by Alyssa Cole
No. Papi is the only thing that matters. The North did this to him. You did.
“We all been hurt,” Lynne snapped. “The things my master did to me—” She shook her head, her mouth snapping into a grim line. “I won’t let that man have power over me anymore. I got free, and soon we all gonna get free, and if I let Old Cheswick keep me from glory, he wins. I ain’t gonna let him win.”
Emotion was bright in Lynne’s eyes, and Carla walked over and squeezed her arm. “Folks handle things different. You know that. And I hate to say it, but I was glad when I heard what he done to that man the other day. He said there was a little girl.”
Lynne closed her eyes. “I’m glad, too. Lord forgive me, but I’m glad. And I hate that I can rejoice in a death, but I ain’t gonna let these devils take my soul just as sure they took my body. Hope Cumberland don’t learn that too late.”
The women shuffled out of the room, leaving Janeta alone. She placed a hand to her chest, squeezed her eyes against the burning warmth of gathering tears.
Janeta slipped out of the house, leaving her sisters crying in the parlor, and rushed through the woods toward where she and Henry had planned to meet.
“Henry! Henry!”
He stepped out into the moonlight, handsome as ever, and relief washed through her. Henry would help. He would make everything right.
“They’ve taken Papi,” she cried, stumbling into his arms. He just barely caught her—he’d been scanning for Union pickets.
“I heard,” he said, his expression grim. “These bastard Northmen have no level they won’t sink to. They could have left the man his pride instead of parading him in front of his neighbors.”
Janeta was confused. “Pride? They should have taken me instead. I am the one they were looking for.”
“What?” Henry looked at her with brows raised, and Janeta shook her head from the frustration of having to explain to him.
“Don’t you see? There’s been some mistake! I am the one in the Sanchez household who has been aiding and abetting the Confederacy. I’m the one who gave the information about the regiment positions. I must go to the Yanquis. I have to tell them.”
She started to pull away, but Henry gripped her by the arms hard. “No, Janeta. Do you know what they’ll do to a woman like you? You belong to me.”
She’d heard of the marauding Yanquis, ravaging women as they passed through Southern towns. She’d seen the way they looked at her and her sisters, overheard their remarks, slipped away from their groping hands.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, that’s why I gave you so much information. I wanted them gone. I didn’t want this. Papi is innocent.”
She began to sob, and Henry pulled her close.
“You know, my commander mentioned something to me. There’s a way in which you, and only you, could be helpful to the cause.”
“What does this have to do with Papi, Henry?” Irritation sparked in her again. He was always pressing for something from her—her body, the information she provided. She gave him those things because she loved him and she knew what he needed. But in that moment, all she wanted was for him to hold her, for him to vow to make things right, and instead he was asking of her again.
“You can fix this dreadful mistake. You can help your father, and me, and the Rebel Cause, if you are brave enough. Do you think you are?”
Janeta didn’t feel brave, and she didn’t care about the Rebel Cause. She thought of her father, though, of how frightened he had looked as the Yanquis pulled him out of the house. How hunched and small he had appeared. Her irritation with Henry faded; all she felt was a fury that wrapped her up so tight she could barely breathe.
“What can I do?” she asked.
“Remember that group I mentioned? The Sons of the Confederacy? We need someone to get to the source of all these darkies leaking info to the Yanks. Someone they won’t suspect, like you. Will you do it? For me? For your father? For the Confederacy?”
“I will do anything to make the Union pay for this,” she said, hands clenched around Henry’s lapels. “Anything to free Papi.”
Henry smiled and began lifting her skirts, marching her back until her shoulder blades pressed into the rough bark of a tree.
“I knew you would, sweetheart.”
Janeta hadn’t understood what was being asked of her, and now that she did, she saw that everything was upside down.
The men she’d been taught were hardworking and brave were fighting to maintain the right to own and control other humans they could force to work for them—force to do anything. And she would help them do this. The people who she’d been taught were enslaved for their own good were bravely fighting for their freedom. And she would betray them. She swallowed as the saliva pooled in her mouth, and shut her eyes. She refused to retch.
You can do this. You must. If not, Papi will die.
She inhaled deeply, opened her eyes, and stared at the warped wood floor.
She was no longer a spoiled child. She was a spy with a mission. She would complete it.
* * *
When she came upon Daniel that morning, he was seated on a stool out behind the barn where she’d first encountered him, his gaze focused on his hands. He gripped his large knife and was moving it slowly, gently almost, against something cradled in his palm. A piece of wood; he was carving something. His expression was almost serene. The heavy furrows were gone from his brow and there was the slightest smile on his face. It was likely a product of his concentration, not joy, but the fact that his expression didn’t default into a frown was startling.
What happened when he was enslaved? What made him this way?
She could have turned those questions on herself, though they had different backgrounds; she wasn’t sure her face could be so serene without being forced.
The smile faded abruptly as he raised his head and glanced in her direction.
“You decided to come,” he said, shoving whatever he had been carving into his pocket and then sheathing his knife.
