by Alyssa Cole
“Whoever told you to play mute passed up on an excellent scheme,” he said as he packed up their paltry picnic and handed her the sack. “A few naughty words from you to some of these old secessionists and they would keel straight over from a stroke.”
“Malcolm!” She playfully smacked his shoulder as he helped her mount her horse.
“Or at least a case of the vapors,” he finished, avoiding her kick.
They rode back home at a good clip, not having to worry about being noticed by Dix’s coach. The farmers and soldiers they passed in the road didn’t pay them much mind beyond the necessary salutations.
Despite their pace, they had to pause to water the horses; then Malcolm’s horse got a stone caught in its shoe and panicked, requiring a time-consuming stop that involved calming the horse enough to be able to safely remove the rock. By the time they were approaching Richmond, wintry night had fallen and the stars were the only thing that guided them along the road in the crisp winter air.
“Shouldn’t be long now,” Elle whispered. He didn’t find it odd that she whispered because he felt it, too—the sensation that something wasn’t right. It was much too quiet in the dark forest along either side of the road. He was moving his hand toward his gun just as the first shadow stepped into the road in front of them, grabbing at Elle’s reins.
Fury and confusion zipped through Malcolm’s mind as his reflexes kicked in and he reached for his gun. Elle was dressed as a boy, so it seemed discordant that the bandit was looking at her with such a covetous gaze.
What do they want? he thought, and the answer hit him just as Elle bit the word out.
“Slavers.”
“That’s right, boy,” the bandit said as more shadows surrounded them. “You’re coming with me.”
CHAPTER 16
When she’d heard what had happened to Daniel, Elle had tried a thousand times to imagine what she might have done in his shoes. Fought? Gone peaceably and hoped for a later escape? Panicked? Now she knew for certain: She wished for her daddy. Daddy wasn’t coming, though, and her mind raced to find the next best solution.
Elle glanced up at the night sky, searched for the position of the North Star to get her bearings. They were so close to the edge of town, where there was a chance of Rebel soldiers patrolling the perimeters to drive these bastards away. That she wished for the sight of Davis’s boys spoke to how truly dire their situation was.
But there was no one else in sight except for two more men who had stepped out of the forest and surrounded them in the moonlight, guns drawn. Three versus two would have been possible for fisticuffs, but when guns were involved, an extra man and an extra bullet were a more dangerous math.
Her horse whinnied and tried to pull away from the ringleader, but he tightened his grip on the reins, jerking abruptly.
“What is the meaning of this?” Malcolm asked in a low, deadly voice. “You see my uniform and dare try to take what’s mine? Let the boy go and leave us be, or you’ll meet your death this night and wake up with the taste of Hell in your mouth come morning.”
The intensity of his words raised goose bumps on Elle’s skin, but words couldn’t save them. She didn’t want to be taken—every part of her rejected the idea, violently—but there was a good chance she and Malcolm would die fighting these men. From their grizzled beards and patched-up clothing, she could tell they were desperate folk who would have no compunction about killing to get what they wanted. A healthy black woman could fetch them a tidy sum at the slave market; most buyers didn’t care if the slave they purchased belonged to someone else, or even if they were actually free.
“You talk pretty, but that ain’t gonna save your boy,” the man holding her reins said. “That uniform is the only reason I ain’t kilt you already. You got two choices: Cut your losses and mosey on along, or keep yapping and find yourself with a mouthful of lead.”
She remembered Malcolm’s promises to her: that he would keep her safe no matter what, that he wouldn’t leave her. Part of her had discounted them as flowery tripe he’d thrown at her before their lives had become entwined by more than service to their nation, but now she knew his history, knew how his father had failed his mother. More importantly, now she knew him; he wouldn’t let her go without a fight.
I cannot lose him. Not yet.
It made her heart throb that only on the cusp of death did she realize what might have been despite the rules of a sick society that was destroying itself from the inside out. Death, because she would never allow herself to truly be enslaved again. Death, because waiting for the slavers to ravish her once they discovered she was a woman was not something she’d let pass either.
