River Magic

by Martha Hix

  “My eyesight is keener than my lady’s, or Phoebe’s.”

  He was no magician. Like Phoebe had said, Eugene was a sponge on a free ride.

  A noise caused India to turn toward the bed.

  “He’s right about my eyesight. But I’m not blind.” Tessa, her ringlets wrapped in rags. She rolled from the bedclothes, rubbed her eyes, and advanced. “Last evening my Genie said you were young, Miss Marshall. I’ve just spent a fitful night, eager to take a second look at you.”

  “I’m not meat hanging in a butcher shop.”

  “Yes, I can see that. You’re quite attractive.” Tessa grinned. “I am so happy. Everything’s turned out beautifully.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, ma’am.” India then addressed Eugene Jinnings. “You’re a fraud. You’re just some old phony who’s been deceiving a naive woman. Phoebe is right. You ought to be arrested for stealing her sister’s good sense.”

  India whirled around, stomped out of the room. She’d been as silly as Tessa, even considering magic and a magician. This was no time for hocus-pocus. Connor must be saved.

  As he’d sacrificed for her, she would sacrifice for him.

  Sixteen

  Where was the sacrificial lamb?

  Rifling through a stack of bills, Roscoe Lawrence fumed. He’d arrived, raring for slaughter, but where the hell was La Dee Dah? Nor was the battle-ax Marshall to be found.

  The click of the library door closing snapped his eyes to it. “Anty.” She looked pale, drawn. “Come and give Uncle a big kiss.” He laid the stack of due-on-receipts down, opening arms. Pursed lips gave a quick kiss, then she backed away. “That the best you can do? I’m horny, Anty. Been weeks since I had any.” He began unbuttoning his britches. “Got a present for you.”

  “That’s all you ever think about. Besides money.”

  “Now that you mention it, you best treat the dressmaker like she’s got the plague. I can’t pay out more than I get in.”

  “I needed clothes. I’ll need more for . . . well, I can’t make a good impression on anyone in last year’s rags.”

  “Get her to sew a few more. Provided you . . .” He sat on a straight-back chair and pointed downward.

  Rolling her eyes, she lifted her skirts and straddled him.

  He reached to spread her butt, then lunged upward. “Eureka! Got it, first try.” Being short in hardware had its advantages. He rutted, panting. It didn’t take long to spend himself. Just as he did, the chair splintered, gave way. Floor and wood ate into his back, his niece falling over him. This was the best part. He loved the feel of it, double satisfaction.

  It tickled Roscoe, breaking up those damned chairs that Opal had fallen heir to. That, and Antoinette, were his sole extravagances. “Whew.” He wiped his brow. “Feel better now.”

  “How nice.” She got up, straightened her clothes.

  He, too, picked himself up, tucked himself in, and kicked the ruined chair aside. “You was dry. Hot, too. What’s wrong?”

  “A touch of something.” She went to a love seat, sat down. “Let’s talk about the hospital. You must keep it.”

  “It’ll continue.” Inspectors would be here to check on progress, make certain Lawrence did as ordered. Damn ’em.

  “I thought I’d get an argument.”

  “Surprise.” He went over to pinch her heated cheek.

  She whispered, “I’m still shocked, Miss Marshall turning out a fraud. But don’t be harsh on her. Or on the major.”

  Knowing he couldn’t tell her no, she shouldn’t ask that of him. “That son-of-a-bitch been in your drawers?”

  “Outside of you, I’m saving myself for the highest bidder’s marriage bed.”

  She would never, ever marry. Flat-out telling her as much wouldn’t do, would make her even more interested in it. “What’s your designs on La Dee Dah? He ain’t got no big money.”

  “His brother does.” She left the love seat, went to the window. “I intend to marry Burke O’Brien. Provided you don’t ruin everything for me. If you punish the major, the O’Brien family will never forget a Lawrence did them wrong.”

  Her uncle could almost taste the dirt from the floor he’d licked, thanks to Pretty Boy. “No O’Brien. Never.”

  The distant honks of a steam whistle broke the silence stretching between niece and uncle, altering her sickly pout.

  She beamed. “Hark! The first steamship of this year has arrived,” she sang, her soprano in perfect pitch. “Is that you, Burke O’Brien, is that you?”

