The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (54 page)

He begged while he desperately crawled forward, using his elbows to move him along. “
Help me
.” Empty trouser legs dragged behind him. He had given his limbs for the South. She could not let him die.

“Grab my arms. I’ll pull you.”

The roof crackled and groaned and sparks rained down on them. With muscles screaming, she hissed through her teeth while she pulled harder. The heat from the flames singed her skin. Her feet slipped on the slimy floor.

Her strength and energy were gone. She humanly could do no more. The roof dropped chunks of flaming wood.

“
Hurry.
” The man’s face was distorted with terror and pain, his eyes blazing, reflections of the advancing fire.

Her grip on his arms weakened as the muscles in her back, biceps, forearms, and shoulders simply ceased to function. “No more.”

I’m sorry.

And then the fiery timbers supporting the roof plummeted toward them…

61

Richmond, Virginia, April 1, 1865

B
raham and Jack
left Gaylord at the boarding house where he had been staying. Since the rioting mob controlled the main thoroughfares, they had to weave through side streets, dodging rioters and avoiding the fires spreading into Richmond’s business center. Frightened women and children ran from their homes as flames licked at their doors and windows. The mad dash through the scorching heat back to Van Lew’s drained Braham, twisting and squeezing him like a sponge, until he had nothing left.

He licked peeling lips, gasping for breath. “Need to stop—”

There had to be protection from the roar and crackle of the flames and shattering glass, but where? Sparks carried by an intensifying south wind danced on the tops of most of the buildings and rained down into the street, now hot and littered with fiery debris. Thank God Jack had the foresight to bring boots for him. He owed the man his life.

Jack grabbed Braham’s arm, tugging hard. “If we stop, we’ll burn. Come on. Only a few more blocks.”

Braham staggered up the street, coughing, while exploding shells soared high into the night’s sky, a pyrotechnics display—a dangerous one—raining burning chunks of wood and melting glass down on top of homes and businesses. At the rate the fire was burning, there would be nothing left of the city by morning.

Only the strength of his own will held him together for the last few blocks.

When they reached Church Hill and the Van Lew mansion, the fire was several blocks behind them. Exhausted, they trudged up the stairs at the back of the house and entered, startling three of the women servants who huddled in a corner.

One of the women came forward with a lighted candle held high. “What do you want?”

Braham leaned against the wall, gasping, and began a slow slide to the floor. His legs had turned to mush along with every other muscle. He doubted he could get up again, much less find the energy to wash. There was a dull ache at the backs of his eyes from the smoke, and from days of restless sleep in a cold cell with little food. He lowered his head onto his knees, praying everyone would leave him alone to sleep or die. At this point, he didn’t care which.

Jack moved farther into the room. “It’s Jack Mallory.”

The woman turned to the others. “It’s Miss Lizzie’s guest.” There were a few beats of silence before the woman asked. “Who’s the man on the floor?”

Jack hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Major McCabe. I rescued him from the Castle Thunder evacuation.”

“Lordy, Miss Lizzie’s been waitin’ for news. I’ll go tell her you’re back.”

“No,” Braham said in a hoarse voice. “We need baths first.”

The women giggled.

“Guess they can smell us,” Braham said.

Jack pulled him to his feet. “Us? You’re the one who’s past ripe. If I ever smell as rotten, throw me in the garbage heap.” He dragged Braham into the room where Charlotte had washed after her visit to the prison. “Come on. Get cleaned up, then you can rest.”

A servant dumped buckets of steaming water into the tub.

“Keep the hot water coming,” Jack said. “And send for the butler.”

When the butler arrived, Jack explained the situation and asked him to get clothes for both of them from Jack’s wardrobe and to also bring the haversack containing his toiletries. “And don’t let the women know we’ve returned until we’re dressed.”

The water in the tub quickly turned dark brown as old blood and grime soaked off of Braham. The tub was emptied and filled a second time. The third time, while heat seeped into his wounded body, he gobbled down a hefty bowl of chicken soup.

When the butler returned with clean clothes and the haversack, Braham washed his hair with Jack’s special shampoo. Clean and smelling good, he climbed out, feeling remarkably refreshed. He’d been blessed with a hardy constitution, and four years of war had battle-hardened what God had given him. Under the right circumstances—food, rest, and a little tending to his wounds—he could recover to fight again, but this reprieve would not last long.

He intended to use the reprieve to reacquaint himself with the taste and feel of Charlotte’s lips.

Jack stripped out of his torn, scorched clothes. “Are you going to shave your ugly beard off?”

Braham scratched at the bristly, four-month-old growth of hair. “You don’t like it? I’m getting used to it.”

Jack ducked to wet his hair. When he resurfaced he said, “You’re asking the wrong Mallory. I don’t care, but Charlotte will hate it.”

“She likes your three-day-old whiskers look.”

Jack chuckled, tilting his head in a yes-and-no gesture. “I’m not sure she likes it. She’s merely stopped complaining about it.”

Braham combed back his shoulder-length blond hair. “Should I cut it? Most men wear short hair now.” He stopped combing and studied his reflection in the small shaving mirror. The cut above his brow gave him a somewhat menacing look. He snarled at it. “Do you think I look fine enough?”

“Jesus, man. What’s wrong with you? Remember this. It’s all in the nose. Win over a woman’s nose and you’re halfway into her bed.”

Braham set the comb aside, picked up a clean shirt, and slipped it on. He only had a short time remaining with Charlotte and that thought triggered a quiver all the way through him. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, though. He couldn’t go home with her, and she wouldn’t stay with him.

“Hand me a towel, and don’t forget the cologne,” Jack said.

Braham collected a towel off the shelf and tossed it to Jack.

“I don’t know why you’re getting dressed. You know she’ll want to examine you. And when she sees your back, she’ll dope you up and put you to bed.”

