by Sara Orwig
“Promise me,” he said, staring at her. “I fought all through the damned war. I’ll survive going after Wenger.”
“All right.”
“Besides, you can’t go, because the moment you leave, Fortune will get out of bed and try to go. It’ll kill him if he does. I talked to Doc Newsom.”
She bit her lip. “I have to try to stop Wenger before he sails for Europe.”
“I’ll go and take some men. We can probably catch up with him.”
“No.” She faced him, looking at him intently. “If you had to kill him to get Michael back, could you?”
“I wouldn’t kill except in self-defense, but in that case I could.”
“Alaric, this isn’t your battle. Let me think what to do. I can hire men from Pinkerton’s just as he did. They’ll have agents all over. One could be in Savannah and watching for them when they arrive. What is it, a week by horse and carriage from here to Savannah?”
“I’ll go if you want me to.”
She smiled at him suddenly, going to stand on her toes and kiss his cheek. “Thank you. Next to Fortune, you’re my best friend.”
“Well, I’d like to see that hardheaded husband while you decide what you want to do. If you want to send a telegram to Pinkerton’s, I’ll take you to the telegraph office.”
“Thank you. I think that may be the only thing I can do. Fortune’s asleep,” she said, turning toward the hall, Alaric falling in step beside her.
“He’s been shot before and survived. If you can just keep him from learning the truth about Michael, Doc said he would mend just fine.”
They walked down the hall, and she pointed at the bedroom, moving beside him as Alaric walked in and stood over Fortune a moment. When he left, she followed him into the hall.
“You keep him quiet. Every hour that passes will help. Now I’ll drive your buggy, and we’ll go send the telegram.”
She rode quietly beside him, the sun hot on her shoulders because she had forgotten her bonnet and parasol. Alaric was quiet and she wondered if he was exhausted from the night. He waited patiently while she sent a telegram to Pinkerton’s and requested an answer.
When she got a reply, she motioned to Alaric. “They said they would take the assignment, and they would have a man in Savannah by tomorrow.”
“It’s almost three hundred miles from here. Wenger may be going fast or he may be taking his time. He probably thinks Fortune is dead.”
“I want to send another telegram and give them a description of Trevor Wenger and Michael.”
“I know Wenger’s driver and I know one of the servants he may have taken with him. I’ll give you those descriptions.”
She nodded and they moved back to the counter. In another quarter hour, they left the telegraph office to return home, and she felt slightly better to know someone was going to try to get Michael before Trevor Wenger sailed for Europe with him.
At the end of their drive Alaric jumped down from the buggy and helped her down, and they walked toward his saddled horse, tethered to a hitching post.
Alaric turned to face her. “Send Badru for me anytime you need my help. If you want me to come sit with him tonight so you can sleep, I will. If you want me to come try to keep him in the house, I will.”
“Alaric, thank you for everything. It helps knowing that Pinkerton’s will try to get Michael, and thank you for finding out which direction they went. I couldn’t have.”
“I’ll be by later.” Gathering the reins, he swung up into the saddle. She stepped back and watched him ride down the drive. Glancing up at the house, Claire hurried inside.
When she got inside, Badru was helping Fortune back to bed.
“He’s been up?” she asked, moving across the room in alarm.
“Yes, ma’am, just to tend to his needs. And Penthea is bringing him a bowl of soup.”
“Fortune?” she asked, stopping in front of him. He sat on the side of the bed, swathed in bandages, his eyes glazed. He turned his head, and she realized the effects of the laudanum still hadn’t worn off.
“Where’s Michael?”
“He’s fine. Alaric is seeing to Michael.”
Fortune nodded, and she realized he was too groggy to think clearly. She picked up the laudanum, wanting to make certain he had some more after he ate. “I don’t think Dr. Newsom thought you would be up today.”
“Need my strength,” he mumbled. Penthea appeared, and Badru lifted a table to bring the soup close to the bed.
