Glory (40 page)

Inside, Belle Boyd was holding court, flirting almost wantonly with prisoners and guards alike. He could hear her voice rising dramatically, she was telling them all about some of her wild night rides and how she wouldn’t be anyone’s prisoner long. With her bobbing brown curls and lust for life, she was charming and captivating, adept at keeping attention focused upon herself.

He looked at the dead man so recently lost. The sun was falling. A bored guard dropped a coffin by the table. “One more in the wagon, we’ve plenty of places for the dead, it seems. I’ll see that you’re finished for the last Reb, Doctor,” the guard said, and ambled off.

That had been the last dead man ...

Coffin ... there was an extra one. Sydney herself had suggested it. The dead were being placed. Soon the guards would realize that there was an extra pine box. He had to move fast.

He looked around. The last of the guards stood near the doorway, or hauled coffins, already occupied, to the wagons. The extra coffin lay before him, next to his impromptu diagnosing table. The lid was ajar ...

He looked around hastily. No one was watching. Those who should have been were occupied, listening to Belle. He crawled in. He didn’t even have to share his space with a dead man. The guard had counted the dead and dying with one too many.

He had just pulled a poor pine lid over himself when he heard voices again. The men coming back for the last of the coffins. Coming to take them to the wagons.

To go ... somewhere.

He didn’t know where he was going. It didn’t matter. He felt his box lifted on the shoulders of two men. Heard them complaining that he was one heavy dead Reb. He was jostled, nearly dropped, finally slid upon a wagon bed.

It was dark. So dark in the coffin, darker than the night. Stifling. The night might be cool, but the box, in the dead heat of summer, was suffocating. He nearly panicked, nearly beat against the wood with his bare hands. Better to be a live prisoner than a dead Reb in a coffin ...

No ... endure the ride.

He fought for control. Gained it.

And rode on through the night in his stifling dark pit of hell ...

The dream about the coffin continued to plague her. It was dark, it was night. She was walking, and there it lay, in a copse in the trees, a forest copse. She didn’t want to walk to it, but she did, and she didn’t want to see inside, but she couldn’t help herself. She reached out and touched the lid. It was nailed down, and she couldn’t move it, but then the nails gave, and she was terrified and wanted to look away.

Alone at night, she sat by a stream in northern Virginia wishing that she were home. She held a note in her hand, written to her by Sissy Walden, the girl who worked with Jesse Halston. It was a quick note, a kindness on Sissy’s part, and a kindness on the part of the soldier who had ridden out with what personal mail he could bring from Washington.

“Both McKenzies doing fine; like Sydney more every day. Julian works hard at Old Capitol; seems adjusted to his stay. My best to you and hoping to see you when, as they say, ‘this cruel war is over.’”

She hugged her knees to her chest.
There was no coffin.
Julian was fine. Her dreams had simply come to torment her.

She was seated so when she heard movement behind her. Turning, she was startled to see that General Magee, his head bowed, stood behind her. She leapt up, swinging around to stare at him. “General, sir.”

“My dear child, come here.” He stretched out his arms to her.

She had been afraid that something had happened to Risa in Florida, that Jerome had been killed, that there might be some terrible news that would concern them both. Perhaps Ian McKenzie had been injured.

But no. The way he looked at her, held out his arms. She shook her head, moistening her lips. “Julian ... ?” she whispered.

“Rhiannon, please come here. There’s a vague rumor that he ...”

“That he what?”

“He’s gone. Missing.”

“Missing? From Old Capitol?” She felt her heart thundering. “Then he’s escaped,” she said.

General Magee shook his head slowly. “They took wagons of the dead from the prison, and it was after the dead Rebels were taken that they realized he was gone. I’m afraid that ...”

She remembered her dream about the coffins.

And she passed out cold.

They were there again in her dreams ...

Coffins ...

A parade of them. They marched by, one after another, again, again, again. No soldiers carried them, just cloaked figures, a score of grim reapers, all come for the dead. Pine boxes held by the bony spectral hands of the figures who cast out maniacal laughter, for it was Death that fed off the war, Death claimed the only true victory.

