by Lexy Timms
Robert was right. Jasper didn’t want to admit it, but he had seen the way the militia men glared at him. “Will you promise to bring her back yourself?”
“You’re asking a lot for a traitor.”
“I can’t not ask!”
“Aye, I can see that. Well enough, Perry. I promise. But in return, you must give me something.”
“You can have the homestead,” Jasper said promptly. “It’s yours.”
“Not that.” Robert leaned back against the tree, and crossed his arms. “How about you tell me the truth.”
Jasper must have frozen, for the man laughed.
“I knew it.”
“I told you the truth.”
“There’s more there than you’re admitting, and the way she looks at you confirms it. You’re lying about something, Perry.”
“Tell me this,” Jasper said angrily. His blood beat against his ears. “Is there any purpose to it? They’ll kill me, no matter what I say. They’ll make me stand up there and give some impassioned defense, but you know they won’t let me live.”
Robert paced for so long that Jasper grew dizzy watching him. “I keep hoping,” he said finally, and Jasper swallowed, “that you’ll say something that’ll make me able to argue for your pardon. Can’t you understand that, Perry?”
“No.”
“If it was me sitting where you’re sitting, wouldn’t you wonder why? Wouldn’t you think there had to be a reason? Jasper, you betrayed us. Why? For the last time, why?”
Jasper swallowed. What could he say? He could not tell the truth of Solomon’s defection. If he did, he knew no false name would be enough to keep the Confederate army from tracking him down and killing him. They would think the same Jasper had: that Solomon had been sent as a spy, to report on them. His disappearance would only confirm it.
And he could not say, he knew, that he doubted the Confederate cause. To do so was to beg for them to kill him outright. To say that he thought the south as it was should fall...
But he still remembered Solomon’s words in the forest: It’s no different in the north. It’s all lies told by rich men in suits.
“Because I couldn’t stomach it,” Jasper whispered, and it was the truth. “It was too much, Knox. I’m not made for war.”
“I’m not made for war,” Knox hissed, and Jasper looked over in surprise. With his tall frame and hulking form, Jasper would have expected that Knox would be perfectly suited to battle. “I want to be home with a wife and children. I want to be tilling fields, Perry, and I was out slogging through the mud with you. What was it that you had nothing to fight for anymore?”
That, Jasper knew, was a trap. If he admitted to it, he was saying that his own family meant more to him than all the other families of the Confederacy—and around the fire at night, they had all sworn that they fought for everyone. That they would take care of anyone who needed help after the war.
No one mentioned the slaves, his new sensibilities pointed out. However, Knox would never agree.
“I don’t know what to tell you! I lost Horace and I lost everything. He saved me when I was near to death, and you remember him—how much he believed. When he was gone, I didn’t know how to believe any longer myself. Can’t you see that? I still wake from nightmares of the battlefields, and they’re a hundred miles away. Dammit, Knox, can’t you see what the war is doing to us?”
“And can’t you see that you turned and ran when we needed you?”
Jasper turned away, clenching his hands and looking up to the sky. There was nothing to say to that. Knox was right, and he knew it. Jasper had betrayed them all. This was the guilt that had wormed at him. It was all well and good to know that they had been outmatched; how many times had he gripped his tankard while the men in the taverns had crowed about how little the Confederate army had, how they had marched barefoot? They had used it as an example of the North’s innate superiority, and Jasper must bite his tongue to keep from defending his comrades.
He should not care about them. That was what the others in the town thought, as if it were possible for Jasper to cut his heart out and sever all ties when he came north. I left the army, he wanted to cry. I don’t believe in their cause any longer—but can’t you see that I still believe in them? That I still left them? There was always going to be the wondering: what if he had stayed? Would one more man have turned the tide of the battle? Would two? It didn’t matter how much his mind understood that he and Solomon would have done nothing. His heart would never believe it.
“Just kill me now,” Jasper whispered. “I can’t live like this. Waiting. You could bring Cl...Cecelia back now.”
“Oh, no, Perry.” Robert’s voice had gone cold. “You’re going to live for a little while longer yet. You’ll remember what it is you did.”
I know what it is I did, Jasper wanted to cry. He just did not know where he fit any longer. He did not know if he belonged in the north or the south, or neither.
Chapter 6
“You’re the one who’s been tailing me,” Solomon said. He could not answer the man’s accusation; there was no answer, and they both knew it.
“Of course.”
There was a certain jaunty quality to the man’s victory, Solomon thought. He was somewhat shorter than Solomon—not unusual, with Solomon’s tall frame. Lean and pale, the man’s face had a delicate quality that somehow did not convey weakness. He still held the pistol out, seemingly with little regard to the weight of it, and he kept his hazel eyes trained on Solomon’s face.
“What brought you to Knox Township?” Solomon asked, leaning back against a tree and trying for a hint of a smile. There was little else he could do with the pistol trained on him.
“You. Of course, I was looking for Horace...”
Solomon’s face flickered, and the man smirked. He had a rare stillness, this man, not easily moved to laughter or scowls. His satisfaction, however, was plain.
“I see.”
