Gwyneth Atlee Read online

  Weakened by a bout of typhoid in the camp, Lucas Hale had perished on the difficult rail journey from Georgia to Mississippi. His was only one of the bodies left behind for burial whenever the train stopped, a chain of dead Union men laid like new track across the shattered South.

  Gabe had hesitated to use a dead man’s name, but in the end, he’d had to agree with Seth’s logic. Borrowing Hale’s identity seemed a small price to pay for getting home in one piece.

  The line inched forward, as slow as every other step of their release. As they moved toward the steamboat, Gabe wondered once more if the reception he’d so long imagined would in any way resemble the homecoming he’d receive or if his father had already learned of his disgrace.

  Maybe that was part of why he sensed that something meant to keep him in the South. Maybe some part of him knew better than to return home.

  Best not to think on it now. Better, instead, to dream about that steak. When he concentrated, he could almost smell the steaming onions and taste the mouthwatering juices, could almost—

  “What the hell’s the holdup?” Jacob Fuller demanded. Jacob’s impatience made him supremely unsuited for the ranks of the U.S. Army. But as far as Uncle Sam had been concerned, his skill with horses outweighed his temperament. He adjusted an ill-fitting kepi cap atop his dark brown curls and shifted his thin frame to ease the burden of his brother.

  Captain Seth moved to help keep Zeke on his feet. Gabriel would take a turn next, for Zeke could barely walk with his ankle so swollen. Gabe wondered once again if his friend would eventually lose the leg—or even die.

  No, it wasn’t to be imagined. Not after all that they’d endured. Zeke would heal with the tender care and good food he’d get back home in Indiana. His brother, Jacob, would see to it with the same stubbornness that he applied to every other challenge.

  Without warning, the sight of the two brothers together jerked Gabe back, the way it often did of late, to an image of his own younger brother in the moments before he’d plunged through the river ice. Matthew had been laughing then, for he’d just surprised Gabe with a well-aimed snowball. He’d been laughing in his final moments. That had to count for something.

  Hoots and whistles dragged Gabe back to the present. Someone yelled a crude remark before Seth ordered him to pipe down. Gabriel craned his neck to see what all the commotion was about.

  And that was when he saw her, the most beautiful young woman he had ever set eyes on. She looked almost impossibly small and delicate compared to the huge man beside her. A bonnet hid much of her hair, but still the sunshine gleamed across the blackness of those spots that were exposed. Like the glossy feathers of a raven’s wing, he thought. Though she’d drawn her wrap high out of modesty, he noticed the swell of a full bosom and the narrow waist below it. Lower still, the violet dress flared slightly, as if she had eschewed the huge hoops many ladies favored.

  When she turned in his direction, he saw how the violet brought out the green that flecked her light brown eyes. Some called that color hazel, he remembered.

  Jacob’s elbow jabbed at his ribs. “You’re gonna catch a fly, Gabe. Better close that mouth now ’fore she reckons bein’ a prisoner of war’s turned you into a drooler.”

  Ignoring his friend, Gabe stared as she pulled away from the guard who strode beside her.

  “My ticket says Sultana, and I mean to reboard her.” Her voice sounded stubborn, defiant—and deeply Southern.

  Gabe’s stomach turned, hearing that hateful accent coming from those pretty, bow-shaped lips. Lips that would no doubt sing the praises of the men who’d packed them into that tiny prison camp and watched them starve like dogs, that would relieve the bruised feelings of some young man who’d just laid down his arms.

  “I’m only thinking of your safety and comfort,” the sergeant told her. “A delicate young woman should not be exposed to such—”

  She cut him off as he reached for her arm once more. “I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself, sir.”

  She not only made the last word sound like suh; she said it like a swear word.

  This section of the crowded wharf boat, noisy but a moment before, fell quiet as men strained to hear the altercation. The day had been long and tiring enough that they welcomed any chance of a diversion, especially one featuring a pretty girl.

