Shadow of Dawn

by Diaz, Debra

  In the bedroom Clayton took the box and laid it on the bed. He and Mrs. Shirley had been talking—she could sense that somehow—but they had fallen silent. Catherine felt a chill start at the base of her spine and begin to work its way upward.

  “What’s in the box?” she asked, not surprised that her voice shook.

  Mrs. Shirley rose and left the room. The door closed firmly and Clayton moved to turn the key.

  “Open it,” he said quietly.

  She did so, her hands as unsteady as her voice. She did not remove the objects from the box but merely stared.

  “A Yankee uniform?” Her throat went dry. “I don’t understand.”

  He pushed the box aside and sat down on the bed, drawing her down to sit close beside him. He said, very low. “Hooker is planning another try at Richmond. General Lee needs information.”

  “You mean—spy? In the middle of the Yankee army?”

  He nodded slowly. “I’ve already established certain avenues of communication. I’m the only one they can send right now.”

  “But what about the situation here? What about the plot to kill General Lee?”

  “You must understand, Catherine. There aren’t enough men for this kind of counterintelligence work, and sometimes it must be abandoned. Right now I’m needed elsewhere.”

  “Please correct me if I’m wrong, Clayton. You’ll be a target for the Confederates once you put on that uniform. And if the Yankees discover your true identity, you’ll be shot or hung at once. You’re not safe anywhere. And you’ll be completely alone, with no one to come to your aid.”

  He said nothing.

  I won’t cry, she thought. I won’t make a scene.

  After a moment, he said, “I think General Lee has the right idea. He’s a good man, Catherine, and a wise one. He’s taking precautions, but he has a job to do and he’s not going to let anything interfere with it. We’ve lost a lot of good generals, and if we lose him, I guess the war will be pretty much over. He’s willing to take that chance and trust God to do the rest. So am I.”

  “When—” Her voice broke and she tried again. “When do you leave?”

  “I’m going to my hotel tonight. I have to make plans and gather supplies, and then I ride out tomorrow night. I won’t change uniforms until I cross the river. I’ll tell them you’re to be notified if…anything happens to me. If you hear nothing, you’ll know I’m probably all right.” He paused. “You may not hear from me for a long time. If the opportunity ever arises where it’s safe to send a letter, I’ll write you.”

  “Tonight?” This can’t be happening, she thought. I won’t let this happen.

  He went on, “Margaret can be reached if you need her, or if you need to send a message to me. She’s going to the president’s house to work as an assistant to his secretary. But I don’t want you to go there. Someone may be watching you. Tell Dr. Edwards and he’ll find her for you.”

  Catherine stared at the rug on the floor as though she had never seen it before. Clayton put both arms around her, and she leaned against him, her head tucked beneath his chin.

  Then he asked, “Did anyone see you bring up that box? I should have left it at the hotel, but I was in a hurry to get back here.”

  She nodded. “I told them it was a dress I had altered. They thought I was having a baby.”

  Clayton stood and pulled her up beside him. He put one hand alongside her cheek and looked into her eyes. “You may be, for all we know. Oh, Catherine, the thought of leaving you here—” He put his hard cheek down against hers. “Let Margaret know and she’ll get word to me. Let her know if things aren’t going well here. Somehow I’ll get you to my home in Atlanta. I have family there.”

  “What will happen to Andrew?”

  “He’ll disappear. You probably should say you quarreled. Margaret will see that you receive a telegram in a few weeks saying that he was killed…I don’t know, in some kind of accident.”

  “What about Bart?”

  “There should be no connection between Andrew’s disappearance and Bart’s arrest. They’ll not arrest him and the others until the time is right. In the meantime, if you find out anything important, you can let Dr. Edwards know. But don’t put yourself in danger, Catherine…will you promise me that?”

  She moved her head to look up at him. “Can you make that promise to me?”

  A half smile touched his mouth. “I love you, my little rebel.”

  It was like that other time, when he had gone away. A sense of unreality gripped her as she watched him take saddlebags out of the armoire and fill them with papers, ammunition and the Union uniform. He belted on a holster and slid his pistol into it. He put on his coat and gloves and hat, kissed her one last time, slung the saddlebags over his shoulders—and then her husband of three days stepped out on the balcony and disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  One year and three months. During all that time Lucie was

  never sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would

  strike off her husband’s head next day.

  And I know exactly how she felt, Catherine thought dully.

