Surrender the Wind (15 page)

How well she blended in, fearless, a soldier working on an invisible front, an altogether brilliant and contrived master stroke. John racked his brain with what he had divulged. He had given her strategic information, including personality profiles of the South’s greatest leaders. But how broad ranging was its importance? Troops were always in motion unless entrenched. They were also classified. Had he disclosed any plans, any important strategies, weaknesses, strengths, troop numbers, locations, future attacks? None that the North would not already know, so the information he had given was insignificant, redundant, and too outdated to be of much use. With her plot aborted ahead of time, Catherine’s ingenious flair for intrigue was wasted, her ruse, ineffective, making what little information she gleaned not worth a tinker’s damn.

“I’ll make her pay with every ounce of her blood.”

Lucas snapped his head around. “I’m all ears, big brother.”

John provided an abbreviated version of the story, leaving out certain details that Lucas of quick intelligence probably filled in for himself.

“So Miss Callahan and Miss Fitzgerald are the same.” Lucas mused aloud.

John did not comment.

“I have an affiliation with the war department and have listened to some tall stories on spies, but to tell you the truth, I’ve never heard of Catherine Fitzgerald or Francis Mallory ever being associated with the office. Your interlude was far more sophisticated than anything I’ve heard of—a marriage, a priest. Why would they go to such an extent without gleaning information?”

With his hand, John flicked the flies gathering about his horse’s head. He was careful where his brother was concerned, had heard rumors Lucas’s association with the Union Office of Civilian Spying, ferreting vital military information through the intrigues of a slave network as well as a myriad of men and women who contributed to civilian spying. If anyone would know of Catherine’s scam it would have been Lucas. “How should I know? I don’t want to hear her conniving name again.”

Lucas wouldn’t give it up. “Doesn’t make sense, why would she wire me?”

“How the hell should I know? Maybe she hates all men.”

“How exactly does this Mallory fellow fit in?”

John smacked away a low overhanging branch. “Obviously she reports to him. Next time I meet that Mallory fellow, I’ll be obliged to cut his throat.”

“You are sanctimony and empathy in person.” Lucas mocked him. “Did you ever think that there might be more to the story?”

John dismissed the notion in a flash.

They pulled up to a modest farm with a collection of red sheds and barns. There was a huge white clapboard house with a large sunburst window over the door which seemed incongruous with the desired architecture that demanded simplicity and purpose.

“Most remarkable,” John drawled, “the immaculate condition of the whole property.”

“These are good friends of mine, John. I’ve made arrangements to stay here for the night.”

John hesitated, scanning the property. “Nobody’s here.”

“They’re Shakers. It’s prayer time and their probably at their meetinghouse with the main part of the community over the next hill. Good peaceful people. If everyone shared their philosophy, we wouldn’t be compelled to be in this terrible war in the first place.”

After bedding the horses down in the barn, John followed his brother to a small fresh white-washed barn to the rear of the house where they would sleep. Holding the door open, Lucas made a broad exaggerated sweeping of his arm, motioning for his brother to enter. “Age before beauty,” he grinned.

John smiled at Lucas. “It’s good being with you, brother. You’re the one person in this crazy world I can trust.”

He walked in the barn. The door slammed shut. He pivoted.
Clunk.
An outside bar fell into place. “Lucas, what kind of idiocy are you up to now? I’m tired. I’ve slept little over the past fifty-two hours, and I’m in no mood for stupidity.”

“I am sorry, big brother, but it has to be this way.”

“You son of a bitch.” John roared, slamming his fist into the door.

“As a Yank soldier, my dedication is to the Union. I cannot allow you to keep leading battles that’ll kill more Yanks and prolong the war. You’re a great general, in fact, too good. It’s my duty to see this war stops. Most important, you’re my brother, and it is my duty to protect you. I don’t want to see you wind up in a Northern prisoner of war camp, crippled, or worse yet, dead. I know you find this hard to understand but it’s for the best.”

John kicked the chamber pot letting it fly across the room.
Clang.
The metal pot bounced off the opposite wall and whirled in the corner. Duped again? Betrayed by his brother? The world was a population of liars.

