Redeeming Gabriel (10 page)

“That’s right. A useful lesson for you, my lovely little smuggler. Where’s the whiskey coming from? Byrd can’t be producing it all by himself.”

“I’m not telling you anything!”

“Fine. Byrd will tell me. He loves that stupid mule almost as much as he loves you—”

“Leave him alone!” Camilla cried desperately. “He didn’t have anything to do with it. There wasn’t any whiskey in those barrels—it was people!” She felt Gabriel’s tension against her back but could no longer contain her anger and fear. “The railroad operations are over now, so you can have me arrested if that’ll satisfy you. But I beg you in the name of mercy to leave Portia and Horace and Virgil out of it!” She sagged in his arms, her head rolling back against his shoulder.

Gradually Camilla became aware that the grip on her wrist had loosened, and she was being supported rather than crushed. She felt Gabriel lean back against the tavern wall and slide down it until they were crumpled together in the weeds and mud.

“You’re an abolitionist.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

She turned her head and nodded, her temple scraping against the stubble on his chin. “Yes.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Do I have to? You’ve been following me around for two weeks now.”

Gabriel sat silent. She listened to the steady thump of his heart under her ear. He held in his hands not only her life but those of all the people she loved. If she was arrested, her entire family would be implicated. She’d known that from the beginning. Portia had warned her often enough.

And he still had the quinine.

She felt Gabriel’s chest lift and fall with a huge breath. “My name is Gabriel Laniere,” he said quietly. “That’s the truth. I can’t tell you anything more, but you can trust me not to turn you in.” When she tipped her head back to look up at his shadowed face, he shook his head. “No time for explanations now. We’ve got to get that sermon to the
Magnolia Princess
before it weighs anchor at dawn.”

Gabriel could hear Camilla trotting behind him down the street. He didn’t slow down. Delia would not wait for him for long.

As the tall warehouses of the quay loomed, Camilla tugged at his coat sleeve. “Don’t you know there’s a curfew?” she whispered. “What if we get stopped?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I have a pass.”

“A pass? Where’d you get a pass?”

He chuckled. “The provost marshal is a member of my church. Since I could be called to a deathbed at any hour of the day or night, Mr. Parker thinks my movements should be unrestricted.”

“So that’s how you’ve been able to sashay around here with nobody questioning you.” She grabbed his arm. “This is the banana dock. What are we doing here?”

He scanned the horizon. The faint pink glow over the water told him that dawn wasn’t far off, and the
Magnolia Princess
would begin her return trip upriver. He looked sharply at his companion. “Is this where your ‘railroad’ connects?”

“Used to. But not anymore.” She pressed her lips together. “Since the Yankees took Pensacola and New Orleans, everybody’s in a panic that they’ll attack here next.”

“What’s that got to do with the ‘railroad’?”

“I suppose I have no choice but to trust you.” When she took her hand from his arm he felt the loss of physical warmth, but more, her emotional detachment.

So what?
he asked himself. What difference did it make if a little girl with big, guileless eyes trusted him? It only mattered because he needed to know what she knew. Still he felt a bit sick. “Of course you can trust me.”

“Of course.” She gave him a small, bitter smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors that a new commander’s on his way to Mobile.”

Gabriel nodded. “I’ve heard. Do you know who it is?”

“General Forney. He was wounded at Dranesville, so they’re sending him down here to recover. Restrictions are being tightened, which means operations are suspended until it’s safe again.”

“Who’s running the operation?”

“I’m not telling you any more until you tell me what’s in that sermon and what you plan to do with it.”

What could he safely tell her? She was abolitionist, he was now sure, and she clearly knew the value of keeping secrets. But she was also practically a child—albeit an intrepid one—and the daughter of a military bankroller. “I’m sending it north.”

“But—”

The sound of quick footsteps approached out of the mist behind them. They both turned as a figure almost identical in size and shape to Camilla hurried toward them.

Gabriel let Delia come close before he addressed her. “Did anyone see you leaving the boat?”

“Of course not. Who is this?”

“Delia Matthews, Camilla Beaumont.” The two women nodded warily, and Gabriel smiled in black amusement. “Camilla’s been safeguarding our cipher all this time. She came to see it on its way upriver.”