Braham put on a jacket and straightened his tie. “As long as she’s next to me, I won’t object.”

“Elizabeth won’t approve of you sleeping together.”

Braham flapped his hand in dismissal. “I don’t plan to tell her.”

“I suspect she knows everything going on in her house, even what’s happening behind closed doors.”

Braham slipped his thumbs under his lapels, raising his eyebrows theatrically. “You forget. I’m a master of subterfuge.”

Jack tied the towel around his waist, roaring with laughter. “Which is why Johnny Reb caught you twice.”

Braham shrugged. “I admit I’ve had a string of bad luck, but I survived.”

“Oh, speaking of surviving. There’s a matter Charlotte asked me to talk to you about. Elizabeth spent most of her family’s fortune rescuing Union soldiers. She’ll die of old age in this house, penniless. I don’t have money to contribute, but I thought you might be able to set up a trust fund for her.”

“I’ve got more money than I’ll ever spend. I’ll take care of it, but wouldn’t providing for her change history?”

“If making sure a woman has food and shelter for the rest of her life changes history, then I’m all for it.”

Braham reached for the doorknob. “Consider it done.”

They found Elizabeth in the drawing room, staring out the window while fingering the cameo brooch at her neck. An uneasy foreboding stole over Braham. A servant in the room had her head down, watching as she poked at something on the carpet with the toe of her shoe. Braham checked. Nothing there. The uneasiness ballooned rapidly.

“I don’t believe the fire will reach this far,” Braham said.

Elizabeth dropped the curtain and turned to Braham. She seemed…not absentminded, but rather nervous and distracted. Her fingers fluttered about her neck like uncertain moths caught in a lampshade. “It’s good to see you, Major. Was there any trouble?”

“No. Did the other men arrive?” Braham asked.

She nodded. “They were taken to safe houses for the night.”

“Where’s Charlotte? Is she sleeping?” Jack asked.

“She went looking for you.”

“
When
—” Braham asked.

“
Where
—” Jack shouted.

“When you didn’t return,” Elizabeth’s fingers fluttered faster, “within a reasonable length of time, and she believed you intended to stop Jefferson Davis from leaving the city with the treasury. Did you?”

Jack collapsed into a chair and buried his head in his hands. “How in God’s blue blazes did she leap to such a conclusion?”

“How long has she been gone?” Braham demanded.

“Two hours, maybe more,” Elizabeth said.

“Where would she have gone?” Jack asked, moaning, “Oh, God. Where is she?”

Elizabeth’s skirts swished as she strode across the room toward Jack. She rested her hand on his shoulder. “I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen. She only mentioned the depot.”

Braham paced, thinking. If she reached the depot and discovered the train gone, what would she do then? She’d come back . . . unless. “Is there a hospital in the path of the fire? Or an influx of wounded? A place where the injured are gathered for medical care? If she’s not out searching for you, Jack—”

“She’s knee-deep in somebody’s blood. But where? I’m not aware of any hospitals in danger, but there is a trainload of wounded housed in a depot.”

Braham paced his way over to the whiskey bottle and poured a drink. “Which isn’t remarkable at all.”

The statement hung in the air for a moment. Then Jack said. “But it is, I’m afraid. The depot caught fire when the Richmond & Petersburg Railroad Bridge was torched. As I recall, the army doctors organized a rescue party. But Charlotte wouldn’t go there. Not tonight.”

“If patients were in danger, wouldn’t she move mountains to save them?” Urgency vibrated in Braham’s voice.

“The depot’s a tinderbox. When it catches fire, it burns…”

Braham had one foot out the door before Jack finished his sentence.
If she survives tonight, she’s going straight home, even if I have to carry her through the ages myself.

Jack followed him down to Main Street, where they found the mob had deteriorated into total anarchy. Braham put his hands on his knees, panting. He had never seen such lawlessness. Every store had been looted, leaving behind destroyed buildings and empty shelves. Fires blazed from Fifteenth Street to Seventh Street.

“
Come on
. We have to hurry,” Jack said.

They ran with their jackets over their heads, dodging collapsing buildings. Jack led the way across the short bridge spanning the canal at Seventh Street. Flames shot straight into the sky, and buildings blazed on both sides of the short, narrow street leading to the depot.

When Braham spotted the burning train station, he made a fierce gesture at Heaven, leaped over a pile of smoldering bricks, and ran like he was fire himself, yelling to Jack, “
It’s burning
. The depot’s burning.
Run
.” His heartbeat hammered in his ears over the roar of the flames.

Rows upon rows of wounded Confederate soldiers languished on the ground some distance from the burning building.

Braham pointed to his left. “Go that way. Ask everyone if they’ve seen her. I’ll try this way.” They separated and Braham darted in and out among the wounded men. “Have you seen a woman with yellow hair?”

“She helped me get out, but I ain’t seen her since.”

Braham heard the same comment dozens of times as he continued to search through the rows of wounded men, all coughing from the smoke.

“Last time I saw her, she was running back inside,” a soldier told him.

One side of the building was engulfed in flames and fire was spreading rapidly to the other side. Black smoke poured out of the windows. Braham ran to the only entrance not in flames. “
Charlotte. Charlotte
.” He bellowed, covering his mouth to keep out the blazing hot smoke. Then he yelled again. “
Charlotte. Charlotte.
”

Heat blistered his skin and sweat streamed down his face. The overhead beams splintered and crashed down, cracking with fire. Glass exploded from windows and wicked shards turned into dangerous projectiles embedding in already-injured soldiers’ arms and legs.

Braham ran into the building, calling her name, until the roar of the collapsing ceiling jerked him to a standstill. And then his heart stopped. He spotted her dragging a man out of the flames, out of the path of the burning roof, but she wasn’t going to make it.