River Magic

by Martha Hix

  Pays and the crowd dispersed under the acting commander’s directive.

  Too furious and frustrated to move, other than to brush his sleeve, Connor let his nostrils flare. He yearned to shake snow from India’s wig and silly lace cap. Hell, he would love to shake her until teeth rattled and those eyeglasses fell away.

  “You may see your brother.” Knowing hell would turn sideways once Lawrence returned, Connor didn’t look her in the eye as he capitulated. His civility took every ounce of self-control. “If you promise to get down from your pulpit.”

  “That was just what I was planning to do,” she chirped, and stepped from the bale of hay.

  “That’s not the pulpit I mean and you know it.”

  Unable to leave well enough alone, she asked, “Will you allow me to nurse the infirm?”

  “One pint-size do-gooder can’t handle the job. If I were of a mind to concede—which I’m not—success would take many Clara Bartons.”

  Construction on the hospital compound would get him in enough hot water, not to mention his other allowances. What else could he have done, though? Connor knew that if he didn’t let her visit with Captain Marshall, she’d finagle her way inside the detention barracks. “You may have won this round, Little Miss Do-Gooder, but you won’t win another one.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “There’s no ’we’ll see’ about it. If you do any nursing, it will be with Lawrence’s permission. And that won’t happen.”

  “He might just surprise you.” She whirled around, as if to sashay through the gates and prance onward to Solitary.

  “Just one minute. I’m going with you.”

  “There’s no need for that.” She gave her profile. “Zeke will accompany me.”

  If Connor had pepper up his nose before, he was now even more furious. She might be masquerading as a long-in-the-tooth spinster, but he didn’t want that hoary Lothario turning rheumy eyes on her. “I ought to have him court-martialed.”

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t be ridiculous. He’s a darling. And, believe you me, I would fight like a mama cat for him.”

  Connor stewed. He hoped that toothless oldster tripped on his beard and fell in the Mississippi.

  “You just go on about your business,” she said, “and I’ll find Zeke.”

  “You call him Zeke, when you refuse to use my given name.”

  Her face turned toward the path Pays had taken, she murmured respectfully, “He is my hero. A veritable Aladdin.”

  “Damn you.” Damn her for looking to old men and fictional characters for her ideal.

  “Toodle-doo, Major. I must be going. ’Bye.”

  He locked fingers around her arm. “I said I’ll take you. You’ve turned this island upside down, but I’m still in charge.”

  “Yes, master.”

  No man would ever be India’s master.

  Fifteen minutes later, Connor led India to Solitary and turned the key to her dreams. He called gruffly into the dark cold room. “Marshall?”

  “Go away, O’Brien.”

  “You’ve got company.”

  Captain Mathews Marshall, dragging chains, left the cot. “Who goes there?” was his wary call.

  Connor did the answering. “Your sister.”

  “America? Is that you, sugar?”

  “No, Mattie. It’s me. Indy.”

  His voice less enthusiastic, though still filled with relief, the Rebel captain said, “Come in, sweetums. Come in.”

  She shot across the room and threw her arms around him.

  He drew back. “You’re not my sister.”

  “I’m in disguise.” Her finger pointed to her wig, then downward. “It’s me under all this.”

  With question Marshall eyed Connor. “What . . . ?”

  “It’s okay,” India assured. “The major knows who I am.”

  “How come?”

  “We have an understanding,” she replied, which seemed to placate her kinsman.

  His eyes having adjusted to the low light, Connor sized the pair up. Matt Marshall was as tall as his sister was short. Of course, the brother’s gray uniform—rags—hung on his frame, whereas his sister would do justice to a flour sack, if a man could see through her masquerade.

  Marshall tried to pat her back, but the chains restrained him, so he limped to his cot, eased down, and his sister followed. He broke an icicle from a rail of his cot, rolling it along the side of his knee. “It’s good to see you, Sis.”

  “Good doesn’t even begin to describe how wonderful it is to see you, Mattie.”

