by Diaz, Debra
“I’m glad you’re going with me,” she said, as they started on their way. “It’s good for you to get out of the house once in a while.”
He nodded but did not reply. He sat in a corner far away from her, as though afraid to touch her. It occurred to her that she had frightened him with her talk of having a baby. She should have waited. Obviously, he was not ready for any physical contact at all. She wasn’t sure that she was, either.
Catherine stared thoughtfully out the window as the journey went on in silence. Could he possibly be angry with her? Had he detected something in Clayton’s voice that led him to believe Clayton cared for her? She wished the two of them had never met. She thought about the drug she had seen in Andrew’s room and wondered if he was even now under its influence. She had heard awful stories about people who got into the habit of taking laudanum.
A soldier in a crisp gray uniform stopped them at the edge of the city. He looked at their identification and waved them on, stifling a yawn. At first the road stretched wide, abounding on either side with carefully planted dogwoods and Judas trees, then it narrowed and the countryside became a series of rolling hills, completely surrounded by forest as they climbed steadily into the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Catherine’s heart pounded. Her sense of foreboding grew stronger and stronger, and she realized it was because she did not trust Bart. If the information she carried were indeed vital to General Lee, wouldn’t it have been entrusted to a soldier? Of course, Bart was probably right when he said no one would suspect her of carrying such a message.
And what if everything was just as Bart had said? Failure to deliver the letter could result in Lee’s failure to win the upcoming battle.
“What’s the matter?” Andrew said, his whispering voice making her jump. “You’re very quiet.”
“I…I was just thinking.”
Could she trust Andrew? Assuredly, she trusted him more than she did Bart. But she said nothing.
They were not stopped again, and long before noon they reached the outskirts of Charlottesville. She glanced out the window at the rows of houses nestled among the hills. Her palms began to sweat.
“Andrew,” she said suddenly, “I don’t know what to do.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“It’s Bart. He asked me to carry a letter to a man, a Lieutenant Hadley. He said it’s a supply list for General Lee, and I suppose a date and time of delivery. The more I think about it, though, the more I…I just don’t like it. I hate to say it, but I don’t trust Bart. But what if he was telling the truth?”
Andrew listened and seemed to grasp the situation. “Don’t hand over the letter.”
Her heart gave a sickening lurch. “Yes, but he said it was essential that Lee get the information, that he needs the supplies. It could cost him the battle.”
“I see.”
The carriage rolled to a stop. Peering out the window she saw they had drawn up to a small, white frame house. A curtain moved at the front of the house and she knew someone had seen them.
“What do you think would happen,” she asked, her throat dry, “if we just leave? Is there any way we can find out if Bart was telling the truth? Shall I open the letter?”
“It probably can’t be deciphered without a code. The question is, who are we giving the information to? I suggest you go inside and meet this Lieutenant Hadley, and trust your instincts. I’ll go with you. I can sense things sometimes. I’ll either nod or shake my head to let you know what I think. But it’s your decision.”
“All right.” She got out of the carriage with legs that shook. He climbed out after her, accepting her guiding hand, and they went up the bare earth pathway to the front porch.
The door opened before she could knock and a man stood there in what appeared to be a brand-new Confederate uniform. He fit Bart’s description of Lieutenant Hadley. His eyes were small and close together, and she didn’t like the way they lingered on her torso. He had an oily-looking moustache and his smile revealed teeth stained with tobacco juice. She saw him give Andrew a startled glance.
“Who is this man? Why is his head covered?”
“My husband is blind. Lieutenant Hadley, I presume?” she asked.
He bowed pompously. “Your humble servant, madam. You have come regarding the gates of hell?”
“I…yes.” Catherine’s gaze flicked around the room. The wallpaper was peeling and there was little furniture. A musty smell met her nostrils, as well as a small whiff of bourbon from Lieutenant Hadley’s breath.
Oh, God, she prayed, help me know what to do.
What would he do if she refused to give him the letter? He looked quite capable of taking it by force; in fact, he would probably like nothing better than to search over her person for it. No, he did not seem the sort of man who would be chosen for such an important task.
She glanced at Andrew, touching his hand, and saw him give an almost imperceptible shake of his head. She took a deep breath.
“Sir, I’m afraid the letter was taken from me on the way.”
His eyes went at once to her tight-fitting bodice, where obviously nothing was concealed, and then slid to the reticule that dangled from her hand. He seemed to decide it was large enough to contain the letter.
