In The Face Of Death (30 page)

“What about your fathers? Do you know where they are?”

“With General Taylor,” said Daniel. “My Pa is, anyway.” He looked down into his stew as if expecting to discover news of his father there.

“And yours? Seth?” Madelaine said, encouraging the boy as much as she could.

His face darkened. “Got shot fighting with General Mitchel. Serves him right.”

“General Ormsby Mitchel? Do you mean
that
General Mitchel?” Madelaine guessed, realizing the reason for the boy’s taciturn answers; his father was with Union troops.

“Yeah,” said Seth, going on as if driven against his will. “Had a ball in the face. Made him blind.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Madelaine, putting her hand out to the child.

“I’m not,” growled Seth, though his knotted face belied his words.

“I’m sorry for anyone hurt in war,” said Madelaine gently. “I don’t care what side they’re on, it only matters that they’re hurt.”

“Yeah,” muttered the unhappy boy. He went back to eating, and would not look up from his bowl.

Sister Leah heard this out with growing concern. “Poor lad,” she said. “Don’t make it worse than it is by forgetting to honor your father. If you don’t honor your father, you break one of God’s rules.”

“His Pa broke the rules,” said Daniel firmly. “Going over to the Yankees like that.”

“He must have felt he had to,” said Madelaine, trying to find a way to mitigate Seth’s misery.

“Well, he shouldn’t’ve done it,” Seth said, his face still scarlet with shame. “God should’ve made him fight for us if He wanted me to . . . to keep His rules.”

“Child!” Sister Leah shook her head. “Do not say such things. They injure your soul.”

“Do not,” said Seth truculently.

“Sister Leah,” Madelaine intervened. “Perhaps we should let these two young men get some rest before we worry about their souls? The body needs care as well.”

Whatever objection Sister Leah might have had was lost in the loud whoop as Luke Greentree came through the door, Eliza wrapped around his leg, giggling.

“Indian!” cried Daniel, almost overturning his bowl as he jumped to his feet, his face going white with dread.

Madelaine saw that the child was terrified; she rose and went to his side. “Yes. This is Luke Greentree. He helps us out here, since he can’t do any more scouting now that he’s lost his arm.” She kept her voice low and steady. “Luke Greentree is a Choctaw. His people were here long before any white men were.”

Luke Greentree was disengaging himself from Eliza’s frantic hug, but he turned around to look at the cousins. “New faces.”

“This is Daniel. And this”—Melissa reached out to him—“is Seth. They just got here.”

“I guessed that,” said Luke Greentree, standing upright as Eliza finally let go. “How far have you come?” he asked them.

“Long way,” said Seth, looking wretched.

“They haven’t said where they came from,” said Melissa, obviously interested to find out.

“Give them time,” said Luke Greentree. “You don’t have to find out everything all at once.” He gave Sister Leah a respectful nod, then approached Madelaine. “If you have time, there are a few things we must discuss.”

“Certainly,” she told him. “When would you like—”

“What about now?” Luke Greentree suggested.

As he said this, Jesse hurtled into the room, his square face set in rage. “Benjamin,” he announced in terrible accents, “says the Yankees are going to win the war. He’s
lying. He’s LYING!”
He stared around for someone to take this out on.

Susanne appeared at the top of the stairs above the kitchen. “What’s this?” she called out, as if she were unaware of the outrage being expressed.

Jesse was about to start in again, when Seth said very quietly, “Yankees won’t win.”

Astonished at finding an ally, Jesse looked over at the newcomers, and goggled. “Who’re you?” he demanded.

“Now,” said Luke Greentree to Madelaine, indicating the outer door. “It won’t take long.”

Madelaine nodded and followed him, hoping to attract as little notice as possible. “What is it?” she asked when she got outside.

“I found . . . something today while hunting,” he said.

“You’re being deliberately obtuse, aren’t you?” Madelaine asked him.

“Yes. It is something . . . you will have to decide.” He stared out toward the millpond.

“Whatever it is could be dangerous,” she said, knowing his reasons for hesitation.

“Yes, I think so,” said Luke Greentree. “If you will decide . . . I can’t. And neither can Miz Selbie.” He made an attempt at explaining. “I don’t know if the war getting nearer makes it better or worse.”