Delia’s brows snapped together. “We’ll be lucky if I make it back in time. Where’s the cipher?”

Camilla reached into her blouse and, with obvious misgivings, handed the paper to Gabriel. “You know how important this is, don’t you?”

“Yes, Reverend, you’re not the only bean in this stew.” Delia took the sermon with a sassy flip of her wrist. “Charmed, Miss Beaumont,” she tossed over her shoulder as she disappeared into the fog.

“Well!” Camilla planted her fists on her hips. “I gather you had intended to meet that—that
woman
in the boat the night you gave me the sermon.”

Gabriel shrugged. “No flies on you, missy.”

“How could you mistake me for her?”

He looked her up and down and sighed. “You don’t know how many times I’ve asked myself that very question.”

“Are you an agent? I mean from—” She gestured vaguely.

“What do you think?” He turned toward the hotel.

Camilla followed. “So if you are…can you get a message to Harry for me?”

“I’ve got more important things to do than be your messenger boy.” Harry was a good man, but Gabriel found it irritating that she seemed so enamored with her cousin.

“Of course you do.” Camilla dodged in front of him and stopped, boots planted wide and chin in the air. “You sit around in ladies’ parlors drinking tea and deliver long, pious homilies on Sunday mornings.” She poked him in the chest. “You obviously know a lot about medicine—why don’t you at least share that gift, like Harry does, instead of wasting it?”

“I don’t have a license. Not that it’s any of your business.” He stepped around her and turned onto Government Street.

She came after him. “That doesn’t make any sense. You cared about Lecy Carrolton, enough to go to the trouble and expense of getting hold of that medicine. And I saw the way you touched her and smiled at her. You can’t fool children—” She tripped over an uneven brick in the pavement and went sprawling.

Gabriel stood with his back to her, listening to her sobbing breaths. He should walk away. Camilla Beaumont and her underground railroad and her plague-stricken Secesh brother were complications he didn’t need. Even though the cipher was delivered, he still had to find that underwater vessel. But he’d given her his word.

He turned around and found her sitting with her head cradled on her knees. He extended his hand. “Come on, we have to go after the quinine.”

She looked up at him wordlessly.

He knelt and touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?” The words came out more gruffly than he’d intended.

“I’ve got to know what side you’re on, Gabriel. I think God sent you here to help me, but I’ve got to know.”

A chill walked up the back of Gabriel’s neck, but he made himself remain on one knee, grounded by the threadbare texture of her shirt and the faint scent of lily of the valley. “I’m on the right side.”

“What’s right, Gabriel? Is it right to hold another human being in bondage? Is it right to murder fellow countrymen over property? Is it right to starve people out and keep medical supplies from entering a port?” She dropped her head, and a long curl at the back of her neck blew against his hand.

He twined the curl around his finger and found himself just as inexorably bound to the woman. Maybe she was right, and God had sent him to her. He only knew he couldn’t walk away from her.

“What’s right is holding this nation together. Those black folks you love so much are never going to be free if the United States splits.”

“But Papa says they eventually
will
be freed—when we’re left alone to make that decision in our own way.”

“You honestly think a rich plantation owner’s going to bankrupt himself for the benefit of a bunch of people he thinks of as animals? Would your papa do it?”

“I don’t know. I hope so! What difference does it make what
I
think?” She shut her eyes.

“Look at me!” When the heavy black lashes lifted, he poured all the force of his will into her eyes. “It makes all the difference in the world. I’m putting my life in your hands right now. I have to discover everything I can about gray military activity in this area, including development of a boat that travels underwater, and I need your help.”

“Oh, Lord Jesus,” she whispered, and he knew it was a prayer.

“Camilla, listen.” He took her hands to press his advantage. “You may not want to admit it, but it appears we share some philosophical, if not religious, views. We’re just going about it in different ways.” He took a breath and released it. “Now I need to enlist you to
help
me. That boat—”

“I know about it,” she whispered.

“What?” He stared at her, dumbfounded.

“I know about the fish boat. I heard my father and Mr. Chambliss talking about it the night I met you on the riverboat.”

