Rachel's Choice (26 page)

Rachel's heart pounded as she towed her high-sided wagon full of ham, bread, and pies down the crowded Fort Delaware wharf. Around her, oxen, horses, merchants, foot soldiers, civilian officials, servants, and sweating laborers jostled for position on the narrow roadway. Cursing teamsters cracked bullwhips, wagon wheels creaked, and horses shied beneath the broiling August sun.

Dogs barked, a load of barrels shifted and slid into the marsh beside the plank-lined track, and a blue-uniformed messenger on horseback nearly collided with Rachel's wagon. She dodged the bay's steel-shod hooves, shouted angrily at the rider, and returned his rude gesture with an equally insulting one.

“Remember that you're a Quaker,” Chance admonished.

She glanced over her shoulder at him limping along with the aid of a crutch and bit back an oath. What had he gotten her into? The humid air reeked with the stench of gunpowder, tarred ropes, manure, and human waste, and it was impossible to take a step without sinking ankle-deep in animal droppings. Greenhead flies, no-see-ums, and mosquitoes bit her exposed flesh and buzzed around her head. The coarse wool of her dress chafed her skin and itched unmercifully.

“Couldn't you have made me a dockside slattern?” she hissed at Chance. “At least I could have worn less clothing.”

“Do you think I'm comfortable bound up like an accursed mummy?” he whispered. “Besides, it's your job to look pious,” he answered. “Thou should not lose thy Christian charity, sister.”

“I'll give
thee
a taste of charity, if we ever get out of here alive,” she promised. She wondered why Chance had bothered with such an elaborate deception. Amid the milling crowds and the confusion, she was certain she could have ridden an elephant past the high, granite walls of Fort Delaware without anyone noticing.

As they reached the main entrance to the fortress, the wooden thoroughfare gave way to dusty lanes leading in different directions. One path led across a bridge and through a guarded gate to the forbidding, gray-walled enclosure. A second lane circled the murky green waters of the moat and ran around the stone prison. The third road cut across the potholed field to a log palisade rising out of weeds. On the far side of this barrier lay the wooden barracks that housed the common prisoners.

Rachel realized she was on the wrong side of the road to reach the enlisted men's prison. She waited as a produce wagon, a cart of flour, and a platoon of youthful recruits spilled past her. Then, losing patience, she rested her dirty shoe on the rail of the wagon, hiked up her petticoats, and adjusted her garter.

The driver of an ale wagon taking the center lane gaped fish-mouthed at Rachel's exposed leg. His lead mule turned to the right, and the rest of the team followed, carrying the vehicle directly into the bridge approach. The right front wheel tangled with the left wheel
of a colonel's gig, dumping the officer, a bulldog, and an elegantly gowned woman into the green-scummed moat.

A sutler, directly behind the gig, reined in short and guided his team left to avoid hitting the overturned carriage.

In seconds orderly chaos became bedlam as soldiers dived into the water to rescue the officer and his lady. The bulldog climbed up the bank and rushed at the infantrymen, vehicles overturned, and draft animals became tangled in harnesses.

With the way open, Rachel hurriedly pulled her wagon across the road in front of the riot and walked toward the high wooden fence. Chance hobbled after her, sputtering with indignation.

“You're not a farmer,” Chance fumed. “You're a damned gypsy. Have you lost your mind?”

“Keep quiet,” she answered tersely. “Remember, your wounds keep you from talking.”

At the gate she had to answer the same questions that she'd been asked when she'd docked her sloop at the landing. “Come to sell my goods to the brave soldiers,” she said meekly.

“Why here in the common barracks and not up at the castle?” a red-faced corporal demanded.

Rachel adjusted her bonnet. “A falsehood was spread about my pies,” she lied smoothly. “Someone accused me of using green apples and giving a captain a bellyache. There was nothing wrong with my pie, I can tell thee. 'Twas only his own greed, that he could eat the whole in one sitting.” She tried to look pitiful. “He's barred me from the main fort, he has, and me with four small children to support. 'Twas most un-Christian of him.”

“Which captain might that be, ma'am?”

She shrugged. “Does thou think I ask the name of every customer? A big man he was, with full jowls and little neck.”