  “Get him outta your mind.”

  Doot Smith opened the door and stuck his freckle-mottled face inside. “Can I do anything for you, Colonel sir?”

  “Get me a jug of cough syrup!”

  Doot fetching elixir/corn liquor, Lawrence felt his gut burning hotter than usual. He forced calm and eyeballed his niece. “Tell me everything you know about India Marshall.”

  Antoinette didn’t have much to allow.

  “She’s a Reb—from where in the South, I ain’t got no idea,” Lawrence disclosed. “She and O’Brien’re fooling around.”

  He barely heard Antoinette whisper, “Heaven help them.”

  She glanced toward Rock Island town. “I’m drained. Think I’ll wash my hair with some of that stuff I ordered from Paris, then nap. Tell Doot to bring my dinner upstairs.”

  “So you can take the buggy to town and see if O’Brien’s landed? Don’t do it. Don’t hurt me like that. I need you, Anty. Don’t make me lock the door on you.”

  She rushed to her uncle, skirts swishing and belling. Planting her lips on his rigid mouth, she whispered, “As you wish. How about I primp for you, hmm? Come to my room tonight.”

  “You know I can’t do it twice a day.” But Lawrence, ever gullible when it came to his niece, loved her indulgence.

  Not a minute after Antoinette took her leave, a young woman, dark as an Injun save for eyes of blue, marched into the library. She stood tall for her height. “I am India Marshall.”

  She was the impostor? Lawrence gaped at her petite form, liking what he saw. He quit wondering why O’Brien had tied in with an old lady, since no more than the sight of her made things tingle that never tingled twice in a day. “I heard you was old.”

  “I’m not.” She exhaled, her young woman’s bosom holding Lawrence’s gawk. “But I did bring medical services to your prison camp. I alone am to blame for it.”

  “Are you?” he asked rhetorically, not about to say she wasn’t in as much hot water as she reckoned.

  “Your prisoners need medical attention. Let it continue.”

  “It will,” Lawrence assured, screaming on the inside.

  Her eyes got big. “You won’t regret it. Th-thank you.”

  “Where you from?” he asked, per the Jon Marc tutorial.

  “Cairo, Illinois.”

  “Does Major O’Brien know your age?”

  Indecision shadowed those fetching eyes. “Yes,” she finally answered. “He knows.”

  Everything added up, fit right into the plan Jon Marc Jones thought up before their train pulled into the Rock Island depot. The rest would take care of itself. Lawrence might not be la-dee-dah, but he knew the base instincts.

  Doot burst in the room. “Here’s your cough syrup, sir.” When he caught sight of the woman, he ground to a halt. “Oops. Pardon me, sir, ma’am. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “You don’t recognize her?” Lawrence asked the ass-licker, who shook his head; she inclined her chin. “She’s India Marshall of Cairo. Southern sympathizer. Union enemy.”

  Doot sneered at her. “May you be struck dead.”

  A black-winged brow lifted. “Gotten too warm for mittens, Doot? It seems a splendid day for cookies, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Don’t you try to shame me. I may have worn your mittens and eaten your cookies, but I also remember a woman what locked me in the butler’s pantry, so’s she could go about shenanigans.”

  “Shenanigans? You found value in he
lping the infirm.”

  “Christian charity.” Doot stepped closer. “No wonder the major was kissing you. You’re a Jezebel.”

  “Enough.” Lawrence stepped between the Marshall woman and the exit. “Arrest her,” he ordered Doot. “Lock her up.”

  Doot rushed to the task; as he forced her wrists behind her, she showed bravery. “Do what you will with me, but know something and know it well. Major O’Brien in no way should be held accountable for my actions. Leave him be.”

  “Major O’Brien?” Lawrence feigned innocence. “Why would I hold that fine officer accountable? The major hisself is going to usher you to Old Capitol Prison in Washington.”

  Bold as a soldier, she sized him up. “What’s the trick?”

  “Trick? Lady, yours is the trickery game.” He pointed at Doot. “Take her to Solitary.”

  Night chill fell in the bleak cell. Even before spending hours in the locked room her brother once occupied, India feared something had gone awry. Lawrence had been too accommodating, not at all what she’d dreaded.

