Must the Maiden Die

by Miriam Grace Monfredo

  The paint moved through the warm night, the sky an arc of black where even the glitter of stars was dulled by the brilliant moon. Jacques reined in the horse at the crest of a low, rounded hill where, surrounding a small clearing, fir trees spread their long, fringed branches like wings. He swung her down and took a blanket roll from behind the saddle.

  They shook out the blanket over thick clover, and Glynis, after seating herself, tucked her feet under the skirt of the undress. He stood for a time looking down at her, then pulled a tobacco pouch from inside his leather jacket, and began to roll a cigarette, his fingers working with deft precision.

  "How is he?" Jacques said, moving his gaze north toward Black Brook reservation.

  "Cullen's fine, Jacques. But if he hears you're in town..."

  Glynis let her voice trail off. Jacques would know what she meant.

  "He'll get over it," Jacques said. "Always does." He was still standing, the smoke from his cigarette rising into the windless air as a ragged white feather.

  "Where have you been since Washington?" she asked into a velvet quiet broken only by the distant chorus of spring peepers, the occasional soft whoo of an owl.

  "With McClellan."

  "The railroad man?" Jacques had acted as scout for the Ohio & Mississippi Railroad, of which George McClellan was president.

  "The military man. He commands Ohio volunteers. War's going to heat up soon down there along the Ohio River."

  Ohio—why the tug at her memory? "There's no hope left, then, for another effort at compromise?"

  "You've been south," he said. "You want to compromise with slaveholders?"

  "No."

  "Then I'd say there's no hope."

  "But most Southerners aren't slaveholders, Jacques. And I don't think many of them want war. "

  "They better speak up fast."

  "You didn't say where you've been with McClellan."

  Jacques crumbled the remains of the cigarette, than sat down beside her. "Cincinnati."

  Glynis thought she couldn't have heard correctly. "Did you say Cincinnati?" When he didn't respond she repeated, "Cincinnati, in Ohio?"

  "Think there's only one."

  "In that case," Glynis said, "it must be a lively place with so many people coming and going!"

  Jacques leaned forward to look into her face. In the moonlight, his own face was the deep, rich color of live coals, ready to flame at a single stroke. "Who's coming and going?" he asked.

  The flash of amusement in his eyes, so unusual that it caught her unawares, told her she was on the right path.

  "Bronwen traveled from there with a Professor Thaddeus Lowe—in a balloon," Glynis answered. "Cincinnati apparently being such a crossroads, though, I would guess you knew about that?"

  "I knew. Lowe's balloon was stored there. McClellan lives there."

  "But Bronwen doesn't have any connection to Cincinnati, so what was she doing there?"

  "Following orders."

  "Whose orders?" she asked. "Rhys Bevan, her superior at Treasury, is in Washington." Rhys was the head of its Special Detective Service, and Glynis had met him several years before when he investigated a counterfeit ring operating out of Seneca Falls. She added, "Don't tell me that Rhys Bevan lives in Cincinnati."

  "O.K., he doesn't. He was there for two days."

  "I suppose Bronwen's orders are not to discuss whatever it is she's doing?"

  "Bevan made her swear to it. It was a test. He figured if she could keep it from you, she could stand any kind of questioning."

  "She passed the test."

  "Sounds like you figured it out anyway."

  "No, just that Bronwen wasn't in Seneca Falls solely for her cousin's wedding. Have you seen her?"

  "Today. Not for long."

  "And did Rhys Bevan make you take a secrecy oath?"

  "I don't take oaths. You should know that."

  "Will you tell me, then, what Bronwen's involved in?"

  "What do you want to know?" He had taken her braid in his hands and begun to untwist it, his fingers separating the strands of hair as deftly as they had rolled the cigarette.

  "For a start," Glynis said, "what is Lowe's connection with the U.S. Treasury Department?"

  "Salmon Chase. He's Treasury secretary," Jacques said. "He's not from Cincinnati."

  Glynis smiled, even though her uneasiness about Bronwen was growing. "Then how is Secretary Chase involved?"

