Not now. Focus!
He tried to push aside the memories of fire streaking across the land and balls of iron ripping men only an arm’s length away from him to shreds.
Please! Help me!
The mangled bodies around him began to fade, and the screaming Yanks settled into the confused expressions of the men he’d spent the last days among. Matthew swallowed hard, the acrid taste of smoke burning through his nostrils and down his throat.
Conger pressed his face against a crack in the barn, his hand resting against the wooden slats. Matthew focused on him, and not the glowing fires of Hades within. After a few moments, Conger jerked away and turned toward the door.
Matthew’s gaze flew to the door, where Baker flung it wide. There, inside, stood Booth, defiant of the defeat that surrounded him.
Matthew darted his gaze back to Conger who was scrambling around the side of the barn, though whether to stop Baker or Booth he couldn’t be sure.
Boom!
The crack of the pistol turned Matthew’s veins to ice. He hurried toward the door, and found Baker scrambling to grab hold of Booth, who had fallen to the ground.
“I have too great a soul to die like a criminal. Oh may He, may He spare me that and let me die bravely.”
John Wilkes Booth
He shot himself!” Conger shouted above the pulsing blood in Matthew’s ears.
Baker shook his head. “No, he did not, either.”
Matthew turned and looked over the press of soldiers behind him, their faces a mixture of confusion, anger, and worry. Then, as though thinking as one, they moved forward in a scramble of scuffing boots and muttered curses. Matthew used his frame to nudge past those who had beaten him to the door, ignoring their sneers.
“Whereabouts is he shot?” Conger asked, putting his fingers on Booth’s dusty lapel. “In the head or the neck?” He reached under him and raised him up, exposing the right side of Booth’s neck. Blood seeped through his fingers and on to the ground.
Drip…drip…drip.
Matthew’s eyes focused on the steady release of liquid, almost forgetting the wave of heat that barreled out of the barn.
Conger looked at Baker again and gave a somber nod. “Yes, sir. He shot himself.”
Baker shook his head emphatically. “I tell you, he did not!”
Matthew, seeming the only one to have any thought of the glowing dragon breathing behind them, cleared his throat. “Perhaps he should be moved away from the flames?”
Shock registered on the men’s faces and Baker scrambled to his feet.
“Let’s get him out of here. This place will soon all be burning,” Conger said as if the thing had been his own idea.
The two men grabbed Booth, one under his arms and the other at the limp man’s feet, and struggled to lift him. With a grunt, Matthew stepped into the barn and slid one arm underneath Booth’s shoulder and the other under his thighs and hefted him up, leaving the two stunned Yanks to scramble after him. They hurried out of the blazing heat, and lowered Booth onto the grass near a locust tree.
Once Matthew sat Booth on the ground, Conger returned to the barn, calling for men to help him see if they could stifle the flames. But the way the thing heaved and spit sparks, Matthew knew the barn was well beyond saving. The Garrett men gathered to stare at their ruined building, glazed eyes dancing with the reflected flames.
Matthew stared down at Booth and frowned. Had he imagined it? No. He leaned closer. Faint breath lifted the man’s chest and lowered it, the rhythm of life still struggling against the coming end. Booth began moving his lips.
Conger appeared over them. “Bring some water!”
Booth’s mouth moved again, though his eyes remained closed. Matthew leaned close, trying to catch the words. Someone appeared with a damp rag, and they wiped it over Booth’s face. His eyes flew wide, staring out at something beyond their realm of vision. Then a flicker of recognition lit their dark depths, and Booth stared at Matthew.
“Tell Mother… I die for my country.”
“What did he say?” Conger huffed, leaning in.
Matthew gave the dying man a somber nod. “He says to tell his mother he dies for his country.”
“Get him up from there.” Conger spat and turned toward the house as Matthew hefted Booth into his arms once again. He couldn’t imagine the pain the man must be in, but still Booth only mumbled garbled words about giving all for his country and bringing an end to the tyranny.
