The Long Way Home (27 page)

‘‘I . . . ah . . .’’ Another coughing spell.

The interrogator waved at a soldier near the door. ‘‘Get her some water.’’

After a drink, she wiped her mouth. ‘‘Thank you.’’ She cleared her throat again, sending pleas heavenward all the while.

‘‘General, if trying to alleviate the suffering of wounded men is treason, then I believe you would have to convict me. I’d rather have you convict me of treason than have our Lord convict me of not caring for his sons.’’

‘‘Answer only the question.’’

‘‘I did.’’ A slight narrowing of his eyes let her know she’d hit home.

‘‘Miss Highwood.’’ He leaned slightly forward, his hands clasped on the table in front of him. ‘‘Do you realize I can have you shot to death?’’

‘‘Yes, I do.’’ No way was she going to call him sir, no matter what her mother had drilled into her all those years earlier.

One eyebrow twitched and settled back into a straight line with the other.

‘‘But that will only serve to send me home to my Father.’’

Where had that come from? She kept herself from licking her dry lips and reached again for the cup of water that had been left for her. She observed her shaking fingers as if they belonged to someone else.

He leaned back, his eyes drilling into hers. ‘‘Did you know your brother was carrying a letter that confirms our suspicions that he spied for the Confederate army?’’

Her head shook before she could stop it. ‘‘N-no.’’
Stand straight, don’t you buckle now
.
Why, Zachary, you promised me we were only coming for medicines
. But even while asking it, she knew the answer. He would do anything to assist the Confederacy, anything to feel he was still of use, still a man.

The general nodded to the man at the door. ‘‘Take her away.’’

At the look on her face, he added. ‘‘You’ll be informed of our decision.’’

‘‘Sir, what about my brother?’’

‘‘You are dismissed.’’

She shot a glance at the major, who returned it without as much as a blink.

Louisa squeezed her hands shut until she could feel the pain of her fingernails digging into her palms.
Lord, hold me up until I get to my cell
. But as she walked between rows of wellwishers, it was all she could do to keep from stumbling. She nodded, tried to smile.

‘‘Hang in there, missy. They won’t never shoot a lady.’’

‘‘Hang in there, missy. They won’t never
Oh, God, make him right
. ‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘I be prayin’.’’ With that Gray Ghost shut the door behind him, and she heard the lock turn.

She just made it to the chamber pot before the bile erupted, burning her throat, searing her heart. She rinsed her mouth from the water bucket and collapsed on the cot.
Lord, I cannot take any more. I cannot
.

Though her eyes burned as though she’d been in smoke, she could not cry. She could not lie still either and paced the cell until darkness wrapped her like a shroud. Sinking onto the cot, she performed her nightly ritual, including, with no thought or will on her part, her evening prayers.
Unto thee, O Lord, do I lift up my heart, my gratitude for all thy mercies. . . .
A trickle of a song, so faint she had to strain to hear it, seeped into her despair.
I thank thee for sending thy dear son to die for me. . . .
The song swelled like a tiny creek after rain.
I thank thee that . . .
Tears broke from their dam, washed her cheeks, and cleansed her soul. She hummed the tune, the words building to be sung. ‘‘O God, our help in ages past.’’ A whisper, but a song. ‘‘Our hope for years to come.’’ She sat up, wiped the tears, swallowed, and continued. ‘‘Our shelter from the stormy blast, and our eternal home.’’ She sang it again, pacing to the window and shouting it out the bars. An echo, no, someone else was singing. She started again. ‘‘O God, our help . . .’’ The music swelled as voice after voice from around the quadrangle picked it up. ‘‘Before the hills in order stood, or earth received her frame, from everlasting thou art God, to endless years the same.’’ When she reached the final line of the last verse, her throat clogged. ‘‘Be thou our guide while life shall last, and our eternal home.’’

‘‘Thank you,’’ she called when the song died away, hoping the men couldn’t hear the quiver in her voice.

‘‘And you,’’ echoed around the brick walls.

The next morning a key turned in the lock after Gray Ghost had already brought her breakfast. She watched as the door swung inward to reveal the major standing there.

‘‘C-come in.’’ As if he needed an invitation.

‘‘The decision has been made. You are free to go.’’