  The siblings carried on with reunion chatter; Connor relocked the door and leaned against the frame. Again, he studied the twosome. They shared the same squarish features and Mediterranean complexion, the Marshall siblings. Same black hair, too. Connor had no desire to check the man’s eye color.

  As he’d assessed last night, Connor recognized a likeness in their personalities. Each was the type the cavalry loved. Either one would charge into a line of foes with no more than a saber and a cause. Well, India wouldn’t make war against anyone save for a poor sap of a U.S. major, his ideals, and his fears.

  Her best weapon, after all, was her saberlike tongue. Which Connor would rather she put to use against his own tongue. Or, better yet, on his lower reaches.

  He cleared his throat, then shifted his weight.

  By now the Marshalls were settled, seated side-by-side on the narrow cot, the brother’s chains curled at the boots that had great holes in the leather. Both Marshalls ignored Connor, which suited him fine. As Aunt Phoebe always said, You learn more with your mouth closed and your ears open.

  There was a great difference in the siblings, Connor further noted. India asked question after question about “Mattie” and his comforts, as well as what had caused his transfer to Rock Island Prison Camp.

  Marshall, a veteran of the surrender at Port Hudson the past July, had been given the choice of incarceration in New Orleans or Sandusky. He chose Johnson’s Island, on Lake Erie. To try to jump ship between Port Hudson and St. Francisville, the town not far upriver?

  From the official records, Connor knew Marshall to be a rebel amongst Rebels and that in Ohio he organized his fellow Louisianans into a foiled escape attempt. The commander at Sandusky had decided to separate the leader from his friends and kin, had Marshall transferred to Rock Island.

  He had no friends here, except for a sister.

  And the brother, Connor observed, never once asked how she’d fared. The giver and the taker, that described them.

  “Tell me about Honoré,” Marshall prompted. “And wee Stonewall. How are my wife and son?”

  “Missing you. But they’re fine.”

  “Is the plantation surviving? What about Granny Mabel? Have you heard from Papa? How are our sisters? Are America and her family still at the plantation—Kirby better be doing his job! What about the Smiths? What’s going on in Natchez? Has White Post ridden the war well? Did Persia find a husband?”

  A long moment passed. When India did reply, she ignored all but the last question. “Persia married Tim Glennie.”

  “Tim Glennie? I thought he was your beau.”

  “Tim? My beau? Never! What gave you that idea?”

  She may have protested, but Connor had gotten familiar enough with her to sense there was more to the Tim story than she allowed. What had happened to turn the man to her sister?

  Connor found himself pleased that Tim chose Persia.

  Persia. America. India. Strange names. When he heard them mention yet another sister, China, it was all Connor could do not to laugh. The Marshall parents must have been tippling when they decided on names for their daughters.

  Yet Connor’s mother had been named after a spot on the map, but memories of Georgia Morgan—no one ever referred to her as Mrs. O’Brien or recalled her as Mother—were best filed away.

  Besides, he had a curiosity about the Marshalls of Louisiana. Apparently Matt Marshall was the lone brother to four sister
s. That so? Where had the “senior” come in Captain Winston Marshall’s name? The junior must have passed away.

  No wonder India had gone to extraordinary means to see the Rebel captain. Sisters had a way of adoring an only brother. At least, Connor had observed as much over the past thirty years.

  He had no sisters to worship him. But he had adoring aunts, a grandfather, and one brother he wouldn’t trade for peace in this land. As for the other, no telling what had become of Jon Marc. It would be a surprise if the O’Briens never again saw the youngest of the brothers.

  “Matt, I need to know something.” India glanced at Connor, obviously wishing for privacy. She leaned to whisper something in her brother’s ear.

  “So, that’s why you’re here.” Marshall settled against the rough wall. “Strange, I thought you were here for me.”

  Evidently India had broached the subject of Daddy’s money.

  Again, she gave her attention to Connor. “Major O’Brien, would you give us a moment alone?”

  “Not a chance,” he answered with a shake of head. “This is a prison, not a picnic.”

  “Please.”