“You don’t seem pleased by that fact,” she said. She should have been afraid after what Lynne had told her of his unpredictable nature, but the early morning sunlight draped over him, softening his menacing air; he looked like a fairy king, burnished in gold, waiting for the adulation of his court, or like some bemused spirit of the woods. But then she remembered that in the tales of fairies and woodland spirits, their beauty did not negate their strength and they cared little for the lives of humans. That suited Daniel, and the dark gleam in his eye.
“I was hoping you’d used a lick or two of that common sense you supposedly have,” he said.
“I did,” she said, walking up to him. “Common sense tells me you need someone to watch your back.”
She smiled.
He didn’t.
“You know, that isn’t a bad idea,” he said as he stood, and for a moment Janeta thought that it really would be so easy. Then he shucked his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt, his gaze locked with hers. The look in his eyes was not one of newfound camaraderie, but bitterness.
His fingers moved swiftly, revealing a glimpse of the broad expanse of his chest and the ridged muscles of his upper abdomen. Heat raced to Janeta’s face.
“What are you—”
He turned and let his opened shirt fall away to reveal the upper half of his back to her.
“Dios mío,” she gasped, raising a hand to her mouth.
“God has nothing to do with this,” he said in a flat tone.
The surface of his back was a topographical map of pain, raised trails of scars as thick as two of her fingers crossing each other to form hideous junctions. He’d been whipped, more than once, his skin reflecting the evil one man could do unto another.
Janeta thought of the time her family had gone into the city center in Santiago. Her mother had clapped her hand over Janeta’s eyes when they’d walked by a man tied to a post with his bloody back exposed.
“You don’t need to see such
things. You are a Sanchez. You don’t have to endure such ugliness.”
She couldn’t look away now, though. Daniel had bared to her this proof of his ill treatment and all she could ask herself was, “Why?”
“That man tried to start an insurrection. They had to make an example of him.”
That’s what her father had told her later when she’d questioned him about what she had seen. He’d handed her a gift when she’d asked why insurrection was bad, a beautiful porcelain doll with creamy skin, rouged cheeks, and blue eyes, and she’d let the matter drop.
“What did you do?” she asked Daniel, and saw the muscles beneath the scars tense.
“You think I did something to bring this upon myself?” he asked, his voice taut, and Janeta’s fear came to the surface then. Not that he would hurt her, but that she’d made yet another misstep.
“No! I-I meant, why did they do this to you?”
He shook his head and pulled his shirt back up over his shoulder, not turning to face her as he did up his buttons.
“I was born Negro in a country where that is a crime, and I was ignorant enough not to know that I had already been convicted.” He grabbed his coat and shoved his arms into the sleeves, adjusting his collar as he turned to face her. “Since you already asked two questions any Loyal League detective should know the answer to, I was right to guess that you’re greener than new corn.”
She couldn’t argue with that. It was true, if not in the way he intended, and it was better he thought her ignorant than that he suspected the truth: she’d been taught that if a Negro was beaten like an animal, it was because they deserved it. That had been repeated to her time and time again, but she could think of few things that would merit the mess of scar tissue Daniel carried with him.
“Why did you show me this?” she asked.
“Because you seem like the questioning type,” he said. “And I hate questions. If you ever see fit to ask why I do something, or why I don’t, when it comes to the Confederacy? Know that you already have your answer.”
She had been thinking in terms of Cuba, and her childhood, but people here had done this to Daniel. The Confederacy. The very system she was currently assisting.
Carla and Lynne came around the side of the barn, and Lynne’s eyes narrowed as she took in the scene.
“Showed him your toys yet?” Carla asked.
“Not yet,” Janeta said, trying to sound as if she hadn’t just forgotten to breathe for a moment. “I haven’t ruled it out, though.”
Lynne snorted. “Well, we’re heading off. I know we say ‘Anything for the Union,’ but if this man get funny with you . . .” She looked at Daniel, tilting her head sideways.
“I won’t hurt your precious Cuban,” Daniel said, his voice dripping with condescension. “You may not think much of me, but you know hurting innocents isn’t in my repertoire.”
Carla twisted her mouth. “Yeah, well, keep it that way, Cumberland.”
The women waved goodbye, and Daniel heaved a deep breath as he looked after them. It seemed that it wasn’t lost on him that they liked her more than him. She was elated at that small victory, but she couldn’t help but pity him. He certainly wasn’t trying to endear himself, but anyone who paid him the slightest bit of attention could see that he was a man who didn’t enjoy his solitude.
“I guess we’d best get down to business,” he said, adjusting his jacket.
He stalked off and Janeta followed.
Lynne and Carla thought to protect her, but little did they know she was far from innocent. Hopefully Daniel wouldn’t figure that out, either.
CHAPTER 5
Daniel hadn’t slept during the night, as usual, and the only purpose the scrap of sleep he’d grabbed hold of had served was allowing him to awaken with a headache; the beginnings of one at least.