  "Heard about Lowe's flights from McClellan. Had Lowe meet Lincoln. Lowe says balloons can be used for aerial reconnaissance of Confederate troop positions. McClellan thinks it's a good idea. So does Lincoln. He wants a trial run."

  "Where?"

  "Here."

  "In Seneca Falls?"

  "Why not?"

  "Because the last time I looked, Jacques, there were no Confederate troops in western New York."

  "That's why the trial's here. Lowe doesn't want to get killed. Wants to know how close he can get to a target without catching bullets."

  Glynis let out a long breath. Even if she accepted the premise that humans were meant to be airborne—and it seemed she had no alternative—she thought this sounded unreasonably perilous. She was almost too afraid to ask, "And Bronwen's role in this?"

  "She's a Treasury agent. She's lightweight. She doesn't scare easily. That's about it."

  "No, I don't think so," Glynis said, wincing as she turned her head, forgetting that Jacques was holding her hair.

  "What don't you think?"

  "I think there's more to it," Glynis persisted.

  "You always do."

  Again Glynis caught the trace of a smile, while Jacques began to weave his fingers through her hair. "Well, why are you here?" she asked.

  "I know the terrain."

  "But you won't be in the balloon, will you?" Glynis countered, trying to concentrate on Bronwen's safety. "Jacques, what is it you're not telling me?"

  "You have to keep quiet about it."

  "I will."

  "Bevan said you shouldn't be told—said you'd worry. I know you better than he does. You'll worry more if you're left guessing."

  "So please tell me."

  "You heard about Lincoln's blockade of Southern ports?" When Glynis nodded, Jacques went on, "Couple of times in the last month, British rifles—Enfields outfitted with sword bayonets—got smuggled into Virginia. Overland. Looks like they first came in by ship from Canada. Nobody knows where they went after that. Treasury's got an idea, but that's all it's got. There's no proof."

  "Jacques, please don't tell me that some unbalanced mind thought of using a balloon to track British rifles."

  "That's what Bevan thought. Lowe did too."

  Evidently, she decided, she had misjudged the sanity of both these men, although Rhys Bevan had exhibited a flair for the theatrical. And from the moment he had taken her niece into Treasury's detective service, Glynis had feared the worst if Rhys and Bronwen were paired. To be proved prophetic now offered little consolation.

  "Looks like your British friend de Warde might have a hand in this," Jacques said.

  "Oh, no, not Colonel de Warde! He's involved?"

  "Been spotted in Kingston, Ontario, and Oswego at about the right times."

  "He's a treacherous man, Jacques! You know he's an espionage agent—and Rhys Bevan knows it, too."

  "De Warde would guess he's being watched. I don't think he's stupid enough to handle the guns himself."

  "No," Glynis agreed. "He always makes someone else do his dirty work."

  "Treasury wants to find out who's doing his dirty work this time. And how the guns are leaving the North."

  "But why are you involved?"

  "This was put together fast," he said. "Maybe too fast. Bevan needs a ground man to lead his agents. They got to Oswego yesterday, but don't know their way around. I have to ride there tonight."

  "Can any of those agents ride?" Glynis said, her concern deepening. "The ones I met in Washington were city men. Driving carriages w
as the extent of their experience with horses."

  "Then it'll be interesting." Jacques's shoulders twitched in what, on a more demonstrative man, would have been a shrug. "Word from an agent in Montreal is that a shipment of Enfields got there yesterday. Looks like they're headed for Kingston. We figure they'll come across the lake in the next couple of days."

  "Well, that explains Bronwen's fixation with the telegraph office. She's been haunting that place ever since she got here. She was checking with Treasury, wasn't she, about when the guns were due to arrive in Montreal?"

  "That's it."

  "Then I don't understand. She left a note, saying she and Lowe were going to Rochester, which is west of here, to inflate the.... Ah, yes; the balloon rides on wind currents flowing east. And Oswego is north of here, so they have to launch from the west. I don't much like the sound of this."

  "Too late now."

  "But why are you here, Jacques, and not already in Oswego?"

  "You sure you need to ask that?"

  Glynis felt him gather and lift her hair, and then his fingers moved across the back of her neck.

