Her mind fogging, she moved her lips from his, then clutched his questing hand. She met his passion-dark eyes, noting a spark of surprise. "Nobody gets this good without a lot of practice," she whispered, her breath catching in her throat. "I'll bet you've made love more than any man in the Confederacy. How long will it be before I know as much about lovemaking as you?"
He trailed feather-light kisses over her face, then held her gaze with mischievous eyes. "I don't know if that is even possible," he answered, his tone laced with self-mockery. "But being the generous soul I am, I'd be willing to try to teach you." A roguish grin touched his lips. "Now, be quiet, woman, and let me finish your lesson."
Chapter Eight
When Taggart opened his eyes the next morning, the first thing he saw was Silky sleeping beside him on her back, her lovely face wreathed in relaxed slumber. The counterpane had slipped from her during the night, revealing her shapely shoulder and one creamy breast, whose pink crest peeked provocatively from the sheet, reminding him of a delicately colored rose. With her shining hair spread out over the laceedged pillow, she seemed younger and sweeter than ever, and he raised himself on an elbow and impulsively brushed his lips over hers. Sighing a bit, she fluttered her lashes, then sank into deep sleep once more, her bosom rising and falling rhythmically.
Resisting a keen urge to make love to her again, he slipped from the bed, telling himself the Union was depending on him. Pale light streaked over the carpet from a crack between the curtains as he hastily washed and dressed, his mind already stirring with the business of the day. Afterward he sat down at a table and wrote a message to his contact in Maryland, all in cipher. At first he struggled a bit to recall certain key words, but the cipher had been so well drilled into him before leaving for the South, he managed to compose the message in a relatively short time.
When he'd finished, he rose and placed some large Confederate bills on the bureau, then dashed off a note and placed it beside the money.
Fancy Pants:
I've gone out to meet my contact. Buy yourself an outfit from one of the shops we saw coming into town. I'm tired of wartime concessions to fashion. Surprise me with something luscious, and buy the prettiest bonnet in Charlottesville to replace that hat you lost in the creek. Meet me at the hotel at one for lunch. A roast this timewith more sour plum juice, if you like.
With a last glance at the lovely vision she made, he left and softly closed the door behind him. On the way through the hotel lobby, his rough garb caused people to stare, and he decided that now that he was back in civilization he, too, should buy some new clothes.
Outside, there was a blue sky for a change, but ruffles of snow lined the streets like dirty suds. Pedestrians passed by him on both sides: black laborers in shabby clothes and brogans, and clerks and merchants wearing overcoats and boots. At the telegraph office he met two young soldiers coming out the door. Although there was no military installation in Charlottesville, it was a crossroads for Southern companies marching to all points of the compass. Once again Taggart was struck with how young the recruits lookedhardly more than children, he thought, like some of the boyish Confederates he'd seen at Shiloh.
Inside the cramped office, a lamp glowed from a desk, casting light over a dried-up little man wearing a green visor and small spectacles perched low on his nose. ''Yes sir," the clerk croaked in the whispery voice of the old. "How can I help you?" With a hint of suspicion, the oldster's rheumy eyes inched over Taggart's civilian garb, but at last the man's lined face relaxed visibly. No doubt the clerk assumed he was a plantation overseer, one of the few ablebodied men in the South holding a military exemption.
"I'd like to get in touch with my brother in Hagerstown, Maryland," Taggart explained nonchalantly, handing him the note he'd prepared. "Unfortunately, my father is ailing."
With a sigh, the old man began keying in the long message. When he reached the first stop, he cut his gaze at Taggart. "If you're waiting for a return message it may take a while." He nodded at a straight-backed chair. "Would you like to have a seat?"
"I think I'll walk out on the porch for a smoke," Taggart answered casually, already moving to the door. Meandering out of the office, he lit his cheroot. Lord, once an agent had a cipher in his hands or head, it was all so easy, he thought, relieved the information was on its way. He knew the operator in Maryland would have a boy deliver the telegram to his "brother," really another Union agent, who would send back instructions. Dozens of messages flew back and forth across the Mason-Dixon line, relayed this way. Some of the codes were more complicated than others, but to an untrained telegraph operator, they all appeared to be nothing more than everyday correspondence concerning business or family life.
