Taking his worn bag, Brett tossed it up with the others. "Climb aboard. We've got to keep moving."
One of the women, Florence Isadore, came up to Brett and said, "Do we have to go right this minute, Mr. Cody? I swear, if I have to keep sitting with my knees pressed against a man's much longer, Fm going to scream."
"Have Mrs. Turnbow change places," he snapped, not looking at her. He'd learned at their first way stop Florence was trouble. He'd been sleeping in the barn, and she'd boldly sneaked out during the night to lie down beside him and tell him exactly what she wanted. When he'd refused to oblige, she had been furious and gone out of her way to be obnoxious since.
"Well, I'll still have men's thighs pressing against me on each side," she wailed.
He bit back the impulse to say she ought to like that, instead ordering, "Everybody back on. This isn't a scheduled stop."
Once on the way, Brett told Barnes what the fare would be but made no attempt at further conversation. He didn't like talking to passengers. Talk led to questions, and he saw no reason to share any part of himself with anybody. The women who came and went in his life quickly learned he never promised anything beyond satisfaction in bed. Companionship wasn't in his nature, and forget about love.
At first, Brett wasn't even aware the man had spoken till he repeated his question.
"Heard any war news?" he asked timorously, as though he really hoped Brett hadn't.
Brett shook his head. He tried not to think about it, because he wasn't sure which side he was on. After what had happened four years ago in Louisiana, he couldn't muster any affinity for the South, yet because he was raised there, he couldn't see himself taking up arms against it. Better, he figured, to stay right where he was, making runs back and forth between San Francisco and St. Louis. When the pony express had operated between April of 1860 and the end of last year, he'd been one of the hardest riders. Indians and outlaws didn't cause him to fret, and he reckoned he'd killed his share of both. But when telegraph lines were connected all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast, he'd gone right back to work for the Overland Stage. A long time ago, he'd thought about going back to sea but the West had got in his blood.
"I'm goin' to get my boy and bring him home," Adam Barnes said, staring at the seemingly endless road ahead. "Ever hear of a place called Pittsburgh Landing, in Tennessee?"
Brett shook his head.
"Battle of Shiloh, they call it. Real bloody. My boy..." His voice cracked. "He was fightin' with General Grant. When I went into town for supplies yesterday, there was a telegram waitin' for me, sayin' my boy was killed. I'm goin' to go get him and dig him up from wherever they buried him and bring him home and bury him next to his momma." He pulled a rag from his pocket and blew his nose and apologized. "Sorry. Don't mean to cry like a woman, but he was all I had after his mother died. The three of us, we come out here to prospect for gold, but Martha, she died right off, couldn't take the heat, and Leroy, he never liked it much. Said we'd never make a strike. He took off when the war broke out, and I stayed on. Good thing I did."
He looked at Brett, a sudden lilt to his voice and briefly seeming to come out of his stupor of grief.
"Can't tell you nothin' else, 'cause I got to stake my claim, but the very day before I got that telegraph, I hit a vein with a streak o' gold as big around as my arm." He held it up for emphasis.
Brett broke his silence to point out, "You should've gone to the claims office before leaving Colorado. Somebody might jump it before you get back."
Adam shook his head with confidence. "Nobody will ever find it. I wouldn't know how to get back to it myself if I hadn't drawn me a map."
Brett said nothing. He didn't care about the man or his gold. The fact was, he didn't care much about anything, just took one day at a time.
Adam continued to talk as they rode, ignoring Brett's quiet indifference. Once, he did provoke brief conversation by inquiring as to Brett's stand on the war.
"I don't have one."
"But surely you care who wins," Adam said, incredulous. "Where you from, anyway?"
Brett was puzzled by his own candid response, but there was something about the man he found himself liking. Maybe it was the man's profound honesty about who he was, what he was. "Cajun country," he said..."Mississippi and... Louisiana," he added reluctantly. There was nothing in that state he ever wanted to remember.
"Southern states. I reckon you'd go with them, if pressed to fight."
