Innocent Deceptions

by Gwyneth Atlee

  “But you’ll come, won’t you, Charlotte?” Alexander asked.

  “As soon as possible,” she reassured him.

  “Will I get to bring Honeybee?”

  “Of course you can bring Honeybee. I’ll help you gather a few of your favorite toys and clothes, and --”

  His green eyes glistened with excitement. “Will I get to ride a horse there? Will I camp out with Captain Chandler?”

  He doesn’t understand, Charlotte told herself. He can’t comprehend what this will mean. But it was better this way, wasn’t it? Less painful for him to see this as some grand adventure instead of yet another upheaval in his life.

  “I’m sure you’ll get to camp lots,” Charlotte told him, “and Captain Chandler’s buying you a horse.”

  After that revelation, Alexander could speak of nothing else. As the two of them gathered his belongings, he fairly vibrated with impatience.

  Charlotte managed to restrain her feelings . . . until Ben came upstairs.

  “Do you have my horse yet?” Alexander erupted the moment Ben appeared. “What’s it like? Where is it?”

  Ben smiled at him. “You’ll love Gold Dust. He’s such a stouthearted fellow, even a general would be proud to ride him.”

  “Can I see him now?” Alexander turned his eager face toward Charlotte. “Please, can I?”

  Ben picked up the carpetbag Charlotte had packed. “Don’t you need to say goodbye to someone first?” he asked the boy.

  Alexander threw himself into Charlotte’s arms, but his kiss was hurried, his embrace impatient.

  Better this way, Charlotte told herself once more as she hugged him tight against her. But over the child’s head, her gaze sought Ben’s, and the sympathy in his eyes broke down her barriers. She managed to silence her sobs, but her tears could not be hidden.

  As he pulled away from her, Alexander looked into her face and frowned. Then he picked up his wheeled horse from the bed and offered it to her.

  “You keep this one, Charlotte,” he said. “I have a real horse now.”

  She clutched the wooden horse, the one he’d slept with for so many years, against her chest. She ought to give it back to him for the journey, but somehow she could not. Finally, she nodded. “Thank you, Alexander. I’ll bring it when I come.”

  There was more to survive. A brief discussion and a last embrace with Ben, another with her son.

  “Remember what I promised,” Ben said. “I will find a way.”

  Finally, they went outside to see Alexander’s horse and prepare to take their leave. Charlotte sat in her rocking chair, her knitting needles trembling in her idle hands. Outside her window, through some trick of the late afternoon air currents, a dragonfly hung quivering, its iridescent wings vibrating so swiftly that they appeared almost motionless.

  As she observed the insect, she wondered if it had been ten minutes or an hour since Ben and Alexander had gone to the stable. Her misery knew no time.

  The dragonfly coasted downward on a breeze; its flight pulled her gaze toward movement in the yard below. Alexander and Ben walked their saddled mounts into the backyard from the stable. The mastiff puppy wagged her tail as she trotted beside the two of them.

  Charlotte could scarcely breathe as she watched from the window. Would Lieutenant Snyder return from wherever he had gone? Or would someone else discover Ben was taking Alexander and realize that the act was meant to blunt the force of General Armsworthy’s ultimatum? If Ben were caught, he would find himself in trouble far too serious to assuage with a resignation. And Alexander would remain a hostage to Lieutenant Snyder’s threats.

  Instead of the soldiers Charlotte half expected to see, Tillie rushed into the yard.

  “You seen the genr’l? I can’t find him nowhere.”

  The panic in the woman’s voice carried upward, dislodging Charlotte – at least for the moment, from her grief.

  “I thought he was resting in his room. Did you ask the lieutenants?”

  Tillie’s head wagged. “Ain’t seen Snyder since breakfast, and McMahon says he never saw the general leave.”

  As Ben and Tillie closed the gap between them, Charlotte could no longer hear their conversation. Ben tied the horses and returned Tillie back to the house.

  Alexander must have felt Charlotte’s stare, for he looked up and saw her standing in the window. Grinning, he waved broadly. “Look at my horse, Charlotte! Ain’t he some kind of beauty?”