  "I have another question," she said.

  "Is Oswego going to be risky? Maybe."

  "I'm certain of that, and I don't want to think about it. No, this concerns Montezuma Marsh. You know that area better than anyone. Where might a man live there for any length of time? And could a young woman survive in the swamp?"

  "Not alone, she couldn't. There's a cabin or two on high ground along the western edge. Maybe quarter mile due north of where Black Brook flows into it." His hand began to move down her spine, making the silk whisper softly.

  "I think it's getting late, Jacques."

  "Think you're right."

  He gently pressed her down on the blanket over the soft, fragrant clover.

  ***

  When they rode back into the stand of pines behind the garden, Glynis said to him, "I'm afraid for you and Bronwen. This Oswego scheme sounds dangerous."

  Jacques slid off the horse and lifted her down. "Some don't mind danger. It's the ones left behind who mind the most."

  Glynis nodded, then forced herself to smile, reaching up to lay her hand against his cheek. "Please watch over Bronwen, if you can. And be careful, Jacques."

  "O.K." He caught her hand, and held it fast.

  17

  WEDNESDAY

  Have they not sped? have they not divided the prey? to every man a damsel or two.

  —Book of Judges

  An early morning fog was lifting from the village, and bells in the church steeples struck the hour of seven as Glynis hurried up Fall Street. Like a ball of fire, a red sun sat above the eastern horizon. Rain before nightfall, she thought, raising the skirt of her cream-colored muslin dress above her ankles to walk quickly over the dirt road without stirring up cloudlets of dust. She had overslept, and now feared she wouldn't reach Cullen before the search party left. Her fear seemed justified, for when she turned the corner and headed down the slope to the firehouse, the road in front looked all but deserted.

  After she had rounded the brick building, she saw a handful of unfamiliar-looking men and several spavined horses standing on the towpath. The men were unshaven and unkempt, and several were passing a bottle back and forth; Glynis felt it safe to assume that they were not in the employ of the law. More than likely they were drifters. They would wait to pick up a few hours' of work, then spend what little money they earned at Serenity's, or at one of the other taverns along the canal. At least two of them could be bounty hunters, since they carried shotguns and bore the greedy, predatory look of men who hunted humans for money. Not a savory crew. And clearly Cullen was not around or he would have moved them on.

  She went to his office door and, finding it open, stepped inside to see lanky young Liam Cleary seated in Cullen's desk chair. He set down his mug of coffee and stood up, wiping a freckled hand across his mouth.

  "Constable Stuart's left already, Miss Tryon."

  "How long ago?" she asked, trying keep guilt over her belated arrival from defeating her purpose.

  "Left at dawn, couple hours back."

  "He was headed for the swamp, I suppose?" Glynis asked. When Liam nodded, she said, "How many men did he take?"

  "Besides Zeph and his bloodhounds? Maybe a half-dozen others."

  Eight men to search the twelve-mile-long swamp with no idea where to start looking. In some places Montezuma Marsh was as much as eight miles wide; with thousands of acres to cover, they would never find the girl. But the east side of the marsh fronted Cayuga Lake for some distance to the north, so they might rule out that area.

  "Liam, did the constable say where he was going to start the search?"

  "Said they'd begin at the south end of the swamp. Near Dermont Creek."

  "Where it flows into Cayuga Lake?" When Liam nodded again, Glynis said, "Then he plans to go up the west side of the marsh?"

  "Guess so."

  At least the searchers would be traveling in the right direction. Glynis then asked Liam, "And other than Zeph, who were the men with Cullen?"

  "There were a couple from the Seneca County Sheriff's Office and...lemme think now."

  Glynis waited with impatience while Liam consulted his memory. Since that might take some time, she tried to nudge him along by asking, "Was Abraham Levy one of them?"

  "Oh, yeah." He then went on to name three others, one of which was a surprise to Glynis. "Adam MacAlistair went with them?"

  Liam grinned. "Yeah, he said he might as well do something useful to take his mind off his troubles. Isn't he supposed to be getting hitched pretty soon?"

