The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (44 page)

L
ate in the
evening, the atmosphere was damp and heavy, which seemed to match her emotional state. Charlotte, Jack, and Elizabeth had sneaked out of the mansion for a clandestine meeting. Elizabeth carried a basket of cakes on her arm to share with those less fortunate. The threesome hurried quietly through the darkened streets toward a farmhouse on the outskirts of the city, slipping from shadow to shadow under low, dark clouds. Grant’s guns muttering in the background made the late-night conclave even more ominous.

They reached a white clapboard farmhouse with its curtains tightly drawn. A thin woman who appeared to be in very poor health, pale with dark hollows under her eyes, opened the door and led them across the yellow pine floors to the back of the small, cramped house. Two men, a father and son, sat on a long bench drinking tea.

“Did anyone follow you?” The woman looked like she had been pushed to the brink of her endurance. Her hands shook noticeably.

“Jack came along a short distance behind us, keeping watch,” Charlotte said.

He gave the woman a tight smile. “No one followed us except an old hoot owl.”

The woman’s shoulders noticeably relaxed. “Sit. I’ll pour tea.”

Steam from the kettle on an old wood stove took the edge off the chill in the room, and the tension in the air dissipated along with the cold.

“If the rumors are true, the Union Army will be in Richmond in a matter of hours. Until they arrive, our lives hang precariously,” Elizabeth said. “Neighbors who have accused us of siding with the enemy may take this opportunity to burn us out. Thank you for taking the risk tonight.”

The woman touched Elizabeth’s arm affectionately. “Thank you for the money, but we would follow your orders without question or payment. We haven’t come this far to abandon the cause now.”

Elizabeth covered the woman’s hand with her own. “I haven’t suffered nearly what your family has, yet y’all soldier bravely on.”

The older man allowed a tinge of wryness to creep into his voice as he said, “Don’t despair, Elizabeth. You might still see the inside of Castle Thunder.”

Elizabeth chuckled, but it was a raw, nervous sound, without gaiety. “Then we must redouble our efforts. Over the next few days, Grant will need every tidbit of information we can gather. I’ve written to him letting him know a barrel of flour is now selling for over a thousand dollars, there is little food to be had, and our situation is deteriorating. But I also emphasized that we remain steadfast in our resolve to support the Union. We need to continue doing what we’ve been doing, but with greater caution than ever.”

The woman and two men sat back heavily in their seats. Fear tightened the wrinkles in their leathery faces. The threadbare cottage and empty pantry shelves spoke of how destitute this family had become. Charlotte was uneasy drinking their tea, knowing they were sacrificing what little bit they had to honor Elizabeth and their guests. At least now they had money for food, if there was any left to buy.

Charlotte turned to look at the younger of the two men. He had a rattling, persistent cough and had been lethargic all during their conversation. “How long have you had a cough?” she asked.

“A couple months, I reckon.”

“Can’t get him to wake up long enough to eat nothin’, neither,” the woman said.

Charlotte would have had to examine him to be certain, but she was confident he had either TB or bacterial pneumonia. Either disease would kill him soon. She choked the thought off abruptly, before frustration set in. She had no magic pills available to prolong his life.

Elizabeth explained to the young man. “I already told Doctor Mallory you were recently released from Castle Thunder after four months in solitary confinement.”

The man coughed again when he tried to speak. “I thought I’d die in their rat-infested hole.”

“We need to get a message to a prisoner. Is it possible?” Charlotte had a rush of guilt over reminding the man of a harrowing experience he’d rather forget.

“Depends,” he said. “The third story houses soldiers and partitioned cells for prisoners tried by court-martial. Dangerous and disruptive prisoners are on the same floor. The second story has the disloyal citizens and deserters. If you can get word to one of them, they’ll get the message to those in solitary confinement.”

The band of throbbing pain from the tension headache threatening Charlotte for several hours was getting worse. She pressed her fingers, warm from the teacup, between her brows. The heat soothed her chilled skin, but did little to relieve the pressure migrating toward the back of her head. She could recite the medical literature by rote: Episodic tension headaches are triggered by stressful situations. Thinking of Tylenol for her headache, she thought to ask, “Is there medical care in prison?”