Taggart smoked, studying the Charlottesville traffic for thirty minutes. Heavily loaded wagons jostled toward the railroad with timber and other goods for the Confederate war effort. Later he heard a stirring song and spied a company of Southern troops marching up the street, singing their hearts out as they put on a show of bravery for the local citizens. Unfortunately, he realized many of these young men would be dead in a few days, leaving only the memories of their brief lives behind.
"Mr. Taggart, I have your return message," came a cracked voice from the telegraph office.
Taggart entered the building and took a message from the old man's blue-veined hands, eagerly scanning the paper that appeared to be information about his father's health. Knowing he needed a place to decipher the code, he paid the operator and, with a sense of great anticipation, walked to a small eatery a block down the busy street.
Once there, he ordered coffee, but received a bitter chickory blend instead. Totally absorbed in the message, he sat down to study it, generally ignored by the workingmen who frequented the modest establishment. The cipher's key was given by a prearranged first word that informed the receiver in what sequence to restore the original message. Taggart turned over the paper and, pulling out a pencil, went to work deciphering his orders.
Thirty minutes later, he folded the message, put it away, and sat back, impressed with the importance of his new mission that would last for the duration of the war. He was to monitor the Petersburg line, a lengthy string of trenches and fortifications looping under Petersburg, Virginia, which lay twenty-five miles south of the Confederate capital of Richmond.
Grant and Lee had been faced off with opposing armies here for months, and for the Union, the key to winning the war was breaking through the well-entrenched Reb line. Once that was accomplished, Richmond would fall, and along with it, the South's last hope, the Army of Northern Virginia. Another agent would be involvedsurprisingly an aristocratic lady named Caroline Willmott, who resided in Richmond. He'd been advised she could relay his messages to Grant. He was also warned not to approach her directly, but to make her acquaintance socially in order to shield her identity.
He knew Silky would question him about the assignment, but he would plead secrecy. He would buy her a fine meal at the Excelsior, then escort her to the room and begin the farewell process once again. A girl such as herself belonged in Sweet Gum Hollow, not traipsing around the South, believing he was a Confederate when the heartrending truth was sure to come out sooner or later.
Perhaps her innocence could still be preserved. Once she returned to the Blue Ridge, and the war was over, any of the local swains would be proud to take her as a wife. Undoubtedly she would refuse his offer to stay in the hotel until the weather got better, but he would force the issue, simply leaving the money as he had this morning.
For a moment his throat tightened, and a part of him wanted to wad up the message and throw it away. Hadn't he deceived the girl enough? Then he considered the hundreds, possibly thousands, of lives depending on his assignment. If he failed, Northern boys almost as young as Ned would die, never to see their families again.
The war was almost over. With his information, the Union would be able to deal the coup de grâce to the dying Confederacy; then the long process of healing
could begin. Still, on this fine November day, it seemed being an intelligence agent had cost more than he'd ever imagined.
About that same time Silky returned to their room at the Excelsior Hotel, and tossed down a shopping bag containing her old clothes. At the cheval glass, she fingered the lush pile of her new burgundy velvet mantle and matching gown, amazed at how fine the garments looked. Having never worn anything but buckskins or plain calico gowns she'd cut and sewn herself, it was hard for her to believe the elegant reflection was her own. At the same time, she wondered how Taggart could buy her such a wonderful ensemble on a Confederate lieutenant's pay. He gave her the impression that his family was wealthy; still, the way he spent money took her breath away.
She'd been somewhat bewildered when she'd walked into the dress shop and the lady proprietor had gazed at her mountain garb in disdain. At first Silky had guessed at her size, then after trying on a few things, found what suited her best. When the shopkeeper saw the color of her plentiful Confederate bills, she readily came to her assistance, selling her a corset and a puffed horsehair crinoline, and even kid gloves and a reticule to go with the ensemble.
