She opened her mouth to speak, but he didn’t give her the option.
“I am making myself very plain, miss. It will not be tolerated again. Do you understand?”
Annabelle drew her lips into a line. She wasn’t a child. “Yes, sir. I understand. I do not wish to cause trouble. Only to see my brother again.”
“And,” he said, pointing his finger in her face, “you will not position yourself at the gate and cause…distraction for my men or my prisoners again.”
She inwardly groaned, but kept a gentle expression on her face. “Of course not, sir. I’ll only wait for as long as needed to receive your message in the morning.”
His face reddened and Annabelle forced herself to hold his gaze. “Of course,” he said through lips that didn’t seem like they wanted to part enough to let words free. “I will have a message ready for you tomorrow afternoon at three. You can promptly receive it and then quickly be on your way.”
Annabelle inclined her head. It was longer than she wanted, but it would have to do. “Thank you, sir. I am indebted to your kindness.”
He dipped his chin and spun on his heel, leaving her standing just outside the prison gate among the curious stares of a score of men in blue as a fine mist began to fall and cling to her clothing. She hurried away from the guards, keeping her head down and her focus on her stained slippers as they peeked out from under the hem of her skirt. Had Momma been alive, she would have chided Annabelle for such an unladylike gait. But at the moment, distance from the stench of the prison and the lingering eyes of too many men was simply more important than a lady’s graceful walk.
Peggy gained her side as she passed by the bottom of the observation tower. “Well, Miss Belle, did you find anythin’?”
Annabelle gave a slight shake of her head and gestured for Peggy to follow. The older woman frowned, but dutifully obeyed. Annabelle found a place at the end of the line of hitched carriages near the shade trees where the colored servants had been yesterday afternoon. No one stood about this morning, and it seemed like a good place to let her nerves settle before she faced Matthew’s questions.
Peggy let her draw several long breaths of cold New York air before she divulged her story. Peggy listened with interest, her features clouding at several points. When Annabelle finished, Peggy glanced around before speaking. “Somethin’ don’t seem quite right about that.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, but I’m not sure what. Not unless he already knew George for his true identity and knew I was lying.”
“I reckon that could be it, but then why didn’t he just say somethin’?”
Annabelle tilted her head and watched a bird settle on a swaying branch overhead, free from the pains of war and the woes that came from delivering too many lies. When she looked back down at Peggy, the woman’s face held a mixture of worry and sadness. Annabelle longed to take her hand and offer comfort, but knew it would not be a good idea. Not even in the free states of the Union.
She offered what she hoped was a confident smile instead. “I don’t know, Peggy. He must have a reason. Perhaps the man I saw leaving the building was, indeed, George.”
“Seems unlikely.”
Annabelle couldn’t deny that fact. “True, but he did look like a shorter, starved version of Matthew. I do think it’s possible.” She twisted her skirts. “Oh, I should have just been honest instead.”
“And tell them you’s a Mississippi lady wanting to get her beau out?” Peggy shook her head. “Don’t think that would have been much better.”
Annabelle glanced up and saw Matthew striding toward them with a determined gait, the strengthening wind pulling at his hair. He wouldn’t be pleased she hadn’t come straight to the platform as promised. She steeled herself and nodded in his direction. Peggy turned to look at him and clamped her lips. The look on her face mirrored Annabelle’s own apprehension. He was wound so tightly already that she feared any further complications might undo him.
Matthew approached with worry lines creasing the strong plains of his face. “What did you find?” His gaze darted over to Peggy, but she kept her attention on the ground and took a step back to maintain a proper distance. The agitation in Matthew’s eyes deepened as he leveled his gaze on Annabelle.
“Well, I think he might be in there,” she said, trying to sound hopeful. “I may have even seen him.”
Relief flooded Matthew’s features and she wished that was all she had to tell. Matthew stepped close and grasped both of her shoulders, his body only a hand’s breadth from hers. She had to tilt her head back to see the hope radiating on his face.
Oh, but he was a handsome one. A few day’s worth of whiskers dusted his jaw line and she resisted the urge to reach up and sweep away a lock of hair that had escaped the twist of leather at the back of his neck. She looked up from his lips and into his eyes. His pupils dilated, and she was close enough now to feel his breath on her face.
Peggy made a noise in her throat, breaking the moment and reminding her that she was standing inappropriately with a man in the middle of public. How was it he made her forget all else? Would another ever make her feel so? Would a marriage of convenience always leave her heart wishing for the taste of longing she experienced now?
Peggy made a louder noise and Annabelle felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She stepped back out of Matthew’s grasp. He blinked like he had been as swept away as she. Suddenly his eyes cleared and he stabbed her with a penetrating gaze that was not nearly as warm as the one she’d bathed in only seconds earlier. She suppressed a shiver.
“How would you know if you saw him? You’ve never seen my brother before.”
“The man I saw was around a hand’s length or two shorter than you, not as wide in the shoulders, and light of hair and eyes. I do believe there was some resemblance, though I could be mistaken.”
Matthew’s eyes grew wide. “It could be him! Did you speak to him?”