“The warden sends prisoners to sick bay, where they’re examined by the surgeon. There’s no medicine for prisoners. If they’re bad off, the doctor removes them to the hospital. They did nothing for my fever and cough. Just left me layin’ on the straw.”

“How often does the doctor visit?” Charlotte asked.

“He comes and goes. Has his own schedule.”

“Does the warden visit the dungeon?”

“Ma’am, there ain’t no real dungeon.” His statement triggered another coughing fit, and he couldn’t catch his breath. His mother tried to get him to drink hot tea, but he pushed the cup away. When he could speak again he said, “Cells used for solitary are small, no windows. Warden does the interrogation. Favors a whip mostly. Prisoners in solitary for misbehavin’ won’t see the warden. Won’t see nobody.”

“I’ve only seen the interior of the side building housing the women,” Elizabeth added. “The prisoner we need to contact is probably in the front building.”

“Confederate Army deserters and political prisoners are in the front building,” the older man said. “It’s where my son was held.”

“I’ve seen the three buildings from the street,” Jack said. “But how are they connected? What’s the layout?”

“The front is fenced,” the father said. “A long brick wall connects the two smaller buildings to the center building, making an enclosed yard for exercise and latrines. Guard boxes line the top of the walls looking into the yard. If you get into the yard, there’s nowhere to run.”

“If I impersonate a doctor, can I get to the cells used for solitary confinement?” Charlotte asked.

“Them guards would be suspicious if a different doc showed up,” the coughing man said. “Doc never goes to the dungeon. If your man’s there, he’ll be staying put ’less he dies or the war ends.”

Elizabeth set her teacup on the china saucer she held delicately in her palm with her thumb resting on the rim. “The war is going to end within days, and my sources tell me the prisoners will be evacuated tomorrow night.”

“If it’s true, the guards will be distracted and might not question a different surgeon.”

The coughing man wrapped his fingers around a coffee cup and tapped the china. His eyes seemed to turn inward to a scene playing out in his tormented mind. “Prisoners have ways to talk to each other. You get a message to a prisoner, it’ll find its way through the prison.”

“Even to the prisoners in solitary confinement?” Charlotte asked.

“When all you got to do is plan an escape, you become resourceful,” he said.

The father refilled his cup at the stove, then went over to the window and pushed aside the homespun cotton curtain. After a moment, he dropped the fabric but continued to stare while holding the cup in his unmoving hand. Finally he said, “If you showed a signed order requiring you to check on sick prisoners and decide if they’re fit enough to be evacuated, the guards wouldn’t bother you.”

Charlotte’s fragile bubble of hope expanded with the heat from Jack’s scowl. “How do I get an order?” she asked.

The father rubbed his stubbled chin. “I can have a forged order ready tomorrow afternoon. But if you get yourself into the dungeon, be prepared to see things you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

Her mind quickly flashed to the inhuman conditions and atrocities she’d witnessed in Afghanistan, and the horrific displays of inhumanity on display at the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington. Nothing shocked her anymore, but it always saddened her. Knowing Braham was incarcerated under similar conditions chipped away at her heart. He was strong and healthy and could withstand deprivation and pain for awhile.

“What name should I use on the order?” the older man asked.

“Major Carlton Mallory, Surgeon, Second Corps Army of Northern Virginia.”

The older man responded with a grunt, staring bleak-eyed into some invisible distance for a long time, saying nothing more. Then, coming out of his trance or bleary consideration he said, “A basket of flowers will be delivered to Elizabeth’s house tomorrow afternoon. The order will be inside the false bottom.”

Jack had been following the discussion, elbows propped on his knees, chin resting in his hands. He straightened up, saying, “Sis, I don’t know if I can stand by doing nothing while you do this.”

She chewed her lip, thinking. “You’re the mystery writer. Come up with a better plan fast, because right now this is the only one with any chance of succeeding.”

“I don’t have one.” Jack’s voice was distant and distorted. Charlotte was often the brunt of his frustration when his muse misbehaved. She didn’t like it any more than he did.

She gave him a cool look, folding her arms across her chest. “Okay. Let’s play what-if. What could happen if I use old Mallory’s identity to get inside the prison?”

