The Loyal Heart (6 page)

They'd done that, too, though he and his comrades had been there long enough to not need reasons to share cots. They simply were glad there was someone near enough to take the edge off the constant ache.

Those memories were so clear, so piercingly real, that he had to close his eyes to forget them.

“There were a lot of men there. Over two thousand at the end of the war. I'm surprised you recognized me.”

“Everyone knew who you were.”

Robert lifted his chin. “Why is that?”

“You were with Captain Monroe.” Looking a little sheepish, Kern said, “He was a formidable figure, even though he was only a captain.”

“He was a formidable figure.” Looking at Kern intently, he added, “He still is.” No man would ever get far if he dared to say anything bad about his commanding officer.

Kern's eyes widened. “Hey, now. No need to get riled up. I meant that as a compliment. After all, there were generals in camp with us.”

“There were.” They'd been impressive. Some had been West Point graduates. Yet even those men had treated their captain with a combination of awe and respect.

Eager to find a few minutes of solitude, he stared at his interloper coldly. “You have the advantage of me. While we might have both had the misfortune to be detained in the middle of Lake Erie, I do not know you. Furthermore, I am afraid I don't take pleasure in remembering my time in captivity.”

Something uneasy flickered in Kern's eyes. “No, I don't reckon you would.”

That told Robert nothing. Losing patience with the man's lack of information, he bit out, “Any particular reason you wanted to say hello?”

“There is.” After another brief moment, the corners of the man's lips turned up. “Though I told you my name, I should also let you know I'm the sheriff here.” He paused, presumably waiting for Robert to give him his due.

However, Robert could find no reason to respond to the lawman. He'd done nothing wrong and was far beyond feeling impressed by men wielding authority, especially men in power with such a lazy drawl.

Therefore, he merely stared.

A flash of awareness filled Sheriff Kern's features before he attempted to smile again. “Don't want to trouble you, but I'd like a few minutes of your time. If I may.”

All of Robert's defenses went on alert. The lawman knew his name and had sought him out away from Mrs. Markham's boardinghouse. Both things gave him pause. “Is there a specific reason you've sought my company, Sheriff?”

“Yes.”

Impatience gnawed at him as he realized the sheriff had no intention of providing any information without Robert investing a considerable amount of time and energy. “I am at a loss for what we could possibly have to say to each other.”

“I aim to rectify that if you would kindly spare me a few moments of your time.”

Robert knew he had no choice. He was going to have to listen to this man no matter what. But still he muttered, “I don't believe I've done anything here in Galveston you might find fault with.”

“Neither do I—especially since you have been here barely more than twenty-four hours.” After another weak attempt of a
smile, Sheriff Kern said, “I promise, this won't take up much of your time.”

Robert searched the man's features. Noticed the freshly shaven cheeks, the earnest look in his eyes. His solid stance. Then, upon further examination, Robert saw a hard glint in his eyes, a faint scar marring one of his dark eyebrows.

And an air about him that warned most everyone to give him respect. This man might not have fought in the war for years like the rest of them, but he was no tenderfoot. There was a will of iron lurking behind his easy, relaxed expression and slow Texas drawl.

And in that hint of iron, Robert found a measure of respect for him. The sheriff grew in his estimation. “Where would you like to talk?”

“Not here. It's too public.”

“No offense, but I'd prefer not to meet in your offices.” A lawman's offices were always barely one step away from his holding cells, and Robert had no desire to ever be that close to a set of iron bars again.

“None taken.” Sheriff Kern looked amused. “Perhaps you would join me on a walk? I could show you the sights. Galveston is a progressive city with a lot to be proud of.”

Satisfied that Kern didn't seem to be harboring any ulterior motives, Robert gestured to his right. “I was about to revisit your square.”

The lawman frowned. “Ah. Well, if you don't mind, I'd rather not go there right now.”

“Anywhere else in mind?”