  It was Sallie who read each night. Her little-girl voice did not lend itself well to the reading of so complex a novel, and she was somewhat lacking in dramatic interpretation, but no one complained; everyone seemed to think that since they had begun, they should at least endure to the end.

  Catherine attended but she never read. The sound of her own voice reading reminded her too sharply of Clayton, and that memory was too painful, her emotions too raw. After Clayton left almost a week ago, she had told the others—with a pale face and shaking voice that required no acting—that Andrew had left her and Mrs. Shirley had gone with him. They had quarreled, she said, and she didn’t know where he had gone. She hoped he would come back.

  Her uncle had been shocked; Sallie, too, had stared at her with wide blue eyes. Bart’s face remained carefully blank but he watched her whenever they were in the same room together, rather like a cat that has sighted a forlorn little bird without the energy or heart to hop away.

  The servants knew, of course, and were extra kind to her, especially Ephraim.

  Catherine did not leave the house. Eventually she would, but the days were gray and dismal, and she could hardly get through her daily tasks, much less take on other activities such as nursing at the hospital. She felt like a sleepwalker who could never manage to completely wake up.

  Sallie read on. Catherine noticed that she skipped words that she found difficult to pronounce. She did not pause when someone knocked on the front door. They heard Ephraim say something, and they all looked up as the butler came and stood in the doorway of the parlor. Catherine thought he looked peculiar. He opened his mouth but no sound came out, and he looked at Catherine.

  She got to her feet without knowing it. A man had come to stand beside Ephraim. He was tall and well built with light brown hair almost to his shoulders. He wore a ragged and patched Confederate uniform.

  He was Andrew Kelly.

  “Hello, Catherine,” came the familiar voice.

  From far away she heard Sallie’s gasp, then Miranda’s squeal. Someone, her uncle, came to stand beside her. Then they were all standing, all staring at the newcomer, who looked back at them calmly.

  “I’ve been in a Yankee prison,” he said. “I escaped.”

  ***

  When the clamoring had died down, when Miranda released him from a strangling embrace, when he had been given something to drink, he sat back and looked at them. “This isn’t my uniform,” he said, displaying trouser legs that were too short. “At least it’s clean. A friend loaned it to me. The uniform I wore in prison was nothing but rags.”

  His story was simple. He had been captured after the battle of Sharpsburg and subsequently imprisoned at Johnson’s Island in Ohio. Conditions weren’t too bad there, he said. He had contrived to escape about a month ago and it had taken him that long to find his way home, t
aking every precaution not to be caught again.

  He seemed to notice his wife’s pallor. “I’m sorry, Catherine,” he said. “I suppose you had given me up for dead.”

  Miranda said loudly, “I knew that man was an imposter!”

  Her declaration was met with a frozen silence. Everyone looked at Catherine.

  “What man?” Andrew asked, looking puzzled.

  “Why, he said he was you, Cousin! He came—how long ago? In the latter part of November? He dressed all in black and wore a black something over his face and said he was burned so badly we mustn’t see him. He said he was blind. Why, why he fooled us all!”

  Catherine felt Andrew’s gaze pulling at her, and reluctantly she let her eyes meet his. “And you, Catherine? Did he fool you?”

  She looked away, her head bowed. She felt as though all the blood in her body had drained away, not gradually, but all at once.

  “He knew things,” Miranda went on excitedly. “He was quite convincing. He never spoke much above a whisper because he said his throat was damaged. You mustn’t blame Catherine.”

  “But you said you knew he was an imposter.”

  “Oh, well, I said that because I was never comfortable in my mind about him. But I did believe him…I wanted to believe that you were

  still alive.”

  “I see.” Andrew still looked at Catherine. “Where is he?” No one answered. At last Bart, framed handsomely against the royal blue draperies at the window, said, “He left a week ago. No one has seen him since.”

  Andrew sat almost unnaturally still. “And you were all still under the assumption he was…me? You don’t know who he was?”

  Sallie’s handkerchief was clutched in a tight ball and she pressed her hand against her heart. “Who could he have been? Why has he done this to us?”

  “Did he take anything?” Andrew asked.

  “No, not that we know of. Did he even take Andrew’s clothes, Catherine?”

  Catherine only glanced at Sallie and shook her head.

  Martin’s face was ashy gray but his eyes showed deep concern. “Perhaps, Catherine, you and Andrew should go upstairs and talk.”

