Shaelyn shrank further into the shadows and sucked in her breath as the implications became a little clearer. The Sweet Sassy had been left where she was to entice the Lady Shae to stop. Davenport, who had stormed from the house just a few days before, had orchestrated the whole thing, of that she was certain. But why? Had he known Remy would search for the missing steamer?
Rage radiated from Remy. She could see it in his rigid posture and the set of his jaw, both visible in the glow of the lantern. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Given the opportunity, Remy would strike the man, but he could do nothing now, not with a pistol pointed at his chest and innocent lives in the balance. Neither could Jock, who faced his own mortality as he sprawled on the deck, the revolver pointed at his head shaking just a bit. The Scotsman’s features glowed a deep, dark red in the light of the lantern. Shaelyn could only imagine his anger.
“Traitorous bastard!” Remy hissed, his voice low enough to make Shaelyn strain to hear. “It was you the whole time. You who gave up our plans. You’re the spy. It was never Shae.”
He thought I was a spy?
If the circumstances weren’t so dire, she’d have found that fact amusing. Or perhaps not. She had no time to absorb the information or to become upset over it. As it was, she missed part of the conversation. She didn’t miss Davenport’s cruel laughter though.
“You both played into my hands so effortlessly.” Vincent’s tone mocked him. “She was perfect. So angry with you, so spiteful, but even I couldn’t have predicted you’d marry her or fall in love with her.” His teeth gleamed in the beams of moonlight as he began to pace along the deck of the abandoned steamer. “It was easy to make you think she spied for the Confederacy. So easy until I made the mistake of suggesting you follow her. How could I have known she’d become a saint in your eyes?”
Followed? Remy followed me?
“Why?” Remy asked, his voice filled with confusion and sorrow. “Why did you do this? I thought we—”
“Ah, you thought we were friends. At the very least, good acquaintances. There are no friends in war, Major. There are simply people to be used. And you were so easy to use.”
Again, Vincent grinned, but he said nothing more. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, then moved with the speed of a copperhead, bringing the butt of the pistol against Remy’s head. Blood spurted from the wound as Remy sank to the wooden planks beside Jock, his cane clattering to the floor. Davenport took the opportunity to kick him—in the thigh—not once but three times in quick succession. Remy grunted with the impact each time and tried to protect himself.
A cry of anguish built in Shaelyn’s chest, threatening to spill from her lips. She tamped it down, although her inclination was to attack Davenport as viciously as he attacked Remy. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to stay exactly where she was.
There was nothing she could do to help him.
Not now.
She couldn’t leave her hiding place while the Confederate soldiers led the boys in blue off the Lady Shae under threat of death and marched them along the sliver of dark brown path between the trees. Jock could do nothing, either, as Davenport’s accomplice helped him to his feet, the bore of the pistol still pressed against his head.
“Get up!” Davenport demanded, his voice a little higher pitched, as if he enjoyed inflicting pain.
Remy crawled first to his hands and knees, grabbing his cane in the process, then slowly gained his footing. He winced, but said not a word. In the moonlight, in the glow of lantern light, she saw the pain etched clearly on his face and the rage he didn’t bother to conceal. He whispered something, words she couldn’t hear. A threat toward the captain, perhaps? A promise?
“Walk,” Davenport commanded as he swiped the cane from Remy’s hand then pushed him forward. Remy stumbled and turned quickly, his hands fisted. Davenport took a step back, gestured toward Jock, and warned, “Remember, his life is in your hands.”
A white ring formed around Remy’s mouth as he clenched his jaw and limped off the Sweet Sassy, leaning heavily on Jock for support.
Shaelyn, tears running freely down her cheeks now, watched until they disappeared into the trees before she crawled out of her hiding place and took to her heels, carefully making her way back to her mother. Twice, she had to hide, almost caught by the men in gray as they searched for more soldiers on the Lady Shae. By the time she entered the cabin on the Texas deck, a cold sweat dampened her entire body. She wiped the tears from her face on her uniform sleeve.
