Once on board the steamer, while she took a sponge bath and ate, she analyzed her predicament. There had been no flashbulb moment of enlightenment in the past forty-eight hours. It would be nice to open the brooch and disappear, but if she did, Sheridan would act on his threat. She still didn’t understand why the brooch had carried her to the nineteenth century. Until she could figure out an alternative, she had to continue to play the cards as dealt, because folding gave her no hope of winning a return trip to her time with the homeplace intact.
When she finally climbed into her berth, she dropped off immediately into a much-needed, surprisingly dreamless sleep.
Now, as a new day dawned, she prepared for what was to come in much the same way as she prepared for surgery. She sucked in long, lung-filling breaths while thinking ahead to her meeting with General Grant. Visualizing Chimborazo was easy. From previous visits to the historical site and visitors’ center, she was familiar with the Confederate hospital’s layout, but she had no workable plan. Her only advantage was knowing the hospital guards would be more concerned with keeping the enemy out than keeping patients in.
A successful rescue depended on the extent of Major McCabe’s injuries. If he could hobble, and if she could get him out of the hospital, her next challenge would be handing him off to a member of the underground. If he couldn’t walk, she had few options.
She leaned her elbows on the deck railing of the River Queen, sipping coffee while watching the sun rise over the James River. The sight was as breathtaking as always. Workers were already unloading supplies from the hundreds of steamboats, sailing vessels, and barges berthed along the mile-long wharf. Even with the bustle and clanging, the busy port seemed more like a quiet resort town to Charlotte’s twenty-first century sensibilities.
While she was in City Point maybe Grant would let her tour the six separate hospitals of the Depot Field Hospital, which was only about a mile from the wharf. The facility reportedly treated as many as ten thousand patients on an average day, which seemed impossible.
What was she thinking? A wounded, possibly dying man was waiting for her. She didn’t have any extra time.
“Doctor Mallory. Doctor Mallory.”
She jerked her head in the direction of the voice, scanning the crowded wharf. A short, stocky, weatherworn man with shaggy black hair waved at her with one hand while holding the reins of a pair of bay Morgans with the other.
Since she was back in her Confederate gray uniform, dockworkers turned and glared at her, their scowls lining their faces in the morning sun. Waves crashing against the pilings seemed to echo the men’s obvious dislike of the enemy in their midst. The air was damp, and the uniform in question stuck to her. She’d gladly remove the darn thing if she had anything else to wear. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the thunder of her heart, and listened instead to the rustle and grunts of the men unloading the ship’s cargo. She’d much rather listen to their swearing than to the clamor of her own fears.
After the gangplank was lowered, she tromped down the ramp to the wharf, trading in the shelter and safety of the ship for unknown dangers. The man approached her, leading the horses, his lips set in a thin, resolute line.
His eyes probed hers, black and hard and scalpel-sharp. “I’m Gaylord. General Grant’s expecting you. Let’s go.” The thin lips became even thinner. “Best to take off the coat. No need to advertise you’re the enemy. Makes my job harder and might get you killed.”
She bristled, counted to a quick ten, and then snapped back in a sarcastic tone, “What about my trousers? They’re gray, too.”
He shrugged. “Don’t matter. Soldiers wear what they can strip off dead Johnny Rebs.”
She doubted he’d do much to protect her if those same Union soldiers decided they wanted her pants, too.
She removed her jacket, folded it carefully, and then packed it in the saddlebag. If the jacket had been made of linen it would be one big wrinkle by the time they reached Richmond. But as a true and proper daughter of the South, she wouldn’t be caught dead, even in hot, muggy weather, in white linen or white shoes after Labor Day. Why was she thinking of linen and shoes when she was living in some kind of alternate universe? Because time travel was impossible, or should be, but the dangers she faced were both real and deadly.