  “Yes.” Andrew got to his feet and held out his hand to her. “Come, Catherine.”

  She took his hand like a child and permitted him to lead her from the room and upstairs. He paused and looked around. “Which room are you using?”

  She pointed to the bedroom she had shared with Clayton. He led her inside and shut the door. Unexpectedly he put his arms around her and kissed her. He was thinner, she thought absently, but soft, whereas Clayton’s muscles had been as hard as oak. She supposed it was from the inactivity of prison life.

  Andrew released her. “You’re still in a state of shock, Catherine.” He looked around the room. “Sit down, won’t you?”

  She sat down. He sat across from her, in Clayton’s chair.

  “Tell me,” he said quietly, “about this man.”

  Somehow her brain summoned words to her lips; somehow her tremulous voice transmitted them.

  “He said he was you. We had a letter saying you’d been wounded. When he arrived, with a nurse, he was completely covered because of his blindness and disfigurement. We all believed him…there was no reason not to. We had the letter from a doctor. He had…why, he had on your coat. And why didn’t you write me? I heard nothing from you for almost a whole year before Sharpsburg.”

  Again he looked puzzled. “I did write you. You didn’t get my letters?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand it, but that’s not important now. What about this nurse…is she gone, too?”

  She nodded. There was a long pause and she braced herself for the next question.

  “He was here for how long…two months? How well did you get to know him, Catherine?”

  He would have to know, eventually. She made herself look at him. “I lived in this room with him.”

  Another long silence. Andrew made a sound like a sigh and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. “Didn’t you ever see his face?”

  Catherine shook her head. “At night, we left the room in darkness. He didn’t want me to see him.”

  Something like a wave of anger went over Andrew’s face, but he quickly controlled it. “Catherine, how could you—” He stopped. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, putting his hands over his eyes. “What made you believe him?”

  She said nothing. She couldn’t even say she was sorry, because she wasn’t sorry. Clayton was her husband. Somehow Clayton had been mistaken about Andrew. Somehow this mess would have to be cleared up. But she was Clayton’s wife, not Andrew’s.

  Not legally, said the rational part of her mind. She swiftly squelched it.

  Andrew took his hands away from his face and eyed her searchingly. “You were in love with this man.”

  Catherine remained silent.

  “Don’t you realize?” Andrew said gently. “He had to have been some sort of adventurer. Or…doesn’t Bart work for the government? This man could have been a federal spy, hoping somehow to gain access to information about the Confederacy.”

  Catherine’s head jerked up as though he had slapped her. “No!”

  “But, what other explanation could there possibly be?” He waited a moment. “Unless he was some poor man smitten with you who devised a rather bizarre way to…have you.”

  Her crimson face told him everything.

  After a moment she ventured another glance at him. He was staring at his hands, which rested on his knees, a hurt and bewildered look on his face. She was stricken with pity for him and impulsively reached out to touch his hand.

  “Andrew, I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you. I didn’t mean to. I believed he was you. But, under the circumstances, don’t you think it would be best if we had our marriage annulled?”

  “Because you’re in love with a man whose identity you don’t even know? Or do you?”

  Her gaze did not waver. “I told you I don’t.”

  He stood up. “I’m prepared to forgive you, Catherine. I realize that I’ve been gone for a long time. You were lonely…you believed what this charlatan told you. But I’m home now and you are my wife.”

  Catherine got to her feet, hardly aware that she was moving.

  “Of course I’ll be writing to my commanding officer, telling him of my escape. I’ll be rejoining my unit eventually. But until then—” He reached out and touched her cheek. “We’ll have to get to know each other again. I’ll give you some time. Please have the servants move my clothes into another room.”

  She stared at him. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, then left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

  There could be no doubt that he was Andrew. Everyone had recognized him immediately. But who had been shot for desertion, if not Andrew? How could Clayton have made such a mistake?

  “My true wife, always and forever…”

  Inexorably Andrew’s words, too, came back to her. “Federal spy…hoping to gain information about the Confederacy.” Clayton…wearing the uniforms of both armies—No! She would not have doubts about Clayton. He could not have deceived her so cruelly.

  But he had deceived her—at least at first.

  Her thoughts ground relentlessly on. The letter Bart had sent—what if it really had been intended for General Lee and not General Burn-side? What if Clayton had accomplished his mission when he took it away from her, reporting its contents to Burnside? Had he really fought at Fredericksburg on the side of the Confederacy? Or the Union?