by Martha Hix
“It’ll take more than a Yankee from Dixie to hurt me.”
He smoothed a hand over her cheek, his honest sentiments getting the better of him. “God, you’re wonderful.”
“I’m not God, but thank you for the compliment, anyway.”
He tweaked her nose. “Do you always have an answer for everything?”
“If I did, would I be masquerading as a crone and begging a pigheaded major for mercy?”
He rocked her to him, the feel of her curves doing wild things to his senses. His tongue stroked her ear. “Is that what you’re doing, begging for mercy?”
“Y-yes.”
“I know you’re from Louisiana. And you’re no sanitarian, so save your lies on that score.” One hand cupped her jaw. As if he didn’t know her answer in advance, Connor asked, “What is it you want?”
“My brother.”
I knew it!
It had been the failed escape this afternoon that had pulled Connor from guarding the fractious India. It hadn’t taken a wizard to size up Captain Mathews Marshall, CSA, and his resemblance to another agitator with the same last name. Connor now knew why she was here. To save her brother.
How? By helping him escape? This seemed the best conclusion. Connor slid his thumb across her lips. “What do you want him for?”
“He knows what our father did with the gold.”
Connor slipped his fingers beneath her nape, enjoying the way she felt, and pulled her closer. “Gold?”
“Gold. Papa’s inheritance. Papa is a sea captain, you see. In late ’60, not long after Mama died, he sailed away on a trading voyage to the Orient. The family hasn’t heard from him since. He didn’t figure on the war or that we’d lack cash for the thousand-and-one needs of a farm turned upside down.”
A sea captain owned a farm in the Delta? Connor pictured a small place, needy, and he drew an opinion. The Marshalls were a colorful and complex lot, perhaps not too wise in decision-making. After meeting the second Marshall this afternoon, and after hearing about a third in the family, Connor had no doubt about that deduction.
More than anything, though, he felt for India’s plight. Of all his problems, privation hadn’t been amongst them. But he knew about losing parents. And he empathized with her loss. She, nonetheless, didn’t show too much grief. That was her way.
He certainly wouldn’t press her about it. “How does this all tie in to gold?”
“Papa stashed gold in a bank somewhere. The only people he confided in were my brother and the husband of our eldest sister. You know men, they don’t like to ’worry a little lady’s head’ about finances. But that’s neither here nor there. I’ve got to ask Matt about the money. You see, America’s husband, Kirby, has passed to a greater reward.”
“You don’t appear alarmed about your father’s extended absence.”
“Apparently you don’t know much about the sailing life. It isn’t unusual for a ship sailing in Pacific waters to be gone for years at a time. Anyhow, Papa comes from sailors. His mother hailed from Portuguese sailors. The bloodline harks back to the Arabic lands. Intrepid sailors, those who went to Portugal. Captain Winston Marshall, senior, is more than capable to taking care of himself.”
Being aware of sailors who sailed from the peninsula—they made for good military reading—Connor knew they had created black Dutch out of blond Hollanders, and where the heck else would black preceding other nationalities have sprung from? “All this explains your coloring, barring your eyes.”
“A saving grace in West Feliciana Parish, blue eyes in the family. Else we might be pegged as unfit for society.”
“True,” Connor answered dryly. Aunt Tessa’s beau had caused quite a stir in Memphis.
“Our background is neither here nor there.” India swallowed. “About my brother, I must see him.”
“To pick Mathews Marshall’s brain?”
“Yes.” Hers was a poker face, but it now betrayed her. Loving concern now molded her expression; and what had been a soft body turned rigid in his arms as she asked, “How do you know my brother’s name?”
“Give me some credit, India.” India. He’d called her by her given name. Connor liked it, and the way the weird appellation felt smooth on his tongue. “I didn’t figure you came to Rock Island simply to hand out a few cookies.”
Concern for her sibling evident in her voice, she demanded, “Major O’Brien, how is my brother?”
