Leanne watched him for a moment, surprised at the surge of sympathy she felt for this man she hardly knew and hadn’t much liked at first, until the dean of students approached Captain Gallows. Instantly his demeanor returned to the dashing hero, shooting upright as if he hadn’t a pain or care in the world. That was more in line with the behavior she expected of him. So which was the real John Gallows—the arrogant, larger-than-life hero—or the proud, wounded, struggling man she’d caught a glimpse of the moment before? There was no way for her to tell now. The captain and the dean walked off together, and Leanne remembered there was a reception of sorts for him afterward. As one of the Red Cross knitting teachers, she’d been invited. She hadn’t planned on going at first, for she hadn’t a taste for such things and it would be awkward since Ida hadn’t been asked. She’d go, now, if just to help make up her mind as to what kind of man he truly was.
“You know, I think I will go to that reception after all,” she said as casually as she could to Ida as they packed up their things to exit the hall.
“Well, now, who wouldn’t?” Ida didn’t seem the least bit slighted by her lack of an invitation. Some days Leanne wished for Ida’s confidence and, as Papa put it, “thick skin.” Instead of sulking, Ida only offered her an oversize wink. “Tell the good captain he can recruit me any day,” she whispered, visibly pleased at Leanne’s startled reaction.
“It’s a good thing I won’t and he can’t,” she replied, hoping no one else heard the scandalous remark.
“Says you.” Ida laughed, and sauntered away.
Yes, he was a hero. Yes, he was vital to the cause. Still, Leanne couldn’t see how even the most rousing of Gallows’s speeches could overcome her distaste for the man’s monumental air of self-importance.
Chapter Four
Leanne was just barely ten minutes into the reception, not yet even to the punch bowl, when Gallows swooped up behind her and took her by the elbow.
“Save me,” he whispered as he nodded to the library shelf to their left. “Pull a book off the shelf this very minute and save me from Professor Mosling, I implore you.” She couldn’t help but comply, for Leanne knew that calling Professor Mosling long-winded was an understatement. Mosling thought very highly of himself and his opinions, and shared them freely with unsuspecting victims. At great length and with considerable detail. Last month she’d been cornered for three quarters of an hour by the man as he shared his views on the use of domestic wool for socks. Mosling raised an arm with an all-too-hearty “There you are, Gallows!” Leanne snatched the largest book within reach and angled her shoulders away from the man.
“Really, Captain Gallows, there is much to be said for—” she realized in her haste she’d neglected to even scan the massive volume’s title “—Atlantic Shipping Records of the Cooper River. I find it a most fascinating subject,” she improvised, finding herself stumped.
“As do I,” replied Captain Gallows, his eyes filled with surprise and a healthy dose of amusement even though his voice was earnest. “Please, do go on.”
Go on? How on earth could she “go on”? “As I’m sure you know, the Cooper River runs right through Charleston, providing a major seaport thoroughfare…” It felt absurd; she was stringing together important-sounding words with almost no sense of their content. Still, Gallows’s eyes encouraged her, looking as if she was imparting the most vital knowledge imaginable.
“Do forgive me,” Gallows said to the professor, “but I simply cannot tear myself away from Miss Sample’s fascinating explanation.”
The ruse worked, for Mosling huffed a little, straightened his jacket and then seemed to find another suitable target within seconds. “Oh, yes, well, another time then.”
“Indeed,” said Captain Gallows, actually managing to sound sorry for the loss despite the relief she could see in his eyes. “Very soon.”
As soon as Mosling had left, Gallows took the huge text from her and began to laugh. “Atlantic Shipping Records? A most unfortunate choice. I could probably better explain these to you than the other way around.”
Leanne raised an eyebrow, not particularly pleased to be roped into such a scheme. “I was rather in a hurry and quite unprepared.”
“Perhaps I should have asked you to teach me knitting.” He looked as if he’d rather read Atlantic Shipping Records from cover to cover than take up the craft—as if he found it a frilly pastime better suited to grandmothers in rocking chairs.
“Many men have, you know. There was a time, centuries ago, when knitting was purely a man’s craft. And you can’t argue that every hand is needed. Perhaps we can arrange a lesson for you yet.” She couldn’t for the life of her say where such boldness had come from. Perhaps Ida was rubbing off on her.
“If anyone could…” The fact that he didn’t finish the sentence made it all the more daunting.
Leanne chose to shift the subject. “You gave a stunning presentation, Captain. The boys were on their feet cheering by the end of things.”
He leaned against the bookcase, and while she had the urge to ask him if he’d like to sit down, she had the notion that he wouldn’t take to such a consideration of his injury. “You stopped knitting there for a moment. I saw you.”
He made it sound as if her pause revealed secrets. “I was inspired. It is a harrowing tale.”
A flicker of a shadow came over his eye at her use of the word. Only for a sliver of a second, however, and it was so instantly replaced by a cavalier expression that it made her wonder if it had been there at all. “Ah, but so heroic and inspiring.”
“It makes it unfair that your leg pains you so much.” She hadn’t planned on making such a remark, but somehow it jumped out of her.