  Beside him, Gabe heard Zeke chuckle at the boldness of her tone. Abused as they’d been by the Confederates, the former prisoners wouldn’t normally stand for hearing a Southern woman dish up contempt. But the sergeant had spent the afternoon making enemies, ordering the men to “march sharp” through the streets of Vicksburg. Before they’d left the camp, he’d spent what seemed like hours strutting up and down their line with much impatient huffing. He’d taken special pleasure, for some reason, in harassing the injured men to stay on their feet so as not to “hold up” the immobile line.

  If Gabe hadn’t been so eager to avoid drawing attention to himself, he might have knocked down the pretentious bastard half an hour ago. He hoped this young shrew gave him the tongue-lashing of his life.

  “And as for your advice,” the woman continued, glaring up at the sergeant, “I’m certain these young men are far more interested in returning home than in disturbing a lady passenger.”

  The sergeant made as if to reach for her again, but the young woman turned her back on him and continued walking toward the gangway.

  “Got no use for a goddamn coward.” The words rang in Gabe’s ears, pushing him the way it always did, beyond the good sense of Captain Seth’s collegiate logic.

  Recklessly, Gabe stepped out of line into the sergeant’s path as the man tried to hurry after her. The guard plowed into him.

  Thin and weak from his incarceration, Gabe fell with a grunt, banging an elbow hard against the wooden pier.

  “Watch where you’re going, idiot!” the guard demanded. Clearly annoyed, he yanked Gabe roughly to his feet.

  Rubbing at his throbbing arm, Gabe made sure he blocked the man’s progress. His right hand had already formed a fist.

  The young woman turned at the sound, then hesitated.

  “Are you all right?” she asked Gabe.

  Those beautiful green-flecked eyes unnerved him, enough so his right hand unconsciously relaxed. Her smooth, unblemished skin, with its glow of good health, contrasted so completely with the faces of prisoners exposed for long months to the elements that he could not take his eyes from her. Yet within moments, he felt his own face heat with shame for what he’d done—was doing—siding with the enemy against a fellow Union soldier.

  But like the boy who’d caused him so much grief, she refused to fit into the narrow mold his mind constructed to cast the Rebel foe. No matter how he tried, he saw nothing past his strong attraction to her.

  When finally he found his tongue, he spoke to the sergeant. “Let her come aboard. She’ll be safe. My-my friends and I will see to it.”

  Gabe offered her a weak smile, for he felt too agitated by this fresh evidence of his disloyalty to speak directly to her.

  The sergeant’s laughter mocked him. “You will, will you? Well, since she’s ignored my good advice, then your pitiful offer may be the best she can do.”

  He marched away, his stiff shoulders and swift stride marking his profound irritation. Gabriel supposed he’d made another enemy.

  The young woman leveled her devastating gaze on him once more. “You never answered me. Were you hurt when that brute knocked you over?”

  She cared what he felt. How long had it been since he’d last heard concern in a woman’s voice, seen it in her eyes? Could it be possible a Southern woman might see him as anything other than a marauder?

  She smiled politely, but those hazel eyes looked wary, warning him she felt as ambivalent as did he.

  “Quiet, aren’t you?” she asked. When he failed to respond, she raised one dark brow. “Well, congratulations, then. You’re the first Yankee I’ve met who wasn’t eager to confer his opinions as if
they were gifts from on high. For that, sir, I am ever in your debt.”

  Her eyes glittered brightly with intelligence—and something bitter, too. His boyish fantasies dissolved into a haze of caution.

  She masked her expression with good manners and dropped him a belated curtsy. “And I also must thank you for troubling yourself to speak up for a stranger. And for stepping out in front of that man, if I’m to judge.”

  At last, he found his tongue. “No, miss. Thank you for that. I’ve been looking forward to the chance to trouble him for the past hour.”

  The bright notes of her laughter hung sparkling in the warm spring air. “I hope you’ll be thanking me still when the bruises start to form.”

  The basket on her arm shifted, and Gabe could swear he heard it meow.

  “Lafitte’s impatient for his milk,” she explained. “I’d best go see if I can find some.”

  She patted his hand with her gloved fingers. “It was a pleasure, Mr. . . . ?”

