Elizabeth ran out on the porch and yelled, “Charlotte, come back.”
A steam whistle pierced the night air with its shrill cry. Nothing good could come from Braham’s attempt to capture the gold at the depot close to Mayo’s Bridge. He and Jack could get killed or captured themselves, and their lives were worth more than the gold.
Here was another frigging red-light moment. Was she going to sit still and wait, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel while the men she loved put their lives in danger? Going after them might be reckless, but as long as she stayed out of the way of the crazies and avoided areas of the city destined to catch fire later, she’d be safe. Right? She gave a sharp nod, answering her own question.
Her plan was simple. Find them, shake some sense into them, and hurry home before the city became a rioting inferno.
59
Richmond, Virginia, April 1, 1865
Braham dozed after he swallowed the pills Charlotte had given him. When he woke, the pain had lessened somewhat. With considerable effort, and keeping one shoulder close to the wall for balance and support, he rose to wobbly feet. On Charlotte’s one-to-ten-point pain scale, he was down to a six. His stomach, though, screamed ten. He was no stranger to hunger, but starving as he was now was a new experience. In the midst of his misery, a chuckle slipped out. Tonight, would be a good time for someone to solve world hunger one person at a time, and he’d be standing at the head of the line.
His upper back muscles were still in tight knots. Since the bucking his guards had forced him to endure, no amount of stretching his neck and shoulders had reduced the spasms. Spikes of pain jabbed straight through him, and he groaned.
Shambling, he moved toward the small window until he reached the full length of the chain. Boards were nailed to the opening, blocking out light, but they couldn’t diminish the cannons roaring in the background or the shouting mob. The prisoners would be marched through streets packed with half-crazed Richmonders. Spotting Jack would be difficult. He’d have to stay alert and ready for his chance to escape.
He sniffed at the cracks between the boards, trying to get a breath of less-rancid air. The faint scents of fish and sulfur and smoke, and something else—whisky—hit his nostrils. Whisky? Either someone was drinking near his window, or the city was drowning itself in drink. Not a bad idea when an army you couldn’t defeat was marching toward your front door.
The squeaky door at the top of the stairs opened. Braham instinctively folded his arms across his chest, opening and closing his hands, breathing through his mouth, and cringing with each loud heel strike. Conversations were too muffled for him to distinguish words.
How should he play this? If he appeared in a weakened condition, the guards wouldn’t see him as a threat and might relax their vigilance, giving him an opportunity to escape. If they judged him too weak, would they shoot him, or leave him behind? If the warehouses used for prisons burned down in the city fire, he’d die for sure if he was left behind.
He gritted his teeth against the fear, but it lingered inside him, making his breathing fast and shallow and his heart hammer. He would appear not too alert, but not weak either. He sat, closed his eyes, and leaned against the rough timber walls of his cell, mentally preparing for what lay ahead.
Sweat poured off him while he waited agonizing minutes for his cell door to open. He counted the crossbars sliding out of the cleats and the doors thrown back. His heart beat faster with each one.
Finally, the guards were at his door, jingling the keys.
Each deep breath he took was a piercing insult to the muscles in his back, which were cramping and burning like he’d been slammed against the wall.
The crossbar slid back with a heavy, dull noise. Clunk. The door swung open, and he steeled his body and mind for the blows he knew were coming.
A guard shuffled into the cell. “Get up.”
Braham recognized the voice of the man who had beaten him. He tensed. Any punch would double him over. More than one and he might not be able to get up at all.
“He can’t, Sarge. He’s beat up.” The voice belonged to the red-headed lad Braham had seen earlier.
“Maybe he needs another beatin’. You want another beatin’, traitor?” He slurred the word as if it disgusted him to say it.
Braham raised his head. If his mouth and lips hadn’t been so dry and cracked, he would have spat on the son of a bitch.
The lad grabbed Braham’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Do it later, Sarge. We don’t have time.”
