In The Face Of Death (27 page)

The stationmaster was taken aback. “You’re wrong. I didn’t mean anything like a bribe,” he blustered. “I only wanted to make things easier for you.”

Madelaine glared at him. “How considerate you are.”

“I aim to please,” he said, making an attempt at creating a better impression. “There’s lots of ladies who get lonely with their men away at war. You’re foreign, it must be worse for you.”

With deliberation, Madelaine gave the stationmaster a hard stare. “I will manage, sir.”

The stationmaster rolled his eyes upward. “Don’t blame me for wanting to make your nights a little easier. You’re all alone, ain’t you? Think I don’t know? Ladies need someone to look after them, someone who knows what ladies like. You know you would—”

“How can I get this letter into Tennessee?” Madelaine demanded, no longer willing to accommodate the stationmaster’s clumsy advances. “You say it cannot be delivered from here. If not here, then where may I give it to a postal courier? There must be some place where they are handling mail for your citizens as well as the army.”

“Nearest place’d be north of here, La Fayette. It’s another thirty miles or so up the pike.” He shook his head, his expression one of polite incredulity. “You don’t want to go all that way for one letter, do you?”

“If I must,” said Madelaine, stepping away from the window. She disliked the thought of more travel, but she resigned herself to the necessity. Stepping out onto the boardwalk again, she looked up and saw the Confederate flag on the pole over the station house, and found herself again recalling the chaos in France before Napoleon came. Not, she added to herself, that Napoleon turned out to be an improvement, but at least the carnage he created had not been in the streets of Paris. With a shrug she went to her blood-bay and swung up into her loathed sidesaddle, and set the horse off at a trot for La Fayette.

Between Cedartown and Dallas, Georgia, 31 August, 1862

I hate Nathan Bedford Forrest, bold and dashing hero though he may be. Not content with taking both of Susanne’s cows and all seven of my horses, including the ones I purchased only last week; he and his men raided all the supplies at New Springs Farm, leaving only half a dozen chickens to last for the rest of the war. Blankets and cooking utensils were claimed for his men, with the excuse that they do worse to the Yankees, and that this would speed a Southern victory. He was unthinkably crass in his manner, and justified everything by saying it was for the Confederacy. A fine achievement, when you win your campaign but reduce your own people to beggars. . . . We have been forced to abandon the farm entirely, and have sought out this old mill, located in a fold of the hills called here a hollow, which faces to the south-southeast, closer to Dallas than Cedartown; the place is sufficiently isolated, that I can hope it will be a safe haven until this madness is finished. My only concern in that regard, for we are roughly thirty miles from Atlanta, is that if the war should come here our sanctuary will end. Of course, everyone says that the Yankees will never get to Georgia, let alone Atlanta, but should it happen, we will have much to contend with, and Yankees may well be the least of it. If the army is greedy now, it will be voracious then.

This move is an act of desperation, and one that Susanne deplores. She has said that she will send word to Walter, so that he will not fear the worst. . . . We hope that the letter will reach him in good time, so that he will know where to come when he is fit enough to travel. . . .

Luke Greentree, who has been serving as a scout for General Braxton Bragg, has joined us here as of two days ago, having lost his left arm in fighting near Corinth in Mississippi at the end of May. . . . He located us through reports gleaned from other Choctaw scouts, and has declared his intention to stay out of this fight from now on. . . .

Luke Greentree dropped his hammer and swore in English, a comprehensive oath that would have earned a private soldier a strong reprimand; the door he was repairing lay at his feet, the bent nail sticking up from it in mute testimony to his inaccurate aim. “I . . . I didn’t mean that,” he told Madelaine after realizing what he had said. “It just came out, from the army.”

“Of course you meant it,” said Madelaine with good humor. “You’re feeling frustrated, and who can blame you?” She came to his side. “Let me help you.”

“No,” he told her curtly, then said, “You will not be here to help me at all times, will you?”