“Mama,” she whispered as she knocked twice on the door, then twice more, pressed on the panel to the right of Washington’s portrait and let herself into the room. The dim glow of the lantern offered very little light, but it was enough to see the worry on her mother’s face. “We have to go.”
“What happened? Why did we stop?”
“Captain Davenport has taken Remy and Jock and the rest of the men.” She could have said more, could have told her mother how the captain had held Remy and Jock at gunpoint, but she took one look at Brenna’s round eyes and pale complexion and decided not to say a word.
“Davenport?” Brenna whispered, her expression mirroring the horror in her voice. “But why? He seemed like such a nice young man.”
“I don’t know.” Tears blurred her vision as she blew out the lantern, leaving only the glow of the moon’s beams coming in through the rounded window to light the room, then took her mother’s hand and led her into the cabin proper. “He isn’t at all who he proclaims to be. He—”
The thumping of boots on the deck outside the cabin made Shaelyn jump. They stopped just outside the door, moved away a little, then came back.
“Get down!” Shaelyn whispered, and pulled Brenna behind the huge bed that took up so much space in the room, moments before the door swung open.
Shaelyn flattened herself on the floor and peered at the doorway from the space under the bed. All she could see were boots, polished to a high gleam, but nothing more. The boots didn’t move, nor did the person who wore them. Shaelyn held her breath, hoping—praying—he didn’t come further into the cabin, for then they’d be caught just as the soldiers had been.
How long that person stood in the doorway, she had no clue, but her lungs began to burn with the need to breathe. She could hear her mother beside her and squeezed her hand, offering silent comfort, hoping to gain some from her as well.
A moment later, the boots moved and the door closed. The breath flowed from her lungs in a huff. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. No. I’m—” Brenna’s voice trembled.
“Afraid. So am I, Mama, but we can’t stay here.”
“What are we going to do?”
Shaelyn rose to her feet and drew in her breath. “Follow them.”
“Oh, Shae, we can’t.”
“We have no choice, Mama. They have Remy and Jock and all the other men. We have to save them.”
Something happened to Brenna in that moment. Instead of wilting like a hothouse flower, the courage she’d displayed earlier made itself known once more. She smoothed her hair back beneath the cap on her head, sucked in her breath, and stood. “Of course, dear. We must do what we must do.”
Leaving the Lady Shae proved a bit easier than boarding her. Still, they kept to the shadows beside the thin ribbon of path the men had taken, darting behind graceful magnolia trees, their branches adorned with lacy Spanish moss. It didn’t take long for them to catch up to the Union soldiers being driven toward an unknown destination, although Shaelyn worried about her mother. Brenna had not spoken since they’d left the steamer, and her breath came in gasps.
“Do you need to rest?”
“No, keep going,” she panted, her voice barely above a whisper.
A sprawling, single-story plantation home came into view, one that bore all the ravages of war. Or neglect. Or both.
In daylight, perhaps she’d be able to recognize where they were, but with only the moon and a few lanterns
to cast any light, she couldn’t tell. Moonlight played along the edge of the roof, showing the gaping holes, missing tiles, and sagging woodwork of what was once a beautiful place.
Dim light spilled through a window, which remained, by some miracle, unbroken. Other than the one tiny beacon, the house was dark, forbidding, filled with the ghosts of better times. A shiver rushed up Shaelyn’s spine. She ignored the feeling as best she could and continued on, dragging Brenna behind tree after tree.
The column of men disappeared behind the huge home. Two separated from the group and went toward the house, one limping badly while the other shoved a revolver in his back, prodding him along. Her heart thundered in her chest as they stepped onto a dilapidated porch and disappeared into the house.
There was no mistaking that limp.
Torn between following Remy or following the other men, Shaelyn kept a tight grip on her mother’s hand. It didn’t take long to make her decision. “Come on.”
A stable, in poorer condition than the house, came into view, light shining from between the huge gaps in the slats that made up the structure’s walls. There was something familiar about the stable, but she didn’t have time to pay attention to the nagging at the edges of her brain. Shaelyn sucked in her breath as the doors slid open and the soldiers they’d been following were pushed inside, none too gently.