A single eyebrow raised.
“That’s it?”
“What would you like me to say?”
Surprise flickered over the man’s face. “Well, an admission of guilt is of course preferable, but protestations of innocence are more common.”
Solomon could not help himself: he laughed. It was not bitter, but admiring. This man was relentless, absolutely determined to get what he wanted, and sure of himself. As well he might be, of course, for he had unraveled Solomon’s lie, but Ambrose Stuart did not seem inclined to gloat, as some men might, and his humor was refreshing after the months of dramatic speeches Solomon had endured at the tavern.
“How does this work then?” Solomon asked him. “You say you have captured me, and you bring me...”
“To stand trial.”
“A true trial?” Solomon raised an eyebrow right back at the man. “Or is this a witch hunt, and no words will save me?”
The man paused, tilting his head to one side. “Do you truly have a defense?”
No. Nevertheless Solomon only smiled.
Ambrose sighed. “Insofar as your defense is verifiable, and is deemed worthy. It shall work to your benefit.”
“Truly?”
“We are not monsters on a witch hunt, as you so eloquently suggested. We are people of reason. Quite unlike the Confederacy.” Ambrose put the pistol back in its holster, but the smoothness of the motion was itself a warning; he could draw the weapon once more before Solomon would ever get a chance to use his rifle. “Now, will you come?”
“What did you say about the Confederacy?” Solomon’s attention had been caught on that one word, and his heart began to pound.
Ambrose stopped, almost comically. “Is this relevant, Mr. Dalton?”
“Very much so.” Solomon’s voice was tight. “You see, I track a man and woman abducted for, I can only assume, one of the Confederate tribunals.”
“Jasper Perry,” Stuart guessed at once.
Solomon nodded. His stomach twisted at the quick assessment. How mu
ch did the man know, and to whom, in Knox, had he spoken?
“How very interesting.” The spy looked genuinely intrigued. “But who is the woman? Your sister?”
“The wrong sister,” Solomon said softly. “My younger sister, Cecelia. A woman they have, I can only assumed, kidnapped to be brought to death. Or to scare Perry.”
“I see. So naturally, you fear for your friend’s life.”
“He saved my life, as you doubtless know. It’s my duty to go to his aid. More so,” Solomon said, his voice hardening, “it is my duty to see that my sister is not harmed.”
“Very interesting.” The spy’s eyes narrowed in speculation.
“What?”
“Well, I must say I’m impressed,” the man admitted. “Most men snivel and beg for their lives. You, on the other hand, I do believe you’re bargaining for your sister’s life.”
“And while I bargain, we lose time.” Solomon heard his own voice rise. He was furious suddenly. Angry for himself, for if he had not defected, he would not be held up here at gunpoint while Cecelia was being carried ever further south.
Of course, if he had never defected, Cecelia would never have been captured at all.
He was furious too at the agent. For his knowing smile, for the enchanted manner in which he greeted Solomon’s pleas. For his humor.
“So what do you propose?” the agent asked, after a moment.
Solomon took a savage pleasure in the fact that the man was genuinely at a loss. “You want me to come back and stand trial, you say,” Solomon said simply.
The man only nodded. He knew this was some kind of trick, and even if he could not see where it was, he did not want to make himself look foolish by buying in whole-heartedly. For the first time since he had apprehended Solomon, Ambrose appeared worried.
“I’ll do it. I give you my word on my farm, my father’s legacy, I will come back with you and stand trial for the crimes you have accused me of.” It was the most presence of mind he could come up with right now, and he knew that his refusal to confess, or even dispute the charges, would pique Ambrose’s interest.
“And in return?” The voice was liquid, beckoning.
Almost for a moment, Solomon thought that it sounded—
No, it could not be.
“You come with me now to help me save my sister and my brother-in-law from the Confederate tribunal.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Do you think I’ll escape?”
“I think if I took the chance, I would nearly be accused of treason myself. I have you in my custody, Mr. Dalton. There is no possibility of doing anything other than going back now.”
“You cannot let an innocent woman stay captive,” Solomon hissed. “Do you know what they’ll do to her? Do you know what happens to women in wartime?”
To his surprise, the agent flinched. “I know.” His voice was rough. “But you are my responsibility, not her. Her capture was not my fault, and her rescue is not on my head.”
“It is on mine,” Solomon roared at last. “It is. I went to save her. Jasper was taken because he defected to bring me home, because he nursed me through a wound that should have killed me, and now he pays for that with his life, and my sister with him! It’s a debt I cannot leave unpaid.”
“You will have to,” the agent said simply.
“Then shoot me now,” Solomon said, through gritted teeth. He had the pleasure of seeing the agent at a loss for words.
“...What?”
“Then shoot me now,” Solomon repeated.
“Don’t be so melodramatic.”
“You think this is drama? Whatever happens at my trial, I’ll live the rest of my days knowing my sister has been abused, possibly killed, and that my most loyal of friend, my sister’s husband, has been murdered for daring to help me. I cannot live with that. I am telling you, unless you will let me go to save them, shoot me now.”
“No.”
“Then give me the gun and I’ll do it myself!”
