Triumph (28 page)

She washed her face, then sat back, thinking she could hear something.

She did, and she froze. Looking through the trees, she saw glimpses of blue uniforms.
Yankees
.

She was low against the riverbank. Gilly slept upon it. It was possible that the Yanks on the other side of the trees might pass by without ever noticing them.

But they were close. So close.

“Captain, can we stop here; get some water?” one asked.

“All right, but we can’t take long. They say there are Rebs here; we just have to find them.”

“What then, Captain? Can we kill them, make it a massacre like Olustee?”

“We’re not murdering men, Private Long.”

“What if they’re half-dead already?” the one named Long asked. “I heard it was nothing but Confederate wounded moving through here.”

“Any wounded Rebs we take as prisoners,” the captain said sternly.

Tia heard him moving away. Then she heard Long chuckling to a fellow soldier. “Wounded, yeah. So we can’t mow them down the way they murdered us. Hell, yes, wounded. Well, they can just happen to die on their way.”

There was a slight rustling behind her. She turned quickly to see Liam coming. She brought her finger quickly to her lips.

Liam didn’t see the soldiers, but sensed the danger. She indicated that he should drag Gilly back. He hunkered down by her, catching Gilly’s shoulders and frowning.

“Where’s Blaze?” she asked him in a hushed whisper.

“Just yonder—”

“Take Gilly. Break camp, and ride through the night