Innocent Deceptions

by Gwyneth Atlee

  o0o

  All the way back to the Randolph mansion, Alexander and General Branard chattered like old friends discussing the merits of good horseflesh. As well they might, thought Ben, for Branard’s mien had been childlike since they had found him wandering the streets.

  Reluctantly, Alexander had consented to sit behind Ben on his gray while General Branard rode the new buckskin. Ben counted it as further proof of the old man’s infirmity that he made no protest when Ben took Gold Dust’s reins and led the gentle horse as if Alexander still sat upon its back.

  They met Tillie and Delaney near the mansion. In the age-old way of women who have been frightened for a loved one, she scolded the general as the group rode and drove the two remaining blocks.

  When they arrived, Delaney said he’d secure their mounts and take the wagon for a doctor while Ben and Tillie put the general in his bed.

  “Doctor?” General Branard asked. “Who needs a doctor? Is somebody sick?”

  “Come on upstairs, old man,” said Tillie. “All that walkin’ and ridin’ wore you out.”

  Alexander caught Ben’s eye and smiled with the superior look of an older sibling.

  Despite the circumstances, Ben could not help smiling back at him. “Come on, Alexander. You can help, and then we’ll say goodbye to Charlotte one more time.”

  He wondered if he had made the suggestion not for Alexander or even for Charlotte, who would be forced to suffer another painful parting, but for himself. For one more chance to see and speak with her, to feel the warm solidity of her small body against his. Maybe for the last time, if her relatives took custody of Alexander. Ben did not delude himself in thinking that if she found her family and her son, she would look for him in Texas. She might love him now, but with time, she’d realize that a ranch was no place for a woman raised in luxury. Some relation would convince her that it was foolish to risk such a journey and traitorous to love a man who’d sworn allegiance to the Union. Even if he’d decided the cost of continuing to serve had grown too high.

  Unhampered by either age or war wounds, Alexander dashed up the stairs ahead of the adults. Moments later, he called out, “Captain Ben! The door!”

  Heedless of his sore leg, Ben hurried to join him in front of the door leading to the third-floor staircase. It stood open from the hinge side; pry marks and a broken chair leg lying on the floor told the story of how someone had forced his or her way out – or maybe in. On one of the lower steps, a candle had burned low not far from a bulging valise.

  A prickling sense of wrongness froze the words inside Ben’s mouth. Why would Charlotte have left her things if she’d intended on escaping?

  “Charlotte!” Alexander shouted up the stairs. “Charlotte, where are you?”

  Not here, Ben knew. Someone had taken her.

  “Better go’n check,” Tillie advised. “I’ll put the general in his bed.”

  General Branard shuffled tiredly behind her without protest.

  Even before Ben put out the candle and climbed the steps, he knew that he would not find Charlotte. But he could guess who had.

  And he was damned sure he had better find them fast.

  What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly; it is dearness only that gives everything its value.

  -- Thomas Paine,

  From The Crisis, no. 1

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By the time Jonathan Snyder brought the phaeton to a halt, the first few stars had made themselves known against a fading sky. In the absence of the clattering hooves and creaking carriage, silence unfolded like a moth’s wings along the lonely stretch of road.

  As Snyder climbed down from the phaeton, Ben turned his horse and Alexander’s, so the lieutenant wouldn’t see them, perhaps a hundred yards behind.

  Ben dismounted and helped Alexander from his horse. As he tied the buckskin to a tree, Ben prayed he’d done the right thing in bringing the child with him. The mastiff, who’d been loping beside the horses, wagged its tail and panted, its tongue lolling.

  Ben hugged the boy in a clumsy attempt at reassurance and grasped the big pup’s collar. “You have to promise that you’ll stay here and keep Honeybee quiet.”

  Alexander nodded silently, his eyes round with terror. “You’ll bring Charlotte right back?”

  Or die trying, Ben thought, but instead he promised, “I will. You saw the carriage up ahead of us. If you wait here very quietly, I’ll go get her.”

