“And jealous I am, mind you.” Wesley jabbed the sergeant’s arm, then pointed his own rifle toward the prisoners. “And if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be taking these Yanks off your hands.”
As the sergeant called to his companion and moved away down the street, Wesley jerked the muzzle of his rifle toward Roger and Alden. “Get along now,” he said, his voice as dry as a desert. “Let’s get you two settled in a more proper place.”
Alden turned, and Flanna gasped as she caught sight of a nasty bruise around his eye. The cut in his forehead had opened, and a dark red stream of blood marked the side of his face. Had they beaten him?
Alden looked up then and caught Flanna’s eye. His expression clouded in confusion for a moment, then he seemed to relax. Without a word, he and Roger walked between Wesley and Flanna out onto the street.
They turned down a nearly deserted road and walked for nearly a mile without speaking. Wesley set the pace and led the way with Roger, while Flanna followed with Alden. Her heart squeezed in compassion when she noticed that Alden had begun to drag his feet; his strength ebbed with every step.
Warehouses lined the road, so pedestrian traffic was light. Flanna waited until there was no one around to hear, then hissed at her brother. “Wesley! We’re losing Alden. We’ve got to stop.”
“It’s not safe yet,” Wesley insisted, moving relentlessly through the darkening gloom. “Soon, though. I know a place.”
“I’m all right,” Alden added, in a voice that seemed to come from far away.
Flanna yearned to slip under Alden’s arm and support him, but in the guise of a Confederate soldier she could not. Eventually, though, the warehouses fell away, and they found themselves on a wide dirt road. Flanna slung her rifle over her shoulder and slipped her arm around Alden’s waist, helping him in the gathering darkness. The glow of candles and lamps seeped through the shutters and lace curtains of several homes on the road, reminding Flanna that they had been walking for some time. She sighed in relief when Wesley finally turned toward a small slave cabin that lay at least fifty feet behind a great white house whose windows were blank with darkness.
The little whitewashed cabin gleamed in the light from a full moon. “The owners of the house fled when McClellan landed,” Wesley explained, holding the door open as Flanna led Alden inside. “I don’t dare take you into the big house, but this place should be safe for the night.”
“What about the slaves?” Flanna asked. She eased Alden to the floor, then knelt to untie the ropes that bound his wrists.
“Gone with their owners, probably.” Wesley closed the door behind him, then fumbled in his pocket for a flint. In a moment he had lit a small lamp that sat on the table, the only piece of furniture in the room.
As the lamp flickered and brightened the small space, Wesley untied Roger, then extended his hand. “I’m Wesley O’Connor, Flanna’s brother. I’m pleased to meet you.”
Roger’s mouth split into a smile that lit his eyes like the sun. “I’ve never been so happy to meet a Confederate soldier in all my life,” Roger said, briskly shaking Wesley’s hand. “Thank you, sir, for coming to our rescue.”
“’Tis all Flanna’s doing.” Wesley extended his hand to Alden, too, who shook it with the same warmth. “I couldn’t very well leave my sister under house arrest in a heathen town like Richmond.”
“Heathen?” Intense astonishment marked Roger’s face.
“Full of politicians,” Wesley explained. He glanced around the room for a moment, then turned to Flanna. “There’s a fireplace, but I wouldn’t light it. The smoke might draw attention to you.”
“I know.”
“And you’ll have to move quickly tomorrow. My guess is that these two will be missed tonight, and searchers will be out at first light.”
“Don’t worry.” Distracted by thoughts of her patient, Flanna studied Alden’s battered face, trying to determine the extent of the damage.
Wesley tugged on her arm. “Listen, Flanna, pay attention. You’ll need to particularly watch out for the conscription agents. Since April they’ve been out in force, snatching up every able-bodied man not in uniform. Those who resist are shot—or worse.”
She accepted this new threat, then swallowed hard and managed a feeble answer. “Well be careful.”