“Thank you, Badru, Penthea. I can help him now,” Claire said, turning to Fortune. “Let me do that,” she said, steadying his hand as he picked up the spoon. He let her feed him, and she realized he must be just barely conscious.
He ate half the soup and drank a cup of hot tea, filled with some concoction that Penthea had mixed up, and Claire wondered if it was some old family remedy. Finally she helped him ease back down on the pillows. As he lifted his legs he groaned.
He murmured something she couldn’t understand, and she moved closer. “Michael,” he said as she leaned her ear close to his mouth. “Michael. Must get him. Bastard Wenger—”
“Shh, Fortune. Go to sleep,” she said softly, smoothing his thick, wavy hair away from his forehead.
She turned to go to the window. It was impossible to sit down; she felt like pacing the room. She longed to be riding after Michael. If only Fortune were well, they would be racing toward Savannah.
The hours seemed interminable, sitting and waiting, watching over Fortune as afternoon became night. In the early evening Dr. Newsom came to check on his patient and change the bandages.
As he moved to the bed, he glanced at her. “Claire, wash up. You might as well learn how to do this. I’ll continue as long as there’s a great deal of drainage, but then you can take over. Do you faint easily?”
“No. But I’ve never seen anything like this.”
As he opened a black bag and began to work, Fortune’s eyes fluttered. He gazed up at the doctor.
“What’ve you done?” he asked in slurred words.
“I’ve patched you up. Someone tried to fill you with holes. Didn’t you have enough of this on the battlefield?”
“Wenger did it.”
“I know. Claire told me.” Dr. Newsom worked, motioning to her to hand him a roll of tape, and Claire watched him carefully.
Fortune groaned and clenched his fists, and she winced for him. Still, she followed Dr. Newsom’s directions, and when they finished, Fortune went back to sleep.
“He’ll be more alert tomorrow. You’ll have to cut the laudanum so he can get up and get his strength back. Try to keep him quiet. I’ll leave bandages. You should be able to do this tomorrow. Just do the same thing we did tonight. You can get Badru to help. He knows what to do with wounded men.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“I’ll come tomorrow evening and check on him.”
She walked to the door with him and thanked him again as he left. Closing the door behind him, she wondered how far Trevor Wenger and Michael had traveled.
That night Badru helped Fortune up to relieve himself, and then she fed him a light supper, but it was more substantial than the soup. He ate baked chicken and a potato, and she suspected tomorrow she would have a problem keeping him confined.
She sat in the rocker as the house quieted. Penthea and Badru had both gone. Claire was still wearing her pink muslin, and it seemed pointless to change to a nightgown to sit up in a chair all night.
Fortune was propped on the pillows, and already he looked stronger. The changes were subtle, but his skin was a better color, and he moved around more often even if he did groan occasionally. She looked at the laudanum, deciding to give him more the next time he woke.
Long after midnight she awoke from a doze and, sitting up, was momentarily at a loss. She turned to look at Fortune as memory came rushing back. His blue eyes looked clear and alert.
“Where’s Michael?” he asked in a cold voice.
Chapter 24
“Where’s Michael?” he repeated tersely.
“Fortune, it’s the middle of the night.” She got up to fuss over him. “Why, you sound more like yourself. Do you feel like telling me what happened?” He struggled to sit up, and she moved to help him. “Wait, and I’ll get Badru,” she urged. “He’s been helping you.”
“Go get him, Claire.”
She hurried out to Badru’s quarters to summon him. She crossed the yard beneath a bright full moon, glancing at the bedroom windows and hoping she could get some laudanum down Fortune. When she returned to the bedroom, Fortune was seated on the side of the bed.
“Badru will be right here.”
“Get your things, Claire. You can come with me. I’m going after Michael.”
“No! You can’t,” she cried.
His hand shot out and closed around her wrist. He pulled her near, his eyes boring into hers, blazing with determination. “I’m going and I need you to go with me. Pack some food.”
“Dr. Newsom—”
“I don’t give a damn what Dr. Newsom said. We’re leaving tonight, and if you won’t go, I’ll get someone else.”