  At least Matt went free. There’s many a slip betwixt the cup and the lip. Granny Mabel’s oft-repeated wisdom caused more worries. Where was Connor? Surely he’d heard about her surrender. How had he reacted? Not well, good sense told her.

  What if Lawrence had lied? What if he did intend to charge Connor with conspiracy? Had Lawrence ordered his arrest?

  That notwithstanding, and in view of his absence, had Connor ran afoul of something or someone while getting Matt aboard the Delta Star? Had the steamship even arrived?

  “You did a rash thing, India Marshall, not making certain your brother got to safety before you opened your big mouth.”

  How? She couldn’t check, not without being arrested.

  Suppertime came and went. No blanket to warm her, she shivered deeply, pacing the cell, over and over and over again, to keep occupied as well as warm. “Please don’t let Connor be in trouble,” she prayed as many times as she negotiated the rough boards. “Please let Matt get home.”

  A key turned in the lock. She started, worrying if Connor had arrived and fearing he hadn’t. He hadn’t. It was Zeke Pays.

  Zeke set a lantern and a bucket on the floor. “Ye best eat. Quick. The train be leaving come midnight.”

  Suddenly, her hunger vanished. “Zeke, I’m sorry for deceiving you. You were always so sweet, so dear.”

  He fixed wary eyes on her. They widened. The edges of his long, spare beard lifted when he couldn’t stop a grin. “I’ll swanee. Ye be a lovely young gal.”

  The low yellow lantern light couldn’t do much to sharpen his vision. She stepped up to him. “Zeke, where is the major?”

  “Waiting at the depot for ye to eat up and load up.” Zeke nudged the pail. “Ye’d best get to it.”

  She wouldn’t think about the journey she’d invited, yet she couldn’t help being relieved at the confirmation of Connor not paying for her crimes. “Um, the prisoner who was in this cell. Do you know what happened to him?”

  “Got pardoned.”

  She could have jumped for joy. Instead, she picked the bucket up by its handle. “Care to join me?”

  Zeke nodded. “I’d like that. A last supper with my purty little gal. With a purty little gal.”

  The food turned out to be a link of sausage, a wedge of yellow cheese, several crackers, and apple turnovers. “Not the usual fare for prisoners,” she said. “Is this your doing?”

  She would have sworn he blushed. “The lady living next door to my hallway be a fine cook. She had some leftovers. Wanted to share it with the sanitary lady.”

  “News has gotten out about my arrest?”

  “I told her. Ole Rose, he be wanting to keep it quiet.” Zeke placed a napkin on the cot to spread the food. “Rosc don’t want no crowd at the station to wave ye away.”

  Why would he seek to keep her arrest and departure quiet?

  Zeke snapped a napkin open. “People gonna be real sorry ye be leaving the area, Miss Indy. Mostly me.”

  “I was told you were through with me.”

  “It hurt bad, finding out my lady ain’t my lady.”

  He sliced the link with a pearl-handled pocket knife, handed over a piece of sausage. They ate without conversation. When the last flake of the apple turnover had been devoured, Zeke spoke. “I be praying you come through the trial okay.”

  “Thank you, Zeke.”

  “You sure be purty.” He cast an admiring old eye. “I un’erstand why the major fell for ye.”

  “I understand you did damage on him.”

  Throwing back his whitened head, Zeke discharged an openmouthed roar of laughter that heaved his shoulders and showed his tonsils. “That be one for the old folks,” he said at the finale.

  “I should imagine the major isn’t over his pain.”

  Zeke went quiet, saying at last, “No, I don’t ’magine he be through suffering. Rosc done put him in a fix, ordering him to take ye to trial. That be like taking a darlin’ to her hang—Well, it ain’t that bad, but he do have a cross to bear.”

  She could hang. Could. She would, nevertheless, fight for exoneration. How? She searched her mind.

  It wasn’t a hanging offense to hail from Louisiana, and her sympathies had been humanitarian rather than rebellious. She’d raised no weapon, had never conspired to subvert Mr. Lincoln’s nation. As the camp commander in Ohio had shown compassion, she must bank on the milk of human kindness flowing from the War Department. All she needed was a few good men.