‘‘Free?’’ She stared at him, unable to believe it. Reality fell like a log on her shoulders. ‘‘What about Zachary, my brother?’’

‘‘He will be shot at dawn.’’

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
- F
IVE
September 1863

‘‘Would they take me and let him go?’’

The major shook his head. ‘‘You weren’t the courier.’’

‘‘But what if he didn’t know what he carried?’’ Her mind raced, banging from reason to reason like a wild thing in a cage.

‘‘He knew.’’

Somehow she believed the major wished things could be different. She stared at him, willing him to look at her face instead of her hands. Hands that knit together, snarled like bad yarn. When he finally looked up, she saw anguish puddling his eyes.

‘‘Is there anything . . . anything I can do?’’ Louisa swallowed the pending tears.

‘‘Pray for his soul.’’

‘‘His soul is not what is in jeopardy. Is there anything I can do in this life?’’

The man hesitated, then lowered his voice, so she had to strain to hear him. ‘‘You could appeal to President Lincoln.’’

‘‘Could the execution be postponed long enough for me to get an interview with him? If he would see me, that is?’’ Hope glimmered, an infinitesimal flame down a long tunnel.

‘‘I’ll see what I can do.’’ He breathed what sounded like a sigh of relief.

At least she’d be off his hands. Why did that make her feel a pang of regret? If only they had met at another time, another place.

‘‘Why, Major? Why do you care?’’

He studied her, as if unsure he should answer. ‘‘You grew up at Twin Oaks, a Thoroughbred stud farm near Lexington, Kentucky.’’

She could tell it wasn’t a question. ‘‘Yes. What do you know of Twin Oaks?’’

‘‘You have a sister named Miss Jesselynn?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ Her heart picked up the pace.

‘‘I was there the day of your father’s funeral. Someone had told us there were horses hidden there, so I was ordered to verify the rumor.’’

Louisa closed her eyes. She could see a few men in blue trotting up the long avenue of oak trees that led to the big house, a house that no longer lived but in her heart.

‘‘Miss Jesselynn, she is one fine woman. She let me know that we were intruding, and yet she served us lemonade on the front porch. A big black, shoulders this broad’’—the major held out his hands to demonstrate—‘‘he stood by the door, and an older black woman let us know we were in no wise welcome but served us anyway. Your sister made her.’’

‘‘Did you find any horses?’’

He shook his head. ‘‘Nary a one. Only two mules, but Miss Jesselynn made me feel so guilty, I didn’t dare requisition them. We weren’t in the habit of depriving citizens of their livelihood then.’’

And you are now? No longer is there room for feelings and manners. On either side. Lord, please keep me from losing the heritage my mother taught me, from losing the grace you taught me
. ‘‘I’m glad you were treated well at my home.’’
Oh, God, how I wish I were there right now
. She looked up. The major had schooled his face back to officer lines. His jaw looked to be chiseled from stone.

She tried anyway. ‘‘Can you tell me any more about getting an appointment with Mr. Lincoln?’’

A shake of his head so brief as to be nearly nonexistent.

‘‘Can you promise—’’ She cut off the sentence. She knew he couldn’t. Only the general could give stay of execution orders. To stand before that man again . . . Her hands clenched automatically. But for Zachary? She rose, hiding her now shaking hands in her skirt folds.

‘‘Could you please take me to see the general?’’

One raised eyebrow told her he questioned her sanity, but he nodded. ‘‘Follow me.’’

‘‘Tole ya so,’’ a prisoner called as she traversed the long walk between cells full of butternut-clad men. The cadence of clapping picked up again, buoying her spirits. ‘‘God bless you all.’’ She nodded at the faces crammed between bars, hands reaching toward her. Their well-wishes followed her past the slamming door.

If only Zachary had been one of them so she could see his dear face.
But he’s better off in a cell like mine
, she reminded herself. Thinking of him kept her from dwelling on her own predicament. Where would she stay? How could she force an appointment with the president? How would she get home to Richmond?

She didn’t have to wait long for the audience.

‘‘I take it you are not pleased with my decision.’’ The general sat behind a walnut desk, campaign maps on the walls, brocade curtains at the tall windows. She thought to the tents of the men in the field. Some had it harder in war than others, that was for sure.

