Rachel's Choice

by Judith French

  “Try and get him loose.”

  “Why? Why would you help us if you hate him so much?”

  “Not doing it for you or him, Miss Rachel. Doing it for my mother. It’s her notion. And whatever my mother wants, she gets, if it’s in my power to give it to her.”

  “And I’m just supposed to wait until you come back?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And if you don’t succeed?”

  Pharaoh smiled, but the expression in his eyes remained cold. “Then I guess you’ll have to try your plan after all. That, or go home empty-handed.”

  “You won’t betray us to the soldiers?”

  “If I meant to, would I tell you?”

  Chapter 22

  The sun’s heat burned through the metal door of the punishment box and sucked the last vestiges of fluid from Chance’s body. Consciousness came and went. He’d lost all track of time; he didn’t know if he’d been in this broiling pit in the ground for hours or days.

  Once it had rained. Water seeped in around the edges and dripped in through the lock. He’d savored every drop of moisture, eagerly lapping the muddy liquid from his hands and arms.

  He couldn’t remember if the Union officer had sentenced him to hang or be shot, but he remembered the feel of the lash ripping through his shirt when they’d whipped him. And he could see Coblentz’s grinning face in the last seconds before they’d thrown him into this hole.

  I should have killed him when I had the opportunity, Chance thought. Should have … should have … should have …

  He laughed, and the sound of his voice echoed horribly in the small space. There was no room to stand or sit. He lay on his lacerated back in an oversize coffin and fought to keep his sanity.

  It was easiest to let go, to stop thinking rationally and let the blackness envelop him. There was no pain without reason, and no terror when he drifted on the brink of nothingness.

  He’d never known a man to come out of the pit alive. Among the prisoners it was said that those who went down into that grave lasted two days at most.

  Strangely, the hate he’d felt toward the Dutchman had seeped away into the damp earth beneath him. He’d been discovered as he left Coblentz’s room, after he’d already made the decision not to kill him. He simply didn’t have the grit to murder a sleeping man, not even slime like Daniel Coblentz.

  But I should have, he thought. Then, at least, I’d be dying for something. This was a waste and a hard way to leave this world.

  If he survived the pit, it would only be to appear at his own execution. And a wiser man would let the heat and the despair take him.

  His back felt as though it were on fire. Infection must have set in—perhaps even gangrene. Did a man know when he was dying, or could he lie already dead and be none the wiser? Maybe he was a ghost and didn’t have the sense to realize it.

  Could a ghost have such vivid memories of a flesh-and-blood woman? Would a specter hold the scent of a freshly bathed baby boy? He didn’t believe that was possible.

  It was Rachel who kept him alive; so long as he drew one breath after another, he might see her again … hold her in his arms.

  I should have stayed with you on Rachel’s Choice, he thought. I should have forgotten the war and been content to plow your rich fields and hear the sound of your laughter in the twilight.

  Rachel’s lack of ostentation, her simple way of life, even her Indian blood, which would be so shocking to his Richmond friends and neighbors, were insignificant compared to the love he felt for her.

  She’d given herself to him in the shallows of Indian Creek. He’d swum naked beside her, and they’d splashed each other with sparkling handfuls of water. He wished he could submerge himself in that glorious current now; he would trade a year of his life to drink his fill of that clean liquid.

  Chance laughed again. Who was he to trade years of his life for anything? He had only hours or minutes left. Or nothing …

  “Rachel … Rachel, I need you,” he murmured weakly. And then the space closed in around him, and he lapsed into a tortured dreamworld of parched earth and graveyards beneath a molten-red sun.

  Rachel anchored her sloop on the outskirts of Delaware City and looked at Pharaoh. “Do you want to take the boat back to the island?” she asked.

  “A good way to lose Windfeather is to loan her to me,” he’d said. “Whites are suspicious of a black man who owns something this valuable.”

  “We’re not all so cruel,” she argued. “Surely if you explained that—”

  “Tell me that when you’ve lived with skin the color of coal.”