The wavering candlelight caught his profile and threw the stubborn set of his facial bones into sharp relief, the reflection of the flame visible in his dark pupil. “Well…if someone recognizes you, they’d wonder why you’re in Richmond and not with the Second Corps.”

She threw up her hands. “Okay, then what? Help me out here.” An invisible cord seemed to stretch between them, drawing taut and then snapping back on her, bringing along the rejection she had experienced when he wouldn’t help her write term papers. There was no life lesson for her to learn now, as he had claimed when she was a teenager. So why was he was being so obstinate? “I need your help, Jackson Mallory. Braham needs your help.”

Jack slapped the tops of his thighs, stood, and did a tight-formation pace, while his fingers plucked at his chin. Five sets of eyes observed pensively. Finally he stopped and lifted one eyebrow, glancing at the people sitting around the table.

“Can you limp?” he asked Charlotte.

“
What?
Replace my perfected swagger with a limp? Are you kidding? It’s part of my persona.”

He made a derisive noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t reject it out of hand. If you can limp, it will give you a plausible backstory.”

“Sure I can limp, but I’d probably forget which leg was the
bad
one.”

“Put pebbles in your boot,” the father said. “You’ll have a fine limp, and you won’t forget.”

Elizabeth set her cup of tea on the table. “If anyone asks why you’re not with your unit, tell them you were recently wounded and sent to a Richmond hospital to recover.”

There seemed to be a consensus among the two men and two women, as they chatted and nodded, pleased they had solved the dilemma, and thus the argument between the siblings. Elizabeth pushed away from the table and wrapped her cloak around her.

“Thank you for meeting with us under such short notice. It’s late, and we must return home now.”

Charlotte allowed Elizabeth to leave the room first before she turned back to the family, and looked at the younger man. “I believe you were infected with consumption while in prison. Cover your mouth with your arm when you cough,” she told him. “You need to isolate your son,” she said to the mother, “or both you and your husband will catch the disease from him. Wash your hands and the dishes in very hot water. When food becomes available, be sure he gets a wholesome diet and fresh air.”

Their eyebrows furrowed with obvious doubt.

“Are you a real doctor?” the young man demanded.

Charlotte nodded. “I’m a surgeon. Unfortunately, there is no medicine for your disease.” Not yet, anyway.

She glanced around the small room, where germs would probably pass from one family member to the other until the disease killed them all. “Rest as much as you can, and everybody wash your hands.” Charlotte left the house, doubting they would listen to her advice, and wishing she could do more.

Charlotte and Elizabeth locked arms and moved quickly through Richmond’s dark streets, with Jack trailing a short distance behind, watching them with a protective eye. Once back at the mansion, the threesome relaxed in the library, drinking whiskey and reviewing their impressions of the meeting in the farmhouse.

A frown rippled over Jack’s face, like a stone thrown into a puddle of muddy water. “You understand what could happen to you if the guards suspect you aren’t who you claim to be.” His sober voice matched the seriousness of his concern.

Charlotte wasn’t sure what to say to relieve his worry, so she remained silent. If she did speak, her voice would betray her, exposing the fear clogging her throat. If Jack knew how afraid she was, he’d write himself into her role. While it would certainly create tension in the story he was writing, it wouldn’t do much for the one they were living. He had limited tolerance for sickness and injuries.

“They arrest women for posing as men,” Elizabeth said.

Charlotte glanced down at her tightly laced fingers and deliberately untangled them. Placing her hands on her thighs, she straightened her spine and got to her feet. She had no desire to be incarcerated, but she couldn’t stand by and do nothing.

“If I’m discovered, you’ll have two to rescue tomorrow night.”

Jack set his glass on the table with enough force to put a fine-line crack in the crystal. “Don’t be flippant.”

Charlotte got in his face. “Then support me.”

He picked up another glass from the serving tray and splashed whiskey into it. His eyes narrowed dangerously. “I can’t.”

She snagged fists full of his jacket and held on tight. The keening of the wind outside the windows whooshed into her heart, illuminating the one thing in the world she was most afraid of—losing Jack. If that was her biggest fear, then she now understood the monster crushing him. She relaxed her hands and smoothed the creases she had caused with her tenacious grip.