The Quaker and the Rebel (21 page)

Captain Smith grimaced at the memory of one of their less fortuitous raids. “They have horses for sure—fine cavalry stock and mules, lots of mules. Plus whatever’s inside the covered wagons.”

“How many animals?”

“At least a hundred. Maybe a hundred and fifty.”

Alexander threw his coffee grounds into the fire and walked from the ring of light into the dense woods. Smith knew better than to follow him, but he didn’t have long to wait. It never took the notorious Gray Wraith long to hatch a plan. That was one of the reasons Alexander was so good at what he did. Within minutes he emerged and began kicking dirt onto the fire. “Break camp, Captain. We’re riding to Salem. We’ll hit them tonight after dark.”

No other explanations were necessary. Whatever they needed to know would be made clear to them when the time was right. After the last man swung into his saddle, they followed their caped leader to the west with complete faith. For several hours the rangers picked their way single file through spiny brambles and new growth forest, swatting at mosquitos and sweating from the heat and humidity. Finally, when the overgrown path joined a dirt road used by local farmers, conversation became once again possible.

Captain Smith brought his horse up to ride beside the colonel, leaving the men a short distance behind. “Did you ask her?”

“Ask who what, Captain?” Alexander knew what Smith inquired about, but he had no desire to discuss the matter.

“Ask that governess what the devil she was doing in Berryville. She was a long way from Hunt Farms, but maybe not so far from her Yankee friends.”

Alexander shot him a cautionary glare. “No, I did not.”

“Confound it, Alex, why not?” His adjutant leaned forward in his saddle, expecting an answer.

“Let it go, Nathan. The woman is no spy,” he growled. Then he softened his tone to his most trusted friend. “The subject didn’t come up because we were engaged in other activities.”

This took Smith, not quite as quick-witted as Alexander, a moment to digest. “Good grief, man. You mean you took that
Yankee
to your bed?”

Alexander’s arm shot out to grab Smith by the sleeve, nearly pulling him from his horse. “Watch your tongue regarding Miss Harrison or I’ll thrash you right here. She is a lady, whether a Yankee or not.”

Smith righted himself in the saddle. “Easy, man. I meant no disrespect. I was just curious as to what she was doing at that barn.”

Alexander released his grip on Smith’s sleeve. “Remember what curiosity did to the cat.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Smith glanced over his shoulder. “I haven’t seen you this vexed since the schoolmarm caught you kissing Margaret O’Brien. Didn’t she make you sit on the girls’ side of the room for a week?” He reined his horse to a slower pace.

Alexander clenched down on his back molars. “We’re not schoolboys anymore, Captain. I’ll find out why she was in Berryville in due time. In the meantime, hold your tongue in matters regarding Miss Harrison. Now drop back and ride with the men.” He spurred Phantom and surged ahead down the narrow road.

He had much to think about—the raid they would undertake this evening and that red-haired governess, the one he’d vowed to keep his distance from. His anger was more with himself than with his inquisitive adjutant.
Have I lost my mind?
With no end to the hostilities in sight, he was in no position to lose his heart to a woman. Defeat could come at any time from faulty information or a simple miscalculation of enemy strength. His troops were always outnumbered. Only their tactics of surprise, subterfuge, and quick escapes had allowed them to prevail thus far. If he were captured, he would be sent to a Northern prison or the gallows. He didn’t need someone to worry about other than his aging parents. He ground his teeth at his reckless loss of control. Why had he kissed her at supper and again in the garden? Was the Quaker schoolteacher from Ohio simply a challenge? Had he become that much of a dissipated scoundrel? No. She had wormed her way into every waking thought as well as his dreams.

Yet the fact remained that she was a Yankee, raised in a household where slavery was an abomination, not a mere philosophical debate. How far would she go if her antislavery convictions were as strong as his love for the Glorious Cause?

Would she be willing to sacrifice as much as he was?

Would she be willing to sacrifice
him
?

More importantly, would she sacrifice his men? Alexander didn’t fear of his own death, but he wouldn’t jeopardize the lives of his rangers again. An image of the traitorous Rosalyn soured his stomach, banishing his pleasant thoughts of Emily. How stupid he had been. Some women would say or do anything to get their way. For the remainder of the ride to Salem, a single question plagued him.
Am I a fool to trust a woman again
?

The wagon train heading to the Union encampment from the Gainesville depot turned out to be well guarded indeed. However, Alexander’s scouts reported troops and artillery mainly at the front and rear, leaving the center relatively unprotected. The undertaking was now possible, but still not easy. Even if they attacked from the side, teamsters driving the wagons could easily alert the regiments of troops. But the colonel knew just the diversion to use. He sent Dawson and eight men dressed in Federal uniforms to masquerade as a cavalry unit on provost duty. The imposters arrested the Union officers guarding the middle and ordered the wagons to fall out of line. Then the rangers surrounded the teamsters, tethered the horses and mules, and confiscated several wagonloads of food before the rest of the caravan knew a thing. And without a single shot being fired. The colonel then delivered the animals and provisions to the Confederate troops in the Shenandoah’s foothills.

When the Gray Wraith’s troops finally returned to one of their secret camps, they had much cause for celebration. They had relieved the Federal Army of approximately twelve thousand dollars’ worth of replacement mounts and procured a feast of delicacies for their supper. That night they dined on smoked fish, fresh oranges, sweet potatoes, rice, and pickled beans. They passed around a bottle of brandy saved from the crate delivered to Confederate officers. Spirits soared among the men around the campfire…all but those of their leader.

