What have they done with Zachary? The thought brought the tears from her heart to her face. He’d already been through so much. Why should he have to face a firing squad? Why, God, why? He says he is only doing his duty. And Lord, I was trying to follow your precepts, caring for the wounded. She didn’t need to use her peppered handkerchief; the tears flowed no matter how much she tried to staunch them.
A soldier with brushy whiskers brought her food on a tray but said not a word and refused to look her in the eye. When she held out her hands so he could take off the manacles, he looked the other way and left the tent.
‘‘At least they gave me a fork.’’ Louisa eyed the bowl, then the distance between her hands. No room for manners here, no napkin, nothing to drink. So I won’t eat, she thought, then canceled that immediately. If there was to be any chance of escaping, she would need every bit of strength she could summon.
Escape, what a silly thought. Zachary cannot escape, and I surely won’t go without him. But the stew caught in her throat, making her gag and wish for a drink.
By dark, her stomach growled and twisted. The smell of cooking fires and food teased her nostrils. If you want something, get off this bed and go ask for it, you ninny. Food she could do without but not water.
She tried arranging her hair, but the chain caught in a wayward tress, and she flinched. She finally pulled her hands free, stifling a yelp in the process. Instead of neatening her hair, she brushed off the front of her black skirt and aged yellowing waist and forced herself to not lie back down and hide.
When she opened the tent flap, the length of a rifle stopped her from moving farther. ‘‘Excuse me, but would it be possible for me to have a drink of water, please?’’ She almost neglected the please but reminded herself that she was a lady, no matter the treatment she received. Her mother’s voice had comforted her in the long hours of her confinement. She could hear her quoting Scripture clear as if she were right here in the tent with her. ‘‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’’
In her case, righteousness was a matter of point of view.
‘‘Let me ask the major.’’
‘‘For water?’’ Her voice squeaked. She heard him move off, but the clearing of a throat made her aware someone else had taken his place.
A few minutes later a water jug was slipped through the tent flaps.
‘‘Thank you. You are most kind.’’ Ah, how sweet she could speak, honey more sweet than sugar in her tone.
No answer.
Had they been ordered not to talk with her, or was this normal for captives?
After drinking, another need became obvious.
‘‘I’m sorry to bother you again.’’ She almost choked on the words. Anger was fast replacing fear. If she was condemned after all, what was the need for civility? ‘‘But the afternoon has been long, and I sincerely need to use the . . . the facilities.’’ How more specific could she be?
‘‘I’ll ask the major.’’ A different voice, more gruff.
A few minutes later a chamber pot appeared at the tent door.
‘‘Thank you.’’
No response.
The next day passed much the same. By the time the sun hit the zenith, her temper had reached the boiling point.
‘‘Excuse me, but I demand to see the major or whoever is in charge.’’
A mumbled discussion followed, and again she could hear someone walk away.
Oh, Mama, my mouth has gotten me in trouble again. You would not be proud of me now. She looked down at her clothing, wanting nothing more than a cloth and water to wash with, a brush for her hair, and a breeze. Oh, dear Lord, what I would give for a bit of breeze.
The tent opened, and a hand beckoned her out. Feeling all eyes were on her, she followed the pole-straight back to the major’s tent.
‘‘Good afternoon, Miss Highwood.’’ The major pointed to a chair.
Louisa elected to stand. Knowing how shabby she appeared, she straightened her spine and raised her chin. ‘‘Major . . .’’ She paused, hoping he would fill in his name. Referring to him as ‘‘Major’’ seemed in her mind to give him more importance than she desired he be given.
He cocked an eyebrow, waited, then finally supplied his name. ‘‘Major James Dorsey.’’
Insolent, bluebellied . . . She cut off the string of names, fearing she may say more than she should.
‘‘Major Dorsey, is there some reason you are treating me with such contempt? Surely there are rules for dealing with prisoners.’’
‘‘Yes, there are. Spies may be shot at will.’’
She tried to breathe around the punch to her stomach and sought the chair instead.