He’d simply endured the blinding pain that was a keepsake of his imprisonment until he’d met a woman a few months back who knew how to take nature’s bounty and heal with it. Marlie Lynch. He didn’t like to think of her because thinking of her invariably led him to think of Elle, Marlie’s future sister-in-law.
Damned lucky McCalls.
He strode into the cooking room, Janeta’s light steps behind him. He’d have to get used to that. He still didn’t know whether Dyson thought this assignment was a good idea or whether he’d doled it out as punishment—his head throbbed as annoyance surged through him anew.
There was already water put to boil for the chicory coffee everyone had to make due with. He poured himself a cup of the hot liquid, took out a few dried leaves from a sachet in his pocket, and dropped them into the water. The brew was one of the few things that helped with the headaches. It also calmed his frantic thoughts and, if brewed to full potency, made him drift away from the constant turmoil in his mind. Marlie had warned him not to overindulge and Daniel hadn’t. Yet. Horrible memories haunted him, but they were a keen reminder of the truth of the world; a truth he sometimes felt he alone was privy to.
This world is a cruel and unbearable place. This country isn’t worth fighting for.
But someone had to, and sometimes doing that meant dealing with unexpected annoyances, such as Sanchez.
“Would you like coffee?” he asked her, his manners kicking in.
“I would. Are you offering?” He could hear the confusion in her voice. The hesitation.
“Yes, I know I’m the frightening monster of the League, but never let it be said that I denied a fellow detective their coffee, if you can call this swill coffee. Besides, we need to talk and it’s quiet here.”
He tried not to grimace as pain began to unfurl in his skull. He’d have to wait a few moments for the tea to steep, though. He turned and pressed a finger against his brow.
“Did you eat?” she asked, gaze keen. “There’s bread. I can toast it.”
Ah, of course. Daniel couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Not for lack of food, but lack of appetite; sometimes he forgot and didn’t remember until the edges of his vision started to go dark. That might account for his headache. He wasn’t hungry, but he’d eat because he needed to. He remembered a time when food had given him such pleasure. Now it was just fuel to keep him on his feet. To keep him marching toward vengeance.
“Toasted bread would be appreciated, thank you.” He brewed her coffee as she plated up their breakfast, and Daniel was not amused by the way they seemed to work well together. They didn’t even bump into each other in the small space as they navigated the preparation of the meager repast. Daniel knew from humiliating experience that domestic work was a dance of its own; he’d thrown off the work of his fellow slaves often enough. So it wasn’t the worst thing, this compatibility, but he had a feeling it wasn’t the best, either, given how much he wanted to be rid of her.
She walked over to a table and placed their plates side by side before sitting and looking at him. Her expression was neutral, but those eyes of hers were large and expectant. She didn’t have the best poker face he’d ever encountered, but he suspected she’d win more hands than someone able to dim the playful curiosity in their gaze.
She was taking his measure.
She seemed to be a woman who was constantly watching and evaluating and responding as required. She would be a bigger pain in the ass than he’d anticipated, green or no.
“What do you know about Europe?” he asked as he sat down beside her and handed her the coffee. He sipped at his tea, inhaling the scent and enjoying the light touch of languor that began to seep through him. He’d steeped it a bit too strongly, distracted by Janeta’s presence, but he couldn’t regret it. His mind began to clear, if not sharpen. The knots of anger and pain loosened along with the grip of his headache. His respite would be brief, but it was a peace he didn’t get even in sleep. He understood the soldiers who demanded more laudanum, more morphine, from their field hospital beds. It was jarring to leave the sweet embrace of peace and return to brutal reality.
“Europeans? Can you be a b
it more specific?” Janeta asked, a small grin tugging at her lips. “Druids? The Roman Empire? Russians?”
He regarded her for a long moment, turned over the information that a few sentences had revealed about her. She was an educated woman—a highly educated one. He remembered those times when Elle had told him some random bit of information she’d retained as he struggled over his law books—the envy he’d felt for her along with the love. He’d snapped at her once, told her it was unbecoming to flaunt her strange gift. The shocked hurt on her face was yet another shameful memory, especially because he hadn’t truly meant it.
Had he?
It didn’t matter anymore, and was beside the point. Elle had educated herself using that stupendous memory of hers. He wondered how Janeta could casually toss about such knowledge. He’d find out in due time, he supposed.
“I mean the impact of Europe on the war here, and vice versa,” he said. “Do you know anything about the mission we’re undertaking? The information we seek?”
“Well, no, how could I when you have me playing guessing games instead of just telling me what it is you want to know?”
There was some bite underlying her tone. Nerves. It seemed Sanchez didn’t like speaking when she wasn’t sure what was wanted from her. Daniel took a sip of his tea.
She made an annoyed sound around her bite of toast.
“Well, I know that the Confederates hope to win England or France to their cause,” she said. “They point out that the loss of cotton will leave countless British without manufacturing jobs.”
“They point out many things, and somehow those things all seem to be to their benefit,” Daniel mused. “They have some very talented agents on the ground in London, whispering into the ears of men in power. One of their spies apparently garnered herself an invitation to meet with Napoleon in France.”