“Fortune, you don’t even know where to go.”
“Yes, I do. They’d go to Savannah and take a ship from there.”
Claire tensed at the astuteness of his guess. “Fortune, please,” she said, tears brimming. “Please don’t do this. Dr. Newsom is worried about infection setting in.”
“I am not letting him take my son to France.” His tone was rough and unyielding.
“He has almost a twenty-four-hour head start on you. You can’t catch him.” She caught Fortune’s hand. “Please. I sent a telegram to Pinkerton’s and they’re going to Savannah—”
“How’d you know it was Savannah?” His voice snapped like a whiplash cutting her.
“Because Alaric and Badru tracked down two people who saw them headed along the road to Savannah. Fortune, Pinkerton’s will have a man there.”
“You eluded Pinkerton’s, Claire,” he said harshly. “Pack my things, my revolver, my rifle. One revolver is at the mill, but there’s another in the bottom drawer of my chest.”
“Fortune, please don’t do this. You’ve been wounded badly,” she pleaded. “You know I love Michael and want him back, but I love you too. You’re too injured to do this. Take a few days to heal and then we’ll go after him.”
Fortune looked at her, and she knew she couldn’t stop him.
As she turned away, Badru knocked at the door. “Mr. O’Brien?”
“Come in and help me.”
“I’ll get my things and then come back and get yours.”
“I want you to help me,” she heard him say to Badru, “and then I want you to hitch the team to the carriage.”
Terrified that he would aggravate his injuries, she moved woodenly, knowing that she couldn’t stop him. She thought about getting Alaric but rejected the idea. Alaric couldn’t stop him either.
She rushed to pack, changing to her green gingham, taking one silk dress because Fortune might be in a hospital soon, and she wanted to look presentable to see his doctor. Trying to think rationally about what they would need, she felt panicky. She didn’t see how Fortune could travel even three hours, much less to Savannah.
Within the hour, they were in the carriage, their things loaded and Badru driving while Fortune sprawled in the backseat, his head on Claire’s lap.
“Anytime you want to turn back, you say so. I can keep in touch with Pinkerton’s, and I’ll let you know if anything develops.”
Fortune’s head lolled against her. “We’re going to Savannah, and we’re getting there before they sail.”
In minutes he was asleep. She was tempted to tell Badru to turn the carriage around and go back to Atlanta. She looked at Fortune, his dark lashes, his wide mouth, and she knew she couldn’t take him back home. Whether he survived the trip or not, it was something he had to do.
Gazing through the open window of the carriage, she looked at the dark branches of trees they were passing, staring into the bright night while the carriage jiggled and swayed. Two extra horses were hitched behind the carriage to enable them to switch teams often, and she knew Fortune had told Badru to push as fast as he could go.
She dozed, waking and shifting, her legs cramping from the narrow space in the carriage. At one point she awoke to find that Fortune still slept and it was night, the sky as dark as before. The next time she stirred it was daylight and they were slowing.
“I have to stop,” Fortune said. “Badru will help me.”
“Do you want me to get our breakfast?”
“Get something out of the basket, and we’ll eat it in the carriage when we’re going again.”
She looked at him, seeing pain flare in his eyes, the grim set to his mouth, but she bit back her protest, knowing it was useless. Checking his wounds, she saw the bright red stain of fresh blood seeping through the bandages around his middle.
“Fortune, you’re bleeding,” she said, tears stinging her eyes over what he was doing to himself.
“I’m all right, Claire.”
She stood, her legs aching as she climbed down and moved away from the carriage, thankful for a chance to stretch. Yet she couldn’t help wondering how far they would get before he passed out or collapsed. Even if they arrived in Savannah in the next hour, he was too weak to confront anyone. Trevor Wenger would just finish what he had started.
Her hand went to the pocket in her green gingham dress. She had found not only Fortune’s revolver and rifle and knife, but also a derringer that she had loaded and slipped into her pocket.
