The Vacant Chair (14 page)

 The rattle of a buggy pulling up in front of the house broke her from her thoughts. Her heartbeat quickened. Could it be Morgan?

Brianna pushed the drapes aside to peer out into the darkness. She didn’t recognize the vehicle. Someone knocked on the door a moment later, and an internal voice warned her not to answer it.

She
opened it anyhow. “Mr. Ramseur,” she said, surprised her father’s former business partner would come calling so late at night. Over the past few weeks he’d developed the disagreeable habit of showing up unannounced, but never this late, and never when she was alone. Teela and Ray had already retired to their small house beyond the back pasture.

The intense way Ramseur watched her never failed to make her uneasy, even with his offer to help her obtain stock for the farm and locate her brother. Last she’d heard, Morgan had been somewhere outside of Atlanta, though the city had fallen on September first and there hadn’t been a word from him since.

“Hello, Brianna.” Ramseur’s amber eyes glimmered in the low light. “May I come in?”

She resisted the urge to case a glace over her shoulder. He really shouldn’t come in when no one else was here, but he walked right past without an invitation, apparently mistaking her silence for permission. Biting back a sigh, she pushed the door shut and followed him into the parlor, where she stood next to the fire.

“I don’t bite,” he teased. “Come and sit down. I have something to discuss with you.”

She sank stiffly into the chair. “May I offer you some lemonade and cookies? I have some fresh—”

“No, thank you, dear.”

She hated it when he used endearments, something he couldn’t have failed to notice.

He leaned back in that deceptively casual way of his and stretched his legs out. “I think you’ll find what I have to tell you of great interest.”

She waited, annoyed that he kept her waiting. “And that is?”

He met her gaze. “I know where your brother is.”

Her heart seemed to stop beating. “Where is he?”

“Libby prison. Richmond.”

“What?” She shot forward in her seat with a hand on her throat, the painful thud of her heart loud in her ears. Libby was notorious for its awful conditions.

“It’s quite true, I assure you.”

She couldn’t believe it. “How long has he been there?”

“A few months now. But he’s alive.”

Yes. For now. “Will he be exchanged?”

Ramseur shook his head. “Not likely, things being as they are after the Fort Pillow incident. You can be thankful he’s an officer. He’s living in much better conditions than most of his men, who were sent to worse places.” 

She stood and paced in front of the fire, mind working furiously. “How can I help him?”

“Well, now, that all depends on you, dear, and exactly what you are willing to do.”

His tone sent a warning prickle up her backbone. She met his gaze head on and raised her chin. “I’ll do whatever I must.”

He tilted his head admiringly. “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are when you get riled up? You look just like your mother.”

Brianna hid a frown. Previously he’d hinted at some kind of relationship with her mother but had never given any details. The string of compliments he lavished upon her made her uncomfortable, and that discomfort increased every time he became more forward in his advances. “You knew my mother, Mr. Ramseur?” she asked, trying to remain calm when all she cared about was learning more about Morgan.

“Call me Paul. I think we know each other well enough to dispose of the formalities.”

I think not.
She forced a stiff smile.

“I knew your mother, yes.” His intense appraisal of her made her want to fidget, but then his lips curved downward. “We were engaged for a short time before she met your father.” He must have caught the disbelief in her face, because he raised a brow. “Oh, it’s quite true, I assure you.” He smiled to himself at some distant memory.

Brianna swallowed the denial on her tongue. She couldn’t imagine her mother ever being linked to this man. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything, my dear. What’s done is done. That was a long time ago, and since I am a practical man, I should like to focus on the present.” He got up and sauntered to the sideboard, helping himself to a glass of sherry. “I might be able to help you learn more about Morgan. I do have some reliable connections in Richmond…” He left the sentence dangling, and she knew it was because he wanted something from her first. When she didn’t answer, Ramseur gave her a wolfish smile and crossed the room to take her hands. “You must know how I feel about you by now. I had hoped you might regard me with the same…affection.”