Braham hung his head again, moaning softly. The sergeant unlocked the bolt securing the shackle around his ankle. With the heavy weight no longer dragging on his leg, a sensation of weightless filled him with unexpected energy. He bit the insides of his cheeks to conceal his relief. The guard shoved him out into the hall, where the other prisoners waited at the point of a bayonet.
A guard shoved him, knocking him into the wall. “Move.”
Braham wavered and tried to regain his balance. His fists clenched with fury, and he snapped them tight, like a gunfighter on a draw.
A guard holding a bayonet poked Braham’s gut with it, and with a voice rough as rust, he said, “Go ahead. Try hitting me.”
Hancock touched Braham’s shoulder. “Friend, we don’t need a fight. Lean on me.”
The guard shoved Braham again, but this time the shoving hand landed smack in the middle of Braham’s injured back. He let out a cry of pain.
The guard laughed. “Move out, or you can stay behind permanently, if you get my meaning.”
There were three things Highlanders were raised to cherish: their home, a woman, and a good fight. Braham itched to give back what he’d been subjected to, but Hancock wrapped Braham’s arm over his shoulder and urged him forward and up the stairs. Out in the enclosed yard the area teemed with hundreds of recalcitrant prisoners flashing belligerent attitudes and bellowing about a forced march late at night.
A sentry handed Braham and Hancock each a hunk of cornbread. “Eat slow. It’s got to last three days.”
Braham took a bite, spat out a worm, and took another bite. He needed nourishment. If he remained in captivity three more days, he’d most likely need a casket.
Sentries with rifles and bayonets herded them into a long formation. Others took positions along the sides to guard the prisoners as they marched out of the prison environs and into the crowded street.
“Stay to the rear,” Lohmann said. “We’re breaking away soon as there’s an opening.”
“And go where?” Hancock asked.
“Miss Van Lew’s,” White said.
Braham had decided to escape at the first opportunity, whether Jack was there or not.
The guards herded uneven columns of weary and tattered prisoners into the city at bayonet point, shouting orders and clearing a path. The prisoners at the front of the lines taunted the crowd, yelling angry slurs. A bystander threw a rock in response and violence flared immediately.
“Now,” Lohmann said.
While the guards were distracted, trying to restore order, Braham and his cohorts slipped out of line and mingled with the agitated throng. He nervously scanned the crowd for Jack. “Scatter,” he told the men. Then he paused, drawing a long breath which seemed to take forever to fill his battered body. “We’ll meet up at the Van Lew’s. Be careful.”
Good things are rare. They’re to be cherished, and freedom most of all. Even if someone put a gun to his brain and pulled the trigger right now, he’d had a chance to taste liberty once again, and it tasted sweet on his tongue.
A tap on Braham’s shoulder startled him, and he jerked, flinging his fists up quickly. “Jack.” Instead of throwing a punch, Braham’s squeezed his buddy’s shoulder. Then they embraced fiercely. “God, I’m glad to see ye.”
Jack gave Braham a wry smile, but his eyes remained sober. “You don’t look so good.”
Braham swept his fingers through his hair in a quick, cursory gesture. “I didn’t have time to
bathe, sorry.”
Jack handed him the jacket and boots. “Put these on so you won’t look so bedraggled.”
Braham slipped on the jacket then shoved on a boot while hopping on one foot, then did the same with the other boot. Without socks, the leather rubbed his raw ankle, but nothing could be done about it right now.
“Give me yer hat. Most men in the crowd look as scraggly as I do, but they have on hats.”
Jack plopped the hat on top of Braham’s head. “You want my pants, too? Yours smell pretty ripe.”
Braham settled the slouch hat low over his forehead. “Stay upwind.”
Jack held out his hand, palm open. “Charlotte said to take these pills.”
Braham popped them into his mouth and swallowed. “Got any whisky?”
“Can’t you smell it? The city government ordered all the whisky destroyed. It was poured out into the street. The mob’s getting drunk.” Jack pulled a flask from his jacket pocket and handed it over.
Braham took a mouthful then spat it out. “Damn, it’s hot.” He looked at the flask as if it personally had betrayed him. “I can’t believe ye put coffee in here.”
