Jonathan reacted with surprising anger. “I won’t be put off with some pointless detail.”
This time, it was the general who rose to his feet. He leaned over his desk to level an icy gaze at the junior officer. “You’ll be writing letters of condolence to the ambushed soldiers’ families. And if you find that pointless, you can go to hell.”
Ben thought about those letters, thought about the lives that they would shatter with their news. Did Charlotte imagine that her Southern grief was more painful or more sacred than a Northern daughter’s? Did she even understand her actions had spilled blood?
Before this week had ended, Ben vowed he would find Charlotte Randolph and show the conniving bitch the harvest she had reaped.
Later that evening, Ben visited the kitchen in the hope of finding strong black coffee. Maybe it would clear his head enough so he could plan his next move.
After this afternoon’s meeting, he had first checked with McMahon to determine if the lieutenant had made any progress. McMahon’s investigation, which focused on canvassing the area for anyone who might have witnessed Charlotte and her brother leaving, continued to be unsuccessful. Ben was not surprised. Like Jonathan Snyder, Delaney McMahon had been operating under the theory that someone had forcibly taken the two Randolphs. His desperation tainted his judgment, just as his and his men’s blue uniforms lessened the chance that a bystander would willingly cooperate with them.
When he lit the gaslight, Ben discovered the kitchen clean and the coffee urn dry. He went to the icebox instead, where he found lemonade. Charlotte’s favorite, he remembered from their meals together, and the thought twisted uncomfortably inside him. Nonetheless, he poured himself a glass, then chipped a chunk from the ice cake in the chest’s top and dropped it into the cool liquid.
He sat down beside the kitchen table and propped his left leg on another chair. Thanks to an afternoon spent walking this neighborhood, his stump throbbed miserably. He’d interviewed a number of neighbors and their “servants,” as most euphemistically called their slaves, for some clue to Charlotte’s and Alexander’s whereabouts. A few had seemed evasive, but most appeared genuine in their claims that they had no idea where the missing Randolphs might have fled.
He sipped the lemonade and made a face, then waited for the melting ice to dilute its tart sweetness.
Mrs. Martin, as expected, had been the exception to the rule. She recalled that Franklin Randolph had a brother, and that he and his family occasionally visited, but she had no idea where they lived. She did think, however, that they owned a farm of some sort. She’d remarked that in the summer, they sometimes brought bushels of fresh peaches to their Memphis relations, which the family often shared with other neighbors. Not surprisingly, none of the neighbors admitted to receiving fruit, and one or two had insinuated that Mrs. Martin’s word could not be trusted.
Even so, Ben realized that the uncle the old woman mentioned must be the same man Charlotte claimed had struck her. Likely that had been another lie. Tomorrow, he would focus on tracking down this uncle and his family. Only he would wear a civilian suit of clothes to search.
Perhaps his Texan accent and the lack of a Union uniform would convince the citizens of Memphis to supply the answers he needed. He only hoped that when he found Charlotte, he could find a way to cut her from the shelter of her rebel family the way he’d once cut cattle from the herd.
Monday, June 30, 1862
“When will Michael come to get us?” Alexander asked again. His question resonated in the nearly empty house.
Charlotte wondered again where Aunt Lila had secreted the missing furnishings. She’d left behind little more than an old sofa and an older child’s bed and washstand. Certainly, she could not have hauled the remainder to Mississippi with her children.
“I told you, I don’t know,” Charlotte said impatiently. She’d been searching the kitchen for any food that she might have missed earlier. When she turned away from the empty pantry to look at Alexander, his damp eyes made her regret her tone of voice.
“I’m certain he’ll come soon,” she added more gently. Hopefully, Michael would appear before the boy could ask again.
Not that she could blame Alexander. The big brick colonial, which normally echoed with the voices of her four young cousins and her aunt, seemed tomblike in their absence. The barnyard, which usually fascinated Alexander, was desolate as a wasteland without its animal contingent. And even if Alexander had wished to explore with Honeybee, a misty rain had set in, graying the skies and soaking into the rich soil.