Looking as if he'd just discovered oil, his expression brightened. “I know. There's a place at the end of one of the docks that I find particularly pleasing. How about there?”

Robert was officially intrigued. “I can't think of a better spot I'd like to see.”

Kern turned on his heel and started down a nearby alleyway that Robert hadn't even noticed. After a moment's hesitation, Robert followed, wondering all the while if he was about to be set up to be ambushed.

Though it was midday, the alley was dark and narrow and smelled like forgotten trash and desolation. It was also damp and held a peculiar chilliness, in direct contrast to the relative warmth on the public square. Here and there sat poor lost souls—some men, some women holding a child or two. Their disinterest in both the sheriff's approach as well as the unfamiliar stranger's appearance spoke volumes. They'd been through much and didn't hold out hope for anything to change.

Just as Robert slowed to stare in wonder at one of the women who looked like little more than skin and bones, he heard the rustling and squeal of a rat racing across his path. He released a low cry of alarm before he could stop himself.

Kern glanced over his shoulder with a chuckle. “There are more rats here in Galveston than people. You'll get used to 'em.”

Robert sincerely hoped he did not. “You need some cats.”

“Not for those rats. They're big as coons and mean as snakes. I wouldn't put any creature I liked in their paths. But don't worry, Billy'll catch him sooner or later. He always does.”

“Billy? He your rat catcher or something?”

The sheriff let loose a bark of laughter, its sound reverberating around the brick walls of their enclosure. “Heck no. This ain't England. He's just an old codger man with a way with rodents. He says they're good eating.”

“You haven't tried?”

Sheriff Kern visibly shuddered. “To my good fortune, I have
not. Even when times were tough around here, they were never that tough.” As they exited the alleyway, Kern gestured to the harbor looming ahead. “ 'Course, I'd rather eat a fish any day of the week. What about you, Lt. Truax?”

Robert was momentarily taken aback by the title. It seemed that the sheriff, for all his good-ole-boy persona, was actually far sharper than he let on. He wondered how he'd discovered his rank in twenty-four hours. Or had he known on Johnson's Island? “I've had rat,” he said at last. “But only once. It wasn't a meal worth repeating.”

“Don't imagine it was. Fan of fish?”

“From time to time.”

“I'll see if my sister, Diana, can cook up some while you're here visiting. She has a way with catfish and frog legs.”

“I'll pass on the frogs, if you don't mind.”

Kern grinned. “You're kinda particular for a man who has spent time in prison.”

He was particular because he'd spent time in prison. Instead of sharing that point, Robert kept his silence as they walked toward the harbor. The few men loitering around watched them with silent, steady expressions. Sheriff Kern ignored them, his lanky, relaxed way of walking giving the impression that they were strolling along a boulevard in Savannah.

Not along the rundown docks of the former Confederate port.

His guard relaxed when they at last approached a pier. The air smelled both of the sea and the fetid remains. A cross between fish and decay and coal and debris. The scent was acrid and strong. And though far different from the smells he remembered coming off Lake Erie around his prison, not completely dissimilar.

The memory, like all the others, threw him for a tailspin. He inhaled the cloying air, attempting to locate something fresh
weaving in the middle of it. Anything to clear his head yet again and bring him back to the present.

As his vertigo dissipated, he breathed deeply and cautioned his body to remember that he was no longer at another's mercy. No more bars separated him from freedom.

He wasn't cold. He wasn't shooting his mouth off about things he had no knowledge of. Phillip Markham wasn't dying next to him.

Once he got his bearings again, he realized the dapper young sheriff was staring at him with concern. “Mr. Truax, you've grown pale. Is something distressing you?”

It seemed he could either pretend he had no past or admit what was really the matter.

His instincts told him telling the complete truth at this point in his mission would be exceedingly foolhardy, not even to a lawman. “My body seems determined to take its time getting acclimated.”