They marched and marched, a parade of coffins, and she was in the middle of them, running, running. She couldn’t run to the end of the parade, couldn’t look for the living among the dead, for the fingers reached out and touched her.

She awoke with a start. It was dark; she was in her canvas field tent. From somewhere she could hear the chirping of crickets. The night had cooled. The days had been blistering. A Virginia summer, with temperatures rising far above those of her native peninsula.

There was someone beside her, fingers did touch her hair. Blue eyes touched hers. A handsome, well-known face hovered above her own. Her heart started to jump with joy, then careened. Not Julian, it was not Julian.

“Rhiannon, I’ll find him.”

“Ian?” She was glad, of course. She hadn’t seen him, nor heard from him, since the battle at Gettysburg. She hadn’t known where he’d been sent. And it was good to see anyone alive these days. But he was the wrong brother. And she was so afraid.

“I’m going to find him, don’t worry. I’ll catch up with the wagon of dead heading down to meet up with the company of Rebs sent out to retrieve their own. We’ll know one way or the other just what has happened to my brother. But I know him, Rhiannon. I don’t have your abilities, but my brother ... I’d know if he were dead. I would know it.”

“Ian ...”

His lips touched her forehead. He rose from the folding chair at her side and started from the tent. Stunned, she watched him go.

Then she leapt up, suddenly ashamed. She’d heard frightening news—and fainted.

She slipped out of the tent and saw Ian disappearing toward a line of tethered horses. He spoke to one of the soldiers there, reaching for the reins to a handsome, healthy bay. She started to race after him, then paused. He wouldn’t let her come, he’d try to protect her.

She slowed her gait, smoothed back her hair, and started along the trail toward the line of horses. She waited until Ian was mounted, until he’d called out to the sentry. When he had disappeared down the path, she started walking again, hurrying toward the cavalry mounts.

“Whoa, there, Miz Rhiannon!” the sentry called to her. He was a middle-aged farmer, laconic, slow, firm. “Where are you off to in the middle of the night?” He spoke gently; she was certain that most of Magee’s men were aware that her very newly acquired Rebel husband might be as dead as her original spouse. Magee had been Ian’s commanding officer for years before the war.

“I have to catch up with Ian.”

“Miz Rhiannon, you mustn’t just go running off.”

“Sir, I must reach my brother-in-law.”

“No, I can’t let you do that ...” he protested, trying to figure out how to stop her as she untied the reins of a roan gelding, turned the horse around, and leapt up.

“Are you going to shoot me?” she asked him.

“Well, now, no, ma’am, you know I’m not going to shoot you—”

“Good. Because that’s the only way you’re going to stop me.”

She nudged her mount with her heels, and the horse obediently swung around to follow after Ian. She raced hard past the lines, reining in when she was challenged once again by a voice that rang down to her from the branches of an old oak.

“Halt, or I’ll shoot.”

“Accompanying Colonel McKenzie!” she shouted back hoarsely.

“Hurry then, he’s headed down the pike toward the Reb camps!”

“Aye, that I will!” She leaned against her horse and gave the animal free rein.

He must have dozed; he awoke again to stifling heat and a horrible sense of entrapment.
Still in the coffin, still moving. He could feel the endless jolting of the wagon, the sickening sensations
...

Then, suddenly, a rush of bullets. Shouts. Cries, screams. The motion of the wagon increased to a wild, reckless pace. He was thrown back and forth in the tiny space with such violence he was afraid he was going to be sick when he had the time to be afraid of anything. Suddenly, there was a huge jolt. A strange sound penetrated the coffin along with another flying sensation and slamming. Again, he heard the explosion of bullets, screams, cries. Then his box slammed against something with such force that his head struck the wood with savage force, splintering the top.

“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. For the love of God, we’re just returning the dead—”

A bullet whizzed. The pleading voice fell silent.

Stunned, Julian tried to gather his forces. He heard groaning, then more voices. “Virgil, move fast! Both damned armies are in this vicinity.”

“Billy, shut up and give me time. The lids are nailed down!” the one named Virgil called back.

“Rip the damned lids off faster.” Billy ordered.

“Nothing! This fellow has nothing in his pockets at all.”

