The Rebel Wife (10 page)

The creak of door hinges rasped into her thoughts.

She froze as the chilling image of Calhoun, red-faced and stomping out of the mess hall, rose in her mind. She set down her brush and reached for the lamp, a sturdier weapon should she need it.

“J-Jack? Is that you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I should’ve called out.” The door clicked shut. “I thought you’d be asleep by now and didn’t want to wake you.”

She relaxed her grip on the lamp. “I was too worried about those gunshots to sleep.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Everything’s fine. Go on to bed. I’ll make a pallet here in the living room to sleep on.”

Not just yet, Mister Dash-out-the-door Porter.
She crossed to the open doorway. He stood near the settee, his attention focused on unbuttoning his shirt. She recalled his nakedness when she’d held him at knife point. Sleek muscles flexing beneath smooth skin. Dark hair dotting his broad chest. Her stomach did an odd little flip, and she pressed a hand to calm it.

She must’ve made a noise because he halted his task and looked up, his intense gaze finding her in the doorway. Heat surged up her neck and into her ears at being caught staring.

“The gunfire...” She licked dry lips. “What did you find out?”

“Guards shot and killed a prisoner.”

A breath hitched in her throat. “Dear God. Was it..?”

“No, it wasn’t your brother. Just some unfortunate soul caught outside his tent, looking to relieve himself but found a bullet instead.”

“I’m sorry for the prisoner. But...” She clasped her locket, comforted by the warm smoothness. “I just don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to Lance.”

“I have no doubt you’d survive. Takes a strong woman to face what you have and not knuckle under.”

Praise or slur? With Porter, one never knew. “I just do what I have to.”

“And that’s why you’ll land on your feet. But there’s no reason speculating about what you’ll do without Lance. He’s fine. I’m sure of it.”

He fell oddly silent and sank with a groan onto the settee. His face and shoulders sagged. Exhaustion had clearly overtaken him. After a brief pause, he bent, unlaced and tugged off a boot, and began rubbing his arch.

Rooted in place, she stared at his sock-clad foot. In the evenings after dinner, she’d massaged the aches from Papa’s overworked feet. She imagined herself sitting beside Jack, his leg draped across her lap, her fingers working the kinks from his toes and slender arches. Such an ordinary task, and yet her insides burned with rare heat.

His other boot thudded to the floor, and she jumped.

“Is there something else you wanted?” he asked. “To continue our discussion from earlier perhaps?”

And have to explain why she’d asked such a personal question?
Best to let sleeping dogs lie
, Papa would say. “I think you’ve done enough soul baring for one night.”

“Why don’t you go on to bed then? Get some sleep. You must be exhausted after such a long day.” He grimaced and stretched out his arms. “I know I am.”

“Y-yes, I should get to bed.” She gripped the edge of the doorjamb for support since her wobbly knees appeared loath to hold her up. “I’ll need to be good and rested if I’m to get anything useful out of the guards.”

“Get anything—” He shot to his feet, mouth pulled into a fierce frown. “You’re not going to question the guards.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am.”

“Hmmph. I can cozy up to them just as easily as you can.” She ran a suggestive hand over her hip. “Better, even.”

“Absolutely not.” He padded toward her, his unbuttoned shirt billowing open and baring more of his sleek abdomen. “It’s best if I do the questioning. You don’t have the experience.”

She forced her focus upward. “I’m just as capable as you.”

“Remember your reaction to Calhoun in the officers’ mess?” His gaze slid to her lips. “Lovely though your mouth may be, it has an unruly tendency to brim over.”

He thought her mouth was lovely? His wasn’t so bad either. Pale and slightly pink, like the near-ripe innards of a watermelon. Would they taste as juicy and sweet?

“Go to bed, Kitty. I’ll do my best to find out whatever I can about your brother. I promise.” He leaned closer, those enticing lips mere inches from hers. “You
can
trust me.”

Trust him? She couldn’t even trust herself. All she could think about was his mouth on hers. “I-I want to trust you.”

“Then do it.” He straightened and moved back a step as though proving his word. “It’ll make life easier...for both of us.”