  So much for Ben slipping away with him before any of the others guessed what he was doing. The entire neighborhood had probably heard Alexander’s shout.

  Charlotte scarcely cared, she was so grateful that he spoke to her. “Looks like a real champion to me,” she called.

  The animal, with its golden coat and thick, black mane and tail, truly did look like a fine one, but then a rancher would know horses, wouldn’t he? She only hoped that Ben had not spent six months’ wages on the animal; he’d refused to allow her to give him any money.

  The muffled sounds of voices rose from the floor below. Curious, Charlotte turned her attention from the window. Tillie was calling General Branard’s name; moments later, she heard others, probably Ben and Delaney, doing the same. Charlotte heard them moving from room to room. She looked down the stairway as the lock below her turned. The door swung open, and Tillie’s head appeared in the opening.

  “You seen General Branard any time today?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I’ve heard you calling him. Is something wrong?”

  “Don’t know where that old man’s got off to.”

  Tillie’s voice shook, reminding Charlotte that the general’s cook was no youngster either.

  “Please let me know when he comes back,” Charlotte told her. “I’ll say a prayer for his safety.”

  “Can’t have him wanderin’ this city alone,” Tillie muttered. “We gotta find him soon.”

  Charlotte held her breath as the door snicked shut. Might Tillie, in her state, forget to turn the lock? Charlotte felt electrified with possibilities. Tillie was thinking only of the general, not of her. If Charlotte could escape her prison, she might take Zephyr, meet somewhere with Ben and Alexander, and then --

  Her hopes withered with the clicking of the lock, but a flicker of excitement lingered. Charlotte watched at the window as Lieutenant McMahon harnessed a horse to the army wagon General Branard sometimes used. Tillie climbed in beside the lieutenant while Ben spoke with Delaney.

  Charlotte could think of no way to get Ben’s attention without attracting any others. Didn’t he realize what it would mean if Tillie and Delaney left the house? Ben could let her out, and –

  No, she realized. If Ben did that, he would be a fugitive as well, and she would not live with his dishonor among her other burdens. She would have to let Ben and Alexander go, she realized, no matter what it cost her. She swallowed back a sob of disappointment.

  Down in the yard, Ben was talking to Alexander and gesturing toward the house. Alexander was shaking his head, his arms crossed over his chest. Charlotte could guess the reason. Alexander, having seen his new horse, would not be denied his chance to ride it.

  After Tillie and Delaney drove out of the yard, Ben called out to Charlotte, “I need to help find General Branard. Alexander’s coming with me.”

  With some difficulty, Ben and Alexander returned Honeybee to the stable. Then Ben helped the boy into his saddle and took his mount’s reins before climbing aboard his own horse.

  Oblivious to the seriousness of the general’s situation, Alexander grinned and waved at Charlotte from atop his horse.

  Ben, too, looked up at her. “We’ll be back soon,” he said.

  She nodded to show she understood.

  But the moment the two rode from her sight, she ran down the stairs to test the door’s strength. As she pushed it, it gave slightly along the hinges, as if their screws were loose. Was it possible, if she worked quickly, that the door could be forced? Could she escape before Ben left, leaving witn
esses to attest that he had not been anywhere near her at the time?

  Charlotte pictured Branard, Tillie, and McMahon coming back with Ben. Discovering clear evidence that she had pried the door loose, searching fruitlessly for her. And then, after the search was abandoned, Ben and Alexander could meet her at her aunt’s family’s plantation. It could work; it must.

  Lifting her skirts so as not to trip, Charlotte took the stairs two at a time. She needed tools, something she might use to pry and batter. And above all, she needed to work quickly. Heaven only knew how much time remained to her – or when, if ever, she would have this opportunity again.

  o0o

  Hank Branard had always enjoyed walking along the banks of rivers, and to his mind, the Mississippi was the queen of them all. He liked the strange patois of the stevedores as they unloaded cargo from the steamboats tied to docks and wharfboats. But for the curse words, the mostly shirtless black men were barely understandable. But Branard thought it a relief to allow the rhythm of their labor to speak for them, for far too often words proved shifty, traitorous. Better to depend, he thought, on less slippery forms of knowing, things that he could see with his own eyes.