‘‘Then I believe we are having a problem with semantics. I am not a spy. My brother is not a spy. We are not carrying messages of any sort, only succor for injured men.’’
‘‘Miss Highwood, did you or did you not pick up your contraband at . . .’’ He named the address of the house they’d been to.
‘‘Why, yes, but only morphine and quinine.’’ She kept her head high.
‘‘You are certain no messages were passed on to your brother?’’
Louisa thought to the time she’d spent lying down. Zachary had not been with her.
He fingered a piece of paper on the desk before him. An envelope lay beside it. ‘‘Does this look at all familiar?’’ He held it up.
Louisa shook her head. ‘‘No, not at all.’’
‘‘This is not a letter from your sister?’’
Louisa knew she’d been trapped. ‘‘How can I tell? I have not read the letter.’’
He handed it across the desk.
She let the chain of her manacles clank on the wooden desk top as she reached for the letter. Her gaze dropped to the bottom. The signature read, ‘‘Your loving sister.’’ No way was this Jesselynn’s handwriting. And glancing quickly through the message, it didn’t make any sense.
She looked at the envelope. No return address. No, this was not from Jesselynn, and who the writer was, Louisa had no idea.
‘‘You don’t recognize it, do you?’’ Was there a note of sadness in his voice?
Louisa looked up, tried to come up with a lie, and shook her head.
‘‘We’ll be leaving for Washington in the morning. Corporal, show Miss Highwood to her quarters.’’
Louisa held her head high until the tent flap dropped behind her.
Zachary, what have you done now? She collapsed on the cot. Oh, Lord, how will you get us out of this one?
CHAPTER TWENTY - ONE
Zachary wasn’t really a spy, was he?
Riding in the back of a wagon with a soldier between them kept Louisa from questioning her brother.
Tarnation. If only she could ask him about the letter. Surely there was a reasonable explanation.
The gray look Louisa saw on Zachary’s face as she was helped into the wagon let her know his accommodations had been no better than hers, most likely more severe. Not shaving for three days added to his disheveled appearance, and she was certain he thought much the same of her. While they’d attempted to look old, now they looked dirty along with it. She’d never worn the same underthings this long in her life, and picking a flea off her skin this morning told her what made her itch. All over. She most likely had picked up a few lice too.
The thought made her shudder.
If only I could have a bath. Hot water had never before seemed so precious. And soap. All those things you’ve taken for granted, she scolded herself. If nothing else comes of this, perhaps you will be more grateful. Keeping her mind on such mundane matters kept her from thinking the darker thoughts that sent her mind into a black hole of fear, peopled with specters of despair.
Her shin itched. Her mother would have said a lady never, ever, scratched in public. Right at that moment, Louisa was no longer sure she cared what her mother had said. If only she could talk with Zachary. She shifted on the
hard boards. The wagon hit a bump, and she figured she now had a bruise that would only get worse on the trip to Washington, considering the state of the roads.
A tune ran through her mind, ‘‘My Old Kentucky Home.’’ She leaned back against the boards with a slight smile. Ah, Kentucky home. Lord, please help us make it that long. All she’d ever heard about how spies were treated made release doubtful. But I will not doubt, Lord. I believe you can protect us. I believe you will protect us. I don’t know how, but you kept Daniel from burning in the lions’ den. She stopped. No, He kept Daniel from burning in the fiery furnace and from being eaten in the lions’ den. She sighed, shaking her head. Keep your stories right, she chided herself, then sighed again. Here she was on a prison wagon to Washington, trying to keep track of Bible stories she learned at her mother’s knee. If only she could talk with Jesselynn. Lord, I want to see my sister again. Father, how do I keep the fear from eating me alive? Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Only repeating his name kept the terror at bay.
Another bump, strong enough to throw her against the guard. The leer he gave her shuddered up her spine. She pulled as far away as her manacles would allow. Besides, he smelled riper than their discarded raccoon.
She wished she could melt into a puddle when they entered Washington. She kept her gaze on the tailgate of the wagon, looking neither to the right nor left.