“How am I supposed to eat?” He could rush the Shakers when the door opened.

“I can read your mind brother. There’s a small door at the bottom to slide your meal tray in and out. Unfortunately, it’s not big enough for you to escape. I have left a sizable sum to pay the kind Shakers for your care and meals. Who knows, maybe you’ll be converted.”

“I’ll kill you with my own bare hands.”

“Not very peaceable for a future Shaker.”

“Open the door and I’ll teach you about peace.” Rourke smashed his fist into the wall.

“I’m glad you’re locked on the other side. On too many occasions I’ve felt the sting of your fist, and in your present mood, I’m sure there’d be plenty fare to sample. Be advised you cannot punch your way out of there. Used as an ice barn, the walls are twelve inches thick. There is no way out. Hope for a quick end to the war, brother. Then you can go home. I’ll leave your horse. The Shakers will care for it. As soon as I get back to Washington, I’ll send some reading materials your way to help pass the time. Try and be comfortable. I’ll see you after the war.”

“I’ll see you in hell!” John shouted after him. He heard Lucas chuckling and the hooves of his horse cantering away.

After a whole hour of looking for a way to escape, John gave up and took stock of his surroundings. So this would be his prison. The inner walls were of rough lumber a foot thick like Lucas had indicated. Small arrows of light escaped into the gloom, making it seem more like a church. His nose twitched with a light smell of mold mixed with a stronger odor of whitewash.

There was little in comforts. A cot was provided with several warm blankets, a pillow, and bordering it was a candle stand on an end table. The brass chamber pot remained in the corner upside down where he had kicked it. John picked up a Bible on the end table, left by the fastidious Shakers. They were already trying to convert him. He placed it back down on the table. He’d be the last person they could save.

John threw himself down on the cot, swearing his brother to eternal damnation a hundred times over. Little did the repetition do to lessen his morbidity. Folding his hands behind his head, and dreaming up certain revenges on Catherine Fitzgerald did give him pleasurable pause. Something Medieval came to mind. Or perhaps, a style adopted from the Inquisition. Those people knew how to inflict pain.

Thumbscrews?

Too simple.

What then?

Scourge?

Too effortless and uncomplicated.

What else?

The rack. Now there was a workable notion, having her stretched out on a rack. Many more methods of reprisal came to mind but he dismissed them all as they were too good for someone like Catherine Fitzgerald. Not cruel enough.

He needed something more elaborate and clever. Something more punishing, lasting.

While entertaining his morbid thoughts and staring at the ceiling, a slow pleasurable smile started to spread until it broadened into a wide grin. John laughed out loud for it was something his noble and thorough brother had not thought of or seen. A small batten door, high above in the gable roof and almost invisible to the naked eye, beckoned him. As a betting man he’d guarantee the Shakers knew naught of its existence.

A problem remained. How to reach the door without a ladder? Against the wall, he leaned the cot on its vertical end, put the end table on top followed by the chamber pot. He could almost do it. He’d have to jump high. Might fall and break his neck. Add the Bible? No. He’d take the risk.

To that end, he climbed, balancing on the chamber pot. The structure wobbled beneath his weight. Adrenaline spiked. A rung covered with spider webs in the beam was next to the batten door—a four foot vertical leap to reach. With his heavy weight, one jump, everything beneath him would crash to the floor.
One chance
.

With every well-honed muscle, tendon, and tissue in perfect unison, John bent low then thrust high, stretching, reaching. His hand gripped the rung. Back and forth he swung.
Crash.
The chamber pot and end table smacked against the floor. His arm muscles strained, and his free hand worked the bolt. The pin snapped open and the batten door swung down. John choked on a cloud of dust.

Swinging his body again, he used every ounce of his strength to grasp the roof and heave himself up into brilliant sunshine. Fresh sweet air burst in his lungs. Sliding down a shingled-sloped roof, he caught the edge, dangled, then dropped to the ground. He dusted off his clothes, congratulating himself on the marvelous rapidity of his escape.

