

  I raised his shirt and wrapped my petticoat ruffle around his chest, tightening the pressure on his wound to staunch the flow of blood, like I’d seen Julia do for Zeke.

  He grabbed my wrist and our gazes locked. “Damnit. Why will you not let me help you?”

  I shook my head, fighting the sting of tears in my eyes. “Because if Pamela finds out I’ve told you or solicited help, she will kill Sarah. I don’t doubt it.”

  He winced as I pulled him forward to reach around him. “Do you have any idea where Sarah might be?”

  With a glance over at Matt’s body, I leaned Stuart gently back against the tree. “Only what Matt told me—that she was being held in an old, abandoned church. I have no idea where—except Matt did say it was near where he was born.”

  His forehead was beaded with sweat. “Matt’s father was a preacher.” He winced, closing his eyes. “It could be that church. In Alpharetta—about a day’s ride from here.”

  I sat back on my heels, my heart heavy. “Will your men find you?”

  Panic crossed his face. “You cannot go alone. I will . . .” He struggled to stand, but collapsed against the tree, his eyes admitting defeat.

  “Will your men find you?” I asked again.

  He paused, then nodded. Between gritted teeth, he said, “Endy will show them.”

  Thunder rumbled overhead, as fat blobs of rain pelted the leaves and branches, dribbling their way down to where we sat. He lifted his good arm, reaching for me, and I leaned toward him. His fingers brushed my cheek, then cupped my jaw, sliding around to the back of my neck. He pulled me to him, then kissed me deeply, and I lost myself in it. The smell of the rain and wet wool brought me back to awareness and I pulled back, worried I might hurt him.

  His eyes were dark with pain and something else, his words low as he spoke. “I am half out of my mind with pain and with anger, yet still I want you. This wanting of you—it is sure to kill me if nothing else does.”