She expected him to give some dashing dismissal of the judgment, but he paused. He looked at her as if she were the first person ever to say such a thing, which couldn’t possibly be true. “Why?” He had the oddest tone of expression.
“I…” she fumbled, not knowing the answer herself. “I should think it a terrible shame. It seems a very brave thing you’ve done, and I would like to think God rewards bravery, not punishes it.”
“God? Rewarding me for being caught on a failing airship?” He laughed, but far too sharply. “The very thought.” He took the book from her, snapping it shut before replacing it on the shelf between them. “You have a very odd way of thinking, Nurse Sample.”
What did the captain think of his “fate”? Or his Creator? Did he even acknowledge Him? Unsure what to make of Gallows, Leanne pressed her point. “Odd? By thinking God is just or by thinking you brave?”
That got a hearty laugh from him. He spun his cane in his hand, almost like a showman, and stared at her a long, puzzling moment before he said, “Both.”
She wasn’t going to let him go at a clever dodge like that. “How so?”
Gallows’s face told her the conversation had ventured into difficult territory. “Are you always so pointed in your conversations?”
“Would you prefer we return to Atlantic Shipping Records? Or I could get the good professor to rejoin us…”
“No,” he cut in. He pulled a hand over his chin, groping for his answer while she patiently waited. Leanne found herself genuinely curious—and surprisingly so—as to what this man truly thought of himself when no one else was watching. “Wars need heroes,” he said eventually, “and those of us in the wrong place at the wrong time find ourselves drafted into that need. I’ve been too busy staying alive and playing hero to worry about who did the drafting or why. I don’t ponder whether I limp from justice or bravery, Nurse Sample. I just try to walk.”
His smile had a dark edge to it as he turned and walked away. With an odd little catch under her chest, Leanne noted that while he hid it extremely well, he still limped.
* * *
Ashton Barnes was a big, barrel-chested man who barked orders with the intensity of cannon-fire. He’d been one of Colonel Gallows’s protégés, rising fast and far to head up a logistical marve
l like Camp Jackson even though he was barely pushing fifty. The general’s balding head stubbornly held on to what was left of his white-blond hair, the rounded pate in stark contrast to the rectangular metal glasses he wore. Fond of cigars, hunting and blueberry pie, Barnes was the kind of larger-than-life commander a bursting enterprise like Camp Jackson required.
Every soldier knew Barnes as firm but fair, and even though one might consider Barnes “a friend of the family,” John knew better than to think his last name bought him any leverage with the general. His talents earned him the man’s eye, not his pedigree, and John had seen Barnes at the rally, sizing up his performance from the back corner. He’d known the job they’d given him to do yesterday, and he’d done it well, so John wasn’t surprised to receive a summons to the general’s office this morning.
While he also prided himself on good soldiering, drama and attention were John’s strongest weapons to wield. He’d known within the first ten minutes how to draw this particular audience into the cause. Really, what young man doesn’t want a chance at heroism? Doesn’t yearn to know he’s stepped into the destiny life handed him? The kindling was dry—it was only his job to strike the match and set it aflame. In his more whimsical moments, John sometimes wondered if his father was at all amused that John’s “gift for instigation,” as Mama always put it, had been put to such a virtuous use.
No sense pondering that. Father was undoubtedly back in Charleston and it was General Barnes’s approval that mattered at the moment. When John walked into the general’s office and stood at attention, Barnes gave him a broad smile. “Outstanding speech. I could have piled all the ‘Four Minute Men’ into one uniform and not done as well. We had two dozen new recruits before lunchtime today, and while I haven’t talked to the navy I suspect they did just as well.” He gestured toward the chair that fronted his desk. “At ease, son, get off that leg of yours.”
John settled into the chair. “I’m glad to see you pleased, sir.” He’d always liked Ashton Barnes, but he was smart enough to be a little afraid of the man and the power he wielded.
“I am. I am indeed. I knew you were the man for the job.” Usually a straight shooter, John didn’t like the way the general watched the way he laid his cane against the chair. Why did people always stare at the cane? Why never the leg? Or just at him? The general at least did him the courtesy of acknowledging the injury. That reaction was always easier to bear than those who did a poor job of pretending to ignore it, like his father. Barnes nodded toward John’s outstretched right leg. “How is the leg getting on?”
John stared down at the stiff limb. It never bent easily anymore so he’d stopped trying in cases where there was enough room. “Fine, sir. I’m better than most.”
“I suspect you are.” Barnes took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t like to see our boys coming home in pieces like this. Victory can’t come soon enough, in my book.”
The general had handed him the perfect opening, and John was going to take it. “I mean to go back, sir. As soon as I can.”
“So your father tells me.”
So Father had spoken with Barnes. John had suspected it—expected it, actually, given the colonel’s clear-but-unspoken distaste for his current assignment. It struck John as ironic that Oscar Gallows’s long, deep shadow lent John half the “marquee value” his current speeches produced. The Gallows family name got him this job as much as his silver tongue. After all, Gallowses were pillars of Charleston society long before John had been lauded as a hero.