Death, because one of them had to survive to send word of Mallory and Dix’s meeting, and the only way to ensure that was for Malcolm to walk away from this fight. They were the only agents who knew that something was brewing in the port city of Yorktown: that an ironclad was being produced and could soon wreak havoc on the blockade. Someone had to pass word along that was more than mere rumor, and find out exactly what plan the Rebels were hatching.
“I think its best you get on home, sah,” she said, her voice breaking. It made her sound more truly like a teenage boy, but it was from excess emotion, not excess hormones. “You’ve got important work to do, things that are more important than me.”
Understanding dawned in Malcolm’s eyes like a tempest blowing in from the sea.
“You expect me to leave you?” His face paled, and the tendons in his neck stood out like knotted rope. “I will not.”
Elle tried her best to fix him with a glare. “If you die and I’m taken, we’re gonna let down a whole lot of people. You know what you have to do.”
Tears filled her eyes as heartache exploded in her chest. She would never see him again. She’d worried so much about what society would think and how impossible it would be for them to be together that she’d given not a thought to the idea that their parting ways wouldn’t be her choice, or even his. To acknowledge the pained look on his face, to know that it was the last image of him that would be imprinted on her mind, was agony.
And she couldn’t even touch him. What she wouldn’t give for one last touch! To feel his smooth lips pressing against hers or to smell the tangy scent of his skin as she nuzzled into his neck.
Her eyes were locked onto his, his despair making her even more resolute. He knew what awaited her. But if one of them didn’t get word to the government, then the Deep South could become the reality for everyone like her in the United States, and its new territories as well.
“Best listen to your boy,” she heard one of the slavers say. Then she was hauled abruptly off of her horse, landing on her back with a thud that knocked the wind clean out of her. Elle gasped and rolled on the ground, struggling for breath as pain radiated through her body. She was still gasping like a catfish when someone pulled her to her feet and began tying rope around her wrists.
“Get along now,” one of the men said, poking Malcolm’s horse in the flank with the butt of his gun. “Go boil your shirt.”
“Go,” Elle managed to gasp up at him. “I know what you promised, but go. I’ll be fine.”
“You hear this codswallop?” the ringleader asked, grabbing the rope that led from Elle’s hands and tugging her along behind him as he walked on. “I seen men shit themselves on the battlefield with more dignity. Skedaddle, Johnny Reb.”
Malcolm stared down at the man, his brows drawn and an unfathomable fury etched into his face.
The man stopped and stared at him. “I shoulda kilt you already, but I’ll give you a sporting chance. I’ll give you to the count of three. One—”
“Go,” Elle urged, wishing with all her might that this was a bad dream she would soon startle awake from, sweat-soaked but safe in her dingy room at the boardinghouse.
The third man, who had been standing silently with his gun turned toward Malcolm stepped up to her and pulled at her sack, bringing it around front. He struggled with
the knot for a second before giving up and snatching her hat from her head instead, not even waiting for her supposed master to leave before beginning his looting. The pins ripped at her hair but were unable to withstand the forceful tug. Now the man stood with her cap in his hand as the pins rained over her shoulders and her hair billowed out in an unruly cloud.
“Two—”
“The boy’s a girl! A woman!” the hat thief announced, ripping aside the lapels of Elle’s jacket and running a hand over her bound chest as Elle stood in shock. She’d hoped she would be able to attempt an escape before they discovered her disguise.
Three faces turned to her in shock, but one remained fixed on the men with deadly calm. Elle had seen that hawk-like look before.
As the man holding the rope turned, its hold slackened and her arms dropped. Her hands made contact with her rucksack and she groped through the fabric for the heavy weight that had sunk to the bottom corner. There was no time to get it out, and she knew that she needed to act now. Her fingers shook, nearly numb from the tight binding of her wrists, but she found the hammer through the fabric of the bag, cocked the gun, and pulled the trigger. It all happened in a few seconds—her disguise being discovered, a moment of shock—and then the man holding her rope had a bloody hole in his chest, ragged where the bullet had torn through.