Alexander picked at his food. When Captain Smith passed him the bottle of brandy, he refused to imbibe. Spirits only weakened his willpower and lowered his inhibitions. He knew too well what happened when he gave in to pleasure. Not wishing to eat, and not eager
to sleep for fear a dark-haired siren or a red-haired governess would haunt his dreams, Alexander did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He crept off into the forest, lowered himself to his knees, and began to pray.

No lives had been lost in today’s mission. Divine Providence had again intervened, sparing the lives of his troops and the enemy alike. Divine Providence had bestowed favor on a man not entitled to grace. The least he could do was express his gratitude.

T
EN

N
athan Smith was not a happy man either. Normally easygoing, he had been raised a gentleman. Although his family wasn’t as prosperous as the colonel’s, he had been denied little while growing up. And a gentleman learned never to show anger when it could be avoided. Rarely had any man raised his ire like this, and never had he been so angered by a woman.

Shortly after Alexander walked into the woods, Nathan rode out of camp. He didn’t wait for the beef roasting on the spit, even though the aroma made his mouth water. He packed beans, salted pork, two oranges, and a full bottle of whiskey into his saddlebags despite the colonel’s aversion to strong spirits in camp.
“Whiskey makes intelligent men do stupid things”
was the colonel’s favorite expression. He allowed only fruit brandy or an occasional cask of wine. But what the colonel didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And right now the colonel wasn’t exactly Nathan’s favorite person.

He didn’t appreciate being pulled from his saddle and threatened with a thrashing. What if one of the rangers had ridden up and overheard their argument? The last time he and Alexander resorted to fists during a disagreement they had been sixteen years old. They had vied for the affection of the same girl at a summer fair. The end result of their altercation had been two bloodied noses; one blackened eye—his, one split lip—Alexander’s; and plenty of torn clothing that got them both in trouble. And the girl in the middle shared her picnic with Jake Finley, throwing salt into their wounds.

That woman had been a redhead too.
What is it about freckle-faced carrottops and Alex?
The Bennington governess was too skinny—all knobby knees and bony elbows with no bosom to speak of. Women should be soft and well-rounded.

Taking a hearty swig of whiskey, Captain Smith spurred his horse
away from camp to let things cool off with the colonel. The foray in Salem couldn’t have gone better. Now he needed to drive the image of Emily Harrison from his mind. He couldn’t allow her to come between himself and the person he respected the most. How could a woman cause such problems—and a Yankee, no less? If women were ladies, they should look pretty, smell nice, and not talk too much. But this governess from Ohio was no lady, regardless of how much schooling she had. She came from a hardscrabble farm on the wrong side of the Ohio River. Her Quaker sodbuster father probably hadn’t saved two dollars during his entire life.

Smith reined his horse to a walk and took another deep pull of whiskey. Not just a Yankee but a Quaker. Something jangled in his liquor-sodden mind, something he’d overheard at home. Their overseer spoke of someone stirring up the field hands with talk of freedom in the North. None of his house servants said much when he questioned them. He figured it was rumor. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“Is that what you’re up to, Miss Harrison?” he whispered to the enveloping darkness. “Showing slaves the path to Freedom Road? Why, you meddlesome little troublemaker. Don’t you know what we do to your kind in Virginia? I would happily tie you to a tree and deliver the twenty lashes myself.” Smith gritted his teeth, remembering Emily sneaking from a barn in the dead of night.

He spurred his horse and rode hard toward Middleburg, eager to spend some of his gold and celebrate. While the colonel had been occupied, he’d taken a thousand dollars off a Union teamster. He had no intention of giving it to the Confederate Treasury. He would buy time with the feistiest girl at Belinda’s or play poker in the upstairs room reserved for favored customers. His friend should be with him tonight instead of pining over that governess. The colonel had once enjoyed a glass of well-aged bourbon or a game of cards in Middleburg. Now he wouldn’t go near the place since that raven-haired woman had tricked him.

Smith clenched his jaw with the memory of Rosalyn. How he would have loved to get his hands around her creamy neck, but she’d
left town before he could show her what happens to Yankee spies. He shifted in his saddle as the sleepy town of Middleburg came into view. Spurring his horse again, he rode hard to the freshly painted front door of Belinda’s as the cheap whiskey churned in his belly.

Maybe Emily Harrison was an abolitionist who had come to fire up the slaves with tales of the land of plenty up North, and maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she was a sister-under-the-skin to that other temptress, Rosalyn.

“Watch your tongue regarding Miss Harrison or I’ll thrash you right here.”
Alexander’s words still rang in his ear. He needed to be sure about this Yankee before casting aspersion on her sterling character. Nathan didn’t have many friends. The few he had were now dead. Arguing with the colonel had vexed him more than he cared to admit. He would bide his time. He had to be certain. That scrawny governess had already caught the colonel’s eye. He had to stop her before she wormed her way into his heart.

I’ll find out what you’re about, Miss Harrison. You can rest assured of that
.

Emily roused from sleep at the sound of barking dogs and a sharp, piercing scream. Bolting upright in bed, she peered around the dark room but could discern nothing amiss. On a sweltering midsummer night the curtains barely stirred in the still air. Then she heard it again—a woman’s shriek—and she knew with certainty it belonged to her mother.

Emily crept to the window overlooking the backyard and the river beyond. With a shaky hand she parted the muslin and peered down on horror she couldn’t possibly understand. Men holding burning sticks high above their heads moved in and out of the shadows. Why didn’t they just get the lanterns from the barn? More men arrived on horseback as people seemed to scurry in every direction at once. The whicker of a horse drew her to the side window, where a rider trampled her
mother’s prized flower garden. Who in the world had knocked down their picket fence? And why would her parents have a party the evening before the Sabbath?