While it goaded John that his father had lobbied the general behind his back, anything that sped up his return to combat was a welcome development. “I don’t think it’ll take more than three or four weeks here for me to finish healing up. Maybe two if that brute of a therapist has me doing any more exercises. I’m grateful for the chance to toot the army’s horn, but with all due respect, I’d rather be back in France.”
The general steepled his hands. “Much as I’d like to appease your father, or you, your doctors haven’t cleared you for duty.”
He didn’t say “yet.” John didn’t like the omission one bit. Father probably caught that one as well, which may have been why he’d skipped the rally. Wounded out of the service wouldn’t play well with Oscar Gallows.
It didn’t play well with him, either. He’d throw the cane away tomorrow and grit his teeth until they fell out before he’d listen to any doctor tell him he couldn’t go back up and finish what he’d started. He had no intention of being left behind among the wounded, even if others thought him a hero. His heroism was unfinished business, as far as John was concerned. He needed to be back in the fight, not sitting over here spouting rousing tales while his battalion earned a victory. “They will soon enough. Sooner on your recommendation, sir.”
“I won’t say you haven’t been valuable overseas, but you’re of no value at all if that leg fails you when you need it most. I admire your eager spirit, John—” Barnes knew what he was doing when he intentionally used his given name like a friend of the family would— “but don’t let your impatience get you killed. You’ll go back when you’re ready, and I’m of no mind to send you off a minute before.”
It was the closest thing to a promise he’d had yet; John wasn’t going to let this “friend of the family” go at a mere hint. “But you’ll send me? When I’m ready?” He was ready now.
“I imagine I will, yes.” He spoke like a true commander—leaving himself the tiniest of escapes just in case.
He may never get another chance like this. The colonel had obviously asked for it. He’d asked for it. He’d just given the army several weeks of record-breaking recruitment speeches. John stood, without his cane. He extended his hand. “I’d like your word on it, sir. I’ll give speeches until I’m blue in the face, I’ll rouse up recruits out of the sand, but I want to know you’ll send me back when I’m ready.”
Barnes hesitated for a moment, John’s message of “I will hold you to this” coming through loud and clear. “Very well,” he said after an insufferable pause. They shook on it. John had his guarantee. He wouldn’t end the war as a campaign poster. He’d go back where he belonged and make a name for himself on the battlefield, where it really mattered. “Thank you, sir.”
“I’d say you’re welcome, Captain, but I’m not so sure.”
John allowed himself the luxury of picking his cane back up, even though it shot pain like a bolt of lightning through his hip to bend over so far. “I’m sure enough for the both of us,” he said when he was upright again, making sure none of the strain showed in his voice.
“You should know it would help, Gallows, if I could have your cooperation on a—shall we say an unconventional little campaign of ours.”
Now it came out. Give and get, push and pull. Why was he surprised the general had a trick up his striped sleeve? “Anything you need, sir.”
“Don’t be so agreeable, son, until you’ve heard what it is the Red Cross has in mind.”
John sat back down again, the ache in his leg now matched by a lump in his throat.
Chapter Five
A few days after the rally, Leanne sat in the hospital meeting room helping an older nurse struggle through her first cumbersome knitting stitches. “Yes—” she smiled at the confused grimaces given by many of the women around her “—it does feel funny at first. Give it a few days, and you’ll be amazed how quickly you take to it.”
Another nurse held up the yarn Leanne had distributed at the beginning of class. “It’s drab stuff, don’t you think? I’d rather go to war in red socks. Or blue.”
“As long as they’re warm and dry, we don’t much care what color they are,” came a voice from behind Leanne’s shoulder. She turned to find Captain Gallows poking his head into the room.
“Captain Gallows, have you decided to take up knitting?”
“Well, since my job is to encourage, I thought I shouldn’t stop at soldiers.” He stepped into the room and leaned
against the doorway. Leanne suspected he was well aware of the fine figure he cut standing in such a cavalier manner. Around her, stitching ground to a halt. The young woman Leanne was currently sitting next to actually sighed and dropped her knitting to her lap. “Knit as if our lives depended upon it, ladies,” Gallows said with a gallant flair, “for I dare say they do. An army fights on its feet, you know.”
“Y’all sound like the Red Cross poster,” a hospital cook to Leanne’s left remarked, holding up the very beginning of a sock.
“Good for me.” He grinned. “That means I’ve gotten it right. It seems I am your poster boy. Or will be, next week.”
“How very fortunate.” Ida, who had stopped into the class to have Leanne correct a mistake on her current pair of socks, nearly purred her approval. “How so?”
Gallows sat down, and for the first time Leanne noticed how a shred of annoyance clipped his words. “I’m your new student.” There was the tiniest edge to the way he bit off the t in the last word.
“You?”
“Under orders, it seems.” He looked at the yarn as though it would infect him on contact.
Leanne dropped a stitch—something she never did. “Am I to understand that you’ve been ordered to learn how to knit?” She tried not to laugh, but the very thought of gallant Captain Gallows struggling with the turn of a sock heel was just too amusing an image, especially after the way he’d acted earlier. He may have long, elegant fingers, but they’d tangle mercilessly under so fine a task. Not only had he been dismissive, but Leanne was sure the captain hadn’t nearly the patience for it. He’d make a ghastly student.
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