  He liked that word, and she knew it. What would it hurt to give them a couple of minutes to talk about how she could get her hands on the loot? “Five minutes. Not one second more.”

  It didn’t take a half minute for Connor to regret his concession. No telling what kind of trouble brewed.

  Eight

  “Indy, get me out of here.”

  “There’s only so much I can do.”

  “You can always do more, Sis. You always do.”

  Matt spoke the truth. Forever, and especially after Winny drowned, India’s love, devotion, and efforts along the pleasing line had been for Matt. Tenacious she’d been. More so with Matt than anyone, for she needed his approval. Needed it badly.

  In this instance, though, how much more could she give? Dreading his reply, she asked, “What are you wanting me to do?”

  “Help me escape.”

  “I can’t do that We’d both be shot before we cleared the dead line. And St. Francisville is occupied, Mattie. The Yankees wouldn’t let you stay at Pleasant Hill.”

  “Have you forgotten I was always the champ at hide-and-seek? I’ll stay hidden till our lads drive the blue bellies North.” He rattled chains. “Anyhow, don’t cry coward to me.”

  “This isn’t a point of being yellow. What good would it serve if you got yourself killed en route to hide-and-seek?”

  He would have none of that. “You got in here. You can get me out, safe and sound.”

  “And that’s what I’d want”—she buried her face in a pair of cold, shaking hands—“if I could have my wants.”

  Not only did she want him free, the family needed him, and not just for his information about the gold. The plantation had been sinking with no man at the helm. But she hadn’t come all this way to break him out. It was simply too dangerous.

  “Abracadabra.”

  Her regard whipped to his intense eyes after Matt said the secret word. Whenever a Marshall child needed help, all it took was that funny word to get another’s attention. And help. Abracadabra was used in the most extreme cases.

  Could she get him off the island? How much influence did India have around Rock Island? Very little, if it came to a prison break. “I must work to get you released.”

  “That’s where O’Brien comes in. It’s all fitting into place, his knowing your identity and not making a stink about it.” Matt got a disgusted look in his midnight-blue eyes. “I saw that Yankee ogling you, even if you do look old enough to’ve changed his diapers. He wants to get under your skirts. Or has he been there already?”

  India shuddered, but not from thoughts of being intimate with the major. Still sickened from passing long lines of skeletal prisoners, she could have horsewhipped Connor O’Brien. He may have made a few concessions under pressure, but he didn’t give a care about the caged Southerners.

  How could he? If he treated them right, he might never pick off more enemies. Forward the Light Brigade!

  “Has he been under your skirts?” Matt pressed.

  “What if he has?”

  With a raised fist, he answered, “I’ll kill him.”

  India laughed. “The Arab is coming out in you, Mattie.”

  His face got red with anger. “We are not Arabs. One seafaring ancestor from Portugal does not an Arab make.”

  “I won’t argue the piddling.”

  “Suits me. Besides, I’d rather talk about protecting my own. You are my sister. I’ll handle O’Brien.”

  She couldn’t begin to count the many times she would have given an eyetooth for Matt to stand up for her. “You’ll be protecting your wife and son, not to mention the rest of us, when you tell me where the gold is.”

  Matt rubbed a manacled hand down the knee of his tattered britches before looking up at India. “Since you’ve asked me about the money, Kirby must be dead.”

  “Yes. He stood on the bluff and fired his pistol at a passing Yankee ironside. It wasn’t a smart thing to do, tactically or otherwise. A Billy Blue stole up behind him. Shot Kirby in the back of the head. We, uh, we buried him alongside Granddad Mathews and France and ... all.”

  “That fool Kirby never had a lick of sense. Shouldn’t have left him in charge, dash it!” His eyes then closing, Matt groaned. “Poor America. Poor Catfish. Poor us.”

  “Yes, poor us. America lost her mind.” India’s voice lowered. “I sold Mama’s cnina—thankfully, I found a buyer—and got Sister a nurse. Catfish tries to be the man of the family. But our nephew is only twelve, so young, too young.”

  “If only Winny were still with us ...”