  When Glynis sighed, Liam added, "Guess that's the trouble he meant!"

  Under the circumstances, Glynis did not feel compelled to comment. "Liam, I need to reach Constable Stuart with some information as quickly as possible. But I imagine he wants someone here in the office—is that why you aren't with him?"

  "Told me I was in charge here, yeah. So I don't dare leave for any length of time, Miss Tryon. Constable, he'd skin me alive if I did."

  While Glynis knew this was youthful exaggeration, she also knew Liam wouldn't disobey Cullen, no matter whose life, including his own, might be threatened. So who else might be available to carry a message to Cullen? There was Danny Ross, smart and reliable enough, but why hadn't he gone with Cullen in the first place?

  When she asked Liam this, he answered, "Danny had to help his mother install some new kinda water pump in the laundry. He said Mr. Gould let them have the pump at half price."

  Danny was the oldest son of Daisy Ross, who, more than a decade before, had been left a young widow with five small children. Daisy had opened Seneca Falls's first "Professional Laundry" with a bank loan guaranteed by attorney Jeremiah Merrycoyf. Widower Merrycoyf had said he liked the idea of clean, ironed shirts. Long hours of back-breaking work by the Ross family had made the laundry into one of the town's most successful businesses.

  Glynis thought Daisy would spare her son for an emergency. She said so to Liam.

  "O.K., Miss Tryon, I can fetch Danny if you'll watch things here—reckon that would be all right with the constable. But what is it you want Danny to do?"

  "I've been told," she said, "that there's some high ground a quarter of a mile north of where Black Brook flows into the western part of the swamp. The man who the constable is looking for could be there. And Tamar Jager could be with him. If Danny Ross could just take word to the constable..." She hesitated, shaking her head, having realized that Danny would have trouble even locating Cullen. But then she remembered hearing that the boy was a good hunter. "Liam, please bring Danny here and I'll tell—"

  She broke off, as a sudden noise in the doorway made her turn to see one of the men from the tow-path who she guessed might be bounty hunters. A stocky man, he swaggered into the office carrying a shotgun, a sly smile creasing his bristled face. A long white scar ran from one eye down the length of his cheek, and several of his front teeth
were missing. That along with his scruffy clothes, Glynis thought uneasily, lent him the look of a ruffian in one of Jonathan's favored novels.

  "I know them parts of that swamp," the man said, gruffly. "Any reward posted for them two?"

  Glynis said, "No!" At the same time Liam said, "Yes."

  "Which is it?" asked the man looking back and forth at them.

  Glynis tried to catch Liam's eye, but in vain, because he answered obliviously, "There's a reward for the girl."

  "I'm sure it's not much," Glynis said, as she couldn't imagine anything more terrifying for Tamar Jager than to be confronted with this man. "Not much at all," she added, sending Liam another frantic look of appeal.

  The man grinned. "Don't need much. Got nothin' else to do, so I think I'll just give it a go. Take my pal here with me."

  He turned slightly, and Glynis saw behind him a short, thin man with a long scrawny neck who had about him the sharp-eyed look of a turkey vulture. He was obviously taking the idea of a scavenger hunt more seriously than his grinning companion.

  The heavy man now asked with profound good humor, "You want this girl dead or alive?"

  "Alive! She is not to be harmed in any way," Glynis said icily. "The girl is not a criminal, and furthermore, Mr.... I don't believe I caught your name."

  "Name's Sledge, pretty lady. Glad to make your acquaintance."

  "To be truthful, Mr. Sledge," Glynis stated, in the most forceful tone she could, "I don't believe your assistance will be necessary. The constable and his search party are more than capable of finding the girl. I think, in fact, he will be back here with her shortly. So you see, there's no point in putting yourself out for no reason."

  Having despaired of Liam's support, she was surprised to hear him pipe up, "Yeah, I think Constable Stuart can find her all right with the men he's got. Hope so, anyway."

  "Well, now, if it's all the same to you," the stocky man said cheerfully, "I think me and my pal here will just take a look-see. We're damn good—begging your pardon, ma'am—at tracking fugitives. I bet we find her faster'n your constable!"