They found General Grant sitting outside his command tent under the golden-bronze fall foliage of a beech tree. Several officers relaxed nearby, studying maps. The general was gazing out in Charlotte’s direction, cigar in hand, as if waiting expectantly. She dismounted and tied the reins to a high line strung between two trees.
Charlotte knew horses, and recognized Cincinnati, Grant’s striking black thoroughbred and son of Lexington, the most successful sire in the second half of the nineteenth century. The general was probably the greatest equestrian in US history.
The general approached, puffing on his cigar. For a split second, she considered advising him to stop smoking before it killed him, which it would in 1885.
“Doctor Mallory.” The soft-spoken, rounded-shouldered general extended a delicate hand. They studied each other, blue eye to blue eye. His wavy brown hair, untrimmed beard, mustache, and ill-fitting uniform gave him a rather scruffy look.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she responded.
“I don’t want to keep you,” he said. “You have a hard ride ahead. I only wanted to express my appreciation and wish you good luck. I’m rather fond of Major McCabe.”
“I look forward to meeting him. He has an impressive fan club,” she said.
Grant’s brow crinkled in a puzzled frown.
“Lincoln and Stanton said the very same thing,” she added.
“Gaylord will get you to Richmond. Once there, he’ll hand you over to a member of the underground who will get you inside Chimborazo. The rest is up to you.”
“What if McCabe is too injured to move?” she asked.
He pointed at her with his stogie. Pungent smoke spiraled up in her direction, but she didn’t dare move or wave it away from her face.
“Unless he’s dead, you must get him out. Do you understand?” He might be a soft-spoken man, but his tone made his point clear. Very clear.
“Yes, sir.”
He tipped his hat and walked back toward his tent.
“Let’s ride,” Gaylord said.
For someone used to giving orders, taking them was a nasty-tasting pill.
She swung her leg over the saddle, wishing she had a twelve-hour Aleve to ease the stiffness in her joints. The well-trained mount took off at a trot, and as they neared a bend in the road, Charlotte glanced back for one last look at Grant. He was poised outside his tent, following their progress and puffing. She put her hand to her hat and tipped it ever so slightly.
7
Richmond, Virginia, 1864
At dusk, Charlotte and Gaylord dismounted at a dilapidated farmhouse on the outskirts of Richmond. A swinging shutter groaned in the cool breeze that skidded through the nippy air. Broken windows, a splintered door creaking on its hinges, and a porch sagging on one side where its foundation had crumbled added to the homestead’s ghostly appearance. The hair on her arms rose, gooseflesh stippling her skin. The haunted house didn’t bode well for what was to come.
The physically demanding horseback trip from City Point had taken them across rivers, over rugged terrain, and through forested regions. Since both armies patrolled the area, they had maintained silence throughout the twenty-five mile trek. The possibility of ambush at every blind bend kept her braced for an attack. By the end of the journey her fear was locked in her shoulders and neck, and she winced when she twisted to stretch the tight band of knotted, strained muscles.
“Who lives here?” she asked.
Gaylord threw his saddlebags over his shoulder. “No one now.” He uncinched the saddle. “We’re leaving the horses here. They’ll be confiscated if we ride them into the city.”
“What’s to stop someone from stealing them from an a
bandoned farm?”
“Soon as we leave, they’ll be taken to a safe pasture.”
Leaves crunched underfoot while they hiked in the shelter of the tree line. As hot as the wool uniform often was, tonight she was thankful for the warmth it provided and that Gaylord allowed her to wear it.
Gaylord followed an invisible path. More than once, when she was convinced they’d reached an impenetrable thicket, an opening appeared. Not even breadcrumbs would help her find her way back. The arduous trek ended at a dirt road on the north side of Richmond.
“What now?” she asked.
“We wait.”
While they waited in the shadows, Charlotte leaned against a tree and closed her eyes. She had learned as a resident to grab sleep when she could, and she quickly dozed off.
Gaylord woke her, whispering her name. “Doctor Mallory. Wake up. Your contact is here.”
