Spinning the Moon (31 page)

I moved backward against a slender sapling, alarmed at the pallor of his skin and the way his eyes darkened as he looked at me.

He took another step forward and stopped. I watched as his eyes rolled up into his head and his knees buckled as he slid to the ground.

The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits.

—ECCLESIASTES 1:6

I
dropped to my knees and bent my ear to his face to feel the reassuring warmth of his breath on my cheek. Realizing he had fainted, I unbuttoned his jacket and the top of his shirt, feeling the bulk of bandaging under the thin cotton. Blood had begun to seep through the bandages, making me aware of how serious his wound was.

“You damned fool,” I said to his closed eyes. “You should have stayed at Phoenix Hall, where Charles could care for you properly.”

Blue eyes opened briefly. “I am a damned fool—but not for this.” His voice sounded strained, as if it took all his effort just to speak. “It's not so bad. Bullet passed clean through.” He took a deep breath, his eyelids fluttering. “I am . . . here to take . . . you back with me.”

I reached under my skirt and began ripping the cotton ruffle around a petticoat. “I can't go back with you, Stuart.” I had to make him understand, and the only way I could was to tell him the truth. “Sarah's in great danger. Pamela is holding her hostage unless I help . . .” I could barely say the words. “Unless I help her assassinate General Sherman.”

He struggled feebly to sit up, but I pressed him down. Gasping heavily, he squeezed words between each breath. “I will not . . . allow you . . . to put yourself . . . in danger.”

He winced as I struggled to sit him up against the tree. “You don't have a choice. You can barely breathe, much less chase me through the woods.”

Narrowed eyes regarded me solemnly. “But my men could.”

I'd forgotten all about the other soldiers. My hands stilled. “Don't. Sarah's life is at stake. And I'm the only one who can help her.”

I raised his shirt and wrapped my petticoat ruffle around his chest, tightening the pressure on his wound to staunch the flow of blood, like I'd seen Julia do for Zeke.

He grabbed my wrist and our gazes locked. “Damnit. Why will you not let me help you?”

I shook my head, fighting the sting of tears in my eyes. “Because if Pamela finds out I've told you or solicited help, she will kill Sarah. I don't doubt it.”

He winced as I pulled him forward to reach around him. “Do you have any idea where Sarah might be?”

With a glance over at Matt's body, I leaned Stuart gently back against the tree. “Only what Matt told me—that she was being held in an old, abandoned church. I have no idea where—except Matt did say it was near where he was born.”

His forehead was beaded with sweat. “Matt's father was a preacher.” He winced, closing his eyes. “It could be that church. In Alpharetta—about a day's ride from here.”

I sat back on my heels, my heart heavy. “Will your men find you?”

Panic crossed his face. “You cannot go alone. I will . . .” He struggled to stand, but collapsed against the tree, his eyes admitting defeat.

“Will your men find you?” I asked again.

He paused, then nodded. Between gritted teeth, he said, “Endy will show them.”

Thunder rumbled overhead, as fat blobs of rain pelted the leaves and branches, dribbling their way down to where we sat. He lifted his good arm, reaching for me, and I leaned toward him. His fingers brushed my cheek, then cupped my jaw, sliding around to the back of my neck. He pulled me to him, then kissed me deeply, and I lost myself in it. The smell of the rain and wet wool brought me back to awareness and I pulled back, worried I might hurt him.

His eyes were dark with pain and something else, his words low as he spoke. “I am half out of my mind with pain and with anger, yet still I want you. This wanting of you—it is sure to kill me if nothing else does.”

I gently laid my head on his chest, and his fingers found my hair. “I'm sorry, Stuart. I'm so sorry.” I buried my face in his neck, kissing him softly, then lifted my head and stood.

He grunted, trying to sit up. “Laura, please. Do not go alone. We can find Sarah together.” His eyes burned into mine. “I love you.”

I swallowed my tears, my heart battling with my head. Telling him the truth of my feelings for him would bind us forever; would keep him searching for me long after I had gone. My head won, and I swiped away my nonexistent tears like I could swipe away my feelings. Matter-of-factly, I said, “If Sarah is not where you think she is and I don't show up to see Pamela, they will kill her. I will not fail my daughter again.”

He crumpled back against the tree, and I turned to retrieve my carpetbag that Matt had dropped as we flew into our hiding spot. It was stuck under one of his legs, and I shuddered as I moved it to retrieve my bag, the rain hitting it with solid
thud
s.

I faced Stuart, clutching the red carpetbag. “There's a bag of gold coins in Matt's coat. Take it. You'll need it after the war's over.” I ducked my head. “Go home, Stuart. If I know you're being taken care of, that's one less thing I have to worry about.”

His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Do not go.”

Swallowing hard, I shook my head and turned away, then headed up the hill in the dense underbrush.

*   *   *

The rainstorm ended as quickly as it had begun, and I was grateful that I didn't have to slog through mud. I was a poor navigator, despite my four years as a Girl Scout. All I knew was that the train I was on had been headed north to the town of Dalton. So I stayed in the woods but kept close to the edge, where I could follow the bends of the rail tracks. I listened for a while for the sounds of pursuit, and when none came, I relaxed a bit. I hoisted my skirts and knotted them as high as I could to make walking easier, only lowering them when the woods gave way to sparsely populated farmland. A road grew out of the fields, and I followed it for a while until a wagon ambled by piled high with lumber. The old man holding the reins showed no surprise at my disheveled appearance when I asked him if the road would take me to Dalton. He nodded solemnly and then offered me a ride. I didn't need any persuasion to accept
his offer, and climbed up onto the running board before he could change his mind. The man did not utter a word, and for a time, I thought he had drifted to sleep. I took off my shoes to examine my blisters, startling as the man shouted and slapped the reins at a bumblebee.