The instant the words were out, Brianna snatched her hands away and stared up at him with mingled confusion and anger. “Meaning what, Mr. Ramseur? That you won’t help me unless I agree to marry you?” She wouldn’t subject herself to a life with him, not even for Morgan.

“Marriage is not necessary, my dear, if you would prefer a different arrangement.”

Her shocked gasp made him stiffen. She backed away a step, too stunned by his forwardness to answer.

His brows lowered and his cheeks flushed as he glowered at her. “Good God, girl, I’m not going to force myself upon you. You needn’t act as though I was about to throw you to the floor and have my way with you.”

“I can’t believe you suggested that I…that we…” She couldn’t finish the vile sentence. At least he had the grace to flush.

He cleared his throat. “Well. I have my answer, don’t I?” He tried for a polite smile. “Turned away by both mother and daughter,” he muttered, setting his drink aside. “It seems I have no luck where the Douglas women are concerned.”

Brianna didn’t have the faintest idea of what to say in reply.

Ramseur tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat. “Let’s just forget this unfortunate incident, shall we?”

Not likely.

At her reluctant nod, Ramseur retrieved his hat. “Give me a day or two to see what I can come up with about your brother. I’ll be in touch.” He left her frozen in place, staring after him.

Brianna had no intention of waiting for him to contact her again. Now that she knew where Morgan was, she was going to Richmond. But she needed money to get there and she’d spent most of her savings on the horses.

Rubbing the chill from her arms, Brianna ran to her bedchamber and packed a valise then threw on a shawl and raced outside. She stopped by the caretaker’s house only long enough to tell Ray and Teela where she was going, then took Ray’s old gelding from the stable and slipped a bridle over its head. Riding bareback, she clutched her bag to her chest and urged the horse into a gallop toward Gavin’s father’s house.

Leaping from the saddle when she reached the stately brick house, Brianna grabbed a handful of gravel from the driveway and started throwing the small pebbles at Gavin’s bedroom window on the upper floor. She and Morgan had woken him this way dozens of time in the past when they wanted him to sneak out of the house at night.

Thwack!
She hit the shutter.

Hefting her arm back, she wound up and launched another.
Thwack!
 

Thwack…thwack…
Smash!

The tinkling of glass made her cringe. She’d cracked the pane.

A second later, Gavin appeared at the window and shoved the sash up. He ducked his head out into the cool night air to glare down at her, dark hair all askew as he shoved on his spectacles. “Bree? What the
hell
are you doing out here at this time of night?”

“You’ve got to come down here right away,” she said in a loud whisper, praying they hadn’t woken Phillip. If Phillip found out about her plan, he’d do whatever he could to dissuade her.

 “What’s wrong?” Gavin demanded, his gaze on her packed bag.

“Just come down!”

Grumbling, he disappeared inside and shut the window. A minute later, she met him by the back door and launched into what had happened without giving him a chance to ask questions. “Paul Ramseur came by to tell me Morgan is in Libby prison and that if I would be so kind as to become his mistress, hinted that he would do what he could to help get Morgan paroled.”

“What!” Gavin stopped shoving the tails of his nightshirt into his trousers and grabbed her by the shoulders. “My God, that pig of a bastard. I’ll call him out for you. Let me get my gun.”  He whirled on his heel.

“Wait!” She snagged his arm. “Of course I refused, and would prefer never to lay eyes on him again, but that’s neither here nor there. I need to get to Richmond as soon as possible and—”

“No more,” Gavin interrupted, shaking his head.  He yanked off his spectacles and scrubbed a hand tiredly over his face before placing them back on the bridge of his nose. “What sort of harebrained scheme are you plotting? Do you think you can just prance up to the prison authority and say, ‘Please, sir, will you let my brother out?’”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do once I get there, but I have to do
something
. You’ve heard how bad Libby is. What if he’s wounded, or sick? He could be dying. I have to at least try to help.”   

“You’re crazy for even contemplating such a thing. What good could you possibly do him? None. You’ll get all the way there and find out you can’t even see him, or that he’s been transferred—”

“Don’t bother trying to change my mind. I’m going, and I’m going tonight. I only came here to tell you what happened and to borrow some money for train fare. I’ll pay you back as soon as I return.”