  Mister. Not soldier, not private, not damned Yank. Since the war’s end, heaven was opening to him a little at a time. He basked in the sound of that civilian title, the same way he’d reveled in the humble luxuries of a filling meal and a uniform devoid of vermin.

  “Gabriel Davis,” he finished, too warmed by the glow to lie. Surprising himself, he ducked his head and added, “at your service, Miss . . . ?”

  At her hesitation, he cursed himself. In thanking him, she’d offered only the barest of civility. Did he really think that interfering with the sergeant was an act so noble she’d forget he was the enemy, not to mention a young soldier? Before his embarrassment overwhelmed him, she answered.

  “Miss Eve Alexander.” Her gaze slid away from him, as if she hoped that would end this awkward conversation.

  The high-pitched mewing grew more plaintive. To Gabe, it sounded like a kitten. He hoped she didn’t open up the lid. Kittens might be cute enough, but he never could get past the fact they all turned into cats.

  She peered behind her, as if she suspected the sergeant—or someone more unpleasant—might come back. Something near the line’s end made her dark brows draw together and erased the last hint of her smile.

  “I must be going, Mr. Davis.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned toward the Sultana and hurried up the gangway leading from the wharf boat to the steamer.

  “Good-bye, Miss Alexander,” Gabe called after her.

  “Romance blossoms . . .” Zeke batted his eyelashes and affected a swoon against Seth, who still supported him.

  “. . . and then is nipped as if by a cruel frost,” his brother continued. Jacob grinned. “Just as well, Gabe. What’s some Southern woman gonna see in you but a calf-eyed, half-starved Yankee—”

  “American,” Gabriel corrected. “I’m not in the least interested, but if I were, I’d tell you she’s not a Rebel any more than I’m a Yankee now. We’re both Americans. Our side just won a war to prove it.”

  Seth snorted and slowly shook his head. “Tell that to Mary Lincoln, Gabe. Tell that to John Wilkes Booth.”

  * * *

  After a brief trip to the main deck to fetch a bit of food and some milk for her kitten, Yvette hurried toward her stateroom. She paused for one last moment to watch the late afternoon light dance on the living water. An image came to her: Marie, hair waving in its currents, limbs as loose as her long tresses, flesh as pallid as the moon. Yvette’s stomach plummeted in response.

  Turning away from both the river and the unexpected jolt of grief, she stepped inside and secured the door of her cramped but well-appointed stateroom.

  Reclining on the lower berth, she whispered, “Dieu merci!” With Marie’s fate fresh on her mind, death had become both real and threatening. But behind this door, at least for the moment, she felt the beast at bay.

  She never should have gone ashore in the first place. If she’d kept to the sanctuary of her stateroom, no one would have seen her. She’d taken a terrible risk, drawing attention to herself among all those Yankee soldiers. The whole accursed lot would remember the rare sight of an unescorted young woman, even if she were as unfashionable as a ’gator’s snout without her bell-shaped crinoline. Arguing with that petty tyrant of a sergeant had only made her more conspicuous, but unfortunately, it could not have been avoided. She had to hurry northward, and her ticket said Sultana. She had no intention of explaining to that Yankee that she had little money left to change her plans.

  Another impatient mew reminded her to unlatch Lafitte’s wicker prison. The black-and-white kitten nearly exploded from the handbasket, then vaulted from the lower berth to a single chair and onto the empty washbasin. When he careened into the water pitcher, Yvette leapt up and grabbed it just in time to prevent it from falling.

  It had been a mistake to take him out of the stateroom, she belatedly realized. She’d had the foolish notion to find a sunny patch of grass to let him play for a few minutes, but nothing about Vicksburg had encouraged her to linger.

  As the kitten tumbled toward the floor to begin another circuit, Yvette scooped him up into her arms. Moving to the chair, she settled him on her lap.

  “You’ll have to make do, the same as I must, little scoundrel.” As she scolded him, she scratched his white chin with a finger, and he erupted into such loud purring that she forgot her fears and laughed.