Brett shrugged. "It's a senseless war. The North knew it would have to physically invade from the start, and all the South has to do is hang on."
Adam was quick to point out, "They're finding that's not going to be easy to do. The blockade is working. The South is starting to choke."
"But the South's morale is higher. They feel they're defending hearth and home against an invading oppressor. And don't forget, as a whole, the farm boys can ride and shoot a hell of a lot better than the Yankee city boys."
"Last I heard, New Orleans was gonna be attacked any time. A naval fleet was headed there to take over. That'll cripple the South, for sure."
Brett told himself he should feel guilty for not caring, but the truth was, he didn't. In fact, he hoped when federal forces invaded, they stopped off first at BelleClair and drove Elton Sinclair and his whole family back into the bayou they'd forced him to leave.
Adam saw how Cody tensed and worried he might have made him mad by predicting the South's doom. "Hey, don't pay no mind to me. What do I know?" He attempted to smooth things over. "I'm just an old desert rat listening to drunken gossip when I go into civilization for supplies. Probably not a word of truth in any of it."
But Brett no longer heard, for the memories had been triggered, and he was once more plummeted into sad, bitter reverie.
Adam, grateful Cody hadn't gone into a rage, for he sensed he was not a man to be trifled with, instinctively slid as far from him as possible on the bench and made no further attempt to converse.
Days passed as they traveled from dawn to dusk, spacing stops along the way for food and nature's call. They spent nights at way stations, where they enjoyed their one big meal of the day and a break from the constant jarring of the stage.
They were but four days out of St. Louis when a way-station manager drew Brett to one side to warn him of some particularly unsavory horsemen he'd encountered that morning. "There was six of 'em. I think they were Reb deserters, driftin' around and lookin' for trouble. They said they didn't have much money, and I figured from the looks of 'em, I'd best not get 'em riled, so my missus gave 'em all they wanted to eat, and I bedded 'em down and told 'em I'd only charge half my regular rate. But they sneaked out just before dawn without payin' nothin', and I'm just thankful they didn't slit my throat and rob me. So you keep an eye out."
Brett assured the man he would, although he always tried to be ready for trouble.
It came early the next day.
They had been traveling only a few hours when Adam pointed to what looked like a body straight ahead in the middle of the road and yelled, loud enough for those riding inside to hear, "Jesus! Look at that. Is he dead?"
Brett had already seen and was picking up his rifle with one hand while he pulled back on the reins only slightly with his other. He wasn't about to stop till he could be sure it wasn't an ambush, because it was a good place for bandits to be hiding. Large rocks were on each side of the trail, with lots of scrub brush for camouflage.
"Stop!" A passenger was frantically yelling out a window. "He needs help."
Brett wasn't so sure. For one thing, he didn't see any vultures circling overhead, and in this heat, it wouldn't take long for them to get a whiff of death. The body couldn't have been there long, which meant whoever was responsible wasn't far away. He reined the horses to a sharp left, intending to go around and stop farther down the road. He could come back, gun ready, and check it out himself without endangering the passengers, giving Adam orders to ride like hell if he heard shooting
.
He heard Florence's hysterical shriek, "You bastard! Stop! He might be alive!"
Adam nervously watched him out of the corner of his eye, wondering why he wasn't slowing down. And then he was hanging onto the bench with both hands, trying not to be tossed off the side as the wagon sharply lurched to the left just before it would have run over the man. The man, however, suddenly came to life and rolled to the side at the same time the first shots rang out.
Brett ducked, feeling the bullet whiz overhead. Curses and screams of terror exploded from below as he threw the reins to Adam and ordered, "Take 'em and move out!"
Turning, he aimed in the direction the gunfire was coming from—but never got off the first shot.
The impact of the bullet tearing into his shoulder sent him tumbling off the top of the stagecoach and into an abyss of oblivion.
From somewhere far, far away, Brett could hear the evil laughter of the outlaws. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating, but he was about to attempt movement when he froze to hear one of the men saying, "Are you sure the driver's dead? Maybe you ought to put another bullet in his head to make sure."