Easier. Somehow that just didn’t seem likely. “You’ll find out anything you can about Lance? And Jeb, too. I want to know how he’s faring.”

“I’ll see to both of them.”

“Their lives are in your hands, Jack. Please don’t let us down.”

“I promise I won’t.” He cupped her elbow, his voice softening. “Get some rest. You’ve had a difficult few days.”

She stared at his fingers curled around her arm. So gentle and reassuring. She ached to find out if there was more to a man’s attentions than the pain Bart had shown her. Something inside her whispered that Jack would be far gentler. But she couldn’t take the chance that she might be wrong.

“Don’t make me regret trusting you.” She gave him one last pointed look and then fled for the safety of the bedroom.

Her hands trembled as she shoved the door closed and shot home the bolt. To lock him out, or herself in?

Never before had she felt such a forceful attraction. If only they’d met under different circumstances, before the War, before Bart. Perhaps then she could explore the sensations he created in her. Discover if she could trust Jackson Porter with her heart.

****

Jack stopped on the parapet overlooking the prison yard below. Row after row of Sibley tents stretched along dirt lanes that were ditched on either side. Slimy water filled the trenches, no doubt adding to the nasty smell drifting upward. Yet the condition of the inhabitants, not the odors, made his stomach revolt.

Thousands of men packed the enclosure, their ragged clothes hanging like tattered sails from gaunt frames. Some shuffled about; others sat in motionless heaps with clouds of flies swarming around them.

Fury raced through him. How could such treatment be condoned? Sure they were enemy soldiers, but they deserved to be treated like human beings, not pigs in a sty.

He called on the impartial journalist inside him. He had a job to do, and taking his anger out on his escort would gain him little ground. He forced an even tone. “That’s quite a sizeable assembly of prisoners, Lieutenant. Looks like more than the stockade was designed to hold.”

“We do what we can. Army keeps sending ’em regardless of our complaints.”

“Any trouble keeping them in line?”

“Not at all.” Whitlock patted the pistol strapped to his waist. “A well-placed bullet stops any riot in its tracks, whether they cross the dead line or not.”

“Dead line?”

“See that boundary ’bout three feet from the base of the walls? Any prisoner who steps over it is shot. No warning. No questions.” The officer hooked a thumb over his belt. “But those are rare instances. Most stay in their tents like they’re supposed to. Trips to the cookhouses and the water closets are about all the stirring they manage.”

“How often do they eat?”

The lieutenant pointed to the larger tents set at the end of each row. “Food is prepared in the cookhouses twice a day. That’s the most we can handle with so many prisoners.”

“What are they served?”

“Bread and a small portion of beef or pork in the morning. Soup in the evenings.”

“And the quality?”

“As good as the government contractors can provide during times of war.”

From the looks of the prisoners, not very good. He inclined his head toward a collection of buildings and tents set off from the rest. “What are those for?”

“The largest is the prison hospital. That sectioned-off area is the Officer’s Pen. Commissioned officers are confined there away from the lower ranks.”

“Out of courtesy, or to maintain order?”

The lieutenant shrugged. “A little of both, I suppose.”

He jotted a note regarding the separation of the ranks and looked up. “Any fraternizing allowed with the guards?”

“Even if fraternizing were allowed, it wouldn’t happen. Most of our guards are Negroes, and as you can imagine, they don’t take to the Reb prisoners.”

“I can well imagine.” Gripes, even if he located Corporal Carleton, Kitty would have a hell of a time getting him out, bribery or not.

Whitlock gestured at the ladder. “Let’s continue our tour inside. You can have a look at the hospital ward.”

He followed the officer down the ladder, through the main gate, and into the bowels of the prison camp. The massive walls trapped the heat and gagging stench in a stagnant cloak. He breathed through his mouth, hoping his lunch would stay put. The last thing he needed was to show weakness. He knew from experience the soldiers considered any man who plied pen instead of pistol to be weak. They’d most likely even taken bets on when he’d puke. Remaining strong would gain their respect—and their cooperation.

