"A piece of paper?" She dipped a corner of a clean rag into the water and gently wiped his face. "How could a piece of paper cause them to force him out the door?"
As she spoke, a tiny kernel of understanding seemed to plant itself in her consciousness. A piece of paper. Last night she scribbled sketchy information from the future about battles and Ashton's death and television. Could Ashton have somehow taken that paper?
"Mag, what's wrong?"
"I had, uh, dreams last night about the future and the war. I scribbled the stuff down so that I wouldn't forget it. Could that be the paper . . ."
"What kind of dreams?" The weariness seemed to be leaving his voice.
She hesitated. "You wouldn't understand." "What kind of dreams," he repeated, only this time it wasn't a question. "About the war, about other wars to come.
Television . . ."
"What about the war, Mag?"
"This war?"
He rolled his eyes, exasperated, then nodded.
"Well, I wrote about Gettysburg and, I think, the battle of Lookout Mountain and Sherman's march ..."
"A song?"
"Excuse me?"
"You said 'Sherman's march,' and I asked you if that was a song."
"No. Well, later it will be, but first it's an event."
"An event you dreamed?"
"No," she said softly, leaning close to his ear. "It will really happen next November after the fall of Atlanta."
"The what!" His good hand clamped over her forearm and pulled her close. She was surprised by his strength. He was about to say something, when his eyes focused just beyond her. Margaret turned to see Mary B. hovering over them.
"Well," she said in her briskly efficient tone. "I'm delighted to see the two of you getting along so well, although excessive hand-holding is strictly against Dr. Parish's bylaws."
Eddie immediately dropped her wrist, but a slight smile played on his lips. "Mary B. Cox," he rumbled, "I heard you had taken up nursing with a vengeance. Tell me, have you killed any ducks lately?"
Margaret gave a perplexed sigh, and Mary B. reached over and grabbed Eddie's hand, the side of her thumb moving expertly over the pulse point at his wrist.
"I did not kill your duckling, Eddie Johnson," she murmured. "You did, by giving him that chunk of ham. He choked to death, I was simply trying to save him."
"By turning him upside down and swatting him?"
Mary B. said nothing for a few moments, then placed his wrist gently onto the frayed blanket that covered him. "He would have died of old age by now anyway. That was over fifteen years ago."
There was an amused silence between the two, his smile fading as he looked up at the nurse.
"Do you know where they took my husband?" Margaret asked Mary B., in spite of her fascination with the recent exchange between her brother-in-law and Mary B. There was a tension between the two, not unpleasant, but vibrantly charged.
"I have no idea, nor does Dr. Parish, Go after him, Margaret. I'll watch over Eddie . .."
"Mag, you have to find out," urged Eddie, the suspicion gone from his expression. "I can't do anything until I get better. But the way they fetched Ash, it seems to me that it was much more than another meeting."
Margaret stood immediately. Grabbing her shawl, she rushed out of the door, not sure where she was going. Why hadn't she followed him and the guards? She had been too stunned, she realized, to follow. And the guards wouldn't have allowed it.
The streets were already teeming with pedestrians and carriages, the dust of the streets hovering in a constant, billowing swirl. A few of the passersby stared at Margaret, aware of who she was, or simply caught off guard by the sudden appearance of such beauty amid the everyday hustle.
A beige cloud of dirt puffed into her face as an open rig rattled by, and she closed her eyes reflexively. But she wasn't fast enough, and a speck of grit lodged in her right eye. With both hands covering her eye, she backed away from the street.
"Mrs. Johnson?"
A young man steered her to safety, and with her clear eye she could see it was Sam Walker, Ashton's aide-de-camp.
"Lieutenant Walker." Her eyes were tearing, but she felt the particle leave her eye. Blinking, she looked up at the young man. "Thank you. I might have been trampled."
He shrugged, his face reddening, and she looked around to make sure they were not being heard. "Where is my husband?"
At once the lieutenant sobered. "I was just coming to ask you the same question, ma'am. I was to meet him later today, but just now I saw him walking with four of the meanest looking men I've ever seen. I tried to speak to him, but he shook his head and said 'Later.' I hate to say this, but he sure looked to me like a man under arrest."
"Which direction is he headed in?"
"They just went into the old Customs House, and I—"
Margaret didn't hear the rest of what he said; she simply waved a distracted farewell and ran to the Spotswood to see if the paper was still there.
No matter what, she was sure of only one thing: Ashton had somehow gotten himself into more trouble than a brigade of Yankees.
How odd, Ashton thought, surrounded by the men he had seen barely an hour before conferring as equals on the fate of the Confederacy. Now the three men— Lee, Davis, and Longstreet—eyed him with suspicion. He was no longer one of them. No matter what
the outcome of this conference, the delicate balance of their relationship had been altered, and he would always be an outsider.
"I repeat the question, General," Davis said crisply. "What is the meaning of this paper?"