“Oh.” She got up, stretched, and yawned.
The carriage door swung open as if it had been kicked. If she had been nearby, it would have knocked her to the ground.
“Good luck,” Gaylord said before disappearing back into the trees.
The little man hadn’t been good company, but he was an excellent guide, and she had become comfortable traveling with him. Now the fear she’d held at bay during their day-long ride to Richmond came back in a rush.
She peered inside the carriage’s window. Moonlight barely illuminated the street, much less the inside of a carriage, but she was able to discern the shadowy outline of a man in there.
“Your patient doesn’t have much time. Please get in,” the man said.
Was she really expected to get into a dark carriage with a man she didn’t know? Yes, and hadn’t she spent the day traveling through Virginia with a man she didn’t know? She took a shaky breath to silence the warning bells clanging in her head. How many more hurdles would she have to jump before she could go home?
Reluctantly, she climbed inside and sat opposite a man with dark curly hair and muttonchops. He rapped the ceiling with a walking stick. The driver snapped the reins and drove down Broad Street.
“Have you met Doctor McCaw?” he asked.
“No. Although I’m familiar with the work he’s done at Chimborazo.” He and her six-times-great-grandfather were contemporaries but, thankfully, they had never met.
“We play chess regularly,” the man said.
Charlotte calmly rested steady hands on her thighs, but inside she was one big monster knot. “Your friendly game could yield valuable information for the underground. I’m sure Doctor McCaw hears soldiers discuss tactical options. Information the Union would find useful.”
The chess-playing spy leaned forward, lacing his fingers on the top of the cane. “I told my colleagues it was a mistake to trust you, but no one would listen.”
“You have nothing to fear from me. I’m on your side.”
He frowned, his dark eyes narrowed. “Pshaw. I know your family, Doctor Mallory, and there isn’t a Unionist among them. I pray for all our sakes you’re telling the truth.”
She hoped he didn’t ask how she was related, because she hadn’t had time to invent a satisfactory answer, and fumbling for one would only make him doubt her more.
“When we get to Chimborazo, I’ll go in to see McCaw. Major McCabe is in the ward closest to his office. My informant told me earlier today he wouldn’t survive the night. He might already be dead.”
“Then why am I going in there?”
“If McCabe has talked, we’re all in danger. I could be walking into a trap tonight. We need to know. Grant needs to know.”
“Why is he in Chimborazo and not in a prison hospital?”
“He was shot while trying to escape custody. It was the closest hospital.”
Which confirmed what Lincoln had told her.
The carriage drove along the road at the base of the camp then crossed the bridge at the back of the compound. A sentry came to the carriage door.
“Evening, Mr. Parker. Is it chess night?”
“I’ve come to beat McCaw again. Is he in his office?”
The sentry opened the door and glanced inside. Charlotte nodded. “Who you got with you?”
Parker pointed with his walking stick. “A surgeon from General Lee’s headquarters. Saved him a long walk from town.”
“Your lucky night, hey?” the sentry said. He closed the door and rapped on the side of the carriage. The driver continued up the hill toward the compound.
Her companion fixed her with a piercing look, and a hot numbness swept over her face. “We’re both playing a dangerous game. I pray you’re not here to entrap us.”
It was, indeed, the most dangerous game she’d ever played, and one not of her choosing. But even given the choice, she would never have taken such a risk.
The carriage stopped in front of Laughton House, now serving as headquarters, which included the offices of the surgeon-in-chief, the surgeons-in-charge, and other necessary offices of the post. Immediately to the south were the hospital wards.
Mr. Parker straightened a perfectly straight cravat. “Are you ready?”
She nodded. Her pulse, which had been beating quickly, had settled down to near normal. Under the circumstances, it was the best she could manage. Although she wore the right color uniform, had the necessary skills for the job, and she was, after all, from Richmond, she was still an imposter, and it made this situation dangerous.