Matthew carried him to the porch of the house while the Garret men continued to keep watch on the burning barn, and laid Booth down.
Booth’s eyes cleared and he regarded those around him. “Water!” he croaked.
A soldier whose name Matthew could not recall ladled water to Booth’s lips from a pail near the door. Booth took a small portion of it, then turned tortured eyes on Matthew once more. “Turn me over to my face,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
Conger heard him anyway. “You cannot lie on your face.”
Booth shifted uncomfortably, the pain certainly becoming more than he could bear. “Come, hold your hand to my throat.”
Matthew moved to oblige him, but Conger pushed his hand aside and placed his own fingers over the wound and began to press. Booth struggled to cough up the blood that must surely be trickling down his throat, but could not manage to do so.
“Open your mouth,” Conger commanded. Booth parted his lips and Conger narrowed his eyes. “There is no blood in your throat.”
Booth turned his head away and pierced Matthew with pleading eyes. “Kill me.”
Matthew shook his head, and again Booth repeated the plea to which Matthew simply could not comply. He thought to offer the man an encouraging word, despite who he was and what he had done. No man deserved to wallow in his final moments in humiliation. “We do not want to kill you. See, here, you will get well.”
Booth’s eyes rolled back in his head and then fluttered closed. Conger slipped his fingers into Booth’s pockets. Matthew eyed him with disdain for the disrespectful Yank he was, and watched as Conger wrapped up what little he found in a cloth.
Booth gave another gasp, his body struggling for life, then fell still. Conger stared at him a moment, then descended the steps and began calling out orders for the detainment of their prisoner, a man called Herold.
Conger threw a glance over his shoulder at Matthew. “Wait an hour and see if Booth is dead. If he seems to recover, send over to Belle Plain for a surgeon from one of the gun ships.”
“Why not send for him now?”
Conger glanced between Matthew and the dying man, and then seeming to find a little humanity in his heart, gave a nod. Matthew waited by Booth’s side, but the man did not stir again, and when the doctor arrived, he was already dead.
About a quarter hour later, Lieutenant Baker gathered the cavalry men near the house.
“Who shot the man?” Conger bellowed. The men were quiet for a moment, and then a sergeant, Corbbett, if Matthew remembered correctly, stepped forward. “I did, sir.”
“And for what reason?”
The man, seeming entirely unconcerned, shrugged. “He was taking aim with the carbine.”
The muscles in Conger’s jaw twitched. “At you?”
“I can’t say. At something, certainly.”
“And so you shot him?”
“I became impressed that it was time. I took my aim and shot him through a large crack in the barn. I could see him through there, and knew that he meant to kill one of us. I did what I had to do.”
The sun spread sleepy light over the exhausted men, dappling their clothing as they stood there silently, none seeming overly concerned about the murder of a man who had surrendered. Matthew looked down at Booth’s still form, his life having been forfeited after a gallant struggle. What morbid poetry that this man would also receive a bullet that tore flesh from the back of his skull. Then, just as Booth’s own victim had, Booth had lain struggling for a time, only to suc
cumb to his wound at the dawning of a new day. The significance of such an occurrence flitted about on the edges of Matthew’s mind like a mischievous sprite. He pushed it away. It didn’t matter anyway.
Sighing, he turned his eyes to the trees beyond the barn, where the gentle morning dawned with a promise of a new beginning. Booth had been caught, and the Yanks had disposed of him, bringing a quick end with no need for a mock trial. Perhaps now this thing would be over.
Movement in the trees caught Matthew’s attention. He focused on the woods, narrowing his eyes. There, hiding in the shadows, stood a familiar form. Light fell across the man’s face, revealing a devilish smile that played across his lips. Matthew’s chest tightened and he glanced back to the cavalry unit.
The men continued to argue over the necessity of the sergeant’s shot, none noticing the one that watched them. A shiver ran down Matthew’s spine when he looked back to the tree line. O’Malley smiled at him.
