Redeeming Gabriel (23 page)

“I’ll wager Lady wanted to toss me into the bay.” Harry smiled faintly.

“She says she’s never seen you before.” Camilla smiled in return. “Maybe she didn’t get a good look at you.”

“Maybe she didn’t.” Harry turned his head with an obvious effort, taking in his surroundings. “Never thought I’d be in this room again. Not that I’m complaining, but how did I get here? And where are the guards?”

“It’s a long story, and you need food and rest.” Camilla stroked his bearded cheek, then reached for a pitcher of water on the nearby sewing table and poured a little into a glass. “Here, can you drink this?” She slid her arm under Harry’s head and lifted it, holding the glass to his parched lips.

“Thank you.” He closed his eyes. “It’s good to be in a real bed. Clean sheets are a miracle.”

Throat clogged, Camilla rose. “Portia left some broth on the fire. I’ll be right back with it.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

When she returned, Harry’s breathing was deep and regular, his eyes closed. But before she could set down the bowl of broth he turned his head. “Milla. You smell so heavenly.”

“Are you sure it’s not the broth?”

His eyes opened. “Sometimes I dream of lily of the valley.”

Blushing, Camilla began to feed him tiny spoonfuls of broth.

Harry quickly tired and pushed the spoon away. “Thank you, no more. Camilla, when we were in the hospital I thought I heard—” He licked parched lips. “That doctor sounded like an old friend of mine.”

Camilla caught her breath. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Harry, but—”

“You’ve gotten yourself into a pickle as usual and expect me to get you out of it.” Gabriel’s deep voice came from the doorway.

Camilla’s head jerked around.

Gabriel filled the room with his negligent, contained energy. “It’s me, Harry. What have you got to say for yourself?”

Harry tried to smile. “Hullo, old man. Thought I was hallucinating when I heard your voice. How’d you turn up here again?”

“It’s a long story.” Gabriel laid the back of his hand against Harry’s brow. “You were headed for Ship Island for exchange, but I doubt you’d have made it in this condition. Camilla saved your life.” He sounded a mite regretful.

Camilla bristled. “What else was I supposed to do?”

“Camilla’s been my angel on more than one occasion.” Harry glanced at her fondly.

“I’m sure she has.” Gabriel straightened. “Do you realize what a mortal fix you’ve gotten her into?”

“Would you prefer that I had died instead?” Mottled color flooded Harry’s face.

“Stop it!” Camilla rose to face Gabriel. “If you’re not going to be any help, get out of here and go back to your actress. I’m sick of you interfering!”

“Delia’s gone. And I didn’t say I wasn’t going to help.”

“Then help me figure out how to get Harry out of here alive.”

“I told you—” he shrugged “—he’s just malnourished, not sick or wounded. Give him a day or two here, and the Rebs will take him on down to exchange, then he’ll be home free.”

Camilla’s jaw set. “I don’t want him back in Rebel custody at all.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Would you two quit talking about me as if I were a child? I ought to have some say in the matter.”

Gabriel gave him an impatient glance. “You’re in no condition to make decisions. You’ve caused nothing but trouble as it is.”

Camilla knelt beside the cot. “If we let them take you again, you might never make it to the exchange. They didn’t feed you before—”

“They didn’t know I’m a surgeon. Now that they do, they’ll be more likely to take care of me. What if I offered my skills for a time here, in return for special treatment?”

Gabriel’s lip curled. “Only you would think of that—”

“That’s a wonderful plan.” Camilla looked up at Gabriel. “Maybe he could be an extra pair of eyes and ears for us in the hospital.”

“What good would that do?” Gabriel clenched his teeth. “Besides, if you’re so concerned for his safety, you don’t want him here in Confederate territory.”

“I think you’re jealous, old man.”

Gabriel turned away. “Do whatever you want, Camilla. You haven’t listened to me yet—why should I expect you to start now?” He stalked out of the room.

Camilla looked after him, biting her lip. “He’s just angry because I won’t grovel to him.”

Harry took her hand to his lips. “Milla, look at me.” When she did, she was astonished to see tears standing in his eyes. “I thought of you every day while I was on the march, and sometimes the only thing that kept me going was knowing you were here at home, safe with your family. I dreamed of your hair and your eyes and your laugh.” He smiled and reached up to touch one of her curls.

