by Karen White
He left the steps of the porch and began to lead me across the front lawn. We had barely reached the drive before I heard the shout behind me.
“Laura!”
Matt spun around, ripping a gun out of his belt and pointing it at Stuart. “Stop where you are or I will kill you.”
Stuart made a move to come toward me. I took a step backward. “No, Stuart, don’t. He means what he says. Just let me go. I have to do this.”
“Do what? Where are you going?”
I put up my hand to stop him from moving forward. “I’m leaving with Matt. I can’t tell you why, but this is something I have to do.”
He started walking toward us again, and Matt cocked the gun. Stuart stopped. “What do you mean? You cannot go with him—you are my wife!” He raked his hands through his hair and threw his arms out in a gesture of impotence.
Matt stepped closer, and a veil of fear fell on me. “It is not what you think. Let me go now, and nobody will get hurt.” My eyes burned, and I said the only thing I knew that might ease his hurt. “I love you, Stuart. I wouldn’t leave you if I didn’t have to.”
“You love me? Then how can you go with him?”
He walked toward me, his eyes growing darker until they appeared ebony in the obscure predawn light. “Goddamnit, Laura. I will not let you leave.”
I ran to him to halt his progress. “Stop!” I screamed, suddenly aware of the Colt Navy he had kept hidden behind his leg. If he shot Matt, I would never see Sarah again. “Stop!” I screamed again, pushing his arm up and away from its target. But my voice was drowned by the loud report of a gun. I jerked around toward Matt, his smoking gun lowered at his side and a sneer on his face.
As if in slow motion, I turned back to Stuart. I saw more than pain flash through his eyes. I saw betrayal. Incredulous eyes stared at the blood quickly spreading on his shirt right below the collarbone. His knees buckled and I reached to catch him, but succeeded only in breaking his fall as he crumpled to the dewy grass.
“Stuart—no!” I knelt and touched shaking fingers to his neck, feeling his pulse skitter under my fingertips.
“Leave him.”
The cold barrel of a gun pressed into the back of my neck. I ignored it, leaning forward to push on the wound and stop the bleeding that had saturated his shirt and now dripped into the grass. Blood oozed between my fingers, mixing with my tears. “Don’t die, Stuart—please don’t die. I do love you—I do. God, Stuart, don’t you die.” His eyes flickered, then closed again.
The pressure from the gun became more insistent. “Leave him, or I will kill you, too. And if you die, there is no more reason to keep Sarah alive.”
“But I can’t . . . leave him here. I’ve got to get Charles.”
As if he heard his name being summoned, Charles appeared at the front door. I stood quickly, my hand firmly on Matt’s arm. “Don’t shoot—I will go with you willingly now.”
Charles ran to Stuart, his eyes full of questions as he stared at my bloody hands. “What happened?”
I shook my head. “Save him, Charles. Please don’t let him die.”
Before the doctor could respond, Matt pulled on my arm, and we ran together down the dirt drive and out to a buggy waiting on the other side of the gate.
The wheels of the buggy crunched over the dirt road, the pounding of the horse’s hooves matching the throbbing in my heart. I stared at the dried blood on my hands, my tears washing white streaks through the rivers of red. “What have I done?”
I didn’t look up when I heard the brittle laughter from my companion. “You just saved Sarah’s life.” Matt moved his hand to my lap and squeezed my leg. “Do not worry about not having a husband no more. I am available, and I am kinda partial to widows.”
I gagged, moving my head to the side of the buggy just in time. I looked back, like the biblical Lot’s wife, and half wanted to be turned into a pillar of salt. I saw nothing but the tall oak trees that lined the front drive, their branches sweeping toward the earth, the dew-laden leaves weeping. And on an uppermost branch, a crow rested, its black feathers an ominous blob against the cerulean sky. It cawed loudly, then descended in one fell swoop, still cawing, until it disappeared from sight.
* * *
The buggy rumbled over the rocky road, jostling my bones. I clenched my teeth to prevent them from shattering every time we tumbled in and out of a rut. Bright dogwood blooms heralded spring all around us, the scent of new life heavy in the air. I would have reveled in the beauty of the day except for the image penetrating my thoughts: the look of betrayal in dark blue eyes, and the spreading stain of blood on a white shirt.
Midmorning, we approached a mangy-looking pair of mules pulling a wagon. The gaunt man in front of the rickety vehicle stared at us without comment, his eyes as empty as his right sleeve and as sad as the pants leg pinned up at the hip. The woman next to him barely lifted her head to notice us, her skin hanging in loose folds, her dress baggy on her emaciated frame. A baby’s weak cries came from the back of the wagon, and I turned around as we passed them to see seven children of varying ages, as dirty and hungry-looking as their parents, thrown in the back like sacks of flour. A little girl about Sarah’s age sat against the side of the wagon, clutching a bundle of rags. A squawking began and a small hand thrashed out of the bundle. The girl placed the armload over her shoulder and looked at me with deep brown eyes, her wan little face showing no emotion.