“I suppose not,” said Madelaine, accepting his decision. “But do not make too high demands upon yourself, Luke Greentree, not until you have had more time to grow accustomed to—”

“My loss?” he asked sarcastically, and made another attempt at driving a nail. Madelaine left him to his task and went into the mill, stopping to shake her head at the broken millstones and the shaft from the ruined wheel in the millrace. What sense was there in wrecking this place? she asked herself. What did the soldiers who did this expect to gain?

“They say that the miller hid runaway slaves,” Susanne remarked from the top of the stairs, as if she had discerned the questions in Madelaine’s mind. “The loss of the mill was nothing compared to recapturing runaways.” She unfastened the scarf tied around her hair. “At least it is cooler than it was.”

“Yes,” Madelaine agreed. “And we have two horses now, unless Forrest comes and takes them, too. I doubt he’ll want draught horses, though. They’re not fast enough for his purposes.” She wiped her hands on her skirts. “I am going to speak to the farmer at Powder Springs, the one with the new slaughterhouse. He might let me purchase a pig or two, or some sheep, and, if we’re lucky, a mule. I have some gold. He should be willing to accept it.” She glanced at the case containing her books and her manuscripts, trying to convince herself that here she would have more time to work on her treatise on the Choctaw.

“We do not need them,” said Susanne quietly. “We need soap and thread and blankets.

“Yes. And you will need livestock before winter arrives. You will not be able to live on what you forage in the hills,” Madelaine said with grim confidence. “So, chickens and pigs well as soap and thread and blankets. A couple sacks of oats wouldn’t hurt, either. I’ll take the wagon, to bring the goods home. The horses will stand going that far.”

“You do not have to do this,” said Susanne, her expression bordering on defiance.

“But I want to,” said Madelaine. “We have discussed this already. You are not beholden to me. You have given me your hospitality, and this is the least I can do in return.” She came to the foot of the stairs and looked up.

“But you don’t eat pork. Or anything else, for that matter,” Susanne declared, her voice rising.

“No, I don’t, except in private,” said Madelaine, unflustered only because she had been expecting this challenge for the last week.

“That isn’t the way of the French, is it,” Susanne said, summoning all her courage.

“It is the way of those of my blood,” said Madelaine.

Susanne shifted her gaze to something on the second level of the millhouse. “I saw you carry that table up here.”

So that was the reason for these remarks, thought Madelaine. “I see,” she said. “I suppose it would be useless to tell you—”

“Anything,” Susanne finished for her. “You need not explain. It would be wiser if you didn’t, so I would not have to deny knowledge I possess. But you must know that I have seen things, observed them carefully, and I know you are not simply a rich and adventuresome foreigner.”

“Well enough,” said Madelaine, her fear diminishing. “What else do you think I may be?”

This time Susanne’s expression softened a bit. “As long as it brings no danger to me and mine, there is no reason for me to know more.”

“If you wish,” said Madelaine.

“It is not a matter of wishing, it is a matter of knowing,” said Susanne, and motioned to Madelaine to come up. “My kinsman, Luke Greentree, is certain that you are not what you seem.” She indicated the table Madelaine had carried up the stairs. “With both arms, if he had them. he could not lift that.”

“You two have spoken of this?” Madelaine asked as she selected a chair and sat down, trying to maintain her composure.

“This morning,” said Susanne with a single nod. “He told me of how much strength you showed getting from our people’s Nation in Indian Territory. He has seen strong women, but nothing to equal what you are, little as you look it. He worried at first that he might be in danger from you, but soon realized that was not the case.”

“Neither of you have ever been in danger from me,” said Madelaine with slight emotion. “You have my word that you will not be.”

Susanne made a sign of acceptance. “And my brothers?”

“No danger,” Madelaine assured her. “Even if they were both here.” She adjusted her skirt, studiously arranging its folds as she continued quietly, “I am not a ravening beast.”

“You have been most kind to us,” was Susanne’s response as she sat down opposite Madelaine. “And the animals do not fear you.”

“There is no reason they should,” said Madelaine candidly. “It is not my way to injure them.”

“No, I did not think so,” said Susanne, not quite able to meet Madelaine’s steady gaze. “Fox Woman told us that much. She would not have sent you to us if she had thought you would bring harm with you.”

