“If that is truly the case, then that is even more of a reason for you not to be kind to her now. She should have stayed loyal to you.” He leaned down closer. “Miranda, she had a choice to make when your troubles started. She could have put you first or put you last. We both know what she did.”
It was hard to hear about Mercy’s actions in such stark terms. “I wish she had chosen my friendship over the gossip she heard.”
“You do?” He looked down at her and smiled softly. Then, to her surprise, he ran two fingers along the slope of her jaw. Right there on the street! “Well, that makes two of us.”
Before she could comment on that, he sighed dramatically. “Now that we’ve taken care of your former best friend, let us tackle the bank and the weasel otherwise known as Mr. Winter before we post my letter at the mercantile.”
She dared to smile. Truly, he was being outrageous. “Goodness. He’s a weasel now?”
“More or less. Other names are more fitting, but alas, they are not for your ears.”
“I’ve noticed that you are not afraid to put everyone in their place today.”
“Yes, it is true. Unlike you, it seems everyone has gotten on my nerves today. I have lost patience with Galveston Island’s general population.”
“I had better watch myself, then.”
“No, my dear.” Taking her elbow to carefully guide her up the steps, he said, “Be assured that you have nothing to worry about. There isn’t a thing you could do to lower my estimation of you.”
His words were so direct, so assured, that they made her a bit wary. He knew her, but he didn’t know the things she’d done or contemplated. “Those are sweet words, but we both know they cannot be true. Everyone does something that another finds fault with.”
“With you? No, I don’t think so,” he said without a trace of hesitancy.
Because she knew such words didn’t always last and some feelings eventually faded, she didn’t protest his effusive praise.
After all, even if he had no regrets, she knew another day things would go dark again.
If time had taught her anything, it was that nothing wonderful lasted.
17
Johnson’s Island, Ohio
Confederate States of America Officers’ POW Camp
March 1865
EVER SINCE PHILLIP HAD BEEN MOVED TO THE BOTTOM floor of their barracks, which was their makeshift infirmary, Thomas Baker had been Robert’s new bunkmate. Baker, being only a sergeant, had been originally slated for the POW prison in Columbus, but through the wonders of red tape, and, no doubt, a certain captain’s influence, he’d been shipped up to their island prison with the rest of them.
Robert had always liked Thomas well enough. They’d been sent on a few scouting missions together when they were stationed in Tennessee. After only a few hours in each other’s company, it was evident they made a good team. Neither of them had much to lose. Because of that, they had little fear. They’d also had a lot of experience using force when necessary. Robert wasn’t exactly proud of it, but he could use his fists with the best of them. Thomas was just as scrappy.
Thomas was street-smart, too, and the enlisted men had held him in high esteem. Robert would fight by his side any day, and consider it an honor to do so.
All that said, Robert wasn’t especially thrilled to have him as his bunkmate. The man was bigger than Phillip and, as far as Robert could tell, he’d never slept without shifting positions two dozen times. He was also a talker.
Robert was soon learning that the man required at least an hour’s worth of conversation before he closed his eyes for the night. For two men stuck on an island with little to do but write letters to loved ones, pace, and whittle, Robert was amazed that the man had anything to say at all.
But each night Thomas came up with something, usually when Robert’s eyes were drifting shut.
“Hey, Rob?”
Not bothering to move from his position on his side, he mumbled, “What?”
“Did you see the new men arrive this afternoon?”
Even though he’d almost been asleep, Robert found himself smiling. “Hard to miss them. They were walking across Lake Erie like their soles were going to slip through at any minute.”
“I talked to one. They’re from the Tennessee Army.”
“Didn’t know that. Do you know any of them?” Thomas, like Captain Monroe, had originally joined the Tennessee regiment before getting transferred.
“No. But they seem a well enough sort. Decent.”
“Bet they’re tired as all get-out.” It was a long journey to be taken prisoner, shipped up to Ohio on a train, then eventually forced to march across Lake Erie’s frozen bay to their camp.
“Yeah. Maybe.” He paused. “One of the officers almost smiled when he saw our barracks. Said it looked like a college dormitory.”
“I’ve heard that too.” Phillip had once compared their lodging to his dorm at West Point. Thomas sounded more than a little wistful. Robert wondered where this conversation was going.
“You ever been to college, Lieutenant?”
Robert scoffed. “I never had any schooling.”
“Not any?” Thomas sounded incredulous, and Robert couldn’t blame him. Most people were lucky enough to have some kind of formal education, he reckoned. He just had never been one of those.
“Nope.”
When a couple of men around them grunted, Thomas lowered his voice. “I thought you could read, though. Can’t you?”
“I can read. But until I enlisted, only a couple of old men had taught me how to cipher, and a pair of sisters taught me to read a little.” He frowned, thinking back to that summer when those girls had befriended him as their charity case. They’d let him use their barn’s spigot, given him a cot to sleep on, and had even given him supper every evening.
But when one of them started acting like she liked him, he’d gotten smart and moved on. No amount of learning or stew was worth being some girl’s kept boyfriend. Especially when her daddy would’ve likely shot him for getting close to her.