“And it is getting nearer, isn’t it?” said Madelaine.

“There’s been fighting in Tennessee before,” said Luke Greentree indirectly.

“But it’s coming nearer. Bragg is at Chattanooga, or so they say; Rosecrans is in pursuit.” It was what the recent papers reported, and both of them were aware that this could mean a collapse was coming, though neither of them said as much. “Does this make your problem worse?”

“It could,” said Luke Greentree. “If you will come with me. I’ve saddled one of the horses for you.”

“Now?” Madelaine asked, a bit surprised that the need was quite so urgent. “Very well,” she said as she read his expression. She looked down at her dress. “I will need to change my shoes for boots. Let me have a few minutes.”

“I will be waiting,” said Luke Greentree.

Madelaine went back into the mill, and discovered that peace had been restored; Jesse and Seth were in deep, low-voiced conversation about all the powerful secrets the South had to defeat the Yankees. As she reached the next level, she saw Susanne. “I’m just going with Luke Greentree. I’ll be back in a while, probably by nightfall.”

Susanne frowned. “Is something the matter?”

“Luke Greentree thinks there is. He wants my opinion.” She was halfway up the stairs to the next level where her room was.

“Will you tell me the whole of it?” asked Susanne.

“I usually do,” Madelaine replied, and went up to get her boots.

Luke Greentree led her away from the mill in silence, up over the ridge at the back of the hollow to the north, along the side of a dry creek-bed. “That old sorghum shack? That’s where we’re going.”

Madelaine heard this, and said, “It’s runaways, isn’t it?”

It took Luke Greentree the better part of a minute to answer “Yes.”

Old Mill, near Dallas, Georgia, 9 December 1863

I am in a quandary. I have reluctantly spoken to Mister Howard in regard to Daisy Buford and Jacob Dent, for it is increasingly apparent that they must get north of here or be discovered, which would bring danger to all of us at the mill. I had hoped to find others who would be willing to help, but only Mister Howard is considered reliable. So I must deal with him, and on his terms, or risk bringing raiders to this place. That would be intolerable. With fifteen orphans here now, it is all we can do to care for them here. . . .

I wish I knew of some other way to insure the safety of these two brave black people, because Mister Howard has made very plain what he wants from me. . . . I find it ironic that I, of all women, should balk at the bargain he has proposed, but much as I yearn for knowing caresses, the thought of Chauncy Howard’s hands on me sickens me. . . . But if I must do it, so that we may abide in safety here, then I suppose I must. . . . What I fear is that he will demand more when it is done, and use what he knows to the discredit of everyone sheltering here at the mill. If I thought he would not use me so, I would be more sanguine. . . .

The word is that the South achieved a victory at Chickamauga, two months ago, but matters have gone badly since then. Our last news was that Chattanooga was in danger of falling. Union General Rosecrans has been replaced with a General Thomas, who is said to be a stubborn fighter. . . . Is this the brother Colonel Thomas spoke of in San Francisco, almost a decade since? What became of Colonel Thomas, I wonder? The name is not so uncommon, but many families have a tradition of military careers, so it is not unlikely, either, that this may be his brother. . . . The papers report that Tecumseh is in Tennessee, as well, and has become the right hand of General Grant . . . It is hard to think of him so close and yet completely unattainable.

Tomorrow Mister Howard returns and will require an answer. Whatever I tell him, I dread what my decision will mean I must do. . . .

“I can get those two slaves headed north tomorrow; just give the word,” said Chauncy Howard, smiling at Madelaine’s distress. It was evening, and a light, blowing rain dashed along the sky. He was still in his oilskin coat as he stood in the barn door, enjoying the way the lamplight played on Madelaine’s face. “You’re very pretty, Madelaine. I can call you that, can’t I?”

“Thank you,” she said, resenting that good manners demanded so much of her. “Where will you take them?” She forced him to return to their business at hand, wishing now that she had more than a woolen shawl to keep her warm; the wind through the half-open door was cutting.