None of the Shakers had returned. John passed beehives, honey permeating the air, and took the shortest route to the house. Grabbing two loaves of fresh baked bread, a smoked ham, an apple pie, and a jar of honey, he wrapped his booty in a table cloth, feeling no remorse stealing their dinner. After all, his brother had already paid for an extended stay. Too bad the Shakers wouldn’t have another recruit. He penned two letters, one to the Shaker family, begging their forgiveness for borrowing their meal. The other letter, he implored, the Shaker’s Christian charity to send to his brother, Lucas.

Dear Lucas,

I understand and forgive you for what you did.

Soon I’ll be dining in Washington—with my troops.

Sincerely,

General John D. Rourke

Army of Northern Virginia

New York City

With a fluttery hand, Catherine pulled back the drape of the Fitzgerald coach. Her spine straight, she sat on the luxurious cushions, her gaze planted out the beveled windows. New York was more robust than she remembered, despite the fact that it had only been weeks since she had departed. The changes were not for the better, the streets, the passersby, the shop windows, remote in the heart of war. Horse manure piled up on the edges of the street, a man dozed on a barrel, and a wagon backed-up ninety degrees to a sidewalk. The city had changed. Did no one realize the horrors of war that were being fought? Were they isolated and indifferent that it all was so casual? Were thousands of men left crippled and dying while no one cared for anything but the profit in their own pockets?

Catherine bowed her forehead on the cool glass, disheartened by the turn of events. That wretched scene two days before where John believed she had betrayed him. Pleasant Valley, a lifetime ago, the hatred scorched in John’s soul, his bitter smile and final vow, promising he would hunt the ends of the earth to seek his revenge. How she had longed to go to him. To tell him none of it was true. Mallory had set his trap and she had stood powerless while Rourke had been beaten and dragged away.

From Pleasant Valley, Mallory hauled her back to the city, Agatha meeting them at the train station. Agatha had pressed a telegram into his hand. Mallory swore at his guards and crammed the message in his pocket. Across from her, she sensed his ferret-like eyes studying her and wondered what the message contained that caused him to crack his knuckles. She flinched when he tapped the bottom of her chin with the head of his silver-topped cane.

“I’m bored with your pouting.” He tipped her face around. “It is time to have a talk. Your stepmother, Agatha is in full consent—”

“Full consent about what, Francis?” Her fingernails curled into her palms, making half-moons. She did not need to ask.

“You have left us on a merry chase. Your stepmother has been concerned about your wild ways and feels it is necessary for you to settle down,” said Francis.

Agatha gave a dismissive nod, her mounds of flesh, quivering with superiority. Her father had been depressed when he married Agatha who had put on a show of rainbows and sunshine. The week after the vows, she turned into a demanding shrew. “Francis has condescended to offer for your hand, and I am condoning the marriage in light of your sinful behaviors. To think of the repercussions if your little episode were disclosed…you’d be ruined. It was bad enough when you cavorted with those ragamuffins at the orphanage, and then when you brought that miscreant, Jimmy O’Hara home. Since you are not capable of protecting your reputation, I am taking
your
responsibility into my hands by accepting Mr. Mallory’s generous offer.”

“Agatha, do not delude yourself that I believe for one second you would do anything for the benefit of my welfare unless you profited from it.”

Oh. How she’d like to throw the fact that she was married to John in Agatha’s face. No. She could not risk John’s or her uncle’s life.

“Well I never—” Agatha sputtered into an apoplectic fit. “To think of that horrid place you spent…a holiday or whatever you want to call it…how could you live with such vermin! To think of the shame brought on the Fitzgerald name.”

“I have done nothing to shame the Fitzgerald name. Agatha, you have sold out the Fitzgerald’s.” Catherine glared at both of them. “You don’t think I know about your agreement.”

Francis licked his lips. “I never said you weren’t bright, lass. A fiery temper to match. I anticipate our wedding night.” He dared to run his cane down her arm.

She shoved the cane away. “I’ll never do what you say. I will fight, runaway, and I will not marry a low class vile swindler.”

Suddenly Mallory was atop her, grabbing her around the neck. Caught off guard by the magnitude of his rage, his hands pressed deep in a deadly chokehold. No air came down her windpipe. His face mottled red. His black eyes bulged, and he tightened his grip. Black spots appeared.