“What about you?” Robert asked, curious now. “I thought your childhood wasn’t much different from mine.”
“I was born north of Dallas, in Wichita Falls. I had a house and everything.” His voice turned wistful. Almost sweet. “For my first eight years, I had a mom and dad and a big brother too.”
Robert was shocked. Thomas was rougher around the edges than he was, and that said a lot. “Were they good people?”
“Yeah. They were real good. My ma liked to sing. She sang most every morning when she hung clothes out on the line. And my brother, Jeremy, was the best. You know how some older brothers act like their reason for living is to beat the tar out of their siblings?”
Of course he didn’t; he had no siblings. But he answered anyway. “Yeah.”
“Jeremy wasn’t like that. He always let me follow him around. And when he was with his friends after church, he made everyone include me. He walked me to school every day too.”
Putting off the inevitable question, which was what happened to them all, Robert said, “What about your dad?”
“He was stocky like me. He was a blacksmith. Funny, some blacksmiths are all about the iron, but my dad, he was all about the horses. He loved those horses.”
“Now I see why you ride so well.”
“Yep, he taught me how to ride. He rode like the wind. He taught me how to trust your horse too. Said a horse won’t ever let you down. He was right.” His voice drifted off, true sadness lacing every word.
Which prompted Robert to ask the inevitable. “What happened when you were eight?”
“Indian raid.”
“What?”
“Shut up, Truax!” a major called out. “It’s going on one in the morning!”
“Sorry,” Robert mumbled. Flipping over on his back, he whispered, “What happened?”
“Some renegade Indians were out looking for food, I guess. Or maybe they were just sick of
being forced from their homes and land and decided to make a point. Anyway, they killed ’em all but me.”
“It’s good you survived.”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said in his halting way. “My ma made me hide, you see.” He lowered his voice. “They all did. Jeremy said he’d beat me good if I showed my face, no matter what I heard. So I stayed hid, ’cause Jeremy didn’t lie.”
“I’m, uh, real sorry, Baker. That’s a real shame about your family.” It was more than that, of course. But what else could he say?
“Yeah. But what do you do? Everybody’s got something. Now here you and I are, sitting in some Yankee barracks getting yelled at by guards who never saw action.”
“This is true.”
“And Phillip is downstairs dying inch by inch with that gangrene.” Whispering now, he said, “Gangrene’s a heck of a way to die.”
It was.
The reminder of Phillip downstairs writhing in pain made him get up. “I better go relieve Cap.”
“How come it’s just you and Cap watching him now?”
“Don’t know,” he lied. “We might be in prison, but I still do what I’m told.”
“Yeah,” Thomas said, but it was apparent that he didn’t believe Robert.
Not wanting to converse about it further, Robert slipped out of the cot, threw his boots back on, and walked downstairs, then through the middle aisle where most of the men there were sleeping.
No one asked him where he was going. Probably because they’d seen him walk through here dozens of other times.
When he got to Phillip’s room, he saw Captain Monroe sitting next to him. Phillip’s blanket was clenched in Cap’s hands. The expression on their captain’s face could only be described as devastated.
“Robert,” he said.
“Captain, you okay?”
“Me? No. Phillip is dead.”
The words, though expected, hit him with such force that Robert knew he was swaying on his feet.
Unable to completely grasp it, Robert walked to the side of Phillip’s bed and sat on the edge of his cot. Phillip’s eyes were closed, but his body didn’t look like Robert would have expected it to. He looked tense, almost as if he’d been fighting something.
“What happened?”
“You know what happened, Lieutenant.” He hesitated. “The man had gangrene and infection. This was inevitable.”
“I know. It’s just that when I was with him earlier, he seemed to be breathing easy. He even talked for a while.”
Captain Monroe looked up. “Was he making any sense?”
“At first he was talking about Miranda and home, but then about squirrels and rabbits. And weasels, if you can believe that. He must have thought he was a kid out hunting with his pa or something.”
Captain Monroe looked like he was about to nod, then, after looking over his shoulder, he shook his head. “He wasn’t talking about hunting with his pa.”
“You know what all that meant?”
Monroe nodded. “Yeah. I know.”
“Was it . . . was it from one of his missions?” he whispered.
“It was.”
“Did he say more while you were with him, sir?”
“Let’s not talk anymore about this, Robert.” After taking a fortifying breath, Captain Monroe stood. “If it’s all the same to you, I think we might as well tell everyone about Phillip’s passing in the morning. Let everyone who can sleep do so.”
“Yes, sir.”
He walked out then, head down. Robert was fairly sure he’d never seen Devin Monroe stand so dejectedly.
The door closed behind him. Leaving Robert alone with Phillip Markham’s dead body.
Closing his eyes, he prayed for the man’s soul. Prayed he’d find some comfort. And at last prayed for his beloved Miranda, whom he’d seemed to have loved more than anything else in the world.
Then, satisfied that he’d done his best for the man, he moved over to the chair their captain had just vacated and sat vigil by Phillip’s side.
He told himself it was because Phillip Markham needed that kind of respect.
But what he really did was look at the door and think about the last time he’d sat with Phillip.