  If Ben succeeded, if Charlotte lived, he was taking her with him and Alexander. And he wouldn’t give a damn if he had to go through Snyder to reunite her with her family. But if Charlotte had already died --

  No. He couldn’t allow fear to stop him. So Ben left Alexander crouching, small and scared, beside the huge dog and the gentle buckskin, and urged his horse to swiftly bridge the gap that separated him from both their hopes.

  o0o

  Charlotte glanced this way and that, hoping to spot some chance of help. The dark shapes of trees rose to their left, while along their right, a hay meadow sparkled with the flare and fade of fireflies. In the distance, she thought she saw a building. It might be a house, a barn, perhaps a church, but in the dwindling light, she could not be sure.

  It didn’t matter anyway. It was too far for her to run, too far for her screams to carry. She cast about for the right words to stop Jonathan from abandoning her corpse here. A vision filled her senses: people from the distant building drawn to this spot in the morning, when a black gathering of crows would attract their curiosity.

  With a shudder of revulsion, she shoved aside the macabre image and forced herself to speak. “Captain Chandler will realize it was you who took me. He’ll kill you if you --”

  “The cripple’s already left for Texas. He’ll never know you’re missing,” Snyder told her, apparently unaware of the events that had delayed Ben.

  As he stepped down from the phaeton, she thought of running into the woods and hiding, but he’d taken out his gun again. She would not give him an excuse to shoot her in the back, not while she still had some hope of talking her way out of this nightmare.

  When he came around the carriage, she said, “Delaney knows, too.”

  He grabbed her wrist and pulled her from the phaeton. “That weakling won’t confront me over this. He has too much to gain from your disappearance. Now step back. I won’t have you taking my horse, too.”

  What did he mean, taking his horse? The question submerged beneath her struggle to find a way to convince him that she was better left alive.

  “There’s money in a hidden safe back at the house,” she said, though only a small amount remained. “I could tell you how to get it – if you’ll let me go.”

  Contempt clouded his features. “You little bitch. I never wanted your money. Foolish as it was, I only wanted you.”

  Was that what she must offer? Herself? She knew he would no longer wish for marriage, but his words came back to her. “It seems a pity that I never had the chance to kiss you, Charlotte.”

  Would her kiss and more – her complete submission to his lust – be the cost of her survival? Tears hazed her vision as she shook her head. “I’d rather die than let you have me.”

  He laughed, a mirthless sound, and shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, darling, but I’d sooner lie with serpents.”

  Her mouth went dry as powdered bone, and panic flapped dark wings across her consciousness. Would he murder her now?

  “Don’t,” she managed. Such a weak protest, but what else did she have left?

  With his revolver pointed at her chest, he untied his saddled horse.

  “Don’t what? Shoot you?” Even in the weak light, she could see his smile spreading like an oily sheen. “I’ve never met a woman who so badly needed killing.”

  “Please. Alexander has already lost so much.”

  Ignoring her, he said, “But you misjudge me, Charlotte. You’ve always misjudged me. As much as you deserve it, I am not a murderer.”

  Confu
sion fogged her mind. What was he telling her?

  He gestured toward the phaeton with the revolver’s muzzle. “I’ve never meant to kill you, just to give you a taste of how it feels to be helpless. How I felt when you humiliated me. Now get inside and drive. Go far. Go south. And never come again. Because if you return, I swear I’ll --”

  Charlotte never found out what he meant to say, for at that moment, pain slashed across her rib cage, and the evening still was shattered by the first of several shots.

  o0o

  Still thirty feet away, Ben pulled Lobo up short before the echoes died. The gray slid to a halt, hooves throwing up a shower of pebbles.

  “Charlotte!” Her name erupted from his center. Ben tried to force himself to look into the woods, to determine who had fired. But though he held his own Colt revolver at the ready, he could not tear his gaze from Charlotte as her body folded in upon itself. She dropped beside the spot where Jonathan Snyder sprawled, his limbs already twitching in a dance of death. Snyder’s mount squealed and bolted across the hay meadow, and the harnessed horse dragged the still-braked phaeton several carriage lengths’ farther down the road.