Instead of letting his comment pass, the other man looked at him curiously. “To what do you need to become acclimated? The ocean? Or the South?”

Despite his vow to remain distant, Robert felt his eyes flash in annoyance. “As you well know, I was an officer in the Confederate army, sir. I have no need to become acclimated to the South.”

When Kern took a page out of his book and merely stared steadily at him, silently daring him to reveal his dark secrets, Robert gave in and admitted the rest. “As much as I don't care to think about our time in captivity, sometimes the memories still inundate me.”

Kern winced. “I dream about all that water that surrounded our encampment. In my dreams I relive the feel of the ice under my worn boots and my fears about being forced to march on it
during the spring thaw. I think those pieces of ice floating in it scared me more than anything.”

Robert couldn't believe they were currently making small talk about his months in captivity. Discussing the weather like it mattered. But as he involuntarily shivered, his body recalling the chill against his skin that he could never seem to completely forget, he nodded. “I was always cold. And damp.” And though the sheriff hadn't prompted any more confidences, he found himself continuing to talk.

“Every once in awhile, something triggers my body, and for a brief amount of time I imagine I'm back. A loud crash, or the smell of burning fibers. Cold, damp air.”

“It seems no matter how one might wish otherwise, the past always treads on our present.”

Kern's tone wasn't light. Instead, it gave Robert a reason to believe he wasn't the only man present suffering from the war. “Do you, also, have demons that you find difficult to escape?”

“I do.”

“I must admit I'm surprised. You don't look old enough to have fought, let alone been sent to Johnson's Island.”

“Toward the end of the war they didn't just send officers. Anyone would do.”

The younger man's simple statement shamed him. “Forgive me. I didn't mean to negate your experiences.”

“There ain't a thing to forgive. We've all experienced loss, sir. Only some of the things, I think, are harder to imagine than others.”

Robert blinked. It seemed this young pup had more to him than he had anticipated. The other man's acceptance of Robert's weaknesses felt like he was being exposed. Opening a wound, leaving himself bare for further viewing. For pain.

And though one might argue that uncovering such a wound might eventually give a man the hope of healing, Robert wasn't exactly ready for that. No, it would be far easier to live with the dull ache that filtered through his heart and soul.

At least he was used to that.

Obviously seeing that Robert was done sharing his experiences, Kern cleared his throat again. “Well, we are here. How about we take a seat at the end of the dock?”

The dock looked rickety. “You sure it can hold both our weight?”

“Only one way to find out, Lieutenant,” Kern called out as he walked to the end of the pier and sat down with little fuss or fanfare.

Wondering how his errand of posting a letter had come to a sojourn down memory lane with a youngish sheriff with a penchant for good humor, Robert followed the sheriff's lead and made his way down the pier.

When he reached the edge, he sat down. The wood felt warm underneath him. And with his legs dangling over the water, he felt both younger than he had in years and curiously ancient. He couldn't remember the wood ever feeling so unforgiving when he had been younger.

“What did you want to speak to me about?”

“Miranda Markham.”

Robert held his temper with effort. “Don't tell me that you, too, seek to warn me about her?”

“Definitely not. On the contrary, I was hoping you could tell me more about your relationship with her.”

“We have no relationship. I am a guest at her boardinghouse.”

“Is that right?” Kern's lips pressed together. “That's all?”

“Do you expect more? I only met her yesterday morning.”

To Robert's amazement, Kern relaxed. “I see.”

Again, he was feeling like he'd stepped into the middle of a maze for which there was no way out. Tired of such foolishness, he hardened his voice. “What, precisely, do you see?”

The muscles in Kern's throat worked a bit. “Nothing.”

“Except?”

“Except that Mrs. Markham attracted my notice from my first day here over two years ago. I suppose I feel a bit protective toward her.”

“If you do, I would venture that you'd be the only one. The few townspeople I've met seem to treat her as a pariah.”

Kern stiffened. “I know. I don't understand it myself.”