She wrapped her arms around the boy and felt the stiffness of his shoulders, his rigid immobility.
“I’m scared the bad men will be coming,” he told her at last. “I don’t want to sleep here anymore.”
“It’s raining again,” Charlotte reassured him. “They won’t want to go outside and get wet. Besides, it will be dark soon. They won’t come in the night.”
She wished she could believe it, but she was nearly certain that those who had broken into the house before they’d come were soldiers looking, just as she was, for shelter and something to eat. The signs of them were everywhere: in the cracked back door and shattered windows, in the spilled meal between the kitchen’s floorboards, and the empty corncrib beside the barn. Many of the peach trees had been hacked apart, too. Had the vandals been desperate for the sweet gold fruit and firewood, or had they come here only to destroy? More importantly, would they come back to escape the rain?
She mustn’t think that, Charlotte told herself. Surely by now Ida April must have gotten word to Michael that she had left home. Michael would guess where she had gone with Alexander. She felt a rush of anger and impatience; why hadn’t her brother come yet?
Like a swallow gliding through the gloom, the idea occurred that perhaps Michael couldn’t come, that perhaps, like Papa, he was dead. She shoved aside the thought, telling herself it was unthinkable, impossible for one family to lose two members in such a brief span.
“I’m hungry,” Alexander whined.
She nodded, grateful for the distraction. “There are peaches still. I’ll get some more, and I’ll look around the barn to see if one of those cagey chickens left an egg somewhere.”
They’d seen two or three of the fugitives scratching about earlier, but the hens had been too quick to catch. She wondered if she might be luckier if she surprised one.
“Can I come, too?” the child asked.
She shook her head. Alexander and his dog would make noise enough to scare the chickens halfway to Arkansas.
“Stay here and help Honeybee be brave,” she suggested. The huge pup whined and trembled at each low growl of thunder.
He nodded. “All right, but don’t leave us here too long.”
As she stepped outside, the rain redoubled its efforts, as if it were intent on soaking through the layers of her clothing. By the time it lessened a few minutes later, Charlotte felt as if she carried ten extra pounds in water.
She gathered peaches, wishing they were eggs instead, or better yet, potatoes. After spending the last few days existing on the fruit and a few carrots they’d recovered from the ravaged garden, she’d be grateful never to see a peach again. Two days ago, she would never have considered butchering and preparing a chicken with her own hands, but now she was hungry enough to wring one’s neck and clean it, as she’d seen Mama Ruth do on numerous occasions.
The chickens apparently sensed her desperation. Though she cornered one inside the barn, it flew to the rafters to escape her.
Muttering curses at Michael and his powers of persuasion, Charlotte closed the heavy doors. After lighting a lantern and hanging it on its customary hook, she glared up at the white hen. “You’ll have to come down sometime, and when you do, I’ll be waiting!”
From a nearby stall, Zephyr nickered hopefully. Charlotte wished she could turn out the mare to graze, but she didn’t want anyone riding nearby to guess that she was here. For the same reason, she hadn’t l
it the fireplace inside.
But when she finally caught that chicken, she planned on making an exception. To distract herself from dreaming of a dozen ways to prepare poultry, Charlotte climbed to the hayloft and gathered up stray wisps for the horse. When she finally managed an armload, she descended and fed the mare her meager portion, then turned to see the white hen pecking near the door.
With stealth that would make Polly proud, Charlotte edged closer to the chicken. Knees bent and arms outstretched, she took another step and one more, then waited patiently as the hen pecked to within two yards. As Charlotte prepared to spring, one part of her wondered that a Randolph had come to this. The greater part, however, wished for flour to make dumplings.