  Ben felt the sickening explosion of a minié ball expanding, destroying bone and cartilage, tearing him apart. Only this time, the impact did not affect his body but his mind, as he waited for an endless moment for some sound, some movement -- any sign that Charlotte lived.

  “Toss that gun and get your hands up, mister. Now.” The order floated from his left.

  Ben turned his head and saw a trio of men in brown-dyed uniforms emerging from the woods. Rebel soldiers, armed with rifles. But why would rebels shoot at Charlotte?

  “You gonna throw that gun out, or are we gonna have to shoot you, too?”

  If he’d been wearing his uniform, Ben suspected they would have fired already. He thought of taking his chances, taking down as many as he could before they killed him. But the memory of Alexander sitting by the roadside stayed his hand. No matter what it cost him, he must live to save that child. For Charlotte . . . and for his own sake, too, he realized, his heart claiming the son he’d never sired.

  Ben tossed away his Colt. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Charlotte lift her head and sit, her palm pressed to her side. She stared at Snyder, whose body had grown deathly still.

  She’s alive . . . at least for now.

  Something drew Charlotte’s gaze in Ben’s direction. A moment later, she turned her head to take in someone rushing toward her, another rebel dressed in butternut.

  “Michael, no!” she shrieked as she struggled to rise. “Don’t let them hurt him!”

  “Charlotte!” Alexander cried out from behind Ben. The gunfire and Ben’s voice must have drawn the boy.

  Ben turned his head to see the child running, clearly making for his mother. But Alexander’s steps would take him past the knot of rebel gunmen.

  “Alexander, stop!” Ben shouted. Despite the rebels’ warnings, he leapt down from his horse.

  “Don’t move!” one of the rebels shouted at him. The broad-faced, dark-bearded man ignored Alexander’s progress.

  Ben froze, realizing that if he provoked more gunfire, the child might be hit.

  “Captain?” another of the rebels asked the man who had just pulled Charlotte into his arms. The gray-clad officer was speaking with her too quietly for Ben to hear his words.

  Whether he was helping her to stand or embracing her, Ben could not tell. But he could guess that this rebel captain, the one Charlotte had called Michael, must be her brother. From what Ben had been able to learn in his investigation, he’d long suspected the elusive Captain Randolph was directing the entire Memphis spy ring.

  “Hold him there,” Michael ordered, referring to Ben, “until we find out who he is.”

  His attention turned to the child running toward him and Charlotte. “Alexander!” the rebel shouted, removing all doubt to his identity.

  This was Charlotte’s brother, a man whom Alexander, too, thought of as a sibling. The last of their immediate family.

  There was no mistaking the embrace now, or the way that Alexander joined in. They were reunited, Ben saw, a family he was not meant to tear apart.

  Or was he wrong? Was Charlotte shoving away her older brother, or just sagging to the ground? Was her injury more serious than it appeared?

  “I’m a friend,” Ben told one of his three guards, the one with the wide face. “I swear it.”

  Then, ignoring his loose horse, he turned and strode toward Charlotte – and hoped the rebels would not shoot him in the back.

  o0o

  “Alexander.” Charlotte sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around her son. She ignored the pain and blood seeping from where a bullet had cut a shallow path along her side. Instead, she gently turned the child away from where Jonathan Snyder lay facedown in the dirt. A lake of blood spread out from the lieutenant’s midsection, far too much blood to allow for any possibility of life.

  His body and the way he’d died brought home to her the other deaths she’d had a hand in. And the part that Michael had played in all of them. Jonathan Snyder had threatened Alexander; he had struck her and frightened her half out of her mind, but she could not help but wonder if he had been a decent sort of man before her treachery had pushed him beyond him limits. She would never know, but she would always wonder.

  Charlotte looked up at her brother. “You didn’t have to kill him. He just told me he was going to let me go.”