On the elegant mahogany desk was his version of Margaret's note. He looked Jefferson Davis straight in the eye and answered as truthfully as possible. "I honestly don't know, President."
"Ash, please." General Lee shook his head with a weary sigh. "This is in your handwriting. Just tell us the meaning of the odd words, and I am most certain we will be satisfied."
There was a hopeful, almost pleading tone to his voice that Ashton found touching. But he could never betray Margaret, no matter what the words signified. He had violated her privacy by reading the paper in the first place, and compounded the offense by copying the words himself. His own carelessness had led him into this situation, and he would die before he allowed Margaret to suffer because of his actions.
Ashton said nothing.
At once their attention was turned to a scuffling outside, the sounds of a woman and a man engaged in some sort of disagreement. A look of irritation passed over President Davis's face, for ever since the bread riots, starving housewives and mothers had been clamoring for food. His initial pity was fast dissolving into annoyance. How was he to run the Confederacy if he was constantly badgered by irate females?
The heavy door flew open, and Margaret stumbled into the room, as if she had elbowed the door, not expecting it to actually give way.
Two guards pointed their bayonets halfheartedly in Margaret's direction, their confused expressions belying their aggressive stance.
Ashton knew he should have been surprised and should have been able to muster an angry glare in her direction. But one thing he had learned from Margaret was to never be surprised by her behavior. And another thing he discovered was that he was always glad to see her, no matter how dire the circumstances. "Ash." She had begun to walk toward her husband when the guards stopped her with their menacing weapons, crossed and gleaming.
A sudden fury welled in Ashton. "Soldiers," he said tightly, "please allow my wife to pass."
They did not respond but looked to the president instead. Davis gave a swift nod, and the men left the room.
The guards had failed to obey Ashton. They had clearly been ordered to disregard his commands. Ashton was in very big trouble indeed. Margaret felt a tightening in her chest and struggled to make the feeling go away. Panic would overtake her if she wasn't careful. She was frightened, not for herself, but for Ashton.
"Mrs. Johnson," began Jefferson Davis with a tight
smile, "we are conducting important business here. Please allow us to continue without interruption."
The expressions on the men's faces betrayed nothing, the bland faces of men in power. Her eyes darted around the room and rested on the paper on the president's desk. She recognized it immediately as the makeshift stationery of the Spotswood, less fine than the management would have wished, but still an unheard of luxury in these war times.
She reached for it, and before anyone could prevent her, snatched it up, and quickly scanned the contents. With a gasp, she realized what it was. "Ash?" Her voice was weak, questioning. His jaw was set in a hard line, impassive, unreadable. "Mrs. Johnson." The president's tone was cajoling.
"I fear this little slip of paper, undeniably penned in your husband's hand, indicates he is guilty of treason against the Confederate States of America."
"No!" She tried to catch her breath, but it was as if an iron vise was clamped around her chest.
"Margaret." Ashton stepped forward, alarm in his amber eyes.
"General, stop!" The command was from the president.
"For God's sake, let him be," ordered Lee, and although the president technically outranked the general, when Robert E. Lee issued an order, it was generally obeyed. Davis allowed Ashton to attend his wife.
His arms wrapped around her, drawing her fragile body in his strong embrace. She closed her eyes, battling the rush of fear, concentrating instead on a neutral image. With his powerful, vital presence surrounding her, she was able to imagine that they were back at the Spotswood, not swirling in danger but reveling in each other's love.
The telltale wheezing began to lessen, and only then did Margaret realize that he had been murmuring sweet, broken words into her ear to soothe her. Then she was aware of his scent, so comforting and clean and familiar, and she inhaled deeply, leaning into his welcoming shoulder.
There was an unsettling quiet as Lee and Longstreet and Davis watched the scene, the striking couple so oblivious to the presence of others. After a few moments, Ashton gently kissed the top of Margaret's head, and she glanced up at him in response. Although no words passed between the two, they seemed to share volumes of communication. His eyebrows rose slightly, questioningly, and she smiled and nodded before turning to the other men.
Only Lee, who had witnessed Ashton's one-sided gentleness with Mag ever since they were both children, was himself virtually speechless. For as everyone in the room now knew with absolute certainty, Mag Johnson was terribly in love with her husband. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," she rushed to explain, her face still pale, her hand—a little unsteady—still resting on the crook of her husband's arm. She then reached into the oversize pocket of the pea green hospital apron and withdrew her own copy of the paper. "You see, I wrote down some things last night, events that I had seen as if in a dream. Ashton, I mean General Johnson, must have copied them down. He's a very curious person, you see, and wanted to figure them out. There was nothing sinister, I assure you, about either of our actions." "Margaret, no . . ." began Ashton. She glanced up at him, her eyes twinkling, and he felt his heart turn over. Was she really so innocent as to think that would save him? He gave her a sad smile, resisting the urge to gather her into his arms again.