Gavin gave an emphatic shake of his head. “Bree, I can’t let you do this. If I do, Morgan will shoot me dead when he comes home.”

She raised her chin. “I’m going.”

 After a long moment, he relented and sighed as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. “All right, fine. We’ll get you on the first train out. You should be in Richmond within a few days at the latest.”

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “That’s it? You’re not going to try to stop me?”  

“As if I have a choice? Heaven help the man who tries to stop you. I’ll wire you some money once you arrive.” He expelled a long-suffering sigh. “But if Morgan kills me for this later, my death’ll be on your conscience.”

Chapter Fifteen

September 23
^rd
, 1864

This was going to be bad.

Justin’s dark mood matched his men’s grim expressions, though he tried to hide it.

Some of Mosby’s men had attacked a wagon train and killed an unarmed Regular cavalry officer when he’d tried to surrender. Reinforcements rushing to the scene had captured six of Mosby’s men and without trial or jury, Custer had sentenced them to death. In exchange for the murders of their eighteen comrades at Berryville, General Merritt selected the Fifth to carry out the executions of all six prisoners.

And that wasn’t the worst of it.

Two troopers volunteered, one of whom had lost a brother to the guerillas at Berryville. It didn’t matter if they had the stomach for such cold-blooded vengeance or not; the rest of the Fifth had no choice but to stay and watch the Rangers’ executions.

Justin sat rigidly atop Boy-o, staring between the horse’s ears at a point in the distance, trying to block out what was happening. This was not what he had signed up for. No matter how much he wanted vengeance for the dead Wolverines, this wasn’t war. It was murder.

He prayed no one from his company would be ordered to participate in the grisly task. He cast a glance at Mitch and Williams, staring at the ground in front of their horses as though they couldn’t bear to watch either. Mounted in parade formation, they waited.

The band struck up a death march. A cold shiver passed up Justin’s spine. He shifted in the saddle and tried to appear unaffected for his men. If they had to witness this, he owed it to them to bear up, as was expected of his commission.

The execution detail dragged two prisoners forward and shoved them into the churchyard in plain view of any citizen who cared to view the spectacle. The Confederate prisoners stayed silent, glaring back at the massed Union soldiers with unabashed hatred. 

Justin sat frozen, trying not to betray the sickness filling him. When the firing squad raised and aimed their weapons, he flinched at the crack of the pistols and stared past the victims, unable to watch them die like dogs in the street. One dropped instantly, but the other had to be shot several times before he died. Around him, Justin’s men were deathly quiet.

When his company was dismissed, he raised his right hand and swept it downward in a curt motion. “Move out,” he commanded, glad to leave the place. They fell into line with the others and headed northward out of town amidst shouts from the south and an additional pistol shot, signaling that another prisoner had died.

A few minutes later, two troopers rode past with the next victim tied between their saddles, dragging him through the dusty street toward an open field.

“Sir,” Williams breathed in dismay beside him.

Justin got a better look at the prisoner, and horror twisted his belly.

He was no more than a teenager.

Surely they won’t kill him.
He watched in strained silence as they hauled the pitiable figure past the assembled column. Men all around him were staring at the ground, their heads hung low.

“Sir,” Williams said again anxiously, as though expecting him to put a stop to it.

Justin gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He was only a captain, for God’s sake. What the hell could he do? The men in charge wanted vengeance and meant to have it.

A woman’s scream ripped through the air, bringing every head up.

A figure in black raced out into the street, the hem of her dress brushing the dusty ground. “Don’t kill him!” the middle-aged widow cried, sobbing while she flailed at the men who restrained her. “You must let him live! He’s only seventeen!” Her voice cracked as she tried to reach her son. The doomed prisoner stared back at her with terrified eyes, his face pinched with panic. “He stole a horse to join them this morning. Oh, please,
please
give him back to me!”

Her weeping pleas made the hairs on Justin’s nape stand on end. With every ounce of self-control he had left, he forced himself to sit still, unable to take his eyes off the boy.