He looked at her, the cruelty that had marred his face replaced by a shock that made him look younger, innocent. He spluttered and a mist of blood escaped his lips and bubbled from his chest at the same time.
Elle flushed hot and felt her gorge rise, wondered if she was going to pass out, and then realized there wasn’t time for that. There was another explosion of noise and gunpowder, and the man holding her hat went down, too. Her horse reared back with a terrified whinny, knocking the third man to the ground before tearing off down the road.
Malcolm spurred his horse forward, toward her.
“Lift your hands,” he commanded.
Elle obeyed immediately, raising her tightly bound wrists just as Malcolm thundered past, grabbing her by the binding at her wrist as if it were the handle of a picnic basket.
Elle gave a short yell as she was hoisted aloft, legs scrambling for purchase against the horse’s flanks as Malcolm held her and rode like the devil was at their heels. Never had Elle been more grateful that the name Li’l Bit applied to her, although it still must have taken an amazing amount of strength to hold all of her weight with one arm while controlling the horse. His arm began to tremble from the strain.
“Hold for a moment and I’ll climb on,” she gasped. The fact that she was still alive and still with Malcolm didn’t seem possible. She felt very peculiar, as if she wanted to sprint a mile and curl up into a ball both at the same time. She’d just killed a man, and even though she knew he’d intended her serious harm, she wished she hadn’t seen his last bloody gasp, which would now be engraved indelibly in her mind.
“We aren’t far enough yet,” Malcolm said, although the veins stood out on his neck from the strain of carrying her.
She was going to contradict him when she looked back and saw the third man running after them, his long, thin rifle trained on them.
“Malcolm, he’s coming,” she screamed just as she heard the explosion of gunpowder. She felt the flex of Malcolm’s thigh as he positioned the horse to turn. He meant to come between her and the bullet, but it was too late.
Elle felt a searing pain in her skull. Malcolm’s grip was gone, suddenly, and she flew through the darkness alone.
CHAPTER 17
“Goddammit!” Malcolm roared as Elle was torn from his grasp and landed in a heap a few feet away. There was no time to attend to her while they were under fire. He rounded his horse and chased down the man who had just hurt her, who was running down the road like the yellow belly he was. Holding his revolver by the muzzle, Malcolm rode up behind him and swung as hard as he could as he passed. There was a satisfying crack and the man went down heavy.
Malcolm wanted to linger, to have his horse stomp the man until he was nothing more than red paste on the dirt road, but Elle needed him. Or he hoped she needed him, at least. She lay crumpled in the road as he approached, unmoving. As he drew closer, he saw a thin trickle of blood roll down her temple, then watched in impotent horror as the trickle became a stream.
“No. No. No.” Malcolm wasn’t capable of saying or thinking anything else as he watched the torrent of crimson. He slid on his knees into the dirt beside her and carefully sifted through her thick hair, now matted with blood. He had imagined running his hands through her hair when it was down, but never for something as grotesque as making sure that her skull was still intact.
An unfamiliar pressure welled up in his sinuses as he muttered to himself, and it took him a few seconds to realize the moisture channeling along the side of his nose wasn’t sweat, but tears.
How had Mother done this? he thought, recalling her stricken face after she’d investigated the mysterious gunshot in the woods. Her dress had been covered with blood, and her hands in gore. She’d uttered only two words: “He’s gone.”
But Elle couldn’t be gone. Elle was vital, and strong, and smart, and he needed her more than he’d ever needed anything. He’d once imagined that he could be happy alone forever, traveling the country and doing Pinkerton’s work. Now he knew better. He could only hope it wasn’t too late.
His fingers moved over a raised ridge and his stomach turned.