Chapter Eight

C
amilla rode astride the tall gray gelding behind Gabriel, holding awkwardly to his waist and trying not to lean against him. A lady should retain some measure of distance, despite the night’s bizarre events.

They followed a wooded track along the coastline that led south toward the two forts guarding the entrance to the harbor: Fort Gaines on the elbow of Dauphin Island to the west, and Fort Morgan on the eastern tip of the bay, where the blockade runners found sanctuary. Jamie was there, and she would see him sometime today.

Gabriel held his peace, apparently understanding she needed time to absorb the burden of his confidences. He wasn’t a real minister, but he wasn’t a bootlegger, either. He was the Union agent she had so ignorantly prayed for.

She was going to spy on her own family. She was going to bring this medicine to Jamie and aid a Yankee spy’s entry into a Confederate fort.

Camilla shuddered.

Gabriel slowed the gelding and looked over his shoulder. “Are you cold? We’re almost to Uncle Diron’s.”

She shook her head. “Just tired.” She leaned her aching forehead against his back as he chirruped to the horse.

Sometime later she awoke as someone lifted her down. Sunlight fell against her eyelids. Drowsily she lifted her arms to hang on and snuggled her cheek into Gabriel’s shoulder.

Her eyes popped open. “I’m going to be in so much trouble.”

Gabriel shook his head, eyes amused. “I sent a message from the hotel when we got the horse.” He carried her up the steps of a weather-beaten river shack and across the porch. She smelled sausage, heard someone whistling with a beautiful, warbling tremolo.

“Put me down.” When he did so, she stared up at him. “What did you tell my papa?”

“The truth. That we managed to get hold of some quinine, and we’re taking it to your brother.” He spread his hands. “How could he object? I’m the preacher. Besides, I’ll have you back home by sundown.”

“It’s a long way down to the fort.”

“Not by boat. The steam packet makes a stop at Deer River Point.” He placed a hand against the doorjamb and bent close to her. “Uncle doesn’t know I’m blue. So keep your tongue between your teeth. We’re going to get the quinine and go.”

Camilla nodded and removed her cap. One more person to deceive.

Gabriel’s uncle looked like a man who could move a mountain if he’d a mind to. Yet his face was kind and open, and he greeted her with an elaborate old-fashioned bow. She laughed as his mustache tickled her hand when he kissed it.

She looked for Gabriel and found him sprawled comfortably in a basketlike chair surrounded by a clutter of fishing equipment, an artist’s easel and an odd assortment of musical instruments and pots of brushes and paints. He was already sound asleep.

Diron sent a droll glance toward his nephew. “Gabriel’s a young man of simple needs.”

Camilla surveyed the crowded room. “He didn’t tell me he has family in Mobile. I thought he was from—well, not from here.” Her stomach growled. “Is that sausage I smell?”

Diron chuckled. “And grits. Come on back, and I’ll feed you.” He led the way toward the back of the long, narrow room, where a cast-iron cookstove squatted. He dusted a wooden chair with a rag and seated Camilla with great courtesy.

She might have been dressed in her finest taffeta ball gown, instead of her brother’s breeches and boots. “Thank you.” She smiled.

Diron hadn’t forgotten her implied question. “Gabriel ain’t big on letting folks into his brain box, though when he was a little fella he’d chatter your ear off, asking questions.” He filled a plate for Camilla and handed it to her. “He’s got lots of family in the area, but they’re on the reservation across the state line. Doubt you’d know ’em.”

Camilla swallowed a bite of biscuit. “Reservation? There’s an Indian reservation near here?”

Diron sat across the scarred little table, a spatterware mug of coffee clamped in his big paw. “They moved the last of the Creeks over there in thirty-six, the year Gabriel was born.”

“So Gabriel’s Creek Indian.” That explained the deep-set dark eyes, bronzed skin and high cheekbones. “How did he end up living here with you?”

“Kind of a long story.” Diron shrugged. “My brother and I are French-Canadian by birth. We came downriver to trade and ended up staying. Jean married an Indian girl, but after they moved the Creeks off Alabama land, she missed her family and wanted to follow. Turned out he couldn’t stick it. He went off on a trading expedition and never came back.”