“There’s a place outside Stilesboro, a small plantation. The owner never kept slaves, and likes to help runaways. He has a smoke-house where they can rest the night.” He achieved a warm smile. “Think about it. They’ll be out of danger. And so will you.” This last was said with heavy emphasis. “No one will learn of what you’ve done, not what you do with me, nor why. You won’t have any of those runaway hunters coming here, searching everything.” He came a step nearer. “The last place they looked, they burned down when they were done, just to teach everyone a lesson. You don’t want that to happen here.”

“No,” said Madelaine in a small voice. She wanted to throw him off a mountaintop, to batter him with a maul, to flay him and leave him hanging from a hook.

“Those children you’ve taken in, you and that half-breed woman, they could be back wandering the roads, and winter’s closing in.” He unfastened his coat. “That’s up to you.”

“Is it?” she asked, wanting to keep him talking. If he continued to boast, she had more time to plan. He was so proud of himself, and she intended to use that pride against him.

“I told you that from the first. You’re the one who can save everyone or ruin them. Is what I want so much, compared to all those lives?” He grinned. “And what about that poor cripple? He won’t get far in the cold, Shaker women or no. He doesn’t have enough strength to take the cold.”

“He was wounded fighting for the South,” Madelaine reminded her tormentor.

Howard laughed. “You think I’m so low, a snake wouldn’t ripple going over me, don’t you? I know he was fighting for the Confederacy. Hell,
I’m
fighting for the Confederacy. If we don’t stop slavery, there won’t be a Confederacy to fight for.” He made a sudden sweep of his arm. “So don’t hold me up as a man without patriotism. I love my country. I want to see it survive. And it won’t if we try to hold on to our slaves.” The color had mounted in his face. He came three steps closer. “So if you want to do your part, you know how.”

“Mister Howard—” she began, keeping her sorting counter with its stack of herbs between them.

“Chance,” he corrected her.

“Mister Howard, if everything you say is true,” she said, trying to sound calm and reasonable, “then why do you put me in this position? What do you gain by it? Why do you want to coerce me when you have reason to help the runaways?”

“Because I can,” he answered, gloating openly. He unfastened his coat and tossed it away, paying no heed to where it landed. “I can make you bend to my will. I can make you do whatever I want.”

This pronouncement brought Madelaine to a keener sense of her precarious situation. “You want to have slaves,” she said harshly.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” he responded with anger, stung by her accusation.

“You might not,” she said, growing braver. “But it is apparent to me that it is what you seek to make me.”

He looked ugly now. “A woman owes it to her man to—”

“Cringe?” she suggested, “Detest him? Loathe him? Despise him? Well? Which is it?” She read increasing wrath in his demeanor, and she went on, goading him. “What do you think a woman owes her man?”

“Devotion!”
he shouted. “That’s what she owes her man!”

“And you will demand it by holding her friends and innocents hostage to ensure her devotion,” said Madelaine with feigned approval. “Very wise. She might not be willing to endure you otherwise.” She reached over and lifted the oil lamp, watching the wavering flame. “It is a coward’s way of courtship.”

“I am not courting you, woman,” he snapped. “We’re making a . . . contract here. I will arrange for the runaways you’re sheltering to get north to safety, and I will make sure nothing happens to this place for doing it, and in exchange, you will lie with me when I like, as often as I like.” If he had hoped to shock her, he was disappointed.

“Come now, Mister Howard. You must know better than that.” She made herself look amused. “You cannot risk that, and we both know it.”

He reached across the counter and seized her arm. “That’s a lie. I can make you do anything I want.”

She winced at this treatment, but only said, “Mind the lamp. We don’t want a fire, do we?”

He took the lamp away from her, hanging it on a hook at the edge of the first stall. “You can’t put me off this way, Madelaine. I know what I want, and you will give it to me.”

From the direction of the mill came the sounds of children singing in uncertain unison the old hymn
Come, Holy Redeemer.
Howard swung around, pulling on her arm as he did, then turned back to her. “You won’t distract me that way,” he promised her.

“I didn’t think I would,” she answered, using her free hand to reach into her capacious apron pocket for her revolver. As she drew it out, she said, “I hoped I wouldn’t have to use this.”

Howard did not see the weapon at first, and when he did, he laughed. “You’ll never tell me that’s loaded.”

“Yes, it is,” said Madelaine coolly. “And I know how to use it. At this range, I can hardly miss.” She lifted the gun. “Now, release my arm and step back.”