Atlanta

by Sara Orwig

  She looked at Fortune and knew that he had been right all along about Trevor Wenger. She dampened a cloth and wiped Fortune’s brow. In a few moments his eyes opened.

  “Here’s some cold water,” she said, holding the bottle close to his mouth. He drank, water running down his jaw. “Where are we?”

  “Out of Macon now.”

  “Pinkerton’s?”

  “They haven’t seen any sign of them.”

  “Tell Badru to go faster.”

  “Fortune, it won’t do any good if you kill yourself getting there. I can’t take him from them.”

  “Going faster isn’t going to kill me. Badru!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s speed up.”

  She stared at him grimly as his blue eyes shifted back to her. “Fortune, I’m sorry I took Michael to visit him without telling you. I should have talked to you about it.”

  “And I never would have consented.”

  “I didn’t know what kind of man he was. He wasn’t that way with Michael. Marilee grew up with him and she turned out all right.”

  “Yes, she did.” He closed his eyes and she didn’t know whether he was tired or he merely wanted to end the discussion.

  They rode all through the night, and by the next day Fortune was burning with fever.

  “Badru, at the next town you stop this carriage, and I’ll find a doctor.”

  “No, you don’t” came a raspy voice that was little more than a croak from Fortune. “Keep going.”

  “You can’t. You have to stop.”

  His eyes focused on her, and his jaw was thrust out in determination.

  “We don’t stop.”

  “Fortune, if I have to pull a gun—”

  “You couldn’t possibly shoot either one of us, so forget it, Claire. If we keep going, we might catch them. They’ll be stopping at night and maybe during the day. He won’t think I’m after him, and I doubt if he expects you to come after him. He’ll think you’re home burying me.”

  “And I’ll have to if you keep this up,” she said, tears finally brimming over and spilling down her cheeks. She turned her head quickly, wiping at her eyes. “You are so stubborn—”

  She bit off her words and took a deep breath. She couldn’t stop him, and hopefully, before he killed himself, he would lose consciousness and she could get a doctor.

  Fortune was on fire with pain as he saw the tears spill over her cheeks. He knew he was being hard on her, but if she had kept Michael home, this might not have happened. Or the bastard could have been just biding his time all along, and whether Claire and Michael visited him or not wouldn’t have made any difference.

  Fortune bit back a groan as he watched Claire cry, remembering all of Alaric’s lectures. The last weeks had been pure hell. His thoughts shifted to Michael, and he clenched his fist, praying that he could make it to Savannah in time. He looked down at the hand that was bandaged. It was his right hand, the one he used to fire a gun. If he found Trevor Wenger with Michael, he wouldn’t be able to use a gun to stop Wenger or to defend himself.

  A pain shot through his stomach and he moaned. Claire turned to him.

  “Do you want some laudanum? It would make this easier, and you can’t get well when you hurt all the time.”

  “I’m all right.”

  Claire wiped his forehead and fanned him, trying to keep him cool to get the fever down. Her back hurt from sitting in the cramped space. Every jolt of the buggy sent a new shock up her spine.

  By late that evening Fortune was asleep, and Badru looked as if he was on the verge of dozing. “Stop when you find a place to water the horses, Badru, and I’ll drive the carriage.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I think I’m going to have to do that unless these horses can get there without me.”

  “We’ll stop.”

  The next day, Fortune’s fever seemed worse than ever, but he was still alert. “We have to stop in the next town, Badru. Let’s get more food and refill the water bottles,” Claire said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Good thing he has such fine horseflesh. Sorry animals wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace.”

  “I’m not sure we can,” she said, glancing at Fortune.

  For the next day and night, she was exhausted, torn apart worrying about Fortune as well as Michael. If she was exhausted and aching from travel, what was it doing to Fortune?

  She looked at his flushed face. He wouldn’t take laudanum, but he slept most of the time and she was tempted to tell Badru to stop, but every time she started to, she knew Fortune would never forgive her if she didn’t get him to Savannah.