"Aw, shit, he was dead 'fore he hit the ground," came a confident response from another. "No need to waste ammunition. They're all dead. Let's go."
Someone hooted, "Good haul. That old biddy had a diamond brooch that'll keep me in whiskey and whores for a year."
Another snickered. "Yeah, I'll be needin' to find some of both after wastin' my time with the young filly. Hell, she died before I could finish."
"You choked her to death."
"Let's go," came an impatient call from afar. "It's a long way to California, and I want to put as many tracks between me and war as I can."
Someone else laughed. "We gonna all feel real bad about runnin' out on our neighbors if the South wins."
"Hell, California's better'n cotton fields."
They rode away, shrieking and laughing over the carnage.
Brett realized, in a flash of white-hot pain and nausea, that he was unable to move his left arm. Struggling to remove his shirt with only one hand, he gritted his teeth as he pressed it against the wound to try to slow the bleeding. As he did so, he looked around at the scene of massacre.
Florence, stripped naked, limbs grotesquely twisted, stared heavenward with glazed eyes. The other woman lay dead a few feet away. Two of the men had been dragged outside and shot in the head, the others had been murdered in their seats.
There had been six of them. Brett had seen them through half-closed lids. He had no doubt they were the Reb deserters the station manager had warned him about, but it had all happened too fast. He never had a chance. Maybe if Seth had been along, things would have turned out different.
Thinking of Seth caused Brett to remember the man who'd been sitting in his place. Shakily getting to his feet, he walked around the coach. Adam was lying face down, blood oozing from a bullet hole in his back. Brett started to turn away but hesitated when he heard a moan. Moving as fast as pain would allow, he went to kneel beside Adam and roll him over. He was still alive but fading fast.
Brett saw him trying to move his lips. "Don't try to talk," he ordered tersely, "They didn't steal the team. I'll take you with me back to the way station."
He started to move away to get a horse ready to ride, but with startling strength, Adam's hand snaked out to grab his good arm. "No. No time. I'm goin', and I don't mind, 'cause Martha and Leroy are waitin', but you gotta take it. I can tell you're a man in torment. The gold will ease your pain. Might as well take it. I ain't got no use for it where I'm goin'. Streets are already paved in gold...." He attempted a rueful laugh, but began to cough, choking on his own blood, which now bubbled from his lips. With his last shred of strength, he pointed to his feet. "Boots... map..."
With one last gasp, Adam Barnes died.
Brett got up and staggered toward the nervously pawing horses. He began to unfasten the harness of the one closest to him. Bleeding badly, he wasn't concerned with the man's dying words. It was only when he was about to try and mount the horse that it dawned on him maybe he was a fool to pass up the offer.
Returning, he knelt again. Barnes had pointed at his feet and said "boots." Brett removed the left one, ran his fingers inside, but found nothing. Repeating the slow, torturous movements, for he could only use one hand, he managed to yank off the remaining boot. This time, when he felt inside, he touched paper, drawing it out to unfold and see that it was indeed a crudely drawn map of Adam Barnes's unstaked gold mine. As he'd said, no one would ever stumble across it, for it looked to be well hidden.
One day, Brett halfheartedly promised himself, he'd come back and search for it. But right now, he knew he had to get help or he was going to die like the others.
And he didn't want to die.
Not now.
Because suddenly he had a mission.
He was going to get over his wound and then, by damn, he was going to war.
Maybe, he told himself amidst the blinding sea of anguish, fighting for the Union against the South was the only revenge he'd ever have against the Sinclairs.
Capt. John Drew sighed and looked at the lovely young girl standing next to him at the ship's railing. He saw the heated glow of determination in her fiery green eyes and knew it was hopeless to argue. They'd arrived in Philadelphia the day before, and ever since hearing the news that had everyone on the waterfront excited, he'd been arguing with her to return with him to England.
She lifted her chin in firm resolve. "I've come this far. I can make it the rest of the way on my own, but you did promise Mr. Rozelle you'd help me find passage on to New Orleans."