“If you can get McCabe into the carriage, do it, and then get out of here. I’ll claim you stole it. Good luck.”
They climbed out and the major entered Laughton House, leaving her to find her way alone, one more turn in a never-ending labyrinth twisting through a bloody battle, meetings with President Lincoln, General Sheridan, and General Grant, and now a seemingly impossible rescue mission at Chimborazo. Her life and family’s property were threatened. She’d had only bites of food and very little rest. She had walked, run, ridden on a horse, in a wagon, on a steamboat, and in a carriage. Damn, she was tired, and she wanted to go home.
Maybe the end of the maze was around the next corner. She could only hope.
Since there were only a handful of sentries patrolling the grounds, she assumed the hospital didn’t have many escapees. She turned in a slow circle to orient herself. The guardhouse and five dead houses sat on the northern perimeter. If McCabe had died, she would find his body in one of those. The patient wards, a hundred one-story buildings, were directly in front of her.
She proceeded slowly toward the building closest to the office, hands behind her, with her head bent in what she hoped looked like deep thought. If this wasn’t the right one, given the vast number of wards, the sun would be up before she had time to search the entire complex. Her plan was to assess the layout, identify exits, count the guards, locate McCabe, and get him out of there.
She could do this.
A small shiver passed over her as she opened the door and entered a candlelit ward. The ward held two compartments separated by a low partition running lengthwise. There were four rows of metal beds and two centrally located stoves. Blink. Sliding wood shutters covered square windows, and were partially open. Blink. The door at her back remained open. Blink. Leaving it ajar would catch the guards’ attention when they passed by. She didn’t want that, but closing it would block her escape. She didn’t want that either. Undecided, she flipped an imaginary coin. Heads. She closed the door.
A chair scraped across the rough plank floor and a young soldier snapped to attention, acknowledging her. “Evenin’, sir.”
She took a calming breath, decided to forgo formalities, and asked with a sharp tone but low voice, “Where’s the prisoner?” She’d be in trouble if there was more than one.
“Down there.” The soldier pointed toward the end of the row on the far side of the room. “Number twelve. If’n you ask me, the man’s gonna die right soon.”
Charlotte headed toward the patient. “Are you the night nurse?”
“Y
es, sir.”
With only one night nurse and no guards next to McCabe’s bed, it might actually be possible to sneak the major out. A thought niggled Charlotte. If the patient didn’t need a guard, he probably wasn’t in any condition to walk out with her.
“Sir, we ain’t got no other Yanks. Why’s he here?”
“What? Oh…well.” She bit her lower lip momentarily, thinking. “He was caught down by the railroad tracks.” The lie rolled off her tongue and kept rolling. “Quicker to bring him here. President Davis believes he can identify spies living in Richmond. Has he said anything?”
“I been here all day. He’s yelped some but ain’t said nuthin’.”
Charlotte reached the foot of the bed, studying the patient. He was lying on his back, observing her with eyes half-closed. A filthy blanket was drawn up over the sharp angles of his body. She read the paper ticket tied to the end of the bed. Only his name and date of admission—Major Michael Abraham McCabe, October 17, 1864. There was no information about his condition. She moved to the side of the bed, leaned over, and took the major’s pulse. Too fast. “Is there an exit wound?”
“Nope. Still got that minié ball in his gut. If it don’t kill him, the hangman will.”
“Water,” McCabe said.
She lifted the blanket and gasped at the dirty dressing. McCabe’s distended belly was grossly inflamed around the area of the bullet entry. She pushed on it gently.
He grimaced and cried out in pain.
“Sorry.” The patient had rebound tenderness, probably peritonitis. More than likely the bullet had nicked the bowel. Although he wasn’t actively bleeding, the shallow breathing, fever, and shaking told her he was heading into shock. If she didn’t get him into surgery he would die in the next few hours. She looked at the wound again. She’d seen worse, and those patients had all died on the operating table.
The Sapphire Brooch Page 5