“Mr. Dalton, you are accused of treason. Do you know what that means? Are you even aware of the gravity of the situation?”
“I am fully aware. Are you? Because on the one hand, you have me, a man who—if you are correct in your accusations—is worth less than the dirt he walks on, and on the other hand, you have two innocent lives.”
“The Confederacy hardly thinks your friend is innocent.”
“And my sister?” Solomon demanded. “What about her?”
The agent did not move, but gave every indication that he wanted to throw his hands up in the air and pace away. His hands clenched.
“Kill me,” Solomon whispered. “If you will not let me go to them...”
“I can kill you,” the agent said at last, “only if you are known to be a traitor to the Union.”
“Do you doubt?”
“It is not about my conviction. It is about proof and justice.”
Solomon looked over the trees. If he ran to beauty, jumped into the saddle—
The agent would shoot him before he got there. And if the bullet went wide, it might be Beauty who paid the price. Too great a chance.
“What would you do if you did not have me to worry about, and you knew that two citizens loyal to the Union had been abducted?”
“I would do my best to save them.”
“You swear it?” Solomon asked.
“Of course. Do you think me heartless?”
“At the moment, you’ll forgive me if I do.”
“A fair assessment, I guess.” Ambrose looked at Solomon, and his eyes fell. “Mr. Dalton, you think me a monster. I can see that. No, do not bother arguing. I know the look in a man’s eyes. So let me tell you what I have seen, because I know you, who have fought in battles, might understand.”
Solomon stayed quiet. Suddenly, he was afraid. He did not want to know what this man would say.
“While my brother marched to war,” Ambrose said quietly, “his regiment was ambushed, and every man slaughtered. They hardly had time to draw their weapons. In the Confederacy, they would say that such means were necessary, for we were better armed and with more men, but I do not care what the Confederacy says. I care that my brother died because one of the men in his regiment gave them all up. He turned traitor and ran, and my brother paid the price. Do you have an older brother, Solomon?”
“I’m the eldest,” Solomon said softly.
“Well then, your father. Think of your father. My brother was the strongest, bravest man I knew. He deserved a better death than that, and he is not the only one, Mr. Dalton. There are thousands who died when men betrayed the Union. Do you know how many families have suffered for it?”
“More than even you know,” Solomon said bluntly.
“Yes. More than we will ever know. So perhaps you can understand when I say I cannot let you go.”
“Then tell me what to say,” Solomon told him. “I’ll say it, and you’ll be free to shoot me, and you can go free my sister. I do not think you a monster, Mr. Ambrose but there is no fate you can give me worse than knowing I failed in this.”
“I’ll not put words in your mouth.” The man sounded deeply offended. “I want the truth.”
It was on Solomon’s lips, and then he felt, to his shame, his resolve crumbling. If my life is the price... He had sworn to Clara that he would do anything it took, and now he found that he feared saying the words. He feared dying in the next moments, without ever knowing that Cecelia had been found.
He told himself that he could not rest in his grave until he knew for sure, and even if those words rang hollow, he knew, also, that he had a bargaining chip now. The truth, Ambrose said. And for a price, Solomon would give it to him.
“The truth, you shall have if we go back and I stand trial.”
“Which of course, you refuse to do.”
“I am fully willing to do so...as long as we rescue Cecelia and Jasper first.”
“Solomon Dalton, you are an infuriating man.” The agent sta
red him down.
“I’m aware of that.” Solomon watched the agent’s eyes slide away. “What is it?”
The gun came back out, but this time it shook slightly as Ambrose pointed it at Solomon. “Could I have been wrong?” the agent asked him harshly. “I tracked you for weeks. Is it truly possible that I was wrong? ...Or are you a more consummate liar than any man I’ve come across before?”
“The only two options are that I’m innocent, or the devil?”
The gun came down, and Ambrose closed his eyes briefly. He was, Solomon thought, one of the most beautiful men he’d ever seen. Long-lashed, almost delicate. It was a wonder the man could hold a weapon—and even more of wonder that he’d taken such a dangerous job. But, then he would hardly have been suited to hauling cannons.
Ambrose was a puzzle, indeed.
“Very well,” the agent said at last. “They will have my head on a stake for this if you run, though I doubt you care about that.”
“I’ll not run. I gave my word.”
“A great many men give their word to a great many causes. I have ceased to trust that.”
“Then why are you coming with me?” Solomon snapped.
“Because you are a puzzle,” the man said promptly. “I don’t understand you and that is rare. So. Onwards. They’ll be moving southwest.”
“How do you know?” A whistle, and the man’s horse trotted over the embankment and into the woods. Ambrose swung up into the saddle with ease and raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming, Mr. Dalton?”
Solomon heaved a sigh and went to get his horse. As he did, his back turned, he failed to see the spy’s long-lashed eyes watching him almost curiously, lower lip caught by teeth. She patted at her hair, making sure it was still in the long queue favored by Northern men, and checked to make sure no hint of curves showed beyond the vest and breeches. When Solomon looked back, any hint of femininity had disappeared behind an impassive expression.