"I know, I know, and I told you I spoke with a captain last night who's willing to try and get you through the blockade. He says the navy has been somewhat tolerant of fishermen once they search their boat and make sure they're only out for food, and not smuggling goods to the Confederates.
"But that's not the point, Miss Sinclair. I told you. The latest word is that those two forts guarding the mouth of the Mississippi and New Orleans are under heavy bombardment by the Union navy, and once they fall, there's nothing to stop the fleet from taking New Orleans. It's a bad time for you to try and make it there. If you won't go back with me, at least let me settle you into a nice hotel where you can wait till things calm down a bit."
Anjele refused even to consider such a delay. The closer the ship had got to America, the more she'd felt the burning, driving need to get home as fast as possible. If New Orleans, and BelleClair, were destined to fall to the enemy, she wanted to be with her father when it happened. With her mother dead, he had no one, for well she knew Claudia would be no comfort.
She took a deep, resigned breath, looked him squarely in the eye, and fiercely, finally, declared, "I'm going. And you can't stop me."
Captain Drew rolled his eyes, threw up his hands in surrender but could not resist the proclamation, "And God help the Yankees if they dare to try."
Chapter 14
Leo tipped the bottle straight up to get the last drop of wine. He was drunk. Otherwise, he would not have let darkness catch him inside the gates of the cemetery. But he'd had to steal the wine, and just as he was slipping it off the store shelf and into his pocket, he was spotted. He took off running and wound up hiding in the cemetery, figuring to lay low awhile till they stopped looking for him. But there was so much turmoil he doubted the storekeeper had reported the theft. So he had made himself comfortable, leaning back against a tombstone, and proceeded to drink the entire bottle. Let the rest of New Orleans get hysterical over the Yankees coming, he laughed to himself more than once. He didn't give a damn, as long as he had something to drink.
Only now he didn't, he brooded, wondering what to do next. He could hear bells ringing, shouts and screams—the sounds of panic. The sky toward the waterfront was glowing from the fires blazing along the pier. Dizzily, he remembered someone talking about how the Yankees couldn't be stopped, so thousands of bale
s of cotton had been hauled from warehouses to the levee and set on fire.
Sugar and tobacco warehouses were also ablaze.
Leo didn't care. The whole damn city could burn to the ground for all he cared. He was going to close his eyes in hope the spinning would stop, and maybe he'd fall asleep. When he woke up, he'd go out there, and with everybody in a panic, he could steal some more wine, and nobody would even notice.
Seth White gave the iron door of the tomb a tug, and it opened with only a mild grating sound. From the glow of the crimson sky, he could tell the others were already inside. "It's mass hysteria out there," he said to no one in particular. "New Orleans is a smoking inferno. People have gone crazy."
"Of course they have," Millard DuBose remarked drily. "What do you expect? When Lovell withdrew his troops, it left us defenseless."
Hardy Maxwell said, "Hell, yes, and nearly every Confederate soldier in southern Louisiana and Mississippi was sent off to Virginia last month."
Dr. Vinson Duval, sitting in the rocking chair Alma Tutwiler unfortunately never got to use, surveyed his surroundings as the others raged on about the crisis. Two coffins, set in brick vaults and covered with a large concrete slab, dominated the small, square room. The stained-glass window at the rear and the two rectangular windows set in the iron door provided light by day, but with no ventilation the air was stale, almost fetid. He would much have preferred to meet elsewhere but agreed with the others this was the safest place. Joining his cohorts' conversation, he pointed out, "We knew once the Federal fleet sailed past the forts, New Orleans was doomed, gentlemen, just as we knew General Lovell had been busy making plans to evacuate. He ordered all light artillery and shells to be hauled away, as well as clothing, blankets, medicine, wagons, harnesses, and leather. Dear God." He shook his head in dismay, "He took everything but the heavy guns on the levee, which are useless without shot. There's nothing for New Orleans to do but avoid bloodshed and surrender."
Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance Page 16