The excitement in his voice clawed at her heart. She shook her head. “No, he was told to leave.”
“But he is alive!”
She twisted her hands together. “Perhaps. I truly do hope it was him.”
The joy on Matthew’s face faded. “What are you not telling me?”
Annabelle dropped her gaze to Matthew’s boots. After a few seconds, his finger came up under her chin and gently lifted her head. “Annabelle?”
She blinked at the moisture gathering in her eyes. “I… Well, I think my story made the Union major at the prison suspicious.”
Matthew frowned. “Tell me every detail.”
She did, cringing as his features continued to darken the farther she went into her tale. When she finished, the muscles in his jaw worked as he clenched his teeth.
“I… I do hope I didn’t cause any problems.”
When Matthew finally spoke, his voice was hard. “Why do women always seek to be deceitful?”
She bristled. “You knew that was the story I was going in with. Do you actually think the truth would have been the better option?”
Matthew’s nostril’s flared. “I fear you may have made his circumstances worse, just as I told you it would!”
She stiffened. “How? Just because they thought I was lying doesn’t mean they will make things worse on him. How can anything be worse than being in that awful prison?” As soon as the words left her lips, she wished she could call them back. Matthew’s face went from pained to seething in the span of a second. She swallowed hard. “I was only trying to help.”
Matthew drew in a long breath, and some of the tightness drained from his shoulders, though it hadn’t left his voice. “From now on, I will handle these things.”
Annabelle drew her lips into a line. Stubborn man! He knew he couldn’t have gone in there! They’d discussed it! Annabelle tried to remember that Matthew had been strained and his emotions were understandably taunt. She tried to offer an encouraging smile and smother her own frustrations. “I did ask about the release option. The major said
he would look into it and have someone give me an answer tomorrow afternoon.”
She’d hoped her words would ease his frown, but, instead, it only deepened. Without a word, he spun on his heels and stalked back toward the observation tower, falling rain obscuring his form as he disappeared from sight.
“Booth told me that he had gotten together in Washington all who were necessary for the purpose intended.”
John Surratt
Elmira Prison
March 16, 1865
3:00 AM
The cold rain ran underneath the collar of George’s Union coat and slithered down his back like a slippery snake. For the last unknown number of hours it had been falling so heavy that he could barely see in front of him, but now seemed to be easing up just enough that he could make out the dull silver of his saw. The wind hit hard against his face and muffled the words the guards were shouting over them, and he’d long since given up trying to understand what they said.
George bit his saw into another small log and tried to cut it to match the length of the four others that had already been toted off. His hands were shaking, making the cuts rough and uneven, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was if there were enough logs to keep making rafts. He finished cutting through the soaked sapling and let the two unusable ends drop to the ground with a muffled splash. George looked around for the man who had been taking the finished cuts, but didn’t see him anywhere. Since this was his last available log, he decided to take it down to the flats. The more he kept moving, the better. If he were seen standing about waiting, it would only mean trouble.
George sloshed through the mud, his feet soaked from the water seeping in through the holes in the soles of his shoes. He hated the flats. It was bad enough they had to camp on the northern side of Foster’s pond, the disgusting river backwash they used as a latrine, but it was even worse that the Yanks put the smallpox patients on the southern side of Foster’s. Any fool could see the flats were prone to flood.
And with this downpour, flooding it was. The banks had been high for some time now, and this latest storm proved their limit. The stench of the festering pond as it overflowed into the flats had already caused him to heave up what little his stomach contained. George tried to ignore the smell that even the scores of water from heaven could not wash away as he dragged the log behind him. His muscles ached, but he kept moving toward the groups of scrambling men along the edge of the flats.
“You! Bring that over here!” someone yelled. The voice carried on the rain like a canoe on a raging river and crashed against George’s ears. He turned toward where he thought it originated and saw a blurry figure waving off to his left. Dutifully, George pivoted and trudged in that direction.
The guard shouted something obscene at him, but George ignored it as just another bit of filth he wouldn’t let sour his gut. He thrust the log off his shoulder and let it hit the ground with a splash of nasty water. The guard cursed again.
“Pick it up and lash it to the others, you dumb Rebel!”
George obeyed, tying frayed bits of rope as tight as he could. Heaven help the poor souls who wouldn’t make it onto one of these pitiful rafts. Drowning was a right hard way to go. George finished securing the ropes and had to hold on to the little raft before it began to float away. The water was up to his ankles already, and got deeper over by the banks. By the time he and the men on the northern side of the pond had been roused, some of the men in the flats were already getting water in their beds.
George wondered where exactly they planned to float the sick off to. A strange thought prodded his brain. If the sick were to float far enough down river, undetected in the chaos, they might possibly be able to get away before….
“Get that thing over here!” someone shouted, breaking into his thoughts and reminding him that if these men were well enough to attempt escape, they wouldn’t be in the flats in the first place. George heaved a lungful of damp air and willed his depleted body to push the raft forward.