Soon they were back on the road, and she struggled with the basket to pass out servings of thin slices of ham and cold biscuits, apples. First she passed up food to Badru and then turned to help Fortune. Finally he lay back against the seat. “I can’t eat another bite, Claire.”
“Here’s some water and take some laudanum. It’ll make the ride easier.”
He was watching her intently, and she wondered if he was debating whether or not he could trust her not to knock him out. Finally he nodded and drank the water and took the laudanum. In several minutes he was asleep, his head bouncing against the seat.
The hours passed in an endless nightmare as they shook over rough roads stopping to switch teams and feed and water the horses. At one of the stops, she walked over to Badru. “You missed sleeping last night. I’ll drive if you can manage to sleep in the narrow space we have.”
He blinked, a look of gratitude sweeping over his features. “I’d appreciate that, Miz O’Brien. Just a couple of hours would do me a lot of good.”
She climbed up in front, and after she started off down the road, she glanced back to see Badru’s head against the side of the carriage, his huge body wedged in the space on the floor. Crammed on the seat, Fortune was asleep with his knees bent and his feet on the cushion.
When night came, Fortune insisted they keep going. Sitting on the seat with his head in her lap, she felt tears sting her eyes because he was growing worse and the bandage was soaked with blood.
As they bounced along and moonlight bathed Fortune’s face, she looked at him, knowing that if she told him she was carrying his child, he would still be just as determined to get Michael.
The next morning as she bathed his face, she leaned close to him. “Fortune, we’re coming to Macon. Let me stop and send a telegram to Pinkerton’s.”
“No,” he said in a whisper that she had to lean forward to hear.
“Listen to me,” she said urgently, and he opened his eyes to look at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and his jaw was covered in dark stubble. His skin had an unhealthy pallor again, and there was a grim set to his mouth that she knew was caused by the constant pain. “Let me telegram Pinkerton’s. They could have already found Michael. Or he could have already sailed.”
“He hasn’t had time to get there.”
“Please, Fortune. A telegram won’t take
long.”
He nodded and closed his eyes.
They came into Macon along a road following the Ocmulgee River. As she walked into the train depot, which had a telegraph office, she prayed that Pinkerton’s would have some kind of news about Michael. If he had sailed from Savannah, Fortune would have to stop pushing to get there, and they could get a hotel room here and she would find a doctor to come tend him. Earlier when they had stopped for breakfast, she had changed his bandage and both wounds were oozing bright red blood that frightened her.
There was no smell of putrid flesh, though, and she marveled at his strength.
She sent a telegram and waited to receive a message, her fingers laced together while she prayed there was something. The store was filled with tools and harnesses and pans, and through the front window she could see the carriage. Badru had climbed down and gone to get something at the grocer’s. Fortune was slumped in the back.
“Here you are, miss.” The clerk handed her a telegram and she skimmed it, reading that there was no sign of Michael and Wenger yet.
She lowered the telegram, glancing at the street outside. Fortune might not last until they reached Savannah. If he would just lose consciousness, she could stop. Knowing there was nothing else to do except keep going, she went back outside. She climbed up and eased Fortune’s head and shoulders onto her lap. As soon as they were situated, she held a fan over him to shade his face.
His color was ashen and sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. In a few more days he would have a thick beard. She glanced around as Badru climbed up to drive.
“Sorry, ma’am. I refilled our water containers. Here’s some if you can get him to drink a little.”
“Thank you. There was no word from Pinkerton’s, so I guess we keep going.”
“Yes, ma’am.” They moved through the town, and she felt a growing reluctance with each block to leave behind a doctor and a hotel room. In a short time they were out of town, riding along a wide dirt road. She stared ahead, watching the land dip and rise. Where was Michael? Was he frightened or in pain, wanting to come back home? She couldn’t bear to think about the latter and tried to remember all the toys Trevor had purchased for him. What had he told Michael? Did Michael think his parents had agreed he could go with his grandfather?