  “Come away from this,” Michael said as he reached to help her up. “We’ll need to have a look at that cut on your side. The bullet may have only grazed the surface, but you’re still bleeding quite a bit.”

  She ignored his proffered hand and held Alexander even tighter.

  “I’m scared,” the child said, so softly she could barely make out the words.

  She could smell the blood already, and the stench of violent death. She knew she had to get Alexander away from this place, but she could not rouse herself to move.

  So instead, she repeated to her brother, “This man didn’t have to die.”

  He helped her to her feet.

  “I’d kill every last one if I had the chance,” Michael told her. “They are the enemy.”

  Behind him, movement attracted her attention.

  “Ben!” she cried. Ignoring her brother, she threw herself into the Texan’s arms.

  “Charlotte.” His relief was palpable as he gathered her against him. “Are you hurt badly?”

  “Who is this?” Michael demanded.

  “I’m only cut a little,” Charlotte told Ben. “But Lieutenant Snyder – he was horrible, but he was letting me go.”

  She saw Alexander glance toward Snyder’s body.

  “No, honey,” she told him gently. “Here’s your puppy. Why don’t you hold on to her and make sure she’s not scared?”

  Alexander nodded mutely, then knelt beside the dog and pressed his face against her shoulder.

  “I never wanted to hurt you,” Michael told her, ignoring Ben for now. “I only wanted to protect you --”

  “Don’t you mean, ‘to use me’?” In her anger, she pulled loose from Ben’s embrace. “The way you’ve used me from the start.”

  Michael winced as if she’d struck him. “All I wanted was to make our father proud again. Of both of us, for the first time in --”

  “People have died, Michael,” she said. “Our father has died. When will it be enough?”

  “When every last one of them is off of Southern soil – or beneath it.”

  She saw the anguish in his eyes, as well as the refusal to admit that he’d been wrong. Or were the beliefs for which both of them had sacrificed so much genuine, not merely guilt-spawned shadows of their father’s dogma?

  Michael gestured toward Jonathan Snyder’s body. “You’re my sister, Charlotte. Can’t you understand why I need to keep you safe?”

  “Remember what I told you in the barn? I don’t consider myself your
sister anymore. You have no need to protect me.”

  “Well, I’ll always be your brother. And I will defend you to the death,” he swore, “as long as you’re a Randolph.”

  Ben stepped forward. “So what if she isn’t? What if she goes South right now instead?”

  His attention diverted, Michael frowned at the taller man. “Just who the hell are you?”

  Ben stuck out his right hand. “Your new brother-in-law, just as soon as I take care of a couple of formalities.”

  Charlotte gaped at him. “This is what you call a proposal, Captain Judas?”

  He quirked a sheepish smile. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you that we Texans are a little rough around the edges.”

  Her pain forgotten, she crossed her arms before her chest. “This is neither the time nor the place to discuss thi --”

  “Oh, all right,” Ben growled. With some difficulty, since he didn’t have his cane, he knelt. But he had turned his body so that he was facing Alexander.

  “Alexander,” Ben asked, “will you be my kid?”

  The bearded rebel behind them exploded into laughter. The other two men watched nervously, as if they wondered how their captain would react.

  But Charlotte watched through a haze of tears as Alexander nodded solemnly in response to Ben’s earnest question.

  “You were right about one thing,” she told Ben. “You mostly have good instincts.”

  Peace hath her victories

  No less renown’d than war.

  -- John Milton,

  to the Lord General Cromwell

  EPILOGUE

  Oak Springs, Texas

  2:56 P.M., April 12, 1865

  Alexander stood upon the hill’s crest and waved his arm for Charlotte to hurry. The nine-year-old had no idea how difficult it was for a woman in her condition to pick her way among the tussocks of tough grasses and the unseen ruts left by the cattle that had trod the winter’s mud. She had a vision of herself rolling down this slope – a poor way to get off her swollen ankles.

  Beside him, Honeybee wagged her tail. As huge as the mastiff had grown, Charlotte thought whimsically of climbing onto her broad back to ride her.