Now whirling before the mirror to make her skirt rise, Silky viewed her new shoes, which neatly buttoned up her ankles, making her feet look unbelievably small and dainty. She'd also purchased a burgundy-colored bonnet and, with trembling fingers, pinned her long locks atop her head, noticing the change it made in her.
Gently she opened the hatbox, eased the satin bonnet from its nest of tissue paper, then settled the exquisite creation upon her head. How different it was from the battered mountain hat she was used to wearing! Festooned with a little plume and decorated with moss-green ribbons that she tied under her chin, the chapeau not only brought out the luster in her hair, but the fire in her green eyes.
Suddenly remembering she hadn't spent all her money, she opened her reticule and saw she had enough cash to buy Taggart a muffler and some gloves. She recalled she'd seen a men's clothing store somewhere near the courthouse and, with a rush of happiness, hurried from the room, thinking how surprised he'd be with the purchases.
After leaving the hotel, she walked briskly in the direction of the courthouse, a fresh breeze lifting her spirits. She kept to the planked sidewalk, for the sun had come out enough to turn the street into a slushy gray mass cut with buggy wheels. In her new finery she felt like a queen, and many of the Confederate soldiers threw her admiring glances, one officer even lifting his hat as he passed.
When Silky's gaze fell on a fresh-faced soldier with bright red hair poking from beneath his cap, she thought of Charlie and the mountaineers she'd left behind in Sweet Gum Hollow. No doubt the boy had been asked about her whereabouts by now, and the fact that she'd ridden after Taggart would be the talk of the hollow. Just a-ridin' after that flatlander in a blindin' blizzard! she could imagine the granny women saying. Lost in her reverie she walked on, scarcely giving a thought to where she were going.
Near the courthouse, she passed an elderly man, but was so preoccupied she accidentally brushed against him. Dressed in a fine suit and carrying a brass-handled walking stick, the silver-haired gentleman raised his top hat, then stepped aside. "My pardon, miss. My fault altogether," he apologized, bowing gallantly. His genteel Virginia accent fell sweetly on her ears and immediately placed him as a landholder and man of some rank.
"No." Silky laughed, touching his arm. "I'm afraid I was daydreaming." She started to walk on, then noticed people milling up and down the courthouse steps, some crying and clutching the brass handrail running down the middle of the steps. A few of the ladies sobbed openly, pressing lacy handkerchiefs to their eyes. "Pardon me, sir," she ventured, catching the gentleman's attention again, "but what is the sad occasion at the courthouse today? A trial, perhaps?"
Tenderness gathered in the old man's moist eyes. "From your comment, I see you're a visitor to Charlottesville," he replied softly. He indicated the large courthouse doors with a gloved hand. "The new lists of the Confederate dead and wounded were posted on the courthouse doors this morning. Unfortunately, this sad situation is now a common occurrence in our city."
Silky's heart turned over in her bosom. "You mean the lists for the soldiers from Charlottesville are posted there?" she replied, shielding her eyes to stare at the long white sheets.
The old man gave a deep sigh. "No, my dear. The lists cover all the men in service for the whole western section of Virginia. They include seven counties, I believe."
Silky bit her lip. "My brother is in the service. We both come from a little place up in the Blue Ridgethat would be listed, too?"
The gentleman regarded her kindly. "Yes, I believe it would," he replied in a solicitous voice, his eyes holding hers. He glanced at the courthouse steps, then back at her. "If you would like to read the lists, permit me to accompany you."
Silky realized the courtly old man was prepared to escort her up the steps, but noted again his walking cane. "Thank you, sir," she answered, swallowing the lump in her throat, "but I'll go myself. I'm finereally I am."
She moved toward the steps, then glanced over her shoulder, seeing he was still watching her with a worried gaze. "Are you sure, miss?" he called after her, raising his hat once more.