He dropped me off at the Dalton train depot, for lack of anywhere else to go. I thanked him, and he rode on, a single hand held up in farewell.

At the ticket window, I asked for directions for Mrs. Simpson's rooming house, the place Matt told me Pamela was staying. Dreading every step, I headed off for the short walk.

Full dark had settled over the town, the streetlamps coloring the clusters of Confederate soldiers in a faded yellow. Women, many wearing black, scurried across streets with baskets over their arms or holding on to small children. I wondered if there might be a curfew, and quickened my step.

Pamela answered my tapping on the door. When she looked past me into the hallway, I told her, simply, “Matt's dead. Confederate soldiers stopped our train and chased us into the woods. He was shot, but I managed to escape.”

I kept my voice steady and my gaze firm, knowing I couldn't mention Stuart's involvement. Her eyes flickered over my appearance, and then she held the door wide to allow me in.

“Does anyone know you are here?”

I shook my head slowly.

“Let us hope you are right.” She closed the door behind me with a final
thud
.

I gave myself a sponge bath behind the screen in the room and slipped on a nightgown, pleased to finally rid myself of my torn and tired traveling dress. If it weren't for my growling stomach, I would have been too tired to make it to one of the two single beds.

To remain inconspicuous, we ate our dinner of chicken dumplings, yams, and corn bread in our room. Tight knots clenched at my stomach, but I still found my appetite and cleaned my plate, chewing slowly while my mind digested my thoughts.

Pamela's teeth ground her food, her jawbones jutting out from the colorless skin on her face. As I studied her, my mind skittered in all
directions. I hoped Stuart's injuries ensured his return home to Phoenix Hall where he could completely recover. A part of me wanted him to stay weak for several more months, to keep him out of the war.

We placed our trays outside the door; then Pamela began to dress for bed. As she removed her clothes, I heard the distinct sound of rustling paper. I turned and watched in amazement as she relieved her petticoat of its unusual fullness at the sides and rear by drawing out three newspapers.

On her bed she laid out the
Cincinnati Enquirer
, the
New York Daily Tribune
, and the
Philadelphia Inquirer
. I approached the bed and glanced at the dates—all recent editions.

“What are these for?” I asked, thumbing through the Philadelphia paper.

She snatched it out of my hands and stacked them on the floor next to her bed. “They are for our army, of course. To give General Johnston and his staff some insight on the status of Yankee morale and some such. Our neighbors to the north are worried about Grant's losses in the east. One more staggering defeat of Federal forces and I do believe the Yankees will be ready to sue for peace.” She grinned widely at me. “The death of Sherman and the resulting loss of morale among his men will be the turning point in this war—you mark my words.” She practically beamed as she pulled the bedclothes from the bed. “Mrs. Simpson is a friend of mine and will be sure to deliver these to General Johnston tomorrow.”

I watched as she placed a revolver under her pillow and lay down. “Go to sleep, Laura. We have a very busy day ahead.”

Pamela turned down the lamp, and as I watched the flickering shadows disappear from the walls, a thought occurred to me. “How will we get to Chattanooga? It's held by the Federals, and I can't imagine them letting us walk right in.”

Her voice was sharp in the quiet night air. “We will have to depend on our own resources and the fact that you are related to an officer on General Sherman's personal staff.”

I sat up straight in the bed, my eyes squinting in the dark in Pamela's direction. “What do you mean?”

I heard the smile in her voice. “Your new brother-in-law, dear.
Captain William Elliott, aide-de-camp for General Sherman. Stuart's older brother.”

I recalled the arrow scar on Stuart's chest and all the things I had heard about William. Knowing William's relationship with his brother and Julia, I was unsure if he could be relied on to be an ally. “And he's supposed to help us get rid of General Sherman?”

“No. And I know you are smart enough not to enlighten him on the matter. He believes me to be a Yankee spy. How else do you think I have been able to get the information to pass on to Stuart? William is merely our passage into the general's company. And then you will take it from there.”

I thought of the red velvet dress with the low neckline I had brought with me. “You're going to have to be more specific than that, Pamela. I haven't a clue how to be a seductress.”

“Then you had better start practicing. But I do not think you will have to do much; men seem to flock toward you regardless.” I saw a dark shape against the whiteness of the wall, like a shadow in a nightmare, and realized she was also sitting up in bed, looking directly at me. “I will arrange for you and the general to be alone, to get to know each other. You will suggest a secret rendezvous and your complete discretion. When he meets with you, I want you to blow his head off.”

She's insane
. The thought struck me again as an owl hooted in a tree not far from our window, and I suddenly wanted to climb up the tree with him and watch all of this from a safe distance. Instead, I found myself an actress in the middle of this macabre play, with only one way off the stage. I placed my hand on my heart and felt it fluttering rapidly. I willed it to slow by taking deep breaths. What if I succeeded in killing General Sherman? Would the war continue longer and the blood of thousands be on my hands? It was immeasurable, unfathomable, and certainly unpredictable. Then I thought of Sarah, scared and alone, her fate now an unknown, and knew I didn't have a choice.

I lay back down on the cool cotton sheets, and eventually fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.

We left the rooming house before dawn, sneaking down the back stairs and out the door without detection, and headed north through the woods. I shivered in the dark air, trying to make out the moonlit-backed
shapes in front of me. My long skirts caught on brambles and dead twigs, so I eventually hoisted them up over my knees, exposing stockings with more holes than fabric. After a couple of hours, I stopped from near weariness, cool prickles of sweat beading my forehead. I dropped my carpetbag, opening hands that had been clutching the handle and the skirts, and painfully stretched the small bones and muscles. The bloodred sun appeared low in the sky, bleeding light into the dark forest.