  If Matt had slapped her, India couldn’t hurt more. “Our brother has been dead a long time.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course he has. I was cruel to mention him.” Matt rubbed the area below his knee. “I’ve got to get back to Pleasant Hill. I’m needed.”

  She repeated her whispered words of earlier, adding an addendum. “Tell me where Papa deposited the gold, then we can think about other things.”

  Matt spoke quietly. “Indy, there’s not enough to make a difference. Two, three thousand dollars’ worth at the most.”

  Her words were equally hushed. “You’ve been away a good while. You don’t know what a difference that amount can make.”

  He kept rubbing that shin, and her eyebrows knit when he winced. “What’s the matter?”

  “Got crossways with a guard a couple of weeks ago. He was old as Methuselah, but a sword against chains is a great equalizer.”

  “Let me see.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t tell me no, Mathews Marshall!”

  His eyes got hard. “Maybe I don’t want a Yankee lover touching me.”

  Her spine stiffened, her voice elevating. “You don’t actually believe that Sanitary Commission stuff, do you?”

  “I’m talking about Port Hudson.” Matt also shouted. “I’m talking about a Marshall woman parking an ambulance on the wrong side of the embankments, waiting for blue bellies to fall so that she could pick them up and carry them off.”

  “I was there for our own, too, Mattie—our own! But no Confederates left the fortress, not until the surrender, and you know it. What was I to do? Leave the Yankees where they lay? I couldn’t. Y’all were excellent shots. I couldn’t stand their cries for mercy.”

  “Always looking for approval, even in the wrong places, that’s my younger sister.”

  He dug into the open wound of her heart, but what good would it do to try to make him understand?

  She heard the key click, as well as the sound of Connor O’Brien opening the door, welcoming both.

  “Time’s up,” he announced.

  “Then close the door. I’m not through here.”

  Despite his squirming objections, she rolled up Matt’s trouser leg. Her stomach roiled. He was in no condition to travel. The wound itself hadn’t been that severe, a
mere flesh wound, but it had gone bad.

  “I’ve been picking the maggots out of it,” Matt offered, subdued now.

  “Don’t They eat the dead flesh, but not the healthy tissue. Maggots will staunch gangrene before it spreads.”

  “What gives you that idea?” the major asked her.

  “I learned it from a Union medical officer. He says it’ll be a breakthrough in treatment, will save amputations.”

  “What else did he teach you?”

  There was a double meaning to Connor O’Brien’s question, but instead of making a smart remark like, “You know he didn’t teach me to kiss,” India answered the better one. “Many things. Such as to use boiled horsehair for sutures, instead of silk thread. It seems to help in recovery. As does boiling surgical instruments. He also lectured on quarantining the diseased.”

  “Let’s go, Miss Marshall. Your time is up in here.” Connor strode over the floor and hitched his left thumb toward the exit. “You’ve got other duties to attend.”

  “Such as?”

  He didn’t answer, just marched her out of Matt’s cell. She, nevertheless, made a point of leaving Matt comforts. She shucked her woolen cape, its pockets lined with the gloves she carried around for weeks, just in case ...

  She heard her brother call out, “Abracadabra!”

  His plea echoed in her head.

  Once she and the major were outdoors in the freezing cold, her teeth chattered. She hugged her arms; he turned to her, draping his coat around her shoulders. Barely did she have a chance to savor the blend of wool and the uniquely pleasant scent of the coat’s owner before Connor capitulated.

  “All right, dammit. You win.” He doffed his cocked hat. “Do what you can for the sick prisoners. I’ll cooperate in any way you ask. Wave your magic wand, nurse.”

  At last. At last he’d shown a human side. She smiled, both in relief and gratitude. “You’re wonderful. Flat-out wonderful. Letting me stay here, letting me see Matt, and now allowing me to nurse the tormented.” She paused. “I could cause trouble for you if Colonel Lawrence returns and discovers you know the truth, yet you humor me. Thank you.” Unable to leave well enough alone, she asked, “But why? Why do you do it?”