"Yes ... thank you so much." She waved farewell before slowly turning to walk up the high steps, her anxiety mounting by the moment. The fact that Daniel had been moved to a company that was to see action resounded in her head like the blows of a ringing hammer. His name might be there now, just waiting for her to discover it, she thought, noticing a leaden feeling about her heart.
At the top of the steps, she stood patiently behind an older couple who'd just found their son's name on the list of those killed in action. Her heart ached for the sobbing lady and the grim-faced man as they walked away with heads bent in sorrow.
Her hand trembling, Silky placed a finger at the top of the list and traced downward until she found the names beginning with S; then, praying as she'd never prayed before, she inched her finger downward until she found the first name beginning with T.
She exhaled a deep breath. One more list, she thought, girding her courage. I must force myself to read one more list; then I'll know he's all right. She began at the top of the list of the wounded and worked downward, her heart thumping as she neared the letter S.
Then she saw it.
The name Daniel Shanahan jumped out at her with the force of a sharp blow, snatching her breath away. Tears stung her eyes. Daniel had been wounded and was in Chimborazo Military Hospital in Richmond. Through a thick mist of emotion she read his name several times, and even traced her finger over it in an attempt to verify it. If there was any mistake about there being two Daniel Shanahans in the Confederacy, his home was neatly listed to the right of his name as Sweet Gum Hollow.
For a moment the courthouse steps, the people walking up them, and Charlottesville itself seemed distant and far away, and in her mind's eye she saw her brother's smiling face as he kissed her good-bye before leaving for the war. Then she pictured them as they played together as children, laughing and running in the woods. What she'd silently feared for over three years had finally come to passDaniel had been cut down by a Yankee bullet.
She walked down the steps, an otherworldly feeling closing in about her. Her brother was hurt and she didn't know how badly. He was lying in a hospital in Richmond, alone and undoubtedly racked with pain. What if he died? she asked herself, her vision misting at the thought. She'd never forgive herself for not making an effort to see him. For a moment the horrible thought came to her mind that he might have lost an arm or a leg, and she clutched the handrail, refusing to let herself even contemplate the possibility.
She remembered the wounded soldiers who'd returned to
Bear Wallow. Some of them had looked relatively well while others had seemed completely broken, not only in body but in spirit. She wouldn't let that happen to her brother, she vowed, recalling how his eyes had danced when he played hi
s fiddle. Thank the Lord, she'd saved a little money and brought it with her! She must go to Daniel and find out if he needed special medicine or richer nourishment to recover.
At the bottom of the steps, she was vaguely aware of people walking around her as she stood in a state of shock, trying to absorb the horrible news she'd just received. Then gradually, a steely resolve rose to fortify and comfort her, and with a sense of hope she considered Taggart. Perhaps if his assignment took him someplace in Virginia he'd escort her to Richmond. She'd never bought a ticket, never ridden a train, never been a hundred miles away from home. If she was awed with Charlottesville what must Richmond be like with its sprawling hospitals and government offices? Her mountain skills, good as they were, would count for naught in the great city, and despite her resolve, she'd be virtually helpless.
Possibilities flying through her head, she numbly walked in the direction of the men's store. Today after lunch when Taggart was in a warm, pleasant mood, full of good food, and perhaps several glasses of that wine he liked so much, she'd inform him she was going to Richmond. Then after she was sure he was convinced of the fact, she'd ask him if he would escort her there.
Taggart regarded Silky as she sat on the little sofa before the fire. They'd just finished lunch and returned to their room for a private chat, and he thought how lovely she was in her new velvet ensemble, even with a hint of tears in her eyes. During the long meal she'd been sad and reservedmuch too quiet for the mountain spitfire he knew so well. Something was troubling her deeply, and his intuition told him it had nothing to do with his upcoming departure. "Something happened today while I was gone, didn't it?" he asked, sitting beside her and taking her hand. "I can see it in your eyes. Won't you tell me what it is?"
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