At the time, Luther recalled they'd had no choice but to take him along. It was apparent the soldier knew about the planned escape and had stationed himself in a position where he would be right in the middle of it all. He could have sounded an alarm that would have blown the whole scheme, but he hadn't. Instead he begged to go along, or rather demanded that he be allowed to participate. There had been no time to argue, and it was quickly agreed that he could be a part of things.
And Luther remembered the soldier's name now: Thomas Carrigan.
Julie saw the tremor go through him. "Are you cold?" she asked at once. "I do hope you aren't coming down with the fever. You drive yourself so, Luther. You never get enough rest. I wish you would let me help you in some way."
He looked at her lovely face, the way her silky black hair fell in soft ringlets, dark lashes framing beautiful eyes, her brows knit together with concern for him. "I'm fine," he said quietly, wishing for the hundredth, no, the thousandth, time that he could fold her into his arms.
And he also wished he could tell her that she had no cause to worry about her brother, not now that he knew her cousin was with him. But he could not tell her that, any more than he could confess his love for her. He had to keep silent, not only because of his loyalty to the North, but because he feared she would leave, and he would never see her again.
Daylight was turning to dusk. Luther knew it was time to be thinking about bedding down for the night. It would be his first experience sleeping so close to her without Veston around, and he was starting to feel edgy about it. Could he keep his emotions in check? Dear Lord, he wanted her with everything in him that made him a man, and just thinking about it made his manhood swell. He kept turning away so she would not see it. He couldn't do a fool thing like make an advance toward her. Hell, she'd never believe it was because he loved her and wanted to consummate that love the only way he knew how. No, she would think that was all he wanted from her, because he regarded her in as low a light as Veston and Fox. He'd die rather than have her believe such a thing.
So it was with a feeling of relief that he heard horses approaching. Perhaps Reb soldiers were coming to camp nearby, and his temptation would lessen.
But he frowned as he recognized Veston's brown stallion galloping toward them, and he felt a sinking sensation when he realized Fox was with him. When they got closer, he could make out the grim, set expressions on their faces. He sensed trouble.
"Oh, no, not both of them," Julie cried, her hand moving to her throat as she took a step backwards. "I can't bear being around the two of them—"
Luther fleetingly wondered why she always retreated alone when she was frightened, never coming toward him.
He had tried to let her know he was there should she need him... but she always retreated within herself.
Then he thought of the times he had heard her cry out in her sleep—one word... one name... Derek. He wondered if that was the only man in whose arms she could find solace from the world that had treated her so cruelly.
But there was no more time for wondering about anything except the moment at hand, because Fox and Waters were reining in their horses and dismounting. "That information you got last night was worthless," Fox snapped at Julie immediately. "Everyone has a good idea of where the damn Rebs are encamped. You haven't been of any use to me on the road. I've decided you're coming to Richmond."
Her eyes widened, and she retreated even further. "But why? What will you do with me there?"
"Set you up in a bawdy house, what else?" he smirked. "Maybe there you can be of some use to me. I've coddled you long enough. No more spiked drinks. You're going to really work for the Union now, whether you like it or not."
Wildly she shook her head. "I can't! I won't!"
"Oh, yes, you will," he said absently, then turned to Luther, "As for you, Veston tells me you're becoming quite a troublemaker. I'm going to be watching you, and if you don't straighten up, you'll find yourself back on the battlefield."
Luther stood his ground, brown eyes flashing as he replied snappily, "I'm not making any trouble. I'm just trying to protect Julie as much as possible from the hell you're putting her through. She doesn't deserve it—"
"That's not for you to say! I'm your commanding officer, and you'll follow orders. I can have Veston shoot you down this very second, if I give the word."
Luther shot a glance at Veston. Sure enough, the man had his gun trained right on him, a sneering grin on his face.
"You're a good soldier, or I wouldn't put up with you," Fox said. "Just don't let your heart rule your head. This is war, and none of us like it, but we've got to do the best we can."