Wesley caught her wrist, and she wondered if he could feel the banging of her pulse. “I’d love to stay with you, lass, but I’ll be in a peck o’ trouble if I’m absent after tattoo. And I’d only make your situation worse if I am caught with you.”
“I know. You’ve already done so much.” Moving into her brother’s embrace, Flanna pressed her cheek to his chest as her heart swelled with gratitude and love. She held him tight and breathed in his scent, the mingled flavors of tobacco, leather, and horses. “Thank you, Wesley. May God keep you safe until we meet again.”
“You too.” His voice faded, losing its steely edge. “Where will you go? I’m not quite sure I want to leave you with two Yankees.”
Flanna lifted her head. “We’ll probably try to rejoin our regiment.” She ran her fingertips over his brow and tried to smooth away the deep line of concern on his forehead. “There’s nothing left for me in Charleston, Wes. Not since Papa died.”
“I know.” His eyes were misty and wistful as he looked at her, then he abruptly cut a glance toward Roger. “She has a dress in her knapsack. Make certain that she puts it on in the morning.” His dry smile flattened. “I’m certain you are honorable gentlemen, or Flanna wouldn’t set such a store by you, but I can’t have her catching a stray bullet because some trigger-happy idiot thinks she’s a soldier. So promise me that you won’t set foot outside this cabin tomorrow unless she’s wearing that dress.”
“You have our word upon it, sir,” Roger answered, his eyes grave.
Wesley reached out and held Flanna in a close embrace, patting her back and murmuring soft endearments as he said farewell. A thousand emotions whirled inside her—love, sorrow, joy, despair, hope, fear. After a few moments she pulled away, wiped a tear from her cheek, and gave him the warmest smile she could manage. “You’d best be going, lad.” She clung to his hand for a moment, swinging it in a gentle rhythm. “I always found your hiding places when we were children, and I will find you again when this is all over. Rest assured, Wesley O’Connor—I’ll see you again.”
An answering smile lit his face like the striking of a match, then he released her hand and stepped through the open door into the black night.
Flanna watched the door swing on its leather hinges and heard the soft groan of wood.
“He’s a noble man, your brother.”
She turned at Alden’s voice and gave him a weary smile. “Yes, he is. I never realized it until now.”
“Come.” Alden held out his hand and she accepted it, sinking to the earthen floor between him and Roger.
“I hope you’ll understand that I’m too tired to talk.” Roger’s voice scraped terribly, as though he were laboring to produce it. “And since we’ve a long day tomorrow, I suppose we should all try to sleep.”
“Good idea,” Flanna answered, helping Alden push himself away from the wall so he could lie down. She looked toward Roger after Alden was settled, but he had already lain down with his back toward her. Flanna stretched out, too, grateful that at least their flight had taken place in June, for without a fire this cabin would have been unbearably cold in winter.
Silence filled the small shelter as the lantern glowed, and somehow, despite her fear and the circumstances, Flanna withdrew into a dreamless sleep.
Alden woke to a sharp tug on his sleeve. He opened his swollen eyelids, then shuddered as the memory of the previous day came flooding back. After that mock trial, the guards had taken him and Roger to a holding cell, where a burly man in a plain white shirt and breeches decided that since Alden was the higher-ranking officer, he deserved the more thorough bearing. The interrogation began—queries about Union troop strength and strategy, to which Alden had n
o answers—then the man’s fist smashed into Alden’s face and ribs until he passed out.
Finally they left him and Roger alone, only to rouse them near sunset. The burly man had swiped a towel over Alden’s bloody face and tossed a blanket across his bruised shoulders, then pointed toward two guards who waited in the hallway. Alden had thought they’d awaken today in the bowels of the notorious Libby Prison, but here they were, safe and free…and all because of the woman who lay curled on the ground beside him, her cheek stained with mud from the dirt floor.
Blue-veiled dawn had begun to creep into the room. Though the lamp had gone out, Alden could see Roger’s gray form crouching at his feet.
“I figured we ought to talk before we go any further,” Roger said. Something like a smile twitched into existence and out again amid the shadows of his dark beard.