“Tangled as we are, don’t you think it might be more appropriate to call me Connor?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
He exhaled. “As of this afternoon, your brother was punching out a guard and trying to organize his barracks mates into an escape.”
“That’s Matt. But he’s not dead! Thank heavens. Is he all right? Sick? There’s so much smallpox . . .”
“The only thing ailing Captain Marshall is orneriness. Rabble-rousing must be a family trait.”
“Some things can’t be bred out of a family.” Her shrug disputed the familial pride shining in her face.
Her eyes bore into Connor. “I want to see my brother.”
“You can’t. He’s in detention. In chains. I do not abide trouble-making,” Connor said, trying to get it through her head that she was not dealing with one of her adoring codgers.
“Don’t you dare hurt Matt.”
“What could you do to stop me? You may be a clever conniver, but I’m still acting commander on this post.”
For once she behaved like a malleable female. “Please don’t hurt Matt.”
“Please . . . Nice. I don’t believe I’ve heard that word pass your lips since our first day of acquaintance.”
“If I say it a dozen times, will it make an impression?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong with you that you have no heart?”
It made him uncomfortable, the idea of revealing his tangled edges. “I have a heart. But it doesn’t beat for the misguided, not anymore.”
Should he tell his reasons? Would they shut her up?
An unexplainable urge to confide came over him. He got to his feet, helped her to stand and to a settee, then went to an opposite chair. “As for why I’m posted to Rock Island. . .”
“I’m all ears.”
“It happened at Gettysburg. After the fighting was over. My battalion had captured a squad of Rebs. One was a kid, not more than fifteen. He was injured, pretty badly injured. Hell, India, with no wagons to get the wounded to the field hospitals”—it set Connor’s teeth on edge, Congress not decreeing an ambulance service—“we couldn’t even evacuate our own men, much less the enemy.”
She nodded.
He further disclosed, “The Rebel kid was from Memphis. I knew his family. That feeling of kinship caused me to neglect my own men, to order the boy moved to the doc. My commanding officer shouted for me to rescind my order. I wasn’t a good officer for the Union that day. I disobeyed him.”
“You did?” She tilted her head, incredulous.
“Yes. I bent down to pick Carl Walters up. Carl drew a hidden pistol. The boy wasn’t a sharpshooter, but he did clip the sergeant beside me. My career on the battlefields was over. It was all I could do to keep from being court-martialed.”
Mercy softened her eyes. “I never realized.”
“Why should you have?”
India left the chair, went to pick up the eyeglasses. While straightening the bent wires, she asked, “Your punishment was to spend the rest of the war here?”
“I’m banking on a break.” He wouldn’t mention that a telegram from Stewart Lewis had reached him, giving coded information. It wasn’t a transfer—Dimpled Darling put up too much of a ruckus—but Lewis still worked on one.
“I mean to get sent back to the front.” Grant parlayed with Sherman about a new line of attack Lewis had relayed. Perhaps in Georgia?
Connor wouldn’t get another drop of sympathy from the peace dove, and her infuriating way of twisting everything back to her single-si
ghted viewpoint surfaced. “I should imagine Colonel Lawrence would be impressed were you to get this camp in order.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Roscoe Lawrence hates the Rebels. He’s a tight-fisted administrator to boot. He prides himself on saving Union dollars. And the more prisoners who die, the fewer dollars need be spent to feed them.”
“Roscoe Lawrence ought to be shot.”
“That’s not for you or me to decide.”
She rushed to Connor, kneeling at his feet. “Buck him. Turn him in to the War Department. Your Congress allocated money for prisoner upkeep. Your senators will be forced to deal with Lawrence, especially if someone spreads the word in the press.”
“Don’t you dare,” Connor warned. “Don’t you even begin to entertain that thought.”
“You do it.”
“Not no—hell, no.”
“Then you are more of a coward than the sissies who bolt upon being conscripted into your precious army.”
“So be it.”
Any show of respect fading from her face, she turned away. “I suppose I should thank you for telling your whys and why-fors. I am glad to know what I must deal with.”