  And when they got there, what could he do? He would be too ill to do anything. She looked at the back of Badru’s head and his broad shoulders.

  “Badru, when we get to Savannah, we have to get him in bed. Did he tell you what he wanted you to do?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m to go down to the dock and look for Mr. Michael.”

  “If you find him, you might risk your life if you try to take him from Mr. Wenger.”

  He turned, his dark eyes focusing on her. “That’s all right. I’m willing to try. Mr. O’Brien gave me money to move my in-laws and my boys to Atlanta. He’s given me back my children. I’d risk my life to get his son for him.”

  “Badru, I don’t know if he’ll last,” she said quietly, tears burning her eyes.

  “He’ll last, Miz O’Brien.”

  Badru turned to glance at her, his features impassive, but the conviction in his voice mad her feel better.

  She was barely aware when the landscape changed, the rolling hills flattening out as they approached Savannah. At the sight of live oaks draped with Spanish moss, she remembered working in Savannah so long ago when Michael had been a tiny baby. It had grown dark outside, and she placed her hand against her belly, sure now that she was carrying Fortune’s child. She stroked Fortune’s burning forehead, trying to stop the nagging voice telling her that he might not survive this journey. He seemed to have lost a bucket of blood, and she’d had to stop and buy more bandages. As soon as they reached Savannah, she would have to replenish her supply again.

  The next morning she was dozing when she realized someone was saying something. She opened her eyes and sat up, her back sore, her legs cramped as she tried to move. Fortune lay with his head against her shoulder, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breathing.

  “Miz O’Brien, we’re here.”

  She rose and saw rooftops ahead. “Thank God! We can get him to bed now.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” She pushed her hair away from her face. It was a tangle and she hadn’t combed it since yesterday. She tried to make herself presentable, knowing they should take Fortune to a hospital first.

  “Badru, when we get into town, I want to find a hospital.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No.” Fortune’s voice was raspy and flat, but she heard him clearly. “Help me sit up.”

  “You have to go to a hospital.”

  “Badru, ride down to River Street. Take Abercorn or Bay Street.”

  “You can’t go to the docks!”

  He looked at her. “I’ve come all this way to get there. We’re going to the docks.”

  “Are you going to stand on the docks for the next few days and watch for them?”

  “You wire Pinkerton’s and see what you can learn. And yes, until I know he’s sailed, I’m standing on the damned dock.”

  She knew any further argument was useless. Through busy streets filled with bright sunshine, then through shady squares that looked inviting and peaceful, they rode until finally they wound down a steep hill to River Street.

  Halyards clinked and men yelled as they unloaded a ship. Vendors hawked their wares while wagons rolled along the street. For a moment she forgot her worries about Fortune as her gaze swept the tall ships moored along the wharves. She searched the crowd for a tall man and a small boy, for Michael’s curly head. Badru stopped the buggy in the shade of a three-sto
ry cotton warehouse built of dark red brick.

  “I’ll start at one end, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “Help me down, Badru.”

  “Fortune, everyone will gape at you and your bandages, and some policeman will cart you away to a hospital.”

  “Get me a shirt, and Badru, you help me put it on. I won’t put my arm in the sleeve.”

  “Then you can’t use a gun,” she said, feeling a mounting fear for his safety. He grimaced as Badru helped him from the carriage. As she had feared, men turned to stare at them.

  “Claire, if you want to be a help, go to a ticket counter and find out which ships are sailing to France, and if Wenger is booked on any. Get a telegram to Pinkerton’s.” He swayed and she thought he was going to faint.

  “Fortune!”

  He placed his good arm against the carriage. “I’m all right.”

  “What are you going to do? Where can I find you?”

  “Right here. I’ll just stand here and look until you get back, and then you can help me walk up and down.”

  She intended to get him back into the carriage and they would drive up and down, but she saw no point in arguing about it now.

  “Mr. O’Brien, do you want your pistol?”