When it was clear her son was going to die, the woman broke free of her captors, lunging for the boy with a scream that turned Justin’s heart to ice. Nausea rolled in the pit of his stomach and threatened to bring up his lunch when one man volunteered to shoot the prisoner. With his mother again restrained, the guard ordered the boy to stand up. The prisoner rose on badly quivering legs, his face ashen. The trooper emptied his pistol into him right in front of his hysterical mother. He toppled over, twitched once then lay still.

“Henry, no!
Noooo!”

His mother’s sobs shattered the air while a pool of blood spread from her son’s body. Only then did the men holding her think to turn her away from the sight. Her hysterical cries echoed across the road as they led her away.

Justin didn’t dare look around him, sickened and ashamed. He led his men farther out of town, with Custer at the head of the column. When the shouts of a mob reached them, the regiment stopped again as a crowd of dismounted troopers shoved the last two prisoners forward toward the Shenandoah River.

The regimental band taunted them with the eerie strains of “Love Not, the One You Love May Die.” One of them was a burly dark-haired man dressed in a tattered butternut uniform. He remained defiant when came abreast of them, his black eyes flashing fire as he met Justin’s stare. The other prisoner was young, maybe in his twenties, and had lost all pretense of being brave. He wept openly, begging for a chaplain, but the commanding officer refused him even that small comfort.

Without pretense, the prisoners were led forward with their hands tied behind them. The group stopped beneath a tree. No one uttered a sound as the executioners hoisted them atop two horses and slung ropes over the sturdy branches.

“Where’s Mosby?” an officer demanded.

The big prisoner curled his lip. “You can go to hell.”

The band continued playing its mournful dirge, the notes echoing through the autumn air.

The guard slipped the nooses over their necks. The smaller man prayed fervently, eyes closed, tears tracking down his cheeks. Neither struggled nor begged for mercy. The big one stared back at them with hatred, seemed to pick Justin out of the group and fixed him with cold, dark eyes. Justin’s marrow chilled under the intensity of that gaze.

“Mosby’ll hang ten of you for every one of us,” he growled in a heavy Georgian accent.

Though Justin lowered his eyes, it didn’t help. He would never forget the hatred in that dark stare or the horrors he’d witnessed today. He tried calling Brianna’s face to memory to blot everything else out but couldn’t hold the image. She would be horrified by this. Shame curled in his gut, so strong he couldn’t push it away.

You’re an officer. Act like one.

Someone cracked a whip. He covered a wince when the horses bolted and the men were hanged. They jerked in spasms, suffocating as they dangled from the tree. They stilled at last, bodies swaying, the ropes creaking in the sudden silence.

No one moved.

Custer finally ordered the regiment forward. Justin swallowed the bile in his throat and gave the order to move out. Riding past the hanged men, he saw that someone had pinned a note to the Georgian.

This will be the fate of Mosby and all his men.

With a heavy heart, he turned Boy-o’s head and followed his regiment out of Front Royal.

****

Richmond, VA

September 28
^th
, 1864

Brianna rose from her bed in the attic of her new employer’s house and crossed to the washstand for her morning ablutions. She had moved into the cramped room next to Nan’s, the Lancasters’ housekeeper, after securing the position at the start of the week. She’d applied as Jenny Taylor, deciding it was safer to use her middle name in case her visits to her Yankee brother in the prison caused any suspicion. If anyone tried to follow up and investigate, he or she wouldn’t be able to find out anything about her. 

Since she wasn’t sure how long she’d be in Richmond, Brianna had elected to take a job rather than live on the charity Gavin had so kindly offered her. During the interview, she had only told Mrs. Lancaster she was from Kentucky and had lost her husband and father to the war. Rosemary had clucked her tongue in sympathy and patted her hand, saying something about God rewarding the brave boys of the South for their sacrifice. Brianna had chosen not to correct the lady’s assumption that both men had been Confederate soldiers.

The interview had been mercifully brief, and Rosemary had declared her a perfect addition to the household. Her duties included helping Nan with the household chores and being companion to Cassidy, the eighteen-year-old daughter.

