Gwyneth Atlee (2 page)

Gabe couldn’t shake the feeling that something meant to keep him
in the South. Maybe since Lincoln had been murdered, the
Confederates would take heart and try to drag them all back to their
hellish prisons. In that case, they could leave his body here, because
now that he’d tasted freedom, he’d make them shoot him before he
returned to that stinking cesspit in Andersonville.

Or maybe it would be a sniper’s bullet that kept him from Ohio.
Probably it was too late for the Confederacy to resurrect an army, but
still there were scattered soldiers who refused to admit defeat. The
Union guards escorting the prisoners home had been posted not only
to keep order but to watch the wooded shorelines for telltale rifle barrels, maybe even cannon.

More than likely, though, it wouldn’t be the Rebels who left him
dead here in the South. It would be the men of his own company, once
they realized their last attempt to kill him had somehow fallen short.
Just barely, anyway, Gabe remembered, thinking of the ambush his
former comrades had sent him into.

“Got no use for a goddamn coward.”
Their judgment was a heavy
stone cast into a pool of darkness, the ringlike ripples of it
spreading ever outward, still troubling Gabe’s waters despite the
passing months.

He’d never imagined that some from his old unit had been captured, never dreamed that while he’d languished in Georgia, they’d
been imprisoned in Cahaba in Alabama. When he’d spotted them in
the release camp at Vicksburg, his heart had nearly thumped its way
clear of his chest. He’d managed to avoid them, but here, aboard the
steamboat, it would be much harder.

In line on the wharf boat, he tried to keep his back to everyone at
once. To distract himself from the threat at hand, he started Food Talk
with his Andersonville friends.

“My first meal home’s gonna be sweet peas with new potatoes and
a beefsteak thicker than your hand. With onions piled on top. So many
onions, you can barely see the plate.”

He felt the ritual begin to work its familiar magic and the tension
start to ebb out of his body. Left over from the darkest days of their
starvation, the Food Talk fed their spirits, though it could do nothing
to ease their bodies’ ever-present hunger.

Gabe wondered if years after Appomattox, Food Talk’s power
would stay with them, faint compensation for the memories of
Andersonville. When he looked at his three friends, he saw those bitter months in their gauntness and fatigue, in the oozing sores that had
scabbed over and promised lasting scars. And then there were the
deeper scars, the ones that did not show.

“Too early yet for sweet peas,” Jacob Fuller told him, already reverting to thinking like a farmer, though he’d spent recent years shoeing
horses for the cavalry. “And I’m more partial to chicken. Mama’ll fix
two fat hens, and I aim to eat them both.”

“Not if I don’t beat you to ’em,” Zeke swore. Though he had to lean
against his brother for support, some of the pain in his eyes dimmed
with the familiar game. “And I mean to wash them down with a
whole day’s milking.”

“Bacon.” Captain Seth adjusted the cracked spectacles he
always wore. Behind them, his gaze turned toward the line to
board the steamer. Several men ahead of them were pushing for
a spot. Some of them had looked half-dead a few days earlier,
but the orders to board the boat home had revived their fighting
spirit. Though none of them were Seth’s responsibility, he’d take
charge if the need arose.

Captain Seth, though only thirty, had been a professor before the war.
Mathematics and logic at some little private college that Gabe had never
heard of. But Seth’s education had stuck with him in the calm way he
invoked order out of chaos, in how he appealed to a man’s sense.

“Bacon for my breakfast,” Seth continued, watching as guards
restored the peace, “with some thick chops for a snack, more eggs than
a frog spawns, and biscuits—”

“Without your day’s meat ration squirmin’ in them. No more worm
castles for us!” Gabriel interrupted, and every man within earshot
cheered the end of infested, teeth-dulling army hardtack, though a
month ago, all of them would have fought for the chance to eat it.
Some who hadn’t heard Gabe still joined in the cheering out of high
spirits at the thought of going home.

Before Andersonville, Gabriel would never have considered interrupting an officer, even for a jest. But in the past six months, he had
learned that to Capt. Seth Harris, rank meant less than the brotherhood that the four men formed to survive.

In spite of his friend’s rank, Gabe had admitted what he’d done to
Seth and Seth alone. Gabe frowned, remembering how hard it had
been to relate the events of six months earlier, even after all the men
had shared. Deliberately, he withheld the details out of fear that Seth
would think he was attempting to excuse his cowardice.

But as always, his trust in Seth had been well placed. Without a
word of reproach, the captain had told Gabe, “Better stay with us,
then. There’s no sense in making it this far, only to get killed by a
bunch of Ohio hotheads. You can use Hale’s name for the roles so you
can sit with us. God knows, the poor devil won’t be needing it again.”

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.”