You could shoot him from here….
The voice slithered around in David’s head, and his fingers reached for the pistol he’d stolen. It would be an easy shot. A bit far, perhaps, but nothing for an excellent marksman. He lifted the weapon and steadied it.
The big man’s eyes swung back in David’s direction. Surprise flitted across his wide face. Yes, of course he would be surprised. He’d left David for dead! Then the giant’s surprise melted, replaced by concern. David shifted. Concern? Perhaps remorse for leaving him?
His concern is only that you will gain your revenge. He wants you to fail…
David shook his head to dislodge the voice, but it would not be silenced. He squeezed his eyes. Please…
Kill him!
David’s hand trembled. Liza wouldn’t have wanted this. He pressed his hand to his temple and stumbled back into the foliage behind him. He fell to his knees.
Petulant, whiney, nimrod. You will do as I say!
David sobbed and fell back on the ground. The voice throbbed in his head, twisting him. It took his own desires and amplified them, fueling anger, greed, and revenge. It poked through his memories and brought up haunting visions to impale him. But worst of all, with each moment it gained strength, and with each passing minute he felt what little light was left within him begin to fade.
And David feared what he might soon become.
“Safe again on British soil, and under the protection of a neutral power. It will give them some trouble to find me, and still more to take me.”
John Surratt
Washington
April 29, 1865
Your brother and your lady friend are not here, sir.”
Panic surged in his gut and Matthew took another step closer to the officer, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. “Your people said that if I signed your papers, and I helped with the pursuit, then they would be freed. Where are they?”
The deep growl of Matthew’s voice made the other man step back. He tugged on his lapels. “Sir, they have already been released.”
Tension slid off Matthew’s shoulders in a mighty wave. “Released?”
The man scooted around him and plucked some papers from a nearby table. “Yes. Says here that the lady was allowed to leave the prison under the care of a Mrs. Smith, provided she did not leave Washington.”
Thank heavens. At least Annabelle had been allowed free. “And my brother?”
“Released as well, on account of his loyalty papers and the word of Mr. Crook.”
Matthew tugged on his collar. Crook, Mrs. Smith’s friend. It would seem the woman had sufficed in getting them both out without Matthew’s aid. Disgust rolled through him. The Yanks had tricked him into signing that blasted paper. Had made it seem the only way!
Matthew’s fingers inched toward the flask in his pocket, but there would be time for that later. He gave the officer a nod, and turned to head out the door.
“Wait!”
Matthew glanced over his shoulder, but did not turn back around.
“You have not been cleared to leave.”
Matthew clamped his jaw. If this scrawny man thought he could detain him….
“Ah! Mr. Daniels, there you are!”
The voice of Mr. Fitch, the detective he’d first struck the deal with, made Matthew turn. He spoke with clipped words. “What is the meaning of this, Fitch? I did what we agreed upon, and your man says my brother and Miss Ross have been released. I believe our deal is done.”
Fitch fingered his mustache. “Well, not quite.”
Matthew narrowed his eyes and the man lifted a hand. “I want to ask you to testify all that you know at the trial. Miss Ross and your brother as well.”
Something the man had said earlier about the law not allowing accused to be witnesses flared up in his memory. “So none of us are to be charged with anything?”
“No. We have chosen the eight who will stand trial. The others are either dismissed or will be called as witnesses.”
Matthew crossed his arms. “What if we do not wish to stay in Washington for a lengthy trial? Can we not simply pen our account and be on our way?”
The corner of Mr. Fitch’s mouth twitched. “Witnesses need to be examined and cross examined. A simple letter may not cover all that needs to be known.”
Matthew fixed his glower upon the man. “Mr. Fitch, I have kept Miss Ross from her home for many months, and she has been as helpful to the Union as you could ask anyone to be. I must get her home.”
Mr. Fitch sniffed and brushed at his coat. “A couple of more weeks surely cannot make a difference.”