The soldier grinned, exposing a rotting front tooth. “Pass on, Quaker lady, but if you don't sell all your wares, remember Johnny O'Brady on your way out.”

“Thank you, brother,” she said.

The sentry raised his weapon and stepped in front of Chance. “What's your business here?”

“He can't talk,” Rachel said, tapping her own throat. “He's my husband, or what's left of him. Poor James, I can't leave him at home. Last time I did, he wandered off into the hog pen and I found him eating slops.”

“My sympathies, ma'am.” The corporal motioned to a red-haired private, and the private opened the gate just wide enough for them to pass through.

Rachel stopped a few feet inside the walls and stared. Chance had told her that the island was little more than a swamp, but she hadn't expected this soggy hell.

Not a proper road or speck of grass remained. Instead, churned ruts of stinking black ooze led from the guard station to wooden barracks more suited to curing lumber than sheltering enemy soldiers. Pools of stagnant water sprinkled the landscape, and through a line of scrubby trees she could glimpse the Delaware River.

Rachel had steeled herself for the inhumanity of prison life, but she hadn't imagined it would be like this. Ragged men, stripped to the waist, bathed and washed clothes in the filthy sinkholes. Others sat in the mud, smearing their arms and faces until they looked like caricatures of the teams of black laborers digging ditches in
the hot sun. And others … Sweet Lord in heaven! Some men were relieving themselves in full view.

There were hundreds of prisoners, maybe thousands, swarming over the island like flies. Scarecrows in the remnants of Confederate uniforms crept toward them, calling out with hollow voices.

“Ma'am, have you any food to spare?”

“Please, missus, I haven't heard from my family in two years. I'm Dan White from Federalsburg. Could you send a letter for me?”

“Have you bread for a fellow Christian, sister? Anything at all.”

“Mercy, lady …”

An old man stretched out a bony hand. “There's been a mistake. I don't belong here,” he whispered hoarsely. “I'm the king of Spain. You've got to help me.”

Chance swung his crutch in a threatening arc. “Keep back,” he warned. “You'll get nothing here but broken bones.”

Shaken, Rachel turned and stared at him. “Surely I can part with—”

“Nothing,” he said. “Give them one bite, and you'll never get inside the barrack enclosure with a crumb.” He grabbed her arm, and his fingers dug in. “Be careful, Rachel. Ask for the commanding officer. He won't see you, but it will take time. Sell your goods as slowly as you can. Stall, ask to see the chaplain—the hospital. Give me an hour. I'll meet you back here.”

She stiffened. “You're leaving me?”

He leaned close to her ear. “I have to, darling. No one would talk to me if you were along. I need to find someone who might know about Travis.”

Panic seized her and her knees went weak. “No!” she
cried. “You can't leave me.” She clutched at his shirt, but he pried loose her fingers.

“There are guards inside. No one will molest you if you use common sense and stay in the common areas.”

“Please don't go,” she begged him.

“I'll stay with you until you reach the entrance. You're tough; you'll be fine.”

“I may be tough, but you're a son of a bitch,” she muttered as she hurried toward the barracks, dragging the wagon after her.

A group of chanting blacks carrying shovels and led by a Union sergeant crossed directly in front of her. One man, near the end of the line, stopped singing, turned his head, and studied her.

Pharaoh! It was Cora's Pharaoh!

Rachel almost called out to him but caught herself in time. Cora's son gazed past her at Chance, and for a moment she read suspicion on Pharaoh's sweating blue-black face. Then he picked up the spiritual on the chorus and strode on without ever acknowledging her presence.

“Chance,” she whispered when the work party was out of earshot. “Did you see …” But Chance was gone, slipped off into the crowd of prisoners. And she was alone, facing yet another guard station and more questions.

“Vat is yer name and business, voman?” a burly Union soldier shouted. Sweat stained the armpits of his soiled shirt, and the stench nearly made her gag.

She took a deep breath and replied, “Good day to thee, brother. I'm Charity Goodfellow, and I've come to see thy commanding officer on an important matter.”