The barn door opened and the hen flew through the gap. Shrieking in frustration, Charlotte prepared herself to order Alexander back inside the house. But the figure silhouetted in the opening was far too tall to be a child. She experienced a moment’s exhilaration at the thought that this man, dressed in the plain shirt and trousers of a tradesman, must be Michael, come to rescue her and Alexander. But her relief evaporated when she saw that her “savior” held a cane.
o0o
The light inside the barn was dimmer, so Ben could not make out the woman’s features. Her cry, however, left little doubt of her identity.
Before he could order her to halt, Charlotte attempted to push the door wide to bolt past him. He reached to block her, and she collided with his outstretched arm. The impact was enough to send both of them crashing to the ground. He felt his shoulder plow into her ribs as they landed and heard the sharp explosion of air through her mouth.
As he struggled to his hands and knees, he saw her reddened face and frightened eyes.
“Breathe,” he hissed, realizing he had knocked the wind from her.
As if prompted by his command, she inhaled, then coughed until he thought that she might vomit. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and he felt a stab of fear that he had hurt her badly. Had a rib punctured her lung?
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She groaned and brought a hand up to her mouth. “Ah-h-h. Split my lip. It hurts.”
He brushed at the bits of straw that clung to his wet frock coat. “It serves you right.”
She blinked at him through a half-curtain of damp hair, and he could almost see her mind racing to assess the anger in his voice and churn out another plan to manipulate his feelings. It damned well wasn’t going to work this time.
Apparently, she settled on a pretense of ignorance. “Why – why did you jump on me?”
“Don’t play the fool, Charlotte. You meant to run away, just like you ran away from Memphis. Why?”
She closed her eyes, and he struggled to ignore the pain in her expression. It might only be an act, he told himself. Nevertheless, he took out a clean handkerchief and dabbed the drops of scarlet from her chin. Better to remove the distraction.
Her eyelids slid open. “Ever since Father died, it’s felt wrong for me to stay there with all of you. For a while, I pretended I could fit in, that Alexander and I were safer at home than anywhere, but Thursday convinced me I was wrong.”
“Because I came too close to the truth,” he accused her.
She shook her head. “Because you proved you’d never trust us, and because I saw what it was doing to Alexander.”
“Those aren’t the only reasons and you know it. You’re heaping lies on lies. For one thing, why on earth would you flee to your uncle’s home?” Ben had already looked around the farm enough to come to the conclusion that it had been abandoned. “You told us the man hit you. Did you really believe he’d welcome you after you spent the past few weeks among the enemy?”
“He might have struck me, and he certainly would have shouted, but after all’s considered, he’s still family. Besides, where else could I go?”
Her expression, so vulnerable and frightened, reminded him of the first time he had seen her, his initial, foolish impulse to protect what he’d believed to be an innocent young woman. Again, he fought the weapons of her girl’s face, her woman’s body, aware that his desire had not ebbed a bit.
“So where is this family of yours?” Ben asked.
“I wish I knew. I suppose they must have left to avoid marauding soldiers. They’d been having quite a bit of trouble, but I was hoping they’d return soon.”
“And where’s Alexander?” He grabbed his cane and stood.
“In the house with that monstrosity you bought him,” she said.
Ben recalled the simple joy he’d found in those few days of truce, days he now saw as tiny islands in a river. He wished he’d known how quickly they would crumble among the currents of her subterfuge.
When he reached down, she hesitated before accepting his assistance.
“Alexander and I have been waiting,” Charlotte continued as she climbed to her feet, “hoping they’d come back. There’s no food to speak of, so I was trying to catch that hen.”
Ben cursed himself. The idea of Charlotte – the same Charlotte who had lived inside the lavish Randolph mansion - hungry enough to stalk a chicken made him want to cook the woman and the boy a filling meal. But he reminded himself that seven men would never eat again because of her. The thought recalled his vow to make her understand that.
A thunderclap heralded another cloudburst.