  Rachel took a step backward under the force of his bitter gaze. “White men are giving their blood to free your people from bondage,” she said. “We’re not all evil.”

  “No.” His eyes lost their malevolent glow. “No, you’re not. At least I tell myself that.” His expression softened. “Wait here for me,” he said.

  “How long?”

  “Until I come for you.”

  He dived overboard and swam to the reedy shoreline, and a short while later he’d caught a ride to the island on a barge. Hoping against hope that Pharaoh could be trusted, Rachel watched him until she could no longer make out his rough-hewn features among a group of other laborers.

  The hours passed slowly. The sun became a huge crimson globe seeping rays of orange and gold across the western horizon. Dusk fell, and Rachel was alone with the quiet noises of the river. She could see lights from the town and Fort Delaware, but the sounds of human activity were strangely muted.

  By noon the following day, Pharaoh had not returned. In desperation she pulled anchor and raised her sail to catch the wind.

  An hour later, carrying Chance’s five hundred dollars and pulling her wagon of pies and bread, she entered the gate to the common prisoners’ section of the island.

  She knew she should have been prepared for the heartrending scene between the guards’ station and the barracks, but the sight and smells of sick and dying prisoners were overwhelming. Despite her sympathy, she did not stop walking, and those ragged men who flocked around her to beg a bit of food or ask for favors made no attempt to stop her.

  A corporal admitted her to the barracks. Knees weak from fear, she followed him through an empty dirt-floored building into the open space where she’d sold her baked goods before. Only one prisoner was there, a small, thin-faced boy sweeping the hard-packed earth, but she could hear the coughs and groans of many others through the thin walls that separated the courtyard from the hospital.

  Union soldiers crowded around Rachel, quickly buying all she had in her wagon. She scanned the doorways and an open porch on the far side of the compound, but she didn’t see the Dutchman or the lieutenant she’d met earlier.

  Unsure of what to do, she started to walk through the passageway that led to the chaplain’s office. She’d gone only a short distance when her path was blocked by a red-haired private.

  “No admittance into the inner prison, ma’am,” he said. “We’ve had some attempted prison breaks, and regulations are being enforced.”

  “But …” Her heart pounded as she searched frantically for some excuse to remain. If they put her out, how would she find Chance? “I need to see the chaplain on an important religious matter,” she said.

  “He’s not here, ma’am. Gone to Jersey to read over the dead. You’ll have to leave.”

  She waved her heavy, leather-bound Bible under his nose. “But I must—”

  He pointed back the way she’d come. “You’ll have to leave at once, or you’ll be held for questioning. By rights, pie sellers should remain outside the walls. Whoever admitted you—”

  “You got a problem vit this voman?”

  Rachel turned to look into the face of Daniel Coblentz. “Actually, Sergeant,” she stammered, “if I could talk to thee in private, perhaps …”

  “No problem, Sarge,” the redhead said. “She was just leavin’.”

  “About your business,
Zuckerman.” Coblentz pushed open a door and motioned Rachel inside. “So,” he said with an unpleasant smile. “You come back to see Coblentz, after all.”

  “I want information about a relative of mine,” she murmured. “I was told that you …” She drew in a deep breath. “I’m willing to pay.”

  He laughed. “Of course you are. In vat vay did you think to pay Coblentz? Vith money or …”

  “Money,” she said quickly. “I need to know about a prisoner—if he’s here.”

  “So, little Quaker, you are not so pure after all, are you? You are a rebel spy, maybe?” He took a step toward her and she fought to keep from gagging at the stench from his broken, discolored teeth and unwashed body.

  “I am no spy. For pity’s sake, I only wish to know the welfare of my cousin William’s son.”

  “How much?” He stared pointedly at the bodice of her gown.

  “What?”

  “How much will you pay to know if he’s dead or alive?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  Coblentz sneered. “I thought you vas serious.”

  “Fifty?”

  “More like it.” The sergeant ran dirty fingers down her left forearm. “Vat’s his name, missy?”

  “Chancellor.”