“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he said politely, “but if you’ll hand over that—”
Andrew moved forward and the man took a quick step back.
Andrew whispered, “The letter was taken from her by an officer. She was fortunate to have been released at all. If you want it back, you’ll have to collect it yourself. Come, Catherine.” She took his arm, getting a glimpse of Hadley’s enraged countenance, and they left the house. The driver seemed unaware of anything amiss and turned the carriage back toward Richmond.
“You did the right thing,” Andrew said. “Give me the letter. I’ll see to it.”
Trembling all over, she did so and he put it in his coat pocket. He sat next to her this time, not touching her and not saying another word. Only after they had put several miles behind them did she begin to relax.
But then she saw Andrew straighten as though he were listening. She listened, too, and heard the sound of fast-approaching horses behind them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A shot rang out. The carriage jerked to a stop, pitching Catherine forward. She saw Andrew plant his foot against the opposite seat and felt him grab her arm to stop her from plummeting into the other side of the carriage. She had little time to ponder his unexpected strength before the door was pulled forcibly open.
“Well, well, a lady and a blind man,” came an unpleasant, nasal voice.
An arm thrust out and a hand closed around her wrist, wrenching her forward. She knew Andrew was getting out behind her.
The driver lay on the ground, not moving. A pool of blood ran from beneath his head. Dazed, Catherine looked at the three men before them, two of them holding their horses and one still mounted. They were rough looking, and though armed with pistols and sabers, all wore dirty civilian clothes rather than uniforms.
Bushwhackers, she thought, feeling a sense of relief that it was not Lieutenant Hadley with a handful of soldiers. But her relief was short-lived.
“Why have you stopped us?” she demanded, surprised that her voice did not quaver.
One of the men guffawed. “Whoa, that’s quite a temper you have there, miss, to go along with that red hair.” “I like red-headed women,” said the man standing beside him. “Say, what’s the matter with your friend there? He don’t seem too sociable.”
“Please,” she said, trying to hold herself erect and aloof, “just go ahead and take our money and go.”
“Well, well.” The first man sidled closer to her. “Let’s not get in such a hurry, perty woman.”
Catherine pressed close to Andrew, taking one of his gloved hands in hers. She could feel him standing rigid and tense, as though poised to move.
The man on the horse called out, �
��I say let’s kill him and put him out of his misery.”
“Why bother to kill him—least just yet,” answered the first man, who was no longer smiling. He reached out a grimy hand and grasped Catherine’s shoulder. “He can’t see nothin’—”
The man grunted in surprise as Andrew dropped his hand on the dirty wrist and spun him away from Catherine. At the same time he reached inside his coat and withdrew a pistol, the movement so swift it was almost a blur. He kept a grip on the man and pointed the pistol at his head.
“Throw down your weapon and get off that horse,” he said, his voice strong but muffled behind the cloth.
The mounted man stared but did as he was told.
Catherine stumbled back against the carriage, gaping.
“Drop your gun,” Andrew said to the second man.
The bushwhacker’s hand moved slowly for his gun, then suddenly clawed it free and aimed at Andrew. Her husband fired, the sound ringing in Catherine’s ears, and she screamed. The man had just begun his descent to the ground when the first man took advantage of the diversion and punched his elbow in Andrew’s ribs, simultaneously closing both of his hands around Andrew’s pistol.
Catherine watched helplessly as the two men struggled for the gun. The man beside the horse obviously deemed prudence better than valor and retreated behind the animal as the pistol waved wildly, finally leaving Andrew’s hand to sail harmlessly through the air and land under the carriage.
He isn’t blind…but how can he see what he’s doing with that thing on his head? Catherine thought, stunned by what she was seeing.
Andrew and the first man had engaged in hand-to-hand combat while the third watched with cautious interest from behind his horse. Suddenly the first man was down, felled by a fierce blow to his jaw. Andrew sprinted toward the third before that one could retrieve his gun, which had been thrown a short distance away. The bushwhacker made a quick, frantic movement, and when his horse shied away Catherine saw with horror that he held a saber in his hands.
Andrew stopped abruptly, reached down, and jerked the saber from the scabbard of the unconscious man on the ground. At the same time he shrugged off his coat and let it fall.
Catherine stared as the two blades clashed together with an ear-ringing clang. Andrew’s skill and strength continued to astonish her. His muscles undulated beneath his shirt; his wrists and arms moved with fluid grace and power; a fencing master could not have dueled with more finesse and sureness of foot.