A nerve twitched in Luther's jaw as he looked from the pointed gun to Fox's triumphant face. He knew Veston would kill him without so much as batting an eye. Luther was treading on dangerous ground, and while he would give his life for Julie without hesitation, she would be at the mercy of these scoundrels if he were in his grave. He'd be of no use to her dead. "All right," he said finally, hating the way Fox's eyes gleamed at his concession. "I'll go along with you, but nobody touches her. I intend to see that anybody you send to her is drugged. I haven't touched her that way, no matter what either of you think," he added.
Fox shrugged, exchanged a look of amusement with Veston. "Makes no difference to me whether you've bedded her or not. Now we've got to be on our way. We're apt to arouse suspicion standing by the roadside this way."
Suddenly Julie rushed forward. "I'm not going anywhere with you," she cried. "Not till you take me to Myles and let me see for myself that he's all right. I have to know...." She was fighting tears, fighting to keep the man she despised from knowing he could reduce her to complete humility.
Fox looked at her, the play of a smile on his lips. "Well, now, Julie, I don't have any intention of doing that, and you're in no position to bargain. You will do as you are told."
She stamped her foot, fists clenched as she yelled, "But why won't you let me see Myles? Why won't you let me see for myself that he's all right?"
"Because—" Fox bellowed, eyes bulging with such anger and fury that even Luther retreated a few steps, "your brother is dead! But you're still working for me, and I—"
"Dead!" The word was a heart-shattering moan as her face contorted in agony. "No... you're lying... he can't be... oh, God, he can't be—" Lifting her skirts, she turned and ran toward the stream to fling herself upon the mossy bank, her body shuddering with sobs of grief that penetrated to the very core of her soul.
"It isn't my fault," he called after her, still defiant and belligerent. "Blame the goddamn Rebels. He was too far gone when we rescued him. Be glad you have a chance to avenge his death!"
Luther turned to go after her to give her what comfort he could, for his heart was grieved at the sight of her lying there, her world crumbled and crushed about her. But Fox reached out and wrapped steely fingers about his arm, yanking him back. "Let her go," he whispered harshly. "She's got to get it out of her. She needs to be alone right now."
"Did you have to tell her like that?" Luther said hoarsely. "Did you have to be so goddamn blunt about it?" He did not care at the moment how deeply he angered his commanding officer.
Fox pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully. "Yes. It was the only way. She must go with me to Richmond, and I want her to be a good spy for the North. She is by far the most beautiful woman I have working for me, and if she cared for her brother the way she seems to have, this will make her my most devoted worker. She should hate the Rebels for what they did."
"How long have you known?" Luther demanded. "How long have you let her go on thinking she was doing all this to keep her brother alive?" Once more he was fighting for control, wanting to throw himself upon this bastard and choke the life from him. But Veston still had a gun pointed at him, he knew, so he was helpless.
"I just found out a few days ago." Fox spoke gently, as though sympathizing with his concern. "I finally received a message from the mountain hide-out. Ke
lso and Satch showed up... alone. Everyone else had deserted. They said Marshal died. He was too weak to make the trip. I was afraid of that."
Something did not add up, and Luther stood silently, listening to Julie's heart-wrenching sobs. Finally he knew he had to ask: "What about that Reb soldier who deserted his post at Libby to go with us? I think his name was Carrigan." He tried to keep his voice even, not wanting to arouse suspicion.
"The message I received was that everyone deserted except Satch and Kelso. I'm not surprised. But why do you ask about this fellow Carrigan?"
"No reason," Luther lied, turning away. "I think I'll get the horses hitched up. We can't just let Julie lay there on the ground and cry all night, can we?"
Fox's voice filtered through Luther's roaring brain as he moved toward the horses. "I'll get more use out of her than I ever anticipated. When she gets over her shock and grief, she's going to be the most cunning spy in Richmond. Heaven help the Rebs who fall into her web." He and Veston shared laughter, but Luther kept his back turned. He did not want to give his thoughts away, and he knew without a doubt that Carrigan would never have deserted unless Myles died first, and Luther had the feeling that Carrigan had done everything in his power to keep his cousin alive. If Myles and Carrigan had escaped, Kelso and Satch wouldn't have been stupid enough to admit they'd let such a thing happen.
Luther's eyes went to Julie, still huddled on the bank, sobs ripping through her body. He could not tell her of his thoughts, either, because he had no real basis for his belief that maybe, just maybe, her beloved brother was still alive... along with their cousin.
For the moment, he would do everything in his power to keep her from suffering any more than absolutely necessary—and that was all he could do. A feeling deep in his gut told him he had a formidable task before him.
Chapter 28
Derek sat at the splintery wood table in the shadows of one of Wilmington's crudest waterfront saloons. His head nodded slightly from too much to drink, too little sleep. He had sat back and watched two brawls. In one, a seaman had gotten his throat slit from ear to ear. No one had bothered to sop up the thick pools of blood where his body lay for perhaps an hour before it was finally dragged outside.
How long had he been there? Hell, he didn't know. Didn't care, for that matter. He was tired. He wanted to be left alone. The last whore that had wagged her tail at him had been chased off by a string of obscenities, so the word had spread. No one was bothering him, and that was just the way he wanted it.
The bottle of rum before him was empty. Derek shouted into the din of arguing voices and laughter in the direction of the bartender, but the man did not look up. Derek picked up his bottle and sent it sailing through the air, and when it crashed against the wall, the bartender got his message. He came hurrying over with another bottle, reaching out to set it on the table, straining, not wanting to get too close, then backed away quickly.
Derek pulled out the cork and lifted the bottle to his lips, laughing. Everything was getting blurry. No matter. Nothing mattered. Not anymore.
He looked back over the past months and wondered drunkenly why he was even alive. Returning to Richmond to find Julie had taken off without him had been quite a blow. Then, when he learned her brother had been broken out of the Black Hole, it hadn't taken much to figure out what happened. She had guile, and she obviously knew how to wrap men around her dainty little finger and make them dance to her tune. Took off with a Confederate major, that's what he'd managed to get out of Opal.
He stared down into the amber liquid of the bottle. It wasn't amber at all. It was green... green like the murky depths of the ocean... green like those damned eyes that turned his heart inside out, and he hated admitting it... green... Julie's beautiful green eyes. His head lolled forward, and he felt sick.
Her body. God, how he'd loved possessing her, touching every inch of that smooth silky skin with his tongue and lips. Perfection. Beauty. Charm. She had it all, and he'd been a fool to let her get under his skin. But no more!
His sharp laugh caused the two men sitting at a nearby table to look at him curiously, but a sharp glare from Derek's glittering black eyes made them return to their own affairs. No one wanted a quarrel with him this night. Hell, no. Pity the poor fool who dared cross his path.
If he hadn't gotten involved in the attempt to rout the Yankees from New Bern, North Carolina, maybe he would have gotten back to Richmond in time. But he was first of all, he reminded himself as he had done then, a seaman. He had been summoned by Commander John Taylor Wood himself, an aide to President Davis, and told about the plan.
General Lee had written President Davis early in January that it was time for an attempt to be made to capture the enemy's forces at New Bern, that it had to be done. There were a lot of provisions and supplies there that were needed by the Confederate Army, and Lee also wanted that part of the country to be accessible. It had been under Yankee control too long, he said.
Commander Wood told Derek about how the President approved of Lee's plan and suggested he take command of the operation himself, but Lee was hesitant about it and said he thought Robert F. Hoke of North Carolina was the man for the job. Davis didn't think so. Hoke was only a brigadier general, and he felt an officer of higher rank was needed to take on such a big campaign. So Major General George E. Pickett was selected, and then President Davis chose his own aide, Commander Wood, to command the cooperating naval force.
And Wood had called in Derek when he heard he was in Wilmington, and asked him to go along. Derek could not find it in himself to refuse, and he also figured the whole operation wouldn't delay his return to Richmond by more than a few days; at the most, a week.
Derek took another drink from the bottle. It was so clear to him now, that morning of January thirtieth, when about thirteen thousand men and seven navy cutters were concentrated in Kingston, moving in the direction of New Bern. General S. M. Barton, commanding one of the divisions, was directed to cross the Trent River near Trenton, moving along the south side to Brice's Creek below New Bern. After crossing the creek, he was to take the forts along the Neuse River and go into New Bern by way of the railroad bridge.
Colonel James Dealing's cavalry was given the task of capturing Fort Anderson, situated north of New Bern. General Pickett, with Hoke's brigade and the remainder of the force, planned to advance from the west along the Dover Road. The simultaneous attack by all three columns on the defenses of New Bern was planned for that Monday morning, February first, 1864.
Commander Wood had been ordered to engage the gunboats at New Bern, then to cooperate with the land forces in their attack on the city.
So, carrying out the plan, General Pickett drove in the Federal outpost at Batchelder's Creek. Then, after crossing the stream about ten miles west of the target city, he moved his command to within a mile of it and stopped to wait for the sound of General Barton's guns from the other side of the Trent River.
And he had waited all day in vain, Derek recalled sadly, because on Tuesday, General Barton sent word that the works at Brice's Creek were too strong to attack, that he'd made no advance and did not intend to.
Then Colonel Dearing, who was supposed to capture Fort Anderson, reported he had found the Federal fortifications on his front much too powerful to storm.
So, faced with the certain failure of two of his columns, General Pickett withdrew his forces and his plan to attack New Bern.
At least, Derek smiled with satisfaction, Commander Wood's naval operations had not been a complete loss. In fact, he felt mighty damn proud to have been hand-picked by this daring officer to take part in his venturesome plan. They had dropped down the Neuse River from Kingston and slipped on board the Federal steamer Underwriter, which was anchored at New Bern.
Oh, it had been a bitter hand-to-hand fight with the ship's crew, all right. Derek lost count of the number of men he personally sent to their graves, and he himself had taken a knife's blade in his lower ribs, which still pained him. And th
e patch he wore over his right eye was the result of the blow from a gun butt. A doctor had told him to wear the patch to rest the eye, for he had received a serious injury there. In time, he had been told, it would, he hoped, heal.
But they had won the battle, by God, and they were making preparations to move the Underwriter when they realized there wasn't enough steam in the boilers to get underway. Things were complicated by harassing fire from a nearby fort, so Commander Wood said there was nothing to do but burn their "prize" and head for home. Which they had done. Even though the captured ship had to be destroyed, the fact that it was captured had been the only good thing to come out of the ill-fated expedition.
By the time Derek got his affairs in order, rounded up the men and money he needed, and returned to Richmond, Julie was gone.
Commander Wood had tried to talk him into going back to the sea, but for some reason he could not explain, even to himself, Derek did not want to take on a ship again. He did not want to attempt to run the Federal blockade any longer.
And he hated himself for the strange feelings that flowed through his body. Dammit, the blasted war was exploding, and he was needed, and he believed in the southern cause. So why was he turning into a sot? Each night he tried to find the answer to his misery in the amber liquid of the bottle, but his days were wretched, for he was filled with self-loathing and contempt.
Derek's fingers gripped the bottle, and had he not felt the contents sloshing in it and realized foggily that he would be wasting over half his rum, he would have sent it, too, smashing against the wall in frustration.
He felt the two men staring at him again. And he didn't like it. He was bigger and stronger than most men, and he shied away from fighting, proud of the fact that his ominous figure usually caused a would-be rowdy to back away. But now he was drunk, and those two had been sneaking glances in his direction all evening.
This Rebel Heart Page 39