Chapter 20
Shaelyn crouched behind a Gatling gun—possibly one that had once been loaded aboard the Brenna Rose—and pulled Brenna down beside her.
Through the open door of the stable, illuminated by moonlight beaming through the holes in the roof, she saw them—not only the soldiers they’d been following, but others too. She recognized many from the Sweet Sassy and the Brenna Rose. Those exuberant young men were now so weak, they could barely raise their heads. Some sported bruises on their faces. Others showed blood, not only on their flesh but dried to dark stains on their clothes as well.
They crammed into the confines of the old structure, sitting on bales of hay or on the cold, hard ground. Some leaned against the walls, but none stood. A few men glanced toward the door—and freedom—but none appeared ready to escape. They had to be disillusioned and hungry after so much time in captivity. Many didn’t move at all, not even when one guard kicked at a young man or when another swung his rifle toward an older soldier’s unprotected head and laughed—cruel, heartless laughter that echoed in her ears.
Shaelyn sucked in her breath. This wasn’t a prison camp, at least not a sanctioned one, but it certainly had the look and feel of the nightmarish ones she’d heard about. Though tears blurred her vision, her gaze swept the confines of the interior, as much as she could see through the open door, and her breath escaped in a rush when she spotted Captains Ames and Falstead.
Cory Ames, tearstains cutting through the dirt on his face, sat on a bale of hay and held a rag against the bloody wound on Captain Falstead’s head. The other man didn’t notice. He didn’t stir at all, never even opened his eyes. The more she watched them, the more her heart broke. Captain Falstead was obviously dead.
Beside them, offering what comfort he could, sat Captain Beckett, his normally smiling face devoid of all emotion except sadness.
She couldn’t hear his words, but she could certainly read his gestures and the haunted expression on his face. A moment later, Beckett stiffened as one of the guards approached and leered at them. The guard spoke. Beckett’s face reddened, his eyes squinting as he glared at the guard. The guard kicked both Captain Ames and the man he held in his arms. She sucked in her breath. Beside her, Brenna let out a strangled cry.
The reaction of Captain Beckett to such cruelty was swift. He rose to his feet and grabbed the guard by the collar of his uniform, intention to cause bodily harm clear on his face. He never had a chance to retaliate. The second guard came up behind him and hit him across the back with his rifle. Beckett staggered then fell against a bale of hay.
Captain Bonaventure, sporting an ugly purple bruise on one side of his face, was quick to help Beckett to his feet. The first guard raised his rifle, threatening both men, said one more thing with a sneer of contempt, then kicked Captain Ames one more time before he left the building. He slid the door closed, but not all the way, and not before Shaelyn caught sight of Jock’s bloody face as he crouched to the ground and tried to comfort a visibly grieving Captain Ames. For his efforts, he received a blow to the face from the second guard, though with a fist and thankfully not the rifle, before the man joined his partner outside.
The guards, both young but hardened, lines of cruelty stark on their moonlit faces, stood in front of the door, laughing as they threaded a heavy chain through the door handles and locked it, leaving a gap. One guard—Shaelyn designated him “the copperhead” because his hair gleamed copper in the moonlight—pulled a silver flask from his pocket, took a long swig, then offered it to his partner. With a big grin, the other guard tipped the container to his lips and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve before handing the flask back to the first man. They separated then and wandered toward opposite ends of the stable, where they turned the corner to disappear into the darkness.
“We’ve got to get these men out of here,” Shaelyn whispered as she turned around to face her mother, but Brenna wasn’t beside her.
Panic struck, making her entire body tremble. A strangled cry built in her chest. Where had her mother gone?
“Mama!” Her harsh whisper sounded loud in the dark, even above the sound of the moaning men. She saw the slim figure of her mother then, her uniform seeming black in the moonlight as she moved quickly toward the space where the stable doors remained open a bit. She didn’t hesitate at all before she hunkered down and squeezed herself between the gap and slipped inside. The top of her cap set the chain and lock swinging, but thankfully, no noise issued forth to alert anyone.