‘‘Regarding myself, I am most grateful, but I have a favor of mercy to ask for my brother.’’

‘‘Don’t even bother asking me to pardon him. Military law states that spies are to be executed.’’

‘‘I understand that. I plead for a few days’ grace. That is all.’’

‘‘Even heaven cannot save him now.’’ The general narrowed his eyes, eyes that glittered like blue ice.

‘‘Then what would hurt with putting it off for a week even?’’

He thumped the desk. ‘‘I don’t know what you hope to gain, but I will give you three days, no more.’’

‘‘Thank you.’’

‘‘Did Major Dorsey give you the money from your brother yet?’’

‘‘No, sir.’’

He nodded to the major who stood off to the side. ‘‘Do so and show her out.’’ He waved a hand as if shooing a bothersome fly.

Louisa dipped her head in a semblance of a nod, turned, and followed the straight back of the major from the room.

Thank you, God
warred in her mind with
that insufferable pig
. She wanted to fall to her knees in gratitude. She wanted to shoot the general between the eyes. Instead, she thanked the major politely when he gave her Zachary’s leather money pouch.

‘‘I have something further for you.’’ He stepped behind a shelf and brought out her satchel.

‘‘Oh, Major.’’ She looked up at him, at a loss for words in her delight.

‘‘We removed the bottom.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘All that money down the river.’’

‘‘Oh, the quinine will be put to a useful purpose, as will the morphine. My men don’t always get enough either.’’

Louisa refused to let his words bother her. She’d done her best, and God didn’t require more. ‘‘Thank you, Major, both for this and the other.’’

‘‘Good luck.’’ He opened the door for her.

She stepped outside and, when the door closed behind her, stood in the sunshine, letting it soak in and begin to burn out the dregs of prison. Wishing she’d asked him which way to a boardinghouse or hotel or some place where she could scrub herself clean before making her way to the White House, she glanced up the street, then the other way. Which way?

She looked down at her satchel. While she had to brush and scrub at her skirt, she now had a clean waist and drawers, a gift beyond measure.

Feeling as though she’d been granted a new life, she set out up the street. Three days, that’s all. What could she say to the president of the United States to make him take pity on her and release her brother?

At a hotel she located, a maid brushed her skirt while she scrubbed from head to toenails, rinsed, and scrubbed again. Her skin burned when she finished, wondering if she would ever feel really clean again. But dressing in clean clothes helped, and fashioning her still damp hair into a bun, so she looked neat and womanly again, helped even more. After asking directions from the man at the desk in what could almost be called a lobby, she set out for the White House nearby.

She knew she’d seen it before. Officers in blue and men and women in street clothes flowed in and out the wide double doors guarded by tall white pillars. She took a seat in a room full of chairs, wishing for her knitting. If she had something to do with her hands, the time would pass more swiftly. Studying the gilded wallpaper, the heavy velvet drapes, and the walnut moldings failed to occupy even a fraction of the many hours.

One after another, the people seated around her rose when their names were called and disappeared through one door or another, and others took their places. By the time she was the only one left, dusk was falling and the man in charge shook his head.

‘‘I’m sorry, miss, but the president will not be seeing any others today.’’

‘‘So then I can make an appointment for tomorrow?’’

The man glanced down at a book in front of him. ‘‘You can come again, and I will try to fit you in, but his appointments are all taken.’’

‘‘I see.’’ Louisa sighed. ‘‘And the next day?’’

‘‘The same.’’

‘‘Sir, I don’t think you understand the urgency of my visit. A man’s life is at stake.’’
My brother’s life
. But she had a feeling that telling the entire story to this tight-lipped minion would only earn her a hasty exit. And no return.

———— The second day passed as the first. Louisa trudged back to her bare room at the hotel with a heart so heavy as to tip her into the sewer drain running alongside the street. She barely missed being run over by four brawny horses pulling a dray. Ignoring the shouts of the driver, she mounted the hotel steps.

Lord, what do I do? What am I doing wrong? Please, is it your will that my brother should die? But you say to ask for what we desire, and above all else on this earth, I desire my brother’s freedom
. Hoarding her few remaining coins, she spent the evening on her knees pleading before the throne of grace, rather than eating.