“You don’t need whisky with pain pills and an empty stomach. You’d pass out on me before I got you back to the Van Lew’s.”
He lifted the flask to his mouth again, but drank cautiously. “I can’t go back there yet. There’s something I have to do. Ye go, though. I’ll meet ye later.” Braham pulled his chunk of cornbread out of his shirt and took a bite.
“What the devil are you eating? It’s got worms in it.”
Braham took another swig to wash down the bread. “Ye said I needed food in my stomach.”
“Elizabeth has food waiting for you. Eat something decent first, then go do whatever you have to do.”
“What time is it?”
Jack checked the time on his pocket watch. “Ten thirty.”
Braham took more bites of cornbread, and finished the coffee in the flask before handing it back to Jack. “There’s not much time. I’ve got to go.”
Jack grabbed his arm. “Uh, I don’t think so. If I don’t come back with you, Charlotte will kill me. Either you’re going with me, or I’m going with you.”
“Come on, then.” Braham took off at a fast walk down Cary Street, weaving in and out of the crowd with Jack all but stepping on his heels. In a low, gravelly voice, Braham said, “The train carrying Jeff Davis and the Confederacy’s gold leaves in thirty minutes. I intend to stop it. I don’t care about Davis, but I have orders to capture the gold.”
“What? Without weapons and backup? Are you crazy?”
Braham stopped and looked Jack in the eye. “Go home. Ye’re not part of this fight.”
The statement brought a little shadow creeping in on the edge of Jack’s jaw and the muscle twitched. “Maybe not, but I’m not leaving you alone. Whatever you have planned can’t be worse than Charlotte’s ire if I go back without you.”
Braham chuckled at the image, but it was raw and shaky.
“The major’s not alone,” a familiar voice said.
Braham jerked his head. “Gaylord. Good to see ye.” He slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Hope ye’ve kept an eye on things.”
He nodded and fell silent as a group of men marched past them, rifles slung over their shoulders. “I followed Davis to the depot. He’s sitting in the railroad president’s office with Secretary of War Breckinridge.”
Braham stared off into the distance, his eyes unfocused. A ripple of tension went through him. “What are they waiting for, then?”
“He’s waiting until the very last minute, hoping to hear better news from Lee so he won’t have to leave town,” Jack said.
“The cabinet members are already on board with what’s left of the treasury,” Gaylord said.
Braham straightened quickly. His mission had been scattered into the wind like a dandelion, leaving only a bare stem of impossibility, but the wind had changed. He had been spoiling for a fight. Now here it was. “How well is the train guarded?”
“Half of a small regiment, but most of them are busy keeping people who don’t have passes from the secretary of war away from the trains.”
Braham raised his eyebrows with a questioning look. “Tell me ye’ve got a couple of those passes in yer pocket.”
Gaylord held out empty hands. “I tried.”
Braham pursed his lips tightly, contemplating his next move. “We need explosives.”
“The arsenal will have blasting powder, but we’ll run out of time,” Gaylord said.
Braham took off in another fast walk. “Then we’ll blow the bridge.”
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” Jack sputtered. “You couldn’t even stand up this afternoon, and now you’re running down the street to go blow up a bridge.”
A fist came out of nowhere and crashed into Braham’s chin. He landed hard on his butt. He stared at Jack, shaking himself hard. “What the hell?”
Jack put his fists on his hips and planted his feet. “Because you’re acting crazy. Tell him, Gaylord. You can’t go blow up a bridge. You don’t have time. You don’t have the stamina. You’re not Superman, and someone had to knock some sense into you.”
Braham got to his feet, growling at Jack with steely green eyes. “I’ll forgive ye this time. But don’t ever do it again. I don’t claim to be a super man. I have a job to do. Go home.”
“Not a super man, Super…oh, damn it. I told you I’m not leaving you.”
“If ye try to stop me again, Gaylord will tie ye to a tree.”
Gaylord pulled a length of rope from his pocket, strung it between his hands, wrapped the ends around his palms, and yanked.
Jack waved Gaylord off with an elaborate shoulder shrug. “Put it away.”