“Good idea.” With a great effort, Alden sat up and brushed the dirt from his shoulders. At some point in the night, Flanna had covered him with the blanket; now he draped it over her.
Roger cleared his throat. “Do you know where the army is?”
Alden pressed his hand to his forehead and tried to remember the layout of the land. He had been unconscious when Flanna brought him to Richmond, so he had no idea of the distance or the topography of the surrounding area.
“You know the area better than I do.” He squinted across the room. “You walked in, right?”
Roger snorted softly. “Strolled right into the middle of a Rebel camp.”
Alden rolled his eyes in bewildered disbelief. “Why on earth, Roger, would you do such a thing?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Why did Othello kill Desdemona?” Roger looked toward the door, then glanced at Flanna’s sleeping form. “Madness, I suppose. Jealousy. Frustration. I knew, you see, that Flanna wanted to leave, because I read the farewell letter she wrote you. And when I couldn’t find you—well, I was just crazy enough to act without thinking.”
“She only wanted to go home.” Alden bent his knees, stifling a groan as his body rebelled at the movement. “I don’t know what was in that letter, but I can guarantee that you misinterpreted it. You are the one who adores her; you want to marry her.” He lowered his gaze into Roger’s eyes. “I would never take her from you.”
“She doesn’t want me!” Roger threw up his hand, then raked it through his hair. “Can’t you get that through your thick skull? She loves you, Alden.”
“She doesn’t.”
“She does!”
“Perhaps she doesn’t know what she wants.”
A single shriek interrupted their argument, and Alden turned to see Flanna awake and propped on her elbows. Her eyes blazed like emeralds in a face as pale as paper.
“Who are you to say what I want or don’t want?” A faint tremor lined her voice. “You, Alden Haynes, are the one who told me to speak up for myself!”
Alden opened his mouth to answer, but the defiant look in her eye stopped him.
“I will speak for myself,” she went on, pushing herself up from the floor. “And neither you, nor Roger, nor the Confederate army will dare to speak for me.”
“Flanna, perhaps this can wait.” Always the diplomat, Roger spoke in a smooth and charming voice. “The sun will rise soon, and we need to decide upon a plan.”
“Our plan can wait.” She glared first at Alden, then at Roger. “I don’t know why I bother with you two. If I didn’t love you both, I’d send both of you on your merry way.”
Roger blinked in surprise. “You love us both?”
“Yes.” She crossed her legs and rested her arms upon them, then lowered her head into her hands. “I love you both, in very different ways.” She looked at Roger. “You, I love as a friend, almost in the same way I love Wesley. You are a dear man, you are talented, and I will always be grateful to you for squiring me around Boston and helping me feel at home. But I fear you want the woman I once was, not the woman I have become. So you and I, Roger, must remain friends. I cannot be the sort of wife you want.”
“Flanna, you can! You are!”
“No. I am a doctor, and I will not stop practicing medicine.” She smiled, but with a distracted, inward look, as though she was mentally cataloguing her thoughts. “Roger, I’ve had a lot of time to think in the past few days, and going back to the South has been good for me. I saw slavery again, but in the past week I’ve looked at it from a different perspective.” Her eyes shimmered in the dim light. “Losing Charity has been good for me too. I learned that children grow up, and when they do, its time to let them be independent.”
“Flanna,”—impatience lined Roger’s voice—“we can talk about slavery later.”
“No, we can’t.” She tilted her head at him. “Because there’s little difference in the way I treated Charity and the way you want to treat me. She wasn’t a slave, but I guided her actions and her thoughts—at least, I wanted to. And if I were to become your wife, you would want to guide my actions and my thoughts—motivated by love, perhaps, but still you’d see me as little more than a child. And I’m not a child, Roger. I’m a doctor.”
Her eyes brimmed with tenderness and passion as she caught Alden’s gaze. “I will never be able to excuse slavery again. Mature human beings—be they black or white, male or female—have the right to make their own decisions and control their own destinies.” She reached out to Roger, but her hand fell short of touching him. “Charity had the right to live her own life, and so do I.”