  Fortune shook his head. “I couldn’t hold it or hit anything if I had it. No. Leave the rifle on the seat where I can reach it.”

  He leaned against the carriage, and she hurried away to find a place to purchase tickets and send a telegram.

  She sent the telegram first, standing in a small shop in one of the tall buildings facing the Savannah River. “I expect a telegram in return,” she told the clerk. “I’ll be back shortly to get it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She went two doors away to ask about passenger boats to France and learned there was one to northern France, one to southern France, and one to England, all docked now. The one to northern France would sail in three days. The other two weren’t leaving until the next week.

  Praying Pinkerton’s had Michael or at least knew of his whereabouts, she hurried back to get the answer to her telegram. As the clerk handed her the slip of paper, she took a deep breath and turned it to read: “No sign of Wenger and boy. Stop. Agent John Newhall at Savannah Hotel. Stop. Will inform him your presence. Stop. A.P.”

  Her spirits sank. Fortune had to go to a hospital, not wait and watch for Michael.

  She slipped her hand into her pocket to touch the derringer for reassurance. Hurrying back toward the carriage, she walked in the shadow of tall buildings, her gaze scanning the docks. She spotted the Merry Barnaby, the schooner that would be bound for England, but she couldn’t see La Liberté or L’ Irelande.

  Half expecting to find Fortune collapsed on the cobblestones, she found him leaning against the carriage. Marveling again at his vitality and perseverance she walked up and handed him the telegram from Pinkerton’s.

  “We’re in time,” he said as he scanned the message and crumpled the paper to toss it into the carriage.

  She wasn’t as certain about that as Fortune, yet she knew Trevor Wenger would never have driven at the pace they had. “There’s no one booked for passage with the name Wenger. There are three possibilities: La Liberté, a ship for northern France, L’ Irelande for southern France, and the Merry Barnaby for England.”

  “Northern France will be the one,” Fortune said grimly. His gaze swept the dock. “We’ll have to find that ship.”

  “Fortune, please, get in the carriage and let me drive around to look for the ship.”

  He inhaled deeply, grimaced, and nodded. She steadied him as he climbed up, and she was shocked how wobbly he was and how difficult it was for him to get into the carriage. He eased down and she went around to drive. They moved slowly into the throng, going at a walk because of the crowded wharf. Shielding her eyes, she passed along the line of ships.

  “There it is,” she said quietly. She turned to stop again in the shade of another cotton warehouse. “Just stay in the carriage,” she urged him. “Sitting here, we have a better view of the wharf and ship. I’ll see if I can go on board to look for them.”

  He caught her wrist, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he shook his head. “You won’t be safe going on board alone looking like you do.”

  She blinked, looking down at her wrinkled green gingham.

  “Did you bring a fancy dress?”

  “Yes, I did because I thought I might have to stay in a hotel while you’re in the hospital.”

  “Wait to go on board until tomorrow. I don’t think they’re on board now. They’ll arrive tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Can we get Badru and go to a hotel?”

  Fortune eyed the ship speculatively and she waited. Finally he nodded. “Find him.”

  “I want to take you to a hospital.”

  “No. Drive to the closest hotel. I’ll get our room and an extra one for Michael. I may not be able to travel home for a while. Badru will have to find a place too. They won’t allow him to stay where we do.”

  She nodded and turned the carriage, glancing at Fortune to see him studying the ship. Fairly quickly she spotted Badru, who was as tall as Fortune and as easy to see in a crowd.

  She slowed the carriage and Fortune turned to him. “There are three ships here, the Merry Barnaby for England, L’ Irelande, and the La Liberté. I think it’ll be La Liberté, sailing for northern France, and that ship is back behind us. We’re going to a hotel now because it doesn’t leave for three days.”

  “I’ll stay and look for the other two ships. I’ll stay down here tonight.”

  “Be careful,” Fortune cautioned weakly, “and if you find them, Badru, none of those ships is sailing yet. Come get me. We’ll be at the closest hotel.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll watch.”