"Sir," said Longstreet. Margaret jumped—she had not heard his voice since entering the room. "That is the most despicable show of cowardice I have ever beheld. To involve your own wife in your schemes, to plant evidence on an innocent woman. Why, sir, everyone believed your wife to be a spy, when in truth it was you all along! She has shown her true colors in her nursing, while you, sir, have shown your true colors here in this room. When I ..." Longstreet sputtered, his words spinning into an incoherent babble.
"No!" she cried. "You have it all wrong! Ashton is absolutely loyal to the cause, even though I'm not. If anyone's a spy, it's me! I can tell you all sorts of things . .."
"General Johnson," snapped the president, "please tell us, did you plant that paper on your wife just now, under the pretense of an ardent embrace?"
Ashton looked at his wife, her eyes wide in panic, and gave her a gentle smile. It no longer mattered what was on that paper, what her scribblings might have meant. It was now in his power to save her from further suspicion.
"Yes," he answered, his voice firm.
"Guards!" The president clapped, and the two men reappeared in the room, gripping their weapons and eager to follow orders. "Take General Johnson to the antechamber below, and take care not to make too much of a commotion."
The men moved with stunning speed, prodding Ashton with the bayonets.
- "This is a mistake!" Margaret tried to throw her arms around her husband's waist, as if that could somehow reverse the hideous events. Someone pried her away, and she realized it was Longstreet and Ashton himself. He did not look at her as he was led out of the door.
She turned to the men in the room, her fists clenched. "This is a mistake! He is innocent, I swear it. How can I prove it to you?"
General Lee gazed at her with tenderness. "My dear child," he said softly, shaking his head.
Margaret looked into their faces. Their minds were already made up—Ashton was guilty. She stiffened, determined to ignore the absolute terror rioting through her body, and left the room.
She waited until she was back at the Spotswood to completely give way to her uncontrollable sobs.
"Well," said President Davis, now holding both pieces of paper, "what do we do now?" All three men were silent, still reeling from the scene they had just witnessed. Ashton Johnson, one of their most trusted, admired generals—the jewel of the South, one newspaper had called him—was actually a spy!
"What transpired in here," said Longstreet, his voice gruff, "must not become common knowledge."
"And why not?" snapped Davis.
"Pete is right," said Lee, seeming very old and brittle. "Ashton is a beloved figure, the very image of manhood for both the North and the South. This could destroy us from within. Who can fight if the most admired leader believed in the other side all along? I tell you, gentlemen, I cannot believe it."
The president cleared his throat. "I have just put a scout on duty to watch her. It's early, but my scout claims there are other men following her, perhaps Federal agents. Who knows . . ."
"President." Lee glanced up at his superior. "I, too, placed a man on surveillance duty to watch Ashton's wife. He also reported seeing two other men. One, a young man with red hair, vanished abruptly."
"Doesn't Ashton, uh, General Johnson have a redheaded scout? My God—could he have placed a scout on duty to watch his own wife?" Longstreet's voice was incredulous, and he stood abruptly and paced to the window, his hands clasped behind him as if in an effort to restrain himself.
"Do you think it's possible that she was telling the truth? Perhaps General Johnson did simply copy her writing."
President Davis shrugged. "Does it really matter? He all but confessed by admitting that he placed the other slip of paper in her pocket."
"Maybe he was just trying to protect her," mumbled Lee, with a small trace of a smile now. "That boy has spent twenty years trying to protect Mag. Until today, I never really understood why."
CHAPTER 16
Again, they lapsed into silence.
"We must keep this a secret," said Davis at last. "I will speak to the guards myself. No one must know that General Ashton Johnson is a prisoner. Agreed?"
The two men nodded, each still lost in private thoughts. This war, they all realized, was exacting a higher toll than they could have ever imagined.
It was only two o'clock in the afternoon, and Margaret was completely exhausted, drained by her unrelenting, racking tears. She lay on her back, trying to think, but unable to conjure anything except the picture of her husband being led away by guards.
She flipped onto her stomach, the mattress bouncing slightly, her face buried in the smooth bedspread of the Spotswood. What was Ashton experiencing now, she wondered, the thought jolting her into an uprig
ht position. She had to help him, to prove him absolutely innocent. The question was how.
Finally she slid to her feet, thoroughly disgusted with herself for wallowing in despair for so long. Of all things she could not afford to squander, the most precious was time.
Giving her skirts a brisk shake with one hand, she grabbed the increasingly tattered shawl and left the room, trying not to dwell obsessively on Ashton. She resisted the urge to reach into his saddlebag, thrown casually over a chair, and hold his clothing to her face. That would seem like an admission that he was gone, and she refused to even act the part of the grieving widow. She would get Ashton out of this mess.
Without really thinking of her destination, she walked to the hospital, her face set in determination, her strides longer than usual.
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