Obviously desiring to end the matter, Andrew surged forward until the bushwhacker fell to his knees with a look of sheer panic on his face. Andrew knocked the saber out of the nerveless hand and, stepping forward, banged the hilt of his own saber against the man’s head, sending him toppling to the ground in ponderous repose.
Her husband stood still for a moment, breathing heavily, his black shirt torn and streaked with sweat. At last he turned his head toward her and she felt that he was looking at her.
“You can see,” she said faintly.
For another long moment he did not move. Then slowly he tossed down the saber, reached behind him, and loosened something behind his neck.
He was taking off the scarf.
“No,” she gasped involuntarily, stepping backward against the carriage. “Don’t, Andrew—”
Her breath abruptly halted. The man who stood before her was not Andrew Kelly, but Clayton Pierce.
***
She had fainted, for the first time in her life, and she woke beneath a tree with something soft under her head. She sat up, looked down and saw it was Andrew’s coat. No, Clayton’s coat. She raised her eyes and saw him some distance away.
He had driven the carriage to the far side of the road where the shoulder gave way to a steep drop into a dense growth of trees. He had already unhitched the horses and put on the saddles and bridles that were kept in a compartment under the seats for emergencies. As she watched, he walked behind the conveyance, put both hands underneath it and gave a mighty heave, muscles straining beneath the torn cloth of his shirt. It rolled off the shoulder; she heard the sound of branches breaking and rustling, then a crash.
She struggled to her feet. “What are you doing to Uncle Martin’s carriage?” she cried, running toward him. Obviously he was crazy, going around masquerading as her husband.
“Where is Andrew? What have you done—”
She stopped as another shocking realization swept over her. It had never been Andrew. There was no doubt in her mind of that. The man who had gotten off the train that day was Clayton Pierce, and it was Clayton who had lived in Martin’s house as her husband. It was Clayton to whom she had read during those many pleasant hours; it was Clayton to whom she had bared her heart.…
He was coming swiftly toward her. She struck him in the chest with her fists, tears streaming down her face. “What have you done with Andrew? Where is he? Why have you done this to me?”
“I’ll explain everything,” he said, setting her hands from him, “but we have to move fast. Can you ride a horse?”
She nodded, but before she could say anything else he was pulling her toward the horses. The three bushwhacker’s horses were gone and the men, whether dead or unconscious, were gone too; she didn’t want to know what he had done with them. The dead driver lay by the side of the road. She saw that Clayton had taken the lunch basket from the carriage and tied it to one of the horses.
“Take off your hoop,” he said.
A protest died on her lips as she saw his reasoning—the hoop made her skirt and layers of petticoats difficult to manage. He turned his back impatiently and she quickly untied the hoop and stepped out of it. Clayton scooped it up and hurled it away. It landed in the top of a pine tree. Catherine peered downward at the smashed carriage.
“Anything that confuses them will buy us time,” he said. “Now get on the horse.”
He helped her mount one of the horses, then swung astride the other. Looking back, he surveyed the scene one last time. He rode over to the tree where she had lain and retrieved his coat. He put it on, then took off his gloves, rode back and handed them to her. “Put these on over yours. They’ll help a little. We can’t use the roads,” he told her,
leading the way into the woods.
They rode ceaselessly, using abandoned bridle paths and sometimes no path at all. Clayton seemed to know where they were going. At times he would stop and listen intently, every sense alive and alert. Then they would go on, riding as swiftly as possible among the trees and brambles, up and down steep slopes, across winding streams and deep-cut gulches lined with gravel.
Squirrels and rabbits and sometimes a fox scurried away from them, and once in a while Catherine caught a glimpse of a curious raccoon or a fat, waddling possum. She wondered uneasily if bears ever ventured this far down from the mountains. Her hands and exposed ankles felt frozen, and not being accustomed to the saddle, her posterior hurt more than a little.
In view of the circumstances, she would rather die where she sat than complain to Clayton. As they rode on and another hour went by, she became convinced that she would do just that. She felt dizzy and light-headed, as though she were about to faint again. Her stays cut into her ribs, and every time she tried to take a deep breath of the cold air, she grew dizzier. The jarring movements of the horse made her neck ache.
She felt herself sway, her head bending downward into the horse’s mane. Then the next thing she knew, hands were lifting her off the horse and she was sitting under the trees on a bed of dead leaves and twigs.