  She flicked the reins and they clopped away down River Street. “There’s the one bound for the south of France,” Fortune said, and she looked at another tall-masted schooner.

  They turned to go up the hill past Factor’s Walk. The millinery shop was still there, and she remembered that last night so clearly. She wished she had Michael safely in her arms now.

  “There’s the Savannah Hotel. Stop in front, Claire, and I’ll get a room.”

  “Fortune, I can.”

  “No, you can’t. I’ll do it.” She stopped and went around to help Fortune down. “Get some money,” he said under his breath as a porter came forward.

  Fortune motioned to the buggy. “What’s your name?”

  “William Ellenhofer, sir.”

  “I’m Caleb Rafferty,” he said, and Claire stared at him, wondering if the fever had finally made him delirious. “I’m ill, and we’ve traveled a long way. After you’ve carried our things to our room, take this carriage to the livery stable and board my horses.”

  “First, get a doctor to come look at my husband, because I know he should be in a hospital,” Claire said, giving William Ellenhofer her best smile.

  “Yes, ma’am. Dr. Roth’s office is just down the street. I’ll get him and get your things and take your carriage.”

  Fortune held out a fat roll of greenbacks.

  “Thank you, sir! I’ll get the doctor, Mr. Rafferty.” He bolted away and she picked up her reticule and took Fortune’s good arm.

  “Don’t let the doctor give me anything to put me out.”

  “Caleb Rafferty?”

  “I wouldn’t want Wenger to see Fortune O’Brien on the hotel register. Besides, Michael would recognize Caleb Rafferty if he heard it.”

  “I don’t think there’s any chance he’ll be where he can hear someone say that name. Only the porters and clerks will know it.”

  They moved to the desk and Fortune slumped against it. “I want to register for a room.”

  “Sir, pardon me for saying so, but you look as if you need a hospital,” the clerk said, his brown eyes wide behind round, rimless spectacles as he looked from Fortune to Claire.

  “My husband is ill
, and we’ve just sent for a doctor.”

  Fortune reached into the waistband of his pants and pulled out a small bag that clinked. He opened it and dropped a gold piece onto the counter. “I want to stay here and not some hospital.” He pushed the coin to the man. “Keep that for your trouble.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get you a room on this floor so you won’t have to climb any stairs.”

  Fortune didn’t answer, and when she looked up at him, his eyes were closed, sweat beading his face. She wondered again if he would faint.

  “Sign here, sir.” He didn’t seem to hear the clerk, and she took the pen.

  “I’ll sign for him.” She wrote Mr. and Mrs. Caleb Rafferty in large, bold letters, knowing the chance of Michael ever hearing the name was almost nonexistent.

  The clerk gave her a key, and she took Fortune’s arm. As his eyes came open, he straightened up. “I have our key, Fortune. Room twelve.” They walked to the room, and the moment she closed the door, she turned to help Fortune to bed, yanking down the yellow counterpane and covers.

  He sank down, closing his eyes, his breathing coming shallow and fast. “Claire, get me up tomorrow.”

  “I will.”

  In no time he was asleep and she slumped into a chair, exhausted. A knock came and she opened the door to face a short, balding man with a black bag. William Ellenhofer stood beside him with his arms filled with their baggage.

  “Miz Rafferty, this is Dr. Roth.”

  “Please come and look at my husband.”

  The doctor crossed the room and looked down at Fortune and then up at her as she moved around the bed to stand across from him. “This man isn’t sick, he’s wounded!”

  “Yes. We were robbed on our way here. Or they tried to rob us and they shot my husband. A doctor treated him in Atlanta, and then we left for here.”

  “Good Lord, he shouldn’t have traveled in this condition! From Atlanta?”

  Now she wished she had given another town, but she had already said Atlanta. “Yes.”

  He shook his head and felt Fortune’s forehead, picking up his wrist to take his pulse. She moved away when he started to cut away Fortune’s bandages to replace them.