By the time he neared the doctors, the dark water lapped around his waist. He shivered uncontrollably now, and something told him that if he didn’t get dry soon, he wouldn’t live long enough to find out if they would release him with his allegiance papers.
He reached a haggard looking doctor, the man’s tight features barely visible through the sheets of rain and thick darkness that the few shielded lamps could not hope to disperse. “Here! Help me get them on!” the doctor shouted.
Bless the man for caring about the small pox ridden Confederates under his care. At least some of these Yanks seemed to have a soul. George put his hands under the arms of a pock-marked man and struggled to lift him up. The doctor plunged his arms into the churning water and managed to fish out the man’s feet. They soon had him and one other coughing, panting, man onto the raft.
“Get them moving!” The doctor yelled, before turning away to the next makeshift raft.
George looked at the pitiful souls on the lashed logs and saw no option other than to move forward. He leaned against the raft and slowly put one foot in front of the other. He’d only gone a few steps when his right foot sunk so far into the mud that he plunged chest-deep into the icy water. Teeth clattering, George struggled until his foot came free, but his shoe remained buried in the muck.
Time lost its meaning as he pushed the men across the pond and into the flow of the Chemung River. George was fairly certain one of the men was already dead, given the way his head lolled and one arm trailed along in the water, but George kept pushing anyway. The tendrils of water clung to his clothing and tried to pull him down to his death. Struggling against their strength, George finally made it to the far bank, where welcomed arms reached out to pull the men from the raft.
“Good work, guard. Get another load!”
George blinked up at the man in confusion. They thought him a guard? He stood there in the water, a voice somewhere in the back of his murky mind telling him he was losing his capacity for clear thinking. He looked back to the man who had shouted the orders, but he was already farther down the river pulling more bodies from watery graves.
His teeth chattered so hard that he must have bitten his tongue, because the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth and jarred his senses. Perhaps he should just sit a moment. Yes, just a moment. Then he would return for more of his brothers in gray. George pushed toward the bank with the last of his strength, clawing into the mud and finally succeeding in dragging himself onto the bank. He flipped over on his back and drew in rapid breaths of frigid air.
Just a moment. Only a moment to rest…
Then he curled into a tight ball and surrendered to the comforting call of the darkness.
Matthew bolted upright. Was it the pounding rain on the roof that had roused him, or something else? He rubbed the tight muscles on the back of his neck and rose to stoke the fire. The women slept soundly, neither aware of his movements.
A growing sense of unease sat upon him. Something had startled him awake, but he saw nothing to cause alarm and heard no predatory noises in the dark. He stepped over to the bed and looked down at Annabelle’s sleeping form. She looked peaceful with her hand curled under her chin and her long hair splayed over the pillow. Something in Matthew stirred, and he reached out to brush a wisp of hair from her face. She moved slightly, and Matthew stepped back, tamping down the feeling. This was entirely too intimate. He shouldn’t be so near without her permission.
He crossed the cold plank floor and prodded the fire again, though it danced merrily already. The flickering flames sent shadows dancing across the room and drew his eyes back to the warm glow cast across Annabelle’s smooth cheeks. What would it be like to see her that way each morning? To awake with her in his bed, her hair spread over his chest?
Matthew turned away and struggled to douse the fire rising within him. He shouldn’t think such things. Thunder rumbled and a flash of lightning lit the room, and for an instant it was nearly as bright as day. Annabelle made a soft sound and roll
ed over, turning her back to him.
You should go now.
Matthew whirled around, his heart suddenly thudding rapidly in his chest. Who had spoken? His gaze darted around the small room, straining to see if anyone could possibly be crouching in the shadows. Nothing occupied the space that shouldn’t be there. The small hairs on the back of his neck rose and Matthew rubbed at them, his sense of unease growing.
He silently chided himself for conjuring imagined threats and placed the poker back by the fire. He should get back to sleep. It seemed he was beginning to dream even in his waking hours. He should at least let his body rest while his mind spun fables.
You should go before the miracle expires.
Matthew gasped, spinning around in the room again, and yet still finding himself and the slumbering women alone. But, the voice was too clear to have been only in his head. Hadn’t it?
Matthew ground his teeth. He was losing his senses! He shook his head, as though the movement could dislodge the remnants of this ridiculous dream. Suddenly, that moment on the platform and his desperate prayer flung heavenward lurched into his memory and the hot blood in his veins ran cold. He’d asked for a miracle to get George out.
George!
Matthew’s thoughts fired like a series of volleys. That river had already been swollen from melted snows. With rains like this, the men in tents along the banks were likely in danger. They would be scrambling to get away from the rising waters. All those men running about in the dark….
Matthew pulled on his boots and flung on his coat without another thought. In a matter of seconds, he was out the door and down the stairs, slipping through the quiet inn that the storm had somehow not disturbed. He plunged out into the darkness, pulling his cap snuggly on his head. The heavy cloud cover blotted out the celestial light, and he could barely see the muddy road in front of him. Pulling his collar tight, Matthew hurried down the slick road and toward the looming figure of the observation tower. By the time he reached it, he was nearly soaked through and already shivering.
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 35