  She could sympathize with his relief at being freed. For the last few days, this stateroom had felt exactly like a handbasket to her. She’d had to switch from her beautiful hoop skirt to a more practical silhouette just to maneuver her way past the narrow set of bunks.

  That was one reason she’d risked leaving the Sultana, but not the only one. The delay in their departure had allowed her time to send a telegram to alert Uncle André in St. Louis that she was on her way, seeking assistance. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on her father’s brother, a prosperous attorney she hadn’t seen since she was nine or ten. She pictured a dark-haired, balding man, but the features of his face refused to focus. When she concentrated, she had an impression of deep and generous laughter. She prayed that she remembered right.

  Heaven help her if she was wrong about her uncle or if her message had told him too little to be of help. Or worse yet, if it said too much, in the horrifying event that it was intercepted. She’d worked on it for hours, packing what she hoped was hidden meaning into every syllable. But if anyone could decipher desperation, it would be her brilliant uncle. His letters alone proved him a master of nuance. And having left New Orleans so many years before over some quarrel with Grandmère Régine, who ruled over her descendants like a tyrant queen, Uncle André would not care how the rest of the family had shunned her—or so Yvette most desperately hoped.

  She risked everything on the chance that he would once more ignore Grandmère, who had cursed her bitterly. That he would help her clear her name and lay the charge of murder where it belonged instead, at Capt. Darien Russell’s feet.

  Yvette put the kitten on the floor beside the saucer of milk she’d begged off the cook. With the haughty daintiness of a debutante, Lafitte dipped in one white paw, then tasted before deciding it was fresh enough to suit his palate.

  Yvette picked at the plate of food she’d brought with her. But the bread turned to tasteless sawdust in her mouth, so difficult to swallow that she soon gave up the task. Instead, she worried that she had truly spotted Captain Russell near the end of the line of prisoners. She wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered at the thought of facing him now, before Uncle André could protect her. At the thought of looking at his hands, which had choked the life out of Marie.

  “No,” she whispered to herself. She couldn’t face him. She struggled to convince herself that the bearded man had been only another soldier, like that presumptuous sergeant. Just another Yankee who imagined he had the God-given right to order her about. One was little better than the next, and all of them so infernally smug in their victory. Every last one of them so . . .

  Perhaps not. The
re had been that shy young soldier from among the prisoners. His dark blond hair had been neatly barbered and his whiskers freshly shaved, as if a civilian volunteer had wished to blunt his family’s shock at seeing him return so thin. She recalled the pale blue of his eyes, which still looked as innocent as any farm boy’s despite the horrors that they must have witnessed these past few years. She smiled at the memory of how he groped for words. Maman would have condemned her with the suggestion that she chattered more than enough to suit them both.

  What was she imagining? He’d been a kind man, handsome even, but he was still a Yankee. For all she knew, he was the one who’d shot off Pierre’s right arm. Remembering her eldest brother, she felt traitorous for thinking well of anyone who’d ever worn the Union blue.

  As she’d learned from harsh experience, she must never for a moment let her guard down. Desperation had driven her to hide among her enemies, who would catch her if she couldn’t curb her wayward tongue and kill her if they only knew the charges Captain Russell had contrived.

  No matter what happened, she mustn’t ever suppose any Yankee soldier was her friend. No matter how he’d stood up for her. No matter how compelling his thin face.

  Pushing aside the unsettling thoughts, Yvette took out her rosary and began to chip away at the almost hopeless task of absolution for her sins.

  Two

  If one army drank the joy of victory, and the other the bitter draught of defeat, it was a joy moderated by the recollection of the cost at which it had been purchased, and a defeat mollified by the consciousness of many triumphs.

  —New York Times, 1865

  Capt. Darien Russell could barely look at the photograph of Marie without remembering his hands on her delicate white throat, without picturing the livid bruises they’d left there. He liked his ugliest memory of the most beautiful of women tamped down deep, a dead seed pressed into barren soil. So he kept his eyes averted as he showed the small portrait to the soldiers and wished again that he had one of Yvette instead.