Phillip had been feverish and vocal. He’d cried. He’d talked about Miranda and Galveston Island. And he did talk about squirrels and rabbits and weasels. He hadn’t lied about that.
But then he seemed to be talking to a phantom officer about the success of his latest foray behind enemy lines. Where he’d donned a Union uniform, adopted the East Coast accent he’d learned at West Point, and walked the halls at one of the hospitals.
Through it all, Robert had been stunned and terrified. Terrified to leave him to go get Monroe.
And more terrified to do what Monroe had insisted had to be done.
Soon, however, Phillip had stopped talking and fallen into a deep sleep. Robert dropped the jacket in his hands and sank back against the wall in relief. When Monroe arrived shortly after, Robert never said a word to him, too ashamed that he’d betrayed his captain’s orders.
As he left Phillip’s room, he noticed the two sick men in cots on the other side of the door staring hard at him. And the guard who was leaning against the wall seeming to stare at nothing.
Those three men had heard. But he walked out without a word.
What had he done?
Certainly not what his captain had been brave enough to do.
18
BELLE DIDN’T LIKE FISH. SHE ESPECIALLY DIDN’T LIKE going to the fishmonger early in the morning for Cook. Honestly, she wished Cook would send Emerson every once in a while. That man loved fish and he didn’t even mind getting up an hour before dawn.
But of course it didn’t really matter what she wanted. Sometimes a woman had to do the job that was asked of her, and this was hers.
After throwing on her cloak and a thick wool scarf to tie around her neck and face, she made the thirty-minute walk to the docks. In the middle of the day, it was a nice journey. Walking in the dim morning light on half-empty streets was another story. To make matters worse, a fog had come in with the tide and blanketed the outside market in cold mist. It was enough to make a girl wonder if she could ever get warm again.
As she got closer to the fishmonger, more people filled the streets. Roughnecks, sailors, and dockworkers were moving slowly through the haze, as were the unfortunate women who had worked the night before. In the middle of it all were domestics like her.
After sidestepping a pair of freedmen standing outside one of the cotton warehouses, she at last got to the pier where her favorite fishmonger set up shop.
“You’re here early, Belle,” Sam said with a smile.
“I am.” She hated sounding so glum when she knew Sam had already been out in the gulf and had returned. “How was your catch this morning?”
“Good.” He grinned. “Good enough to sell you a fish or two.”
His good nature was infectious. “You always say that,” she replied, stifling a giggle.
“You always laugh when I say it too. Makes me proud to get you to smile.”
“You’re my only reason to smile on this errand. You know I’m not one for getting out early.”
He pressed his hand to his chest dramatically. “You wound me every single time you come, Belle.” He started to say more, then shuttered his expression.
Surprised by his sudden change in attitude, she turned to see who he was staring at. It was Sheriff Kern. He was talking with some of the men coming off an expensive-looking freighter. She was surprised. The docks usually weren’t where the local law enforcement presided. She’d learned they had their own set of rules and regulations. In the distance was another surprise—Mr. Winter. Though she hadn’t had much reason to mix with the clerk, Belle certainly recognized him.
But his being down at the docks at sunrise was even more of a surprise than Sheriff Kern.
“You still friends with him, Belle?” Sam asked under his breath.
“Who?”
“Kern.”
Belle finally stopped staring and turned back to her friend. “I wouldn’t say we’re friends, exactly. He’s the sheriff.” Remembering what she had overheard about Kern’s service and imprisonment, she added, “He fought bravely during the war.”
“We all fought, one way or another.”
“He also has friends in high places.”
“What does that even mean?” he scoffed.
“It means we don’t run in the same social circles, Sam. He’s a good four steps above me.”
Sam grunted. “Hardly that. You’re better than some of the folks I’ve seen him keep company with, I’ll tell you that.”
Wondering if he was referring to Mr. Truax, she asked, “Who have you seen him talking to? Anyone in particular?”
“You know Kyle Winter?”
“I know who he is. And I saw him standing nearby.” Curious now, she asked, “Are you saying they spent time together this morning?”
Sam shrugged.
She was confused . . . unless the sheriff was doing some detective work. That had to be it. Surely the sheriff couldn’t condone Mr. Winter’s behavior toward Mrs. Markham. After all, she overheard that he and Mr. Truax were going to work together to solve Mrs. Markham’s problems. After glancing around to make sure no one else might be listening, she said, “I doubt they’re friends. After all, Mr. Winter treats Mrs. Markham badly and Sheriff Kern is her friend.”
“I just assumed anyone who would be friends with Winter would not be a friend of yours.”
“No, maybe not. Mrs. Markham doesn’t deserve how Mr. Winter has treated her. But why do you think Sheriff Kern—?”
“Sheriff,” Sam interrupted, suddenly straightening his shoulders. “Good morning.”
Sheriff Kern nodded. “Morning, Sam.” Turning to Belle, he smiled slightly. “I was hoping you might be out this morning.”
She wouldn’t have been more surprised if he’d told her he’d decided to move to New York City. “Oh? I wasn’t aware you spent much time in this part of town.”
The Loyal Heart Page 18