The wind shifted out of the south. An odor struck Braham’s nostrils and made his throat knot. “Fire. We don’t have much time. Let’s get out of here.”
When they reached the commercial center of town, they found the streets lit by bonfires and torches, and an angry mob carrying off sacks of coffee, sugar, and bacon from the commissary.
“What’s happening here?” Braham asked a man loaded down with sacks.
“The army took what they could carry off. Told us to get what we needed ’fore the Yankees took it.”
“Come on,” Braham said. “Let’s go.”
Glowing bonfires, fed by frantic people discarding papers and incriminating evidence, cast a brassy light over the roaming crowds.
“We can’t get through there. The street’s blocked,” Gaylord said.
Jack checked the time. “It’s ten forty-five. We won’t make it.”
“We have to,” Braham said.
Gaylord led them down a narrow street, through dense smoke. Braham covered his mouth and ran as fast as he could. His heart pounded so fiercely he thought it would burst from his chest. When he reached the end of the street where the air was clearer, he stopped and took deep, heaving breaths.
“I’ll go ahead and find a way to enter the armory,” Gaylord said.
“Where’s all this smoke coming from?” Braham asked.
“They’re burning the cotton and tobacco warehouses,” Jack said.
Then, like a bomb blast, an explosion rocked the city, sending brick and glass flying in all directions. Doors ripped from houses and chimneys toppled. The impact lifted Braham several feet into the air and sent him sailing into the street. When he hit the ground, his breath left in an audible oooof. Pain ripped through him. Debris rained down on him, sparks burned his trousers, and he couldn’t move. He couldn’t roll over to brush away the fire. Since he was unable to breathe, a momentary panic erupted. He’d had his breath knocked out of him before. If he relaxed, in a minute or two, his breathing would return to normal.
“Braham, where are you?” Jack yelled.
Braham raised his arm, giving a slight wave, and forced out one word. “Here.”
Another explosion ripped the night, shaking
the ground, and sending more flying debris into the street. Black smoke billowed up in the center of the flames.
Jack reached Braham’s side. “The arsenal’s blowing up. We’ve got to get out of here. Can you walk?”
Braham cursed the night. Without explosives, he couldn’t blow up the train or the bridge. Through the smoke, he saw Gaylord gimping toward him. Jack helped Braham to his feet and brushed shards of glass off his clothes.
“Give me a damn pistol. I’m going after the gold.”
Jack pointed toward the river. “Too late. The train’s reached the trestle and is crossing the James.”
Braham turned toward the river, kicking at a smoldering piece of wood. “Son of a bitch.”
Another explosion, this one on the water, sent shockwaves which shook the earth violently. Braham grabbed a lamppost for support. Flames shot high into the air as one explosion followed another.
“Now what’s going on out there?” he yelled.
Jack crawled to the stoop of a burned-out house. “Semmes is scuttling his ironclads in a dramatic finale.”
“Move over.” Braham dropped his sore, weary body dejectedly onto the stairs next to his buddy, and Gaylord joined them. Braham propped his chin on his hands. “They don’t want a damn thing left in Richmond the Yankees can use against them.”
The crack and crackling of splintering wood snapped all around them. Fires spat and sputtered, and falling bricks and glass peppered the area. Braham caught Jack’s eye and gave him a humorless grin. “Can’t anything be saved tonight?”
Jack snatched up the hat Braham had been wearing, slapped it against his thigh to knock off the accumulated dirt and broken glass, and tossed it to Braham. “Just you, I reckon. Let’s go back to Elizabeth’s. I know a doctor who’s standing at the door waiting to get her hands on you.”
Gaylord picked up a piece of broken stair railing and used it for a crutch.
“You better come, too, Gaylord. Let Charlotte look at your leg,” Jack said.
“It’s only my ankle. Nothing a shot of whisky won’t cure.”
The pulse was throbbing at Braham’s temples. He wanted to get his hands on her, too. He clapped the hat on his head and seized Jack’s arm for support. “First things first, buddy—whisky and a bath. Then I’ll be glad to surrender to her healing hands.”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 38