“You’re in no position to deal with anything . . . but how to save your pretty neck.”
Studying the floor, she asked, “What are you going to do to me now that you know I’m not with the Sanitary Commission?”
“Do yourself a favor, India. Get the hell out of here before Lawrence returns and finds out you aren’t on the up and up. With his sadistic streak, he’ll do you worse than he’d ever dream of treating the prisoners.”
“I’m not a coward.”
How well I know, Squirt. “You’re forgetting something. The acting commander of this prison knows you for a fraud and an enemy. It’s my duty to see you prosecuted.”
“Will you do that? Will you have my head?”
“Why don’t I give you the choice?” he asked, determined to knock some sense into that head of black hair and arresting eyes. “Which would you rather? I can have you shot, or I can let Washington take care of you. Or I can make certain you’re on the next outbound train.”
“Except for the latter option, do with me as you wish.” She went to the window to stare outward. “Provided you allow Matt his liberty to save our family.”
Connor didn’t cotton to the sound of this, and it had nothing to do with her request. “What’s wrong with you that you would sacrifice your life?”
“I’m of no importance. He is.”
It angered Connor, her response. What had life done to her? What kind of hell had belittled such a vibrant belle, given her such scant will to survive?
He didn’t get his answers that night. India wanted to speak only about Mathews Marshall. Connor gave up, took his leave, and went to bed. He fell asleep agonizing over her, and over what he would do about the Marshall problem in general.
He got no more than a few hours rest, leaving him tired, irritable . . . and unprepared for the havoc that greeted him in morning light.
Seven
Ezekiel Pays, bivouacked in a Rock Island town hallway, proved wonderful at spreading the gospel according to India Marshall. Zeke. A gentleman not too craven to buck authority.
Thanks to the venerable sergeant, a baker’s dozen women and a pair of men—one civilian, one military—now stood in the snow on the island’s wharf and listened to India preach from atop a bale of hay.
“We must do something to stop the mistreatment inside those gates,” she shouted, having given up on Connor O’Brien the past evening. “There are men without shoes, men without shirts, men without blankets. Food is scant. I have never seen human beings so cold, so emaciated. And I have never, ever seen the contagious housed with the healthy.”
There were many startled intakes of breath, despite the previously spread gospel.
India went on. “Men are dying daily. With the guards living within a breath of distance from your loved ones, how long will it be before smallpox spreads to your own homes?”
The women listened, turning agitated. “We can’t let that happen!” one exclaimed. “We are good people—good Americans!” “Disgraceful, the command of this island!” “Shocking.” “We must do something.”
“Then write to Washington, let the politicians know what is happening here, and promise the congressmen that your husbands won’t have their votes if something isn’t done,” India suggested, knowing she’d be long gone by the time anything would come of it. “In the meantime, scour your homes for blankets, clothing, and food. Good, nourishing food. Bring your donations here and Sergeant Pays will distribute them.”
India introduced her gaunt hero. “This is Sergeant Ezekiel Pays of the Fourth Regiment Veteran Reserve Corps. Sergeant Pays fought in the War of 1812.”
He was met with a round of applause, which finally tore his lovelorn eyes from India. His beard waving in the wind like a battle-torn flag, he saluted the crowd.
India indeed had found an ally in the Iowan. A suitor, as well, for Doot Smith had delivered a letter to her at breakfast: a love letter from the old soldier, written in spidery script.
It had touched her. Standing at the back door when she’d stepped outside had been Ezekiel Pays, a bouquet of paper flowers in his grizzled hand. He might be older than Granny Mabel, but India wouldn’t spit in the eye of fortune. Zeke—he insisted on familiarity—would abet her causes.
India continued her speech to the assemblage.
The civilian man, a carrot-topped reporter for the Rock Island Argus, wrote copious notes in a journal. Then, “Hasn’t the War Department ordered rations cut in all prisons?”
“Sir, do you believe the hawks of war play fair?”