  Something struck him in the back, hard. What the hell? Wheeling around, he stumbled slightly, then noticed the fist-sized stone lying near his feet. From somewhere nearby, he heard triumphant laughter, then the words, “Go on home, old-timer! We don’t want you Yankee dogs!”

  In this case, what Branard saw – a pack of ragged-looking white boys – proved as elusive as the nuances of language. Before he could decide on a reaction, the boys scattered in all directions and disappeared into the dusk-spawned shadows.

  His own vulnerability assailed him as Branard realized he had come without even a sidearm. Though once he would have scoffed at the idea of fleeing from a pack of snot-nosed rowdies, the aching in his back convinced him that it was time to return to his headquarters. He looked around and was surprised to find his mount, Gallant, was missing. Had those miscreants stolen his horse, too?

  But that felt wrong, somehow. Was it because he’d walked here? Or could he be thinking of the wrong horse? He remembered Gallant dying out in Arizona when shots from the Mexican artillery had lodged in the black gelding’s chest.

  Oh, that had been a battle . . . As Branard began walking, his mind returned him to the sights, the smells, to all of it, as clear as if it had happened yesterday. He smiled, thinking how there wasn’t one thing wrong with his memory as he mentally named every mother’s son he had commanded.

  As the afternoon wore on, the old man remembered and trusted to his feet, which took him farther and farther from the Randolph mansion.

  o0o

  Rivulets of perspiration running down her face, Charlotte wedged the chair leg she had sacrificed into the gap she’d worked beneath the loose door hinge. She threw her weight against her makeshift lever and strained until she felt a blister burst on her right palm. After shaking her hand against the sting, she tried again, whispering, “Please, God, give me the strength. I know I don’t deserve it, but Alexander needs a mother.”

  The chair leg slid partway through the gap, and it felt as if some unseen hand grasped the opposite end and pulled with her, doubling her effort. Wood groaned and nails whined as the force pulled them from their berth, and unexpectedly, the door swung open from the other side.

  Charlotte felt a rush of gratitude – until she saw that her miracle was of the devil and not God. Lieutenant Snyder stood outside the ruined gap.

  “Glad I could be of assistance.” His smile looked anything but pleasant. “It would have saved us both some trouble if someone hadn’t taken the key.”

  She tried to back away, but the stairs slowed her escape.

  He stopped her progress when he drew a revolver and pointed its muzzle at her chest. “Where’s the boy?”

  “With Tillie,” Charlotte lied, intent on keeping him from Alexander at all cost. “She took him with her to pick up a few supplies.”

  “Do you know where the others went? How long they’ll be away?”

  Charlotte’s mind worked furiously, wondering whether he only meant to keep her from escaping or something far more terrible. And wondering if there was any way to turn him from his plan.

  “I’m certain they’ll be back at any moment.”

  He grunted in disgust. “I should know better than asking anything of someone who lies more easily than she breathes. Now come with me. Quickly, while the chance remains.”

  He grasped her hand and pulled her through the ruined doorway. When she cried out in alarm and pain, he let go and looked down at his bloodied fingers. Drawing a square of linen from his pocket, he passed it to her.

  “Here. You’ve hurt yourself.”

  For the first time, she realized that the blood on Snyder had come from a cut on her own palm, which she must have gotten in her struggle to escape. She wrapped the handkerchief around the small wound, and he gestured toward the main stairs with his gun.

  “Outside, to the stable. Move.”

  The stable? What did he mean to do? Her mind leapt to the past, to Edgar in the carriage house, and she cried out, “No!”

  His gun hand swung so quickly that she saw only a blur before metal thudded against the side of her head. Pain exploded, and her knees gave way. He caught her before she hit the floor.

  “I hated to do that,” he said, “but there’s no time to argue.”