“Hell, this one has a pack of playing cards!” Billy snorted.

“What were you expecting? These are Reb prisoners. What did ya think, that they’d knocked off a bank in D.C. before expiring?”

“Shut up, shut up, get to work—there! Must be this here feller’s old dead Pappy’s watch, it’s a fine piece, keep going—hey, this dead Reb has a fine gold wedding band, too!”

His head buzzing, Julian lay still in his coffin, listening. Whoever these men were, they had killed the Yankee drivers to steal whatever they could find off the wagon of dead men. They were robbing from those who had fallen, and it wouldn’t have mattered if they were Rebels or Yankees. The men here had fought and died for something they believed in, and now, dead, they were being dumped and ravaged for precious mementoes from the lives they had lived.

Footsteps ...

He heard a grind of steel against wood as a bar was set against the coffin lid that covered him. A ripping sound followed, and all of a sudden one of them was staring down at him. He was an ugly fellow with a mouthful of yellowed, broken teeth. He was wearing a frock coat, stolen from a Union cavalry officer, with a Confederate sash. His hair was long and greasy, and his eyes were small, brown, and glittering with a light of greed.

Then, looking down as Julian’s eyes opened, he suddenly shouted, “Hell, this one’s back from the dead!”

He jerked a knife from his side and raised it above Julian. Julian caught his arm before the weapon could plunge. They struggled. Julian managed to turn the knife. When the man twisted to reach for the gun holstered at his side, Julian jerked forward. The knife plunged straight into the robber’s heart.

“Virgil, Virgil?”

The second man came running over. He was carrying a Spencer repeating rifle, aimed at Julian.

Trapped in the pine coffin with Virgil’s body over his own, Julian had no choice. He reached for the Colt in the holster at Virgil’s side.

He hit Billy first. But Billy got off a shot. It careened just past Julian’s forehead. The noise of the bullet whizzing by his temple and plowing into the pine was deafening. The bullet gave him a fierce sting.

He tried to rise. He fell back, the world going dark ... again.

Dark ... dark.

Darker than it had ever been before.

R
HIANNON THOUGHT THAT SHE
had followed Ian for almost an hour when she was startled and unnerved to hear hoofbeats on the road behind her. She reined in, spinning her well-trained cavalry mount around. As she had expected, he had circled around and come behind her.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” he demanded angrily.

“Coming with you.”

“But it’s dangerous.”

“War is dangerous. In the midst of it, a cannon could explode at any time. If I were home, deserters could come and rob me and slit my throat.”

“You should be in St. Augustine.”

“Where the Rebs might decide to seize the city back and warfare could break out and anyone could be killed.”

“Even at Gettysburg—” Ian began.

“Even at Gettysburg, a young girl was hit by a stray bullet. Ian, please, I have to come with you.”

“All right. Then ride with me. Don’t trail behind!”

She managed a weak smile, smoothing back a lock of hair. “I’ll be delighted to ride with you, Colonel McKenzie.”

They rode together. “I’d finally arranged an exchange for him,” Ian said softly.

She glanced at him. “You said that he was all right, that you’d know, in your heart, if anything had happened.”

“I lied,” Ian admitted.

She knew that he was waiting for her to offer him a deeper insight. She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve been dreaming about ...”

“About?”

“Coffins.”

Just as she said the word, Ian reined in sharply, putting out a hand to warn her to stop as well.

“What is it?”

“A wagon wheel. Get behind me. If anything happens, ride like hell, straight back to our camp, do you understand?”

“Yes, of course.”

He started trotting forward. As ordered, she stayed behind him. There, strewn in the road, was the body of a man, next to him, a broken wheel. And as they rode farther ...

They came to a copse. She had to gasp.

A wrecked wagon lay against the trees, upended and on its side. All around it lay ...

Coffins. Some broken, with their sad inhabitants hanging halfway from them. Some had been split open, some were untouched, some men were nothing but bones, some wore bloodied clothes, some had begun to rot ...

“Rhiannon, get away!” Ian warned.

But she was already off her horse. One man lay with fresh blood oozing from a wound in his chest. Near him lay a ripped coffin with a second man sprawled across it.