  Surprise and recognition registered in Coblentz’s eyes. “Chance Chancellor?”

  Hope surged through her as she nodded. “Yes. That’s him. Is he here?”

  “Let me see the color of your money.”

  “You think I’m stupid, to carry so great a sum on me?” she lied. “But this much I have.” She emptied her pocket of the assorted bills and coins she’d received from her baked goods and offered it to him.

  “He’s here,” Coblentz answered, snatching the money from her hand and counting it. “You’re short.”

  “I have more on my—” She broke off and corrected herself. “My companion, Brother Paul, has more money. I will not cheat you.”

  “By damn, you von’t. No one cheats Daniel Coblentz of what’s his.” He touched her cheek, and she flinched. “But you ain’t after vord of dis Chancellor are you? You vant more. You vant maybe he should escape from Pea Patch Island.”

  “That would be illegal,” she stammered, backing away until she pressed against the closed door. “Thou cannot think that I would attempt to bribe a Union officer.”

  “Good thing,” he said. “It’s a hangin’ offense, bribing a United States soldier. But …” He put one hand on either side of her and leaned close. “You kin have him for a thousand dollars.”

  “I don’t understand,” she answered, shoving her Bible into his face and twisting free. “What are you saying?”

  Coblentz wiped his mouth and nose. “Heavy-handed vith that good book, ain’t ya, voman?”

  She circled a table piled with clean, folded bandages and tin bedpans. The room was small and dingy, lit by a single window. Chairs were stacked against one wall, and blankets filled one corner. There was little room to avoid intimate contact with the sergeant. “I am a decent widow, friend,” she said. “It is not seemly that I permit you to put your hands on me.”

  “You did come to help Chancellor escape,” the Dutchman accused. “You ain’t no more Quaker than I am. You’re a damned secesh rebel.” He swept a stack of bandages off the table. “Let me see the color of your money, voman. One thousand dollars, and you can have him.”

  Hair stood up on the back of her neck. “I don’t have a thousand.”

  “How much vill you give? No dickerin’. Take it or leave it. How much is a gray-back murderer vorth to you? He tried to kill me, you know, your Chancellor. They sentenced him to hang by the neck until he vas dead.” He chuckled. “You ever see a man dance on the end of a rope? He loses control of his bladder and—”

  “Enough! I have five hundred dollars. It’s yours if you can get him off this island in one piece,” she dared.

  “Oh, I can do that all right, missy. Hand over the money.”

  “You get it when Chancellor’s free.”

  Coblentz laughed. “It’s like that, is it? You think Sergeant Coblentz is crook? You think he take your money and not let Chancellor go?”

  “Something like that.” Rachel met his stare with one as steady. “I’m no fool, Sergeant. Five hundred dollars is a lot of money, more than you’d make in six months. And if you try to double-cross me, you’ll have to kill me to shut me up. My family has a friend on President Lincoln’s staff.”

  “I keep bargains. Unsatisfied customers are bad for business.”

  “How? How will you do it?” she demanded.

  “There’s only one way off this island for a prisoner, the death ship to Jersey. Your man vouldn’t be the first reb smuggled out of Fort Delavare in a coffin.”

  She swallowed, willing her knees to hold her up a little longer, praying the sergeant wouldn’t realize how terrified she was. “When?”

  “There’s a boat leaving here at dusk.” He held out his hand. “All of it. And don’t try to cheat me. If you can’t pay, there are plenty others who vill.”

  “Stay where you are,” Rachel warned him. She turned her back and lifted her skirt to pull loose the pouch of money. “You can count it, if you want. There’s five hundred there, in new fifty-dollar bills.” She faced Coblentz again and tossed the packet to him. “Where do I get Chancellor?”

  “Finn’s Point.” The sergeant thumbed through the currency. “Good. You are an honest voman.” He grinned at her, exposing his green, mossy teeth. “See the chaplain.”

  She frowned. “The chaplain? I don’t understand.”

  “Simple.” Coblentz licked his bottom lip. “Ask for the body. He’ll give it to you.”