  The world had gone all gray, with blackness at its edges, but Charlotte fought her way to consciousness. She wanted to fight him, too, but all the strength had run out of her limbs.

  Inside the stable, Snyder laid her down. But instead of doing anything to harm her, he led Zephyr from her stall.

  Zephyr jerked back her head, startled by the suddenness of the lieutenant’s movements. Or perhaps it was the scent of Charlotte’s blood that frightened her. Charlotte had only time to realize that Snyder was buckling the harness on the horse before her awareness ebbed away.

  When she awoke, he was lifting her into the phaeton. He swung her feet onto the floorboard and attempted to prevent her from rolling from the seat.

  Charlotte heard footsteps and then Mrs. Martin’s voice demanding, “What’s all this about? Are you finally taking this criminal to prison where she belongs?”

  Charlotte forced her eyes to open fully. As she attempted to regain control of her limbs, she wondered, did she dare ask help from this unlikely quarter? But if Snyder planned to kill her, she had little left to lose.

  She begged Mrs. Martin, “Please – get help. He’s taking me without permission. He might do anything!”

  The weakness of her voice surprised her, but Mrs. Martin’s gasp told her that the woman heard.

  Mrs. Martin scowled at the lieutenant as if she disapproved of such goings on within the confines of her august neighborhood.

  “Go back to your own house,” Snyder growled. “And remember this: You never saw us.”

  Mrs. Martin began a slow turn, then hesitated. “But you can’t mean to --”

  “If you’re the last surviving, loyal relative, the boy will go to you,” he interrupted.

  Charlotte felt the shock of his words detonating in her chest. He would murder her, she realized, if he could either intimidate or bribe Mrs. Martin into silence.

  “You can’t have Alexander!” Charlotte insisted, “He’s already --”

  Snyder spun her around and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Quiet. Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be.”

  As Charlotte stared at Mrs. Martin, she willed the woman to see how wrong this was. She could see her neighbor waver, could see the moment of decision. Her mouth contracting into a web of wrinkles, the old woman turned and walked away.

  A tear slid down Charlotte’s face, but its progress was dammed by Snyder’s hand across her mouth.

  He spoke quietly into her ear, in a voice as calming as the one she’d used to settle Zephyr’s nervousness. “It’s going to be just
fine if you behave yourself. But if you don’t, you’ll never see that boy of yours again.”

  o0o

  Delaney turned down yet another of the streets that brought traffic to the river. They’d tried several already, but Tillie seemed to think the general might have gone walking near the wharves.

  “When he live at home, upriver, he always goin’ out lookin’ at them boats. Dreamin’ of where one of ‘em might take him. It’s where he go when he get restless,” she explained.

  He responded to the concern in her voice more than to the words. “Don’t worry. We’re going to find him. If we need to, we’ll call out a brigade to comb this city inch by inch.”

  “Lord, I hope it don’t come to that,” she answered. “I just want him to go home quietlike. I sure wish Cap’n Chandler would stay till it was done.”

  McMahon’s gaze ranged along the narrow street, but none of the few men walking looked familiar. “I’ve learned some things these past few months,” he said. “I’ll help you with the details.”

  Tillie looked at him for several moments, and he expected her to say how he was nothing but a pup or that he still hadn’t cut his milk teeth. Instead, she nodded gravely. “I ‘magine that you have at that.”

  Delaney said nothing, only wondered why the opinion of an old mulatto woman mattered to him.

  “You know,” Tillie mused, “I don’t figure that old man’ll testify against you now. And without his say-so, I can’t imagine that judge believin’ much of anything Miss Charlotte tell them – even if she do decide to talk.”

  Delaney thought about it and realized Tillie might be right. From what he’d seen the past few weeks, Branard was in no shape to put forth a coherent charge. Still, if Charlotte testified against him, he refused to lie to escape the consequences. And if she didn’t? Then maybe he could make up his mistakes to his army and his country by being the best soldier that he could. He saw himself rejoining his old infantry unit, fighting for the Union instead of running errands for a general who had become a figurehead.

  And Delaney smiled at the thought that a man’s stature was not the only way he might stand tall.