“Harry—”

“No, listen. If you’d found someone else while I was gone, I’d be crushed, but—but I could understand. You were so young when I left for Tennessee.” Harry’s bony hand slipped down her arm to grip her elbow with surprising strength. “But not Gabriel. I know him too well. He’s a renegade and a rolling stone. An infidel.”

Camilla searched his eyes, overwhelmed with feelings she could neither define nor control. Uppermost was the desire not to hurt Harry. But something about his appeal bothered her.

“Why did you…” She hesitated. “Why didn’t you bring Gabriel home to our family when you were in medical school? We would have welcomed him, perhaps introduced him to the Lord.”

“Gabe can be charming when he wants. But he was brought up by that crazy uncle of his and has no other family to speak of, so his morals are lacking, to say the least.” Harry grimaced. “He never acknowledged any authority beyond his own intellect. He’s got a way with women, and he’s brilliant at getting what he wants. Maybe I was afraid you’d be attracted to him.” Harry sighed and looked away.

Camilla spoke over the threat of tears. “I’d never give my heart to a man who owes no allegiance to God.” She leaned toward Harry. “But you and I have been apart for a long time. I’m not the same little girl you used to know. Please…be patient with me, Harry.”

Camilla closed her eyes against the disappointment in his haggard countenance. But Gabriel Laniere’s dark, scornful face only appeared in its place.

Chapter Eighteen

S
ometime in the wee hours of the morning, Byrd tied Candy to a gardenia bush outside the newspaper office. “Stay right there and be quiet,” he said and shuffled toward Church Street.

Candy was getting tired of that gardenia bush. He hoped whatever was going to happen would happen fast, so he could get back to his still. Business was going to slack off if he left it much longer.

The old lady said if he’d watch Mr. Jamie and let her know when he got ready to set sail in that contraption, she’d find him a table to go in his shed. She’d offered to pay him a lot of money, but he didn’t want no money. Candy sure would like to eat off a table, though.

Byrd shook his head as he trudged along. Maybe he should’ve told Missy what he was doing. Missy was right fond of her brother. But the old lady said not to tell Missy ’cause it would upset her, and Byrd wouldn’t want to upset her no way.

Sometimes it was hard to know what was right. He wished he could read the Good Book for hisself so he could know. Maybe instead of a table he should ask for a copy of the Good Book. Maybe Missy would even teach him to read—if she wasn’t too mad at him.

He quickened his steps and slipped into the yard of Bethel Church. The windows were darkened, as they had been since early spring, but a crack of light split under the bottom of the one nearest the door. Whatever that Thing was, it took a powerful lot of banging and scraping in the wee hours of the night.

He crept toward the building and jumped to see through the sliver of open window, but he wasn’t quite tall enough. He slid to the ground, tugged his cap over his ears and settled down to wait. The old lady said not to go to sleep, because something might happen. He wished something would happen quick.

Then he almost missed it because they were so quiet. But a creak of the big double doors at the back of the church startled him awake. He jumped to his feet.

“Where’s the wagon?”

“Coming. Look, there it is.”

Out of the darkness a flatbed wagon rattled up, pulled by two draft horses. Only the military could afford to pay for that.

The two men went back inside the church and returned with three others. They helped the wagon driver carry the Thing out of the church. Byrd listened hard and picked out Mr. Jamie’s voice as the man who had first spoken. He seemed to be in charge.

“Laniere,” said Mr. Jamie, “I want you here at the stern. Protect the rudder, because if it bends we’ll be starting all over.”

The six men climbed into the wagon with the Thing. Byrd craned his neck, trying to see it as they tied it down. It hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d seen it. Maybe narrower at one end. Maybe an extra bump on top. He couldn’t hardly tell, it was so dark.

He was going to have to follow. He wished he had Candy so he could keep up better, but then again maybe not. Candy never could keep a secret.

The wagon lurched into motion, and Byrd followed on foot. He had on a brand-new pair of boots the old lady had given him, so his feet didn’t hurt so bad. He could also walk faster than he used to. The wagon went slowly, so he kept up pretty well until he passed the newspaper office.

He didn’t know how she did it, because that was a dang strong-smelling gardenia bush, but Candy caught wind of Byrd as he passed her. She set up a braying you could’ve heard all the way to Pelican Point.