When they pulled up in front of the prison, the major climbed over the wagon wheel and stepped to the ground, signaling the driver to take the wagon on through the heavily barred gate that swung open just for them. The look he gave her made her skin ripple, much like the thought of lice had.
I was just doing what needed to be done, she wanted to tell him. Just like you are.
The gate clanged behind them, sending a scream of despair echoing through her mind. Lord, save us!
The guard leaned closer to her. ‘‘You’ll like it here, missy. They takes good care of female prisoners.’’ His chuckle made her want to shrivel up and disappear. Would she be thrown in a cell with all the men, or was there a separate place for women? Surely there would be. Oh, Lord, surely. She gritted her teeth. I will trust you, O Lord. I am trusting you, Jesus, in your precious name. Only repeating those words kept her from screaming.
The driver wrapped the reins around the brake handle and leaped to the ground, coming around to let down the tailgate.
‘‘Come on, you two vermin.’’ The guard they were manacled to scooted to the end of the wagon, dragging them along with him.
Louisa sneaked a peek at her brother only to see his mouth set in a straight line, bracketed by commas of pain. She reared back against the pressure on her wrist, dragging the guard offbalance.
He cursed at her, turning with tobacco juice spitting from his snarl.
But her stunt took the pressure off Zachary, allowing him to move more at his own crablike pace.
She reached over with her free hand and grabbed his crutch, dragging it behind her. Her wrist felt as though she’d held it above a flame.
The driver took Zachary by the arm, and between the two men, they jerked him to his feet where he sagged between them.
‘‘Give him his crutch, you sorry excuses for men!’’ Louisa deliberately rammed the handle of the crutch into her tormentor’s side as she reached around him to hand it to Zachary.
A slight grunt helped her endure the savage jerk on her wrist that sent her to her knees.
The driver snarled at both of them and dug in his pocket for the key. ‘‘You take her. I’ll keep this’un.’’
‘‘My pleasure.’’
Louisa read the full meaning of the word lascivious in the look her guard gave her. She felt stripped, as if she stood shivering in her bloomers, or less. She stared around, searching, pleading for someone to come to her rescue. Two men leaning against a wall laughed. A prisoner shouted from a barred window above them.
Another answered.
The guard jerked her in front of him wrapping his free arm around her chest.
‘‘Keep it up, girlie, I likes it when you squirm.’’ If his words hadn’t frozen her, his breath would have.
Louisa willed herself to hold perfectly still. The pressure across her breast made her want to scream, but she swallowed the horror.
‘‘Little, that’s enough!’’ The major’s order cut through the air.
Little released Louisa with a curse, muttering softly so that his commanding officer couldn’t hear him.
‘‘We are not animals, Little, so don’t act like one.’’
Louisa sucked in a breath and then another, anything to deny the blackness hovering near the edge of her mind. She clutched her dignity like a staff, sketched a nod of appreciation to the major, and shivered in spite of air so thick with humidity she could scarcely breathe.
Thank you, Lord, thank you. She wanted to shout the words, but her lips were so clamped against the roiling in her stomach, she didn’t dare move them.
‘‘Unlock her.’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
Even during the unlocking, Little managed to rub his upper arm against her breast. Without thought, Louisa stamped her heel down on his toes and flinched back as he raised his hand to strike her.
‘‘Little!’’
The order stopped the guard in midswing. He jerked the manacle off her wrist with a snarl, drawing blood.
Louisa wrapped her fingers around the deep scratch to staunch the bleeding. She took two steps back to get out of his breathing range and swallowed hard again. The blackness hovered, leering as wickedly as Little.
‘‘Come with me.’’ Major Dorsey touched her elbow.
Louisa blinked and clamped her arm against her side, her other hand still protecting her wrist. What in the world was the matter with her now? One man ripped her wrist, and a touch from the major made her elbow burn.
‘‘Wh-what have you done with my brother?’’