“Sech as?” The sergeant's right eye was bloodshot and
swollen as if he'd been fighting, and an inflamed boil on his neck exuded yellow pus. The giant scratched at the carbuncle with dirty, broken nails, and she noticed that two fingers on one hand were missing the last joint.

“A private matter.” By his accent she judged the man to be Pennsylvania Dutch, and by his smell he couldn't have bathed since his sixth birthday.

“Says you.” He spat a cud of tobacco on the ground beside her, spraying the hem of her skirt.

She flinched back, and he grinned.

“What is thy name?” she demanded.

Ignoring her question, he scratched his whisker-stubbled chin. “Show me vat you got in dat vagon.”

Rachel pulled back the canvas, exposing her foodstuffs, and the man dug a handful of crust and blackberries out of the center of one of her pies.

“Swine!” she accused.

He laughed again and grabbed for another pastry.

“One is enough for you.” Rachel seized the ruined pie and thrust it at him. “You may as well eat the whole thing, since thee put thy dirty hands in it. Now let me pass.”

The Dutchman watched her with piggy eyes as he stuffed a quarter section of the pie into his mouth and slowly chewed it. “You a fancy voman?” he mumbled. “Maybe a rebel come to break out our prisoners?”

“I am first cousin to thy good chaplain,” she answered hotly. “And if you do not let me pass, I shall see that you greatly regret it.”

“What's going on here?” A lieutenant with thinning hair appeared in the open doorway. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes, there is.” Rachel flashed her sweetest smile. The officer was short and gaunt; the obnoxious sergeant
dwarfed him. “I've come to sell my bread and pies. I was given permission to enter, but this man”—she waved at the Dutchman—“he's eating my goods without paying.”

The lieutenant scowled at the sergeant. “Have you nothing better to do, Sergeant Coblentz? Come with me, ma'am. It's hardly fit for a lady in here, but …”

“Why thank you, brother,” she replied. “My breads are as fine as thou may taste anywhere. And I've jams for sale as well as sweets.” Picking up the wagon handle, she followed the officer inside, leaving Coblentz to finish off the remainder of her blackberry pie.

Lieutenant Cochran had escorted her through the outer barracks and into a center compound that contained rows of equally decrepit housing.

No breeze could blow inside the courtyard, and the broiling sun seared her skin and turned her dress to a damp, suffocating wrapping. Wooden planks between buildings were covered in mud and slime, and it was impossible to walk without sliding off and wetting her shoes. It was all Rachel could do to keep from being sick at the foul odors that seeped up from the ground and drifted from the barracks.

The lieutenant sent an orderly to find the captain, but before the officer could arrive, word of mouth had carried the message that fresh bread and baked goods were available. Cochran bought two of her pies, a jar of jam, and a loaf for himself. But she barely had his money in her pocket before two more officers showed up and asked her prices.

“The same as usual,” she said, not having any idea what a pie was worth.

Apparently they were worth hard silver. Her entire stock vanished in less than five minutes.

After everything had been sold, Rachel asked Lieutenant Cochran if she could pray for the poor unfortunates in the hospital. That gained her a little time, but she was forced to face the horrible sights and smells of the infirmary. Men with half their faces blown away lay side by side on the reeking straw pallets with those suffering from dysentery and measles. Along one wall flies crawled over the stacks of the dead awaiting transportation to the funeral boat. And after viewing the misery and hearing the cries of the patients, she wondered how the doctors could tell the sick from the expired.

Finally, when she could stand no more, she told Cochran that she must return to the landing if she was to catch her boat. He guided her back to the entrance, and this time, when she passed through the heavy wooden doorway, the Dutchman wasn't there.

She looked for Pharaoh, but he, too, was gone. Two blacks were shoveling mud out of a drainage ditch, but neither of them was Cora's son.

Rachel had dreaded passing through the open ground, but few of the prisoners paid her any mind as she walked back to the spot where Chance had promised to meet her.

If she'd been frightened coming in, she was terrified now. The thought of being trapped here was enough to make her palms sweat and her mouth go dry. If Chance had been taken …

But she couldn't let herself think of that. Instead, she pictured Davy's laughing face and imagined the three of them sharing a dip in the cool waters of Indian Creek.