“Haven’t you heard of an eye for an eye, miss?” The reporter’s lip curled. “What about our boys? Exchanged prisoners report ill treatment at Southern hands. Why should we spend money on Rebels when our own troops are abused?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but clamped it. Charging toward her, a quartet of foot soldiers hurrying to catch up, the post surgeon to their rear, Connor O’Brien rode toward her on a majestic Arabian stallion, mahogany bay in coat.
The stallion’s black mane sailed like masts in a gale, his svelte, muscular neck holding a proud head and trim, pointed ears that beseeched the onlooker to take note of his splendor. Man and beast were both beauties, hard to miss. Easy to fear. Mostly. That pair not being water and the snakes it might hide, India didn’t fear a horse or this particular man riding one, and wouldn’t cower at the mere sight of noble perfection.
And Connor epitomized perfection, were a woman seeking the military type. He wore hat and attire as rakish as a cavalryman, down to the smart leather gloves that surely weren’t afforded the prisoners inside that daunting fence.
“Hark, ladies and gentlemen. Chivalry is not dead.” She arced her hand. “Behold our knight in Union-blue armor and his faithful steed. Saved, we are.”
The crowd parted.
Connor slid from the saddle, gave the reins to a huffing and puffing groom, then stomped to the hay bale. “You.”
“ ‘O, what can ail thee, knight-at-armor?’ ” she quizzed, quoting Keats.
“You.”
She started to employ Cervantes and his use of a knight of sorrowful countenance, but, his hands fisted at his sides, Connor snarled, “Get down from there. Now!”
Ezekiel Pays dashed up the bale to protect her, a true hero. India hid a grin. She had the major exactly where she wanted him, and wished she’d thought of this gambit earlier.
Meanwhile, the women shouted outrage at the acting commandant. “Just listen to him, bellowing at an old lady.” “Leave her be, Major!” “The youth of today just isn’t what it used to be.”
From those and other reactions, India gave herself a mental back-pat. Her behind and bosom might have forestalled masquerading as a soldier, but what a boon! What youthful recruit could command such fealty?
Connor climbed the bale of
hay in one fluid step; of course, he towered over her. “Ma’am, I was boorish. Forgive me,” he said with patronizing intent and for the crowd’s benefit, his invented contrition as evident to India as the gray skies above. “I fear you caught me unawares.”
“What about a hospital, Major O’Brien?” She batted her lashes in the fashion of Persia.
He stalled.
Her gaze turned to the physician whom Zeke had pointed out earlier. “How do you feel about mixing the hearty with the infirm, Surgeon Hanrahan?”
Vernon Hanrahan squirmed. Squirmed and teetered. The doctor appeared to be in his cups.
The major came to his subordinate’s defense by turning to the group of women. “Surgeon Hanrahan shouldn’t be put on the spot. Please know that funds have been allocated for the construction of a hospital and pest house. I have this morning signed an order giving the quartermaster authority to pay prisoners five cents a day to labor on the structures.”
“A nickel a day?” the reporter questioned, turning out to be the devil’s advocate. “Those are slave wages. We’re at war over the issue of slavery, Major. Will you do as the Simon Legrees of the South?”
This question made the major furious. “No one will be forced into anything,” he said. “They can take it or leave it.”
India spoke. “Major O’Brien, the real issue is those facilities. I thank you for your concession. But do you have the authority to make it?”
He didn’t have to answer for her to know that he’d overstepped his bounds in Roscoe Lawrence’s absence. And she realized something. She had just spat in the eye of fortune.
“We’re all grateful for your generous help, Major,” she said quickly. “We’ll also be grateful if you’ll authorize Sergeant Pays to accept supplies on the prisoners’ behalf.”
Connor O’Brien looked on the verge of replaying Pickett’s Charge, with her as target. He faced the group instead. “Have your supplies here on the morrow.”
The women roared approval.
If he breached his promise, he’d lose face. Yesterday and today India had taken chances, but she always gambled on long shots. Royal flush. You got a royal flush this time.