The major nodded to a soldier who opened another door for them, then let it clang shut after they passed through. The sound echoed and reechoed through her bones. With each clang, she felt diminished, as though the sound sliced off another strip of flesh.
Men waved and whistled from cells on either side as she followed at the major’s side. When he showed her into a small room, empty but for a cot and a commode, she kept the tears of relief at bay by biting her lip.
‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘Someone will come with your supper.’’ He glanced around the room, nodded, and left, closing the door behind him, the sound of a key turning in the lock reverberating in the stillness.
Quiet, such a blessed relief after the din of her march through purgatory. She sank down onto the cot, releasing her fingers from her wrist to inspect the damage. Dirt crusted the blood, promising infection if she didn’t get it cleaned, and soon. The sight of the wound reminded her of Corporal Little. She needed far more than water to wash away the horror of that man.
Lord, I thank you for your care. I know you can see through prison walls. Please, could you remind someone to bring me water? She crossed the short space to the window and, resting her forehead against the glass, stared out through steel bars to the yard below. Men paced along the cut block wall, others played cards in the shade, some slept, others talked in small groups. She wished she could hear what they said. While the noisy gauntlet she had traversed as she was led to this room had made her ears ring, now she wished for any voice. A fly landed on her wrist. Before brushing it away, she watched as it nibbled on the crusted blood. Another landed. And another. Three blue black creatures crawling on her wrist. When one deposited an egg, she shuddered and brushed them away. Oh, Lord, I know you made the flies too, but what is becoming of me when I watch them feasting on my blood? She walked back to the cot and lay down. The smell of rot and mildew filled her nostrils as she fell asleep, her opposite hand protecting the wound from the persistent flies.
When a rattle of keys woke her, Louisa noticed the room had dimmed. The door swung open, and a
man entered carrying a tray with food and a pail of water.
She blinked. Was he an apparition? He looked gray enough to be so.
‘‘Th-thank you.’’ Her throat rasped so dry she could barely talk. His nod would have been missed had she not been staring at him. ‘‘Don’t tell me. Let me guess—you’ve been ordered not to talk with me.’’ Again that millisecond nod. ‘‘Well, there’s nothing that says I cannot talk to you.’’
Was that a twitch of the sides of his mouth?
A bit of encouragement, all that she needed.
‘‘Is there the smallest chance you could bring me a bit of bandaging?’’ She held up her wrist. ‘‘I really need to clean this and wrap it. Place like this must breed infection.’’ She held out a hand. ‘‘Not that I’m criticizing, mind you.’’
An eyebrow twitched this time. How could the man say so much with such tiny motions? Or was she reading more into him than was there?
He set the tray on the end of her bed, reached into his pocket and drew out a small roll of bandage, set it on the tray, and pointed at a smear of ointment on a bit of paper.
Louisa clasped her hands at the base of her neck. Fighting back the tears that clogged her throat faster than she could think, she whispered, ‘‘Thank you.’’ It had to be the major. No one else knew of the slice on her wrist. ‘‘And thank Major Dorsey for me also. And tell him you never said a word, for you haven’t. Our Lord will bless you for this kindness.’’
He sketched a sign of the cross on his chest, dipped his head in the briefest of bows, and left the room, shutting the door with a click behind him, not a clang. She heard the key turn, but at the moment, it mattered not.
Bread, stew with meat, even a cup of coffee. Soap, small but real. She sniffed the tiny sliver, inhaling the sharp fragrance of clean. And a bucket of water.
Lord, O Lord, I am the most blessed of women. Thank you. How can I thank you enough? She tore a bit of the bandage off, dipped it in the water, and then with caution born of need scrubbed at the dirt around the wound. She could hear her mother’s admonition, ‘‘Use plenty of water to cleanse an open wound, the hotter the better.’’ Hot she had no control of, but a bucketful was plenty. Quickly she drank the lukewarm coffee and used the tin cup to dip out more water. Finally she rubbed the soap on the rag and scrubbed all over the cut, causing red to well up again.
The Long Way Home Page 19