Matt stopped the buggy and looked at me. He pointed to the departing wagon, the dry red dirt swirling in the air between us. “She reminds me of your little girl.” He shot a stream of tobacco juice out of the side of the buggy; not all of it made it over the edge. He swiped a grimy sleeve across his mouth, then used the same sleeve to wipe the sweat dripping from his forehead. Brown streaks of tobacco juice marked his skin, and I turned away, unable to look.
“When do I get to see Sarah? I need to know if she’s all right and to let Julia know. She’s worried. We both are.”
He shrugged. “I dunno. But she is safe just as long as you follow orders.” Air pushed through his nostrils in an assumed attempt at a snicker. “She is real safe—heck, they are keepin’ her in an old abandoned church, if that makes you feel any better. It is a nice place, not far from where I was born, as a matter of fact. But I am just bringing you to Miz Broderick. She will let you know when you can see your daughter.” Leering, he added, “We will have a bit of time in between to get to know each other better.”
I swallowed thickly. “Where are we going?”
“To the train depot in Atlanta. And from there we are to take the Western and Atlantic railroad to Dalton to see our fine boys in gray, and to a Mrs. Simpson’s boardinghouse. Not sure how Mrs. Broderick plans on getting you to Chattanooga from there, but I am sure she has got it all worked out.” He looked down at my hands. “First we got to find you a stream to wash that blood off your hands. People might start asking questions.”
I didn’t answer, but rested my head on the back of the seat and closed my eyes. But the bruised memory of Stuart kept coming back to me, and my eyes shot open again, my heart filled with dread. I pressed my fist to my heart, his name on my lips as I prayed that Charles had reached him in time. Failing to save Sarah was not an option. I had already lost too much, and Stuart was beyond my help. I approached my task with a single-mindedness, allowing no other thoughts to cloud my objective.
We reached Atlanta around noon, and Matt had to struggle to steer the buggy through the pandemonium of the city. People bustled throughout the streets on foot and in every kind of conveyance. The dirt roads had been reduced to muddy ruts, but the hurried pedestrians and wagon drivers carried on as if they were asphalt. They all shared a singular look of panic.
Matt stopped the buggy at the side of the street in front of the train depot. Lines of red dust caked the creases and folds in my dress. I had no mirror, but I knew my fac
e looked equally as dirty.
We each grabbed a carpetbag and went in search of the ticket window inside. I startled at the bundle of gold coins Matt pulled from his jacket. He winked at me. “There’s plenty more where this came from.” I remembered what Pamela had told me about her followers, about how they would do anything for money.
I sat on a bench to wait, and Matt walked down the platform as far away as possible. The hands on the station clock seemed to move in slow motion, each minute seeming more like ten, and an hour like a whole day. The platform grew more and more crowded during the three-hour wait, the din of people’s voices rising as the sounds of a distant train came from down the track.
Someone tugged on my arm. “Come on now. Time to get on the train.”
I followed Matt, who was now affecting an exaggerated limp, presumably for an excuse to explain the fact that he wore no uniform. I paused to read a broadside on a pillar:
NOTICE!! All able-bodied men between the ages of 20 and 50 are earnestly called upon to join the Southern Army. Rally to the call of your countrymen in the field. One united effort, and those Northern hirelings will soon be driven from our sunny South.
I hurried to catch up, brushing by two soldiers reeking of cheap whiskey, and moved to the steps of the train, where a soldier stood, examining traveling papers. He looked at Matt, who nodded; then he looked in the other direction as I mounted the steps and boarded the train. I began to understand the reason for carrying so many gold coins.
As I settled on the seat next to Matt, he stared straight ahead, not acknowledging me.
In a low voice, he said, “Do not sit next to me. Nobody needs to know we are traveling together.” He then turned toward the window and gazed out in silence. I stood and grabbed my carpetbag and looked for another seat. The press of bodies in the car was enough to tell me that finding another seat would be almost impossible. As if hearing my thoughts, a man across the aisle stood and pushed his way through the milieu. Before anybody could spot the vacant seat, I plopped myself in it.
A woman with a little boy and girl sat next to me. An attractive woman with dark eyes and black hair, she didn’t look much older than me, but lines of worry and exhaustion streaked her face. It was all she could do to keep the little girl from squeezing past me and toddling down the aisle of the car while holding on to the screeching infant in her arms. Finally, I turned and offered to hold the baby boy. With no hesitation and a look of deep gratitude, she handed him to me.
I looked down into enormous blue eyes and my heart jumped. He looked so much like Stuart’s child, a child I knew I could never have. His sobbing subsided as he studied my face and stuck a chubby finger in my nose. I laughed and he laughed back, forging a tender trust.
The mother excused herself and left her seat to retrieve her daughter from the other end of the car. After settling back down, she said, “Thank you so much. You seem to have the mother’s touch.”
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 you
r 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.