Please don’t die, was the only thought he could manage. But as his fingers followed the ridge, he realized that the bone showed through, white in the moonlight. Her skull was intact. He ran his fingers through her hair and his fingertips gripped something small, hard, and warm.
He pulled out the bullet and held it up to the sky in disbelief. The pellet had grazed her skull and come to a stop against several metal hairpins. Some combination of wind resistance, trajectory, and weakness of gunpowder had conspired to save her, and Malcolm thanked the Lord for whatever had made it so. Elle was still bleeding, but she was alive.
Malcolm pulled out his flask and took a quick swig to calm his nerves before pouring some over the wound so that it wouldn’t fester. Her eyes fluttered open and she winced, but she was still dazed as he pulled a knife from his pocket and sawed at the ropes binding her wrists. He cut off an already torn section of her shirt, pouring whiskey onto the cloth and holding it to her wound.
“Drink this,” he said, sitting her up and putting the flask to her lips. She took a pull and coughed violently, and Malcolm laughed through his tears of relief.
“I fail to see the humor in this situation,” she said, eyeing him as he held a cloth to her bleeding wound.
“You’re coughing,” he said nonsensically as he blinked back moisture. “You’re alive! I’m sure when next I look in a mirror, I’ll find the number of gray hairs has doubled, at least, after the last few moments.”
She sat up woozily and he clasped her to his chest, lifting her up onto his horse and then climbing on behind her, cradling her. He took off his jacket and draped it over her to keep her warm and away from prying eyes.
“I thought I’d lost you, and then I thought I’d lost you again. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m so glad you’re alive.”
Feeling the warmth of her as she trembled against him pulled at something deep within, an armor that he’d once thought invulnerable but had proven worthless against Elle.
“I thought I was going to die without telling you that I . . . I care for you,” she said weakly. Her eyelids fluttered and he thought she might faint again. He’d hoped she would say something more, but given everything she’d just been though, care was enough for him.
“And I for you,” he said as he dug a heel into his horse to get her moving. They rode up to the unconscious man in the road. The man who had almost killed Elle. Malcolm expected to feel furious, but he felt oddly cold as he released Elle and began reloading his gun. Elle’s hand stayed him.
“No more killing toni
ght,” she said through chattering teeth. “Please, let’s just go. I feel like I’ve been trampled by a troop of elephants and my stomach hurts something awful.”
Malcolm realized that in addition to nearly being kidnapped and sold into slavery and then shot, Elle had eaten very little the whole day. He didn’t want to leave the man breathing, but he put away his gunpowder and spurred his horse on toward Richmond.
When they reached his accommodations, Malcolm realized that getting her situated in his quarters wouldn’t be as easy as sneaking into her rooming house had been. He refused to let her go back to that hovel in her condition, though. It was late, so there weren’t very many people about, but he couldn’t be seen by anyone in that state: covered with blood and with a seemingly unconscious black woman in his arms. Even people who supported slavery and overlooked rape had some scruples about what was done in public.
Elle was sleeping deeply, and he shook her gently awake.
“Come now, love, you must awaken,” he said as he turned a corner on the building where his room was located. He was on the first floor, which hopefully meant he could sneak her in through the window. He put her onto her feet and leaned her against the wall, although she stood of her own accord when she fully awoke.
“We’re at your hotel,” she said groggily. “I should go home.”
Malcolm pressed a hand against her shoulder to stay her. “No, you should be taken care of. Wait here.”
He reluctantly pulled his coat from around her, slipped it on, and walked into the foyer of the hotel. An old slave woman sat by the fire, darning socks. She looked up at him, took in his disheveled state, and jumped to her feet.
“Oh my Lord, what happened to you? You need me to fetch Doc Fletcher?”
“My horse got spooked by a possum and threw me,” Malcolm fabricated. If word of the dead bodies in the road got around, he didn’t want her making the connection. “I don’t need the doctor, just some hot water for a bath, some hot food, and that needle and thread if it isn’t too much of a bother.”