Matthew rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you are right. She has probably lost it all anyway, spending so much time trying to help.”
“Lost what?”
Matthew looked at the man’s face, searching for mockery, indifference or an indication he sought information to use against him. Yet only genuine curiosity and perhaps even a speck of concern lingered in the lawman’s brown eyes.
“Miss Ross came North in search of either finding her blood uncle, if he still lived, or her Union family to help her hold on to her lands after her father died. Instead, she became tangled in this, and has likely lost her home by now.” He glared at the lawman. “But no different from most other families in the South, I suppose.”
Mr. Fitch’s mustache twitched. “Perhaps the government might be willing to aid you, Mr. Daniels.”
Matthew’s forehead creased. “How?”
“It seems that you three have demonstrated your loyalty to the Union. Perhaps, as Unionists, there would be certain…accommodations made that would not otherwise be granted to Southerners.”
Matthew shifted his stance. “What kind of accommodations?”
Mr. Fitch smiled. “Let’s get this trial over with, shall we? Then we will see what can be done.”
Annabelle studied Peggy’s reflection in the oval mirror as the woman pinned up Annabelle’s hair. Peggy looked tired. This journey had been difficult on her. Annabelle had asked so much of Peggy, and the woman had never strayed from her side.
“There now, Miss Belle.” Peggy patted her shoulder and turned away.
“Peggy?”
“Yes, Miss Belle?” Peggy turned back to her.
Tears threatened, and Annabelle had to steady herself prior to speaking. “I wanted to thank you. For always being here for me, putting up with my foolish decisions, and making sure I am always cared for.”
Peggy’s lips turned up. “And I wants to thank you for givin’ me my freedom, standin’ up for me when folk’s treat me bad, and for makin’ sure I didn’t die on the back of no horse.”
Annabelle laughed and rose to sweep Peggy into an embrace. A knock came at the door, drawing the women apart. “Probably your grandma, wantin’ us to go shoppin’ again,” Peggy said, rolling her eyes.
Annabelle sighed. “Let’s hope not. I have enough clothing for the next year.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Peggy hurried to the door and pulled it open. She took a sharp breath, her hand
flying to her throat.
Annabelle’s eyes darted past Peggy, traveled to a stiff blue jacket, up to a strong jaw peppered in stubble, and finally to the dancing eyes that had filled her dreams. She let out a yelp and ran to him, barely giving Peggy enough time to jump out of the way before she launched herself into Matthew’s arms.
He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her waist. “And here I thought you might not have missed me.”
She pressed her ear against his chest, listening to the rapid beat of his heart that indicated he felt the same elation as she. Annabelle shifted in his arms so that she could look up into his face. “Come now, who says I missed you?”
Amusement danced in his eyes before he lowered his head and planted a quick kiss on her forehead. “My, Miss Ross, if this is how you react to a man you did not miss, I will have to stay away longer next time so I can see what happens if you do miss me.”
Annabelle swatted at his chest playfully. “You wouldn’t!”
Peggy cleared her throat. “Now, I’s right glad you’s back, Captain, but this here still ain’t proper.”
Matthew gave her a dower look.
Peggy shrugged. “Course, if you had given your intentions, and were courtin’ proper like…”
Matthew grinned again. “Then what, Peggy? Would I get to do this?”
He dipped Annabelle back and pressed his lips to hers. Warmth surged from her lips all the way to her toes. She didn’t get a chance to return the kiss, though, before Matthew righted her and left her breathless.
She expected a sharp retort out of Peggy, but instead only saw a twinkle in the woman’s chestnut eyes as she shook her head.
“No, suh,” Peggy said, exaggerating her Southern drawl. “That there is only fittin’ for folks that’s gonna wed.”
Mischief played about Matthew’s eyes and he took Annabelle’s hand. “Well, then, I suppose it’s a good thing I’ve already spoken to Annabelle’s grandmother.”
Her heart tripped over itself. “My grandmother?” she squeaked out.
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 73