The compound was surprisingly quiet. Only a low hum rode the air, interrupted by an occasional bark from the guards. Mosquitoes and flies hovered around the pools of stagnant ditch water. Though he’d only been inside for a few minutes, his innards still bunched. He couldn’t imagine spending days on end confined in such a hell-hole.

“You were at Chancellorsville.”

A statement, not a question. He swatted at a pesky mosquito, no less bothersome than where the lieutenant’s conversation was headed. “I reported on the battle, yes.”

“You did more than report on it, sir.”

Memories surfaced of that clash nearly a year ago, the dense forest, the drifting clouds of gun smoke, and the panic. Chaos magnified by the undisciplined retreat of the Eleventh Corps as the Confederates launched an unexpected attack on the Union right flank. All caught up in the bedlam were forced to retreat, including him.

“I had to move back to safer ground along with the soldiers,” he finally said.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you
led
a confused platoon to safer ground after their commanding officer was killed.” Whitlock’s tone radiated with admiration and respect.

He remained silent. He’d only done what any other terrified human would do. Survive. If the soldiers saw fit to follow him, that was their business.

“My brother was one of those soldiers you saved,” Whitlock added. “Newspaperman or not, I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

He pretended to write a notation in his notepad. Let the lieutenant think what he would. Perhaps he could profit from the officer’s misguided appreciation.

As they navigated the city of tents, vacant eyes flicked in their direction, then looked away. Defeat lined the emaciated faces. What suffering they endured. Little food. Poor conditions. And even poorer clothing. The winter months would be pure torture in such rags.

He jumped over a slime-filled trench and poked his head through an open tent flap. Nearly a dozen prisoners packed the sweltering enclosure. Some sat on thin, ragged blankets while others had no such luxury and reclined on the bare ground. All were covered with dirt and filth. And stunk. His stomach, once again, rebelled at the stench. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth to keep from retching and backed out.

“They don’t appear to be very well supplied, Lieutenant,” he said once his feet and stomach were back on firm ground.

“We do the best we can with what we’re given.”

“Major Brady mentioned the families often send money or goods.”

“Some do, yes.” Whitlock motioned to several buildings situated near the hospital tents. “All packages sent to the prisoners are received and stored there. Would you like to have a look?”

“Yes, I would.” His blood began to stir. Finally, an opportunity to see what dwelled beneath the soiled surface.

As they entered the plain, wood-plank building, a soldier seated behind the desk scrambled to his feet and snapped to attention as did the private standing beside him.

“At ease, men,” Whitlock commanded. “Sergeant, this is Jackson Porter, journalist for
The New York Herald
. He’s here to gather information for an article about Camp Hoffman. Answer any questions he may have.”

The Sergeant dropped his hand to his side. “Perhaps Private Duncan could assist him, sir? I have an urgent matter I need to discuss with you.”

“Very well. We’ll be just outside if you need anything, Mr. Porter.”

As the two men disappeared through the door, Jack crossed to the desk, greeting Private Duncan before pointing to a stack of journals. “What is kept in those?”

“Mostly prisoner transactions. Anything that comes in or goes out of this building gets recorded.”

Just the information he was looking for. He tapped the ledger marked C-D-E. “May I?”

“Certainly, sir. You can look at all of them if you’d like.”

“This one will do for now.” He thumbed through the pages and found neatly written entries containing name, rank, and unit along with notations of items received. Even dollar amounts were listed.

“Everything goes in here?” He looked up, watching the soldier closely.

The corporal held his stare. “Yes, sir. Everything.”

Either the soldier was a practiced liar, or he was telling the truth. He returned his attention to the journal, flipping through more pages. No entry for Lance Carleton. Not that he expected to find the boy’s name listed. Kitty had sent herself instead of money or goods.

Lieutenant Whitlock filled the doorway. “If you’re done here, Mr. Porter, we should be getting on with our tour.”

He returned the journal to the desk, then followed Whitlock out of the supply building and into the nearby hospital ward. Though each end of the huge canvas tent had been propped open, the inside baked with a nasty cocktail of mid-afternoon heat, the sharp smell of antiseptic, and festering flesh.