  “The body?” she repeated.

  “Yah.” The Dutchman grinned wider. “No trouble. He hands corpses over to their families all the time.”

  Disbelief spilled through her body. “But Chancellor’s alive. You said he was alive!”

  Coblentz unbuttoned the front of his shirt, and Rachel caught a glimpse of black curling chest hair as the sergeant shoved the money inside. “I never said he vas alive,” the Dutchman corrected. “I said he vas here, and I promised you I could get him off the island.” He laughed as he grabbed for her arm. “You came too late, missy. Chancellor’s already dead.”

  “No!”

  His hand closed on her wrist. “Yah. He’s dead, and now you vill give me a little something more. Something to pay me for taking such a risk.” He pawed crudely at the front of her gown.

  “You son of a bitch!” Rachel cried. Seizing a bedpan, she slammed it against the side of Coblentz’s head. He groaned and slumped sideways, and she hit him again.

  He went down like a sack of wet sand.

  Rachel ripped open the front of his shirt, grabbed her pouch of money, and fled out the door. She dashed back into the courtyard, took hold of her wagon handle, and hurried back toward the door to the outer compound.

  The same corporal was on duty as she passed through his guard post. “Sold it all, I see,” he said to her.

  “Thanks be to God,” she murmured.

  She was too numb to cry. Chance was dead, and she’d just assaulted a sergeant after attempting to bribe him to release a rebel soldier. If she didn’t get away from Fort Delaware soon, she’d end up staring through the bars of a cell.

  Somehow she made it through the prisoners’ area and out the gate. She left her wagon beside the walls and walked as fast as she could toward the docks. She was nearly there when she heard a commotion behind her.

  “Stop!” a man’s voice yelled. “Stop that voman!”

  Rachel ducked in front of a mule team and scrambled onto a cart between two half-grown boys. A mounted officer trotted past her, headed back toward the fortress. Between the line of wagons, she saw Coblentz and two soldiers running after her.

  She slid down from the back of the cart and dodged between a coal wagon and a flatbed carrying straw. Two black women were driving a flock of geese down the dock. Ig
noring the angry shouts, she ran through the squawking birds, climbed down a ladder, and jumped off a wooden plank into a dory. The boat tipped under her weight, but she caught her balance and used the oars to row along the bank to the spot where she’d tied up her sloop.

  Once she reached the Windfeather, she pulled the anchor and let the racing current carry her out into the river.

  “Stop her!” Coblentz shouted. “There! Shoot her! Shoot the thief!”

  The soldier beside him raised his rifle. Rachel heard a crack and saw a puff of smoke. A small hole appeared in the sail beside her head, but she didn’t stop to worry over it. She scrambled back to the stern and took the rudder, steering the sloop around a larger vessel and turning south with the outgoing tide.

  When she looked back, she saw that Coblentz and one of his companions had caught the line to the dory and were climbing in. Coblentz crawled up to the bow and took the rifle while the other soldier manned the oars.

  The Dutchman stood up and fired at her again.

  Rachel ducked her head and prayed for wind. The sloop turned slightly, and the sail puffed out.

  A patrol boat rounded the tip of the island. Coblentz waved the rifle and pointed toward Rachel’s sloop. The tide caught the dory, and it bounced along over the surface of the whitecaps, gaining on the Windfeather.

  Rachel looked back over her shoulder at the rowboat as the Dutchman crouched and shook his fist at her. The rising wind carried the word “whore” over the waves to her. She couldn’t hear all they were saying, but Coblentz and the other soldier were plainly arguing. The private kept pointing to the water and then back to shore while Coblentz reloaded his weapon.

  The guards in the patrol boat turned toward the dory, but they were fighting wind and current, and the sea was whipping the waves into a three-foot chop.

  Rachel’s sloop leaped ahead as her sail filled. She held to the center of the channel between the mainland and Pea Patch Island, coming dangerously close to the patrol boat. As she passed the heavily armed vessel, a guard motioned to the fins cutting the water near his boat.

  She nodded. “I see them!”