Madelaine sat very still. This confirmed her sense that Fox Woman had suspected; it should not be surprising, but it was, and it took a while to digest this. Finally: “What did she say?”

“That you were not what she thought your kind would be. That she had been afraid, when she first came to understand about you, but her fear ended quickly when she understood that legends are not always truthful. She said you had taught her much.” She moved back in her chair, though her shoulders remained stiff. “It has pleased me to have your trust, Madame.”

“Yes, you have it,” said Madelaine. She felt terribly awkward and ill-at-ease, for she could not guess what more might be demanded of her. With an attempt at lightness, she said, “At least I will not be a burden if food runs low this winter.”

“Truly?” asked Susanne, revealing some of the trepidation she had not entirely conquered.

Madelaine did her best to laugh, and very nearly sounded convincing. “I will not take advantage of either you or Luke Greentree. Neither of you have sought that from me. Nor will I impose upon your brothers, should either of them come here.” She waved her hand toward the window and the wooded slope beyond. “I will not obtain what I need near this place. There are farms out there, and occasionally one of the men who work them will have a sweet dream, and I will have sustenance for a while. It is all I can do in safety for them, and for myself.” She cocked her head, and did her best to ignore the longing she felt to be known and welcomed as a lover once again. “You may rely on my discretion, Susanne Selbie. I will do nothing to bring any blame or condemnation upon you.”

“Is that why you have been so willing to carry letters for me? Because it would take you to . . . uh. . . .”

“Somewhere I may discreetly feed?” asked Madelaine, being deliberately blunt. “Yes, that is part of the reason. In Buchanan I had to be very circumspect.”

“Yes,” said Susanne, nodding twice in a decisive way. “I can see that. You would have to be careful, wouldn’t you? If the men you—”

“Visit in dreams; it is the most prudent way,” Madelaine supplied, wishing she had Saint-Germain with her to explain; he did it so well. But then, she reminded herself, he has had four millennia to become good at it, while she had less than a hundred-fifty years.

“Visit in dreams. All right,” said Susanne. “If they realized that their dreams were . . . shared, it could go badly for you.”

“Or if they decided that their dreams pointed them in the direction of the woman they want, it could be . . . difficult, particularly if they were not willing to recognize my nature,” said Madelaine, recalling the determination of Professor Alain Baundilet who had tried to seize her in his arms even while he died. “Some men can only love a thing if they possess it.”

“White men,” corrected Susanne.

“If you say so,” Madelaine granted, not wanting to argue the matter when it was all going so well. She folded her hands in her lap. “Let me make one promise to you: no one who is on this property who does not actually seek me for himself will have anything to fear from me.”

Susanne made no effort to hide the relief she felt at this assurance. “Thank you, Madame. It quells my . . . concerns.”

Madelaine did not want to question this last word, certain that the first that had come to Susanne’s mind was dreads, not concerns. She ventured her best smile and rose. “Thank you. For all you have done for me.” Her gesture cut short the protestations Susanne started to offer. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“All right,” Susanne told her, satisfied with the promise Madelaine had given so willingly. As she stood, she declared “There are many more crates to unpack.”

“I’ll manage my own,” Madelaine said quickly.

Susanne gave no answer.

At the old mill, east of Cedartown and north of Dallas, Georgia, 11 November, 1862

It has been very wet these last several days, and when there has been no rain, a thick mist has taken its place, clammy as a winter day in Venice. Everything is permeated by dampness. I have gone out twice with Luke in search of game, and will go out again shortly, so that there will be meat at the mill. Finding game is not as easy as it was once; when I have gone alone at night, I have discovered fewer deer and more hungry people in the woods. The army is demanding more food, and those with small holdings are suffering.

Another group of men from the general area—Cedartown, New Hope Church, Dallas, and Pumpkin Vine—came to the mill early this afternoon, ostensibly to learn who is here, and whether the mill will be restored to operation, but actually to try to determine if run-away slaves are still hiding here, waiting for guides to take them north. One of the men had the grace to be apologetic, a wagon and coach-maker, who has had most of his business taken over by the army. He did not have the air of contempt so many of these men show to anyone with non-white blood, which is to his credit.