  Her line of sight settled on a fine one. She said to Zeke, “Major O’Brien will bear my trial with dignity, I should imagine. They don’t teach sentiment at West Point.”

  The Iowan slanted a puzzled look at her. “Don’t ye know nothing ’bout menfolk? The major be a fighter, but he still be a man. Men need women sure as roosters strut the henhouse. The major ain’t no ’ception.”

  She wouldn’t get into that. But, oh, how she liked this man. “Once the war is over, I’d be honored if you visit Pleasant Hill. That’s the Marshall plantation in Louisiana. I’d like to introduce you to my granny.” Zeke might not be a sophisticate, but Granny Mabel would appreciate all his worth. “If I’m alive to do the introducing, that is. If I don’t make it, she’ll welcome you, regardless. Just tell her Indy sent you.”

  “You resemble her?” He screwed up an eye.

  “Some. She’s short and has disagreeable hair. Granny Mabel is fond of saying we have the same temperament.”

  “She be any good at dominoes?”

  “No, but she’s a quick study and an eager opponent.”

  “What part of Luzianny can a body find Pleasant Hill?”

  “St. Francisville.”

  “Would a body need to wait for war’s end to pay a call?”

  “Zeke! You’re a Union soldier. You have your duties.”

  He shook his head. “Told Rosc this afternoon I ain’t having no more of it, I be buying myself outta this army.”

  “Why?”

  “I done seen enough war back in ’12. Only reason I signed up—there be nothing better to do. My granddaughters be doing a fine job of working my horse farm, see. They put me out to the domino table years ago. But I got plenty money, and I ain’t buying into Rosc Lawrence’s poppycock.” Zeke smacked his lips. “Methinks he be up to trickery.”

  Here lately she’d done a lot of assuming, little of which had come to pass. Should Lawrence prove evil . . . If Matt didn’t make it to Natchez and onward to St. Francisville ... In case no merciful men passed judgment on her . . .

  “Zeke, when you get to Pleasant Hill, tell my granny to search the turnips China stored at harvesttime.”

  “Chiny? What that place got to do with neeps?”

  “Please, just deliver the message.” I hope it’s enough.

  “I be happy to accommydate you, Miss Indy.”

  She knew she could count on Zeke.

  He got to his feet, dusted his behind. “Time to leave, Miss Indy. T
hree of the Iowa boys be outside, waiting to put you in manacles, I be sorry to say.”

  She had nothing to say.

  “Took me a fine gal called Pearlie May when I done stood down the Brits in ’12. She be a sharp companion, never let old Zeke down.” He slipped his pocketknife into India’s hand, as well as a roll of money. “A gal oughtn’t to set out without a grubstake. And iffen she slid Pearlie May in her boot, she be smart. She best be wise as an owl in using it, though.”

  The parked train’s smokestack belched as black as his mood. On the depot platform, atop the stallion that had taken him on a fruitless search for Matt Marshall, Connor champed at the bit, waiting for the wagon that would bring India. It was almost pleasing, the idea of hauling her to Old Capitol Prison.

  She hadn’t trusted him.

  She had betrayed his trust.

  She had freed her brother, then sacrificed herself by creating a stir in Lawrence so that Matt Marshall could get away.

  Connor’s fist tightened on Intrepid’s reins. In the wee hours of morning, after the pardon had been recorded, he’d discovered an empty cell in Solitary, along with evidence of escape. Connor had put the cell to rights, but his frame of mind would never be put to rights.

  After all his concessions, after each action that had compromised his commission, India made a statement much stronger than, “You’re the last man I’d take home to Pleasant Hill.”

  She’d made a fool of Connor O’Brien.

  And he’d likely never forget it.

  Footfalls on the lamplit platform battered at Connor’s ears, along with the chatter from travelers ascending the portable steps to the two passenger cars lined in front of a boxcar. Steam curled and hissed from beneath the locomotive. It billowed back along the tracks, mushrooming from beneath the undercarriage. Rain began to slice through the midnight air.

  Great steel wheels turned over once, a clank of couplings resounding. Not a sign of departure, nonetheless. By order of Major Connor O’Brien, the eastbound would await India Marshall.

  His teeth ground together. “Why did she surrender?”