Byrd froze. The wagon jerked to a halt.

“What’s that?” one of the men on the wagon asked.

“Sounds like a mule!”

“Where is it?”

“Somebody shoot it!”

“And wake the neighborhood? Just grab it and shut it up.”

Byrd hauled at the rope that tied Candy to her bush. It was tangled in a twisted limb and refused to come loose. Candy continued to hee-haw in spite of Byrd’s whispered apologies.

He almost had her loose when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, lifting him and shaking him like a dead rat.

“What do you think you’re doing, old man?”

Byrd ducked his head and kicked his feet. “Lemme go!”

“Hey, Beaumont, that’s the Birdman,” said someone on the wagon, “he’s harmless.”

Byrd felt his head return to normal position. His feet touched the ground.

Mr. Jamie kept hold of his shoulder. “Shut that mule up.”

“I ’spect she’s hungry,” Byrd said. “Got any paper?”

“Chambliss, get that newspaper over there—hurry.”

Candy was shortly chewing on the newspaper in injured silence. Byrd worked the rope free from the bush, while the men on the wagon looked around to make sure the disturbance hadn’t brought down the watch.

Mr. Jamie’s face was shadowed, but Byrd could feel his anger. If he didn’t kill him, the old lady would. But maybe if he was dead Missy would forgive him.

“Here, give me that rope,” Mr. Jamie said.

“But Candy’ll run away—”

“I don’t give a rat’s ear about the mule! Give me the rope!”

Byrd obeyed.

Then found himself bound and tossed into the back of the wagon with the Thing. Some finlike part of it dug into his back.

“Keep him from tattling all over town about what he saw.” Mr. Jamie climbed onto the front seat with the driver.

“But I wouldn’t tell nobody—”

“Shut up!”

Byrd shut up.

The wagon bumped and jostled several hundred yards, then turned left. After a right-hand turn Byrd could smell the river. The wagon drew up. He heard water flowing past pilings and all the other night noises of a riverbank. Someone hauled him up by his jacket and the seat of his pants and tossed him into the mud several yards away from the wagon. Byrd could see boots and the wagon’s wheels and not much else. He was afraid if he made any noise they might shoot him. He’d seen a gun in the waistband of one of the men.

He rolled over. Best he could tell, they were at the foot of Theater Street. The water of the bay was shallow and choppy here, because the wind blew through unobstructed by trees. They’d have a hard time sailing anything.

He scooted off to the side unnoticed by the men, who were busy unloading the Thing. Looked like a dang shark. A real big one. Byrd shuddered, thinking about Jonah in the Good Book.

He rolled closer and saw a long pier sloping into the water. Straining against the weight of the metal, the men carried the Thing across the pier and pushed it off into the water. He wondered why it didn’t float off, but then he saw it was tied to a piling with a thick rope.

How were they going to sail it? No mast, no sails, not even a place to stand on it. It was round as a barrel and slick as glass. It bobbed like a cork in the rough water.

“You got the candle?” asked Laniere, and Mr. Jamie grunted. “Good. Now remember, when the candle goes out, that means your air’s gone, and it’s time to surface. Pump the water out of the ballast tank as fast as you can.”

“I will.” Mr. Jamie sounded impatient. “We’ve been through this a hundred times.”

“I know, but we don’t want to toss the whole project with any careless moves.” Laniere spread his big, hammy hands. “Wish I was small enough to go with you.”

“Well, you’re not. I can handle it.”

“Did you check—”

“I checked everything! We’ve got to go before daylight. Come on, men.” Mr. Jamie approached the Thing, and the other men followed.

Stiff with terror, Byrd watched as Mr. Jamie raised one of the bumps on top of the Thing, like it was some kind of lid.

He wanted to go get the old lady, tell her what her grandson was doing. But he was trussed up like a chicken over a spit, and if he rolled much farther downhill he’d land in the river. He watched all the men but Laniere disappear, one by one, inside the top of the Thing.

Laniere untied the rope and gave it a shove with his boot. It floated away, picking up speed as if something inside gave it life. Before Byrd’s goggling eyes, it began to submerge. Within a frog’s spit, it disappeared underwater. Out on the pier, Laniere danced a little jig, then, arms folded, started to tramp up and down the pier.