She swiveled her gaze and looked at Alden with something very fragile in her eyes. “You, sir,” she said, her voice shaking, “taught me to believe in the gifts God gave me. You told me to speak up for my ideals, for the truths I knew were right. You have created in me a will of iron, and I will not break. I cannot help but love you for that, though I know you cannot reciprocate my feelings. So I will wish you well, and pray that God will richly bless your future.”
A glaze seemed to come down over her swimming eyes, and Alden struggled against his own impulse to reach out and hold her. She loved him with the same sort of affection a young girl might give an inspiring uncle or a mentor. If her feelings ran deeper, she would have given him some sign, but Alden could see no invitation in her eyes, only resignation and loss.
Very well then. He had almost begun to believe that God could demonstrate his mercy, but this was another call to exercise duty and honor.
Alden glanced away, unable to look at Flanna without revealing his own emotions. He loved her desperately, he wanted to continue to explore and understand her, but his brother stood between them. Roger still loved her; even now his countenance glowed with the intensity of his feelings.
Tell her, he urged Roger silently, meeting his brother’s eye. Tell her that you’ve changed, that you want her to continue her work. Tell her you used to think women were created to bear children and look attractive upon a man’s arm, but you’ve since learned that they are God’s crowning creation.
But Flanna wasn’t looking at Roger. Her gaze remained fixed to Alden’s face, as if she expected a reply.
Alden took a deep breath, looked her straight in the eye, and gave her the truth he thought she needed to hear. “I didn’t create your will of iron. Or your strength, or your beauty, or your intelligence. Such things are gifts of God, Flanna. I only encouraged you not to hide them under a bushel.”
The gold in her green eyes flickered with pain. “I think you have ruined me for marriage,” she whispered. “I know few men who can tolerate a woman like me.”
Alden flinched, knowing that she spoke the truth. He had unconsciously encouraged her to break free of her shell because he loved the emerging woman within, but few men, including Roger, would appreciate the fiery angel she had become.
Yet Roger held first claim on her affections.
The cackling voice of a solitary rooster broke the silence. “Morning comes,” Roger said, standing. “We have to go.” His eyes met Flanna’s, and his tone softened slightly. “You need to change, dear. You promised
your brother.”
“We’ll wait outside.” Alden gathered his strength and pushed himself off the floor, then stepped out into the first rays of morning. Roger followed, and the two of them stood silently outside the cabin, neither man willing to voice his thoughts as sunrise painted the colors of a new day.
Thirty
Why didn’t I just stay in Boston?
Roger considered the question as he waited. His law practice had been thriving, and the war had surely brought a flood of cases relating to wills, inheritances, and business liability. He should have remained at home to hold Mother’s hand and comfort her, rather than going off to play at soldiering.
For that was all he had done. When it came time for Roger to face the elephant, he had proved worthless. At Ball’s Bluff he had turned and run like a scalded dog; at Fair Oaks he had hidden himself behind a tree. Worst of all, Alden knew he was a coward…and excused him.
Better that Flanna should have Alden, for the two of them were made of the same stern stuff. Like some sort of determined Joan of Arc, Flanna had wandered right onto the field of battle, risking death and capture to find the man she loved. And Alden gloried in battle, risking his life for the cause of God and country, somehow able to find meaning in the sacrifice and suffering.
Yes, they belonged together, no matter how stubbornly each of them denied the truth. Roger had whited too many sepulchers to be easily deceived, and he knew these two better than they knew themselves. They loved each other.
But Alden would never admit his feelings for Flanna while Roger stood in the way. And Roger, having once proclaimed his feelings for her, could not very well deny them. And, heaven help him, he did adore her.
The white house was just beginning to shine in the first tangerine tints of the rising sun when Flanna stepped out of the cabin, dressed in the green plaid dress Alden had commissioned in Washington. Roger felt a moment of annoyance, then swallowed his irritation when he noticed that rusty bloodstains marked the hem.
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