Shaelyn had no choice. She stood, keeping to the shadows behind the Gatling gun, and glanced toward both sides of the stable where the guards had disappeared. She saw neither man, but that didn’t mean they weren’t watching. Taking a deep breath and gathering her courage, she sprinted across the yard and slipped through the doorway the same as her mother had.
The smell hit her immediately. Unwashed bodies, sweat, and blood. Rotted food. Damp wool. Despair. Death.
She nearly gagged, then forced herself to breathe through her mouth. She threaded her way between the soldiers to where her mother sat beside her Scotsman, doing her best to clean his wounds with a lace-edged handkerchief, as Captain Bonaventure did his best to comfort Captain Ames, whose arms were now empty of his friend and fellow officer. Captain Beckett was nowhere to be seen, and she wondered where he’d gone before she dropped to her knees in front of the small group of men.
Jock shook his head at her, his mouth twisting into a frown of disapproval, and yet she could tell by the gleam in his eyes he was glad to see her. “Ach, lassie, what are ye doin’ here?”
Shaelyn shrugged. “I had to come.”
“And why am I not surprised?” he asked. “I am surprised by this one.” He nodded toward Brenna. “Thought I’d died and gone to heaven when I saw her face under that cap. Even a private’s uniform can’t hide her beauty.” He grunted as Brenna pressed the now bloody handkerchief against his wound. “Ye, I expect to find trouble. It’s yer nature, but Brenna? I thought she’d have more sense.”
“Hush now, Jock,” Brenna murmured as she continued dabbing at the blood that wouldn’t stop flowing from the cut on his head. “I think you need stitches.”
As if he didn’t hear her, he said to Shaelyn, “That bastard Davenport took Remy to the house.”
“I know.”
“Damned son of a bitch.” Anger made his brogue heavier and in the moonlight, his features were hard as if carved from granite. “Never liked that man. He always seemed so arrogant, like he was too good for everyone.” He pounded his thigh with his fist and then drew in a deep breath. “We’ll have to get him out of there. I’ve no doubt Daven
port plans to kill him.”
Shaelyn nodded as she struggled to keep her emotions under control. It wouldn’t do to become angry or hysterical. Thankfully, she’d never been one of those women who suffered from the vapors. She had to keep a level head on her shoulders and think. She already knew she’d have to help Remy and these men escape, but how?
Though only two guards patrolled the outside of the stable, she knew there were more. A lot more. The little derringer hidden in her boot wouldn’t be much good against the rifles the guards carried. It was designed for one shot and would only succeed in drawing attention to her if she should shoot it.
“I can help with whatever you’re planning. I’m not injured,” Captain Beckett said as he joined them. “And I haven’t been here as long as some of the others.”
His meaning was clear. The other men, deprived of good food and exercise for so long, were in no shape to help. Even if the desire was there.
“I need to show you something.” He helped her to her feet then moved toward the back of the building, directing her to several bales of hay that had been piled atop one another, forming a wall. Perhaps the guards thought the bales were pushed against the side of the stable, like she did at first, but they weren’t. It wasn’t until she followed Beckett to a space about two feet wide behind the straw barrier that she saw why they were there.
Beckett grinned at her. “I’ve been planning an escape,” he whispered, “but the opportunity had not presented itself. Until now.” Shaelyn followed his eyes as he glanced over the bales of hay at the men crowding the structure. A concerned expression came over his face when he focused on Cory Ames, who now seemed lost and so alone without Captain Falstead in his arms. “Truthfully, I couldn’t leave without them, and Cory refused to leave without Aaron, so I put my plans on hold.” Beckett returned his attention to her, his voice still low, his eyes shining with moisture. “I don’t think I could have lived with myself if I survived, but they didn’t. I’ve already lost too much.” He took a deep breath, blinked several times in quick succession, then seemed to get control of himself.
Mischief and Magnolias Page 23