As soon as her day’s work was finished, Brianna left the house, pulling her shawl about her shoulders to stave off the cool bite in the air. The sun was setting over the James River when she reached Mayo’s bridge and squinted across its span at the brown and white four-story buildings of Libby prison. Her heart quickened. Morgan was in there, just across the river. Excitement and nerves warred in her growling stomach. She’d wrapped her dinner in a cloth for Morgan, but would the guards even let her in? Would they harass her? They might insist on searching her, so she’d mentally prepared herself to withstand that. She’d endure whatever she must to see her brother.

Across the bridge, she turned onto Cary Street, her muscles coiling tighter with each step. Men’s faces peered out the barred windows. Was Morgan one of them? Did he see her? She swallowed. So close now, just a few more yards.

At the main door, she approached the guard and waited until he met her eyes.

“Ma’am,” he said, stepping forward. “May I help you?” He frowned at her as though convinced she was lost.

She straightened her spine. “I’m looking for my brother. I was told he’s a prisoner here.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes. Lieutenant Morgan Douglas, First Kentucky cavalry.”

The guard’s lips tightened beneath a sandy beard, his dark eyes full of disapproval. “This ain’t the place for a lady like you.”

She wasn’t leaving until she got to speak with Morgan. “I’ve come a long way to see him.”

He studied her then relented. “Come with me.” He grasped her elbow and led her inside the dark building to another soldier behind a worn desk. She coughed at the reek of smoke and human waste in the air. “Lady’s here to see her brother.”

Brianna repeated the information to the clerk, her hand tightening on the bundle of food she’d brought. Her palms were damp against the linen.

“He’s in the next building on the third floor,” the clerk confirmed, and she let out a breath of relief.

“May I see him?”

He tapped his pencil against the register. “What’s in there?” He gestured to her bundle.

She unwrapped it and showed him the food. “I brought it for him, if that’s all right.”

Maybe he was surprised by her politeness. Maybe few women came to visit here. At any rate, he examined the contents and nodded to the guard. “Go ahead, take her up.” His eyes were surprisingly kind as he regarded her. “We only have officers here and they’re generally well-behaved. But if you have any problems, just call out and a guard will assist you.”

“Thank you.” She followed her escort out to the next building and up the stairs, the stench of unwashed bodies strengthening. Her heart hammered in her ears. She could barely keep from running the rest of the way.

At the top of the second flight, the guard stepped aside, guiding her out of someone’s way. “Miss Van Lew,” he greeted, tipping his hat at the middle-aged woman. She spared a glance at Brianna, muttering a conversation to herself as she passed. Brianna stared after her.

“Miss Van Lew comes to visit the prisoners often,” her guard said and dropped his voice to a whisper. “She’s a bit wrong in the head, but she’s not dangerous. No need to be afraid of her.” He turned down the upper corridor and guided her past the cells. Brianna caught her breath at all the men crammed into them, staring at her. She didn’t see any beds or any other furniture. Where did they sleep, on the bare stone floors? Her outrage mounted at the appalling conditions. No privacy, no place for them to even relieve themselves without an audience.   

“Visitor for Lieutenant Douglas,” the guard announced. She craned her neck toward the next cell. Men shuffled out of the way, glancing at the back of the room. She swallowed, heart pounding. Where was he?

She stood in front of the bars, lifting on tiptoes to see over the crowd of men. It was awful to stand there and peer in at them like caged animals. A path formed in the sea of blue uniforms. Someone pushed through. When she saw his face, she gripped the bars of the cell as her knees buckled. “Morgan!”

He froze, his eyes widening. “Bree!” He squeezed through the opening his comrades made for him and rushed forward to grasp her hands through the bars. There were hollows beneath his now bearded cheeks and dark circles under his bright blue eyes. “Sweetheart, I can’t believe it. What are you doing here?”

She laughed through her tears, wiping them with her shoulders so she wouldn’t have to let go of him, and pressed against the bars to get as close as she could. “You’re all right,” she said in relief, scanning him for injury. The sight of him half starved twisted her heart.