“I’m going to bring my horse inside and tend him,” Ben said. “Don’t move one step from where you’re standing.”
His order sounded harsh, even to his ears. But it was better this way, better that he draw the line between them now, before sympathy for both Charlotte and the child overwhelmed him.
Charlotte dropped the pretense of innocence to place her hand on her hip and glare at him. “I’ve never taken kindly to demands. And I assure you, today is no exception.”
She attempted to brush past him on her way to the door.
o0o
Alexander swept aside his soldiers. He was sick of playing, just as he was tired of waiting for his brother to come get them.
The boy’s stomach growled again. Where was Charlotte? He peered out the kitchen window in the hope that he would see her coming with something good to eat.
The rain made it hard to see, so he opened the back door and stuck out his head. The puppy darted past him and out into the yard.
“Honeybee!” he shouted as he followed her outside.
Instead of coming to him, the dog dashed barking toward the barn.
Alexander stared after his puppy and thought about how Charlotte had told him to wait inside. But it was starting to get dark, and he didn’t want to leave the pup out here alone. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed.
Still barking, Honeybee squeezed between the partially open barn doors. As Alexander ran after her, he heard the rumble of a male voice, and he grinned in recognition.
“Captain Ben!” he cried.
He ran inside the barn and skidded to a stop. Charlotte stood before the Yankee, her elbow bent in a way that looked like it might hurt. The captain had his hand clamped around her wrist, and both of were staring at the other’s face, looking mad as two cats in a washtub. At the sight of them, Alexander’s joy knotted into apprehension.
The captain looked toward him and let go of Charlotte’s arm, then pushed away Honeybee, who had been jumping up against his legs and wriggling a welcome. He didn’t smile and say hello the way he usually did. He didn’t say anything at all.
Alexander wondered if the captain was mad at Charlotte because he’d found out she’d told the red-haired lieutenant that she would marry him. Alexander felt like crying. He couldn’t stand the thought that Captain Chandler might stop being his friend, too, over something that wasn’t even true.
“She didn’t really mean it!” Alexander yelled. “It was just a trick!”
“Alexander Joseph Randolph!” Charlotte shouted.
Alexander cringed. When Charlotte said his middle name like that, he knew he was in t
rouble.
Captain Chandler took a step toward him. “She didn’t really mean what?”
Alexander pressed his lips together and shook his head. Saying more would only get him in more trouble.
The Yankee captain looked from him to Charlotte before sighing. “You’ve trained him well, Charlotte. Soon, he’ll be as good a liar as you are.”
Honeybee peered between the slats of a stall, and a dark gray horse shuffled nervously. It was still saddled, and it dripped rainwater, just as did the rest of them.
“Let me tend to Lobo here, and then we’ll take these saddlebags inside,” Ben told them. “I’m sure Tillie packed enough food for the three of us.”
The knot in Alexander’s stomach loosened just a little at the thought of eating something beside peaches. Maybe Charlotte and Captain Chandler would stop being mad, too, once Ben unpacked whatever good things Miss Tillie had sent with him.
And once they sat to share the dinner . . . just as if the three of them were a real family. Alexander crossed his fingers on both hands and stuffed them in his pockets. His sister’s and the captain’s frowning faces had convinced him they would need every bit of luck that they could get.
Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.
-The Holy Bible,
Proverbs 5:5
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
For the sake of Alexander, they pretended, sharing a civilized meal picnic-style on a braided oval rug. While Alexander ate and chattered away about his puppy, Charlotte choked down a few mouthfuls of the ham and biscuit Ben had offered. Fear had obliterated her appetite from the first moment she had seen the Yankee captain in the barn.
Ben chewed and swallowed his food mechanically. Occasionally, he responded to the boy with a word or a smile that failed to warm the graveness in his face. Mostly, he watched Charlotte with a gaze that made her feel as if someone had hollowed out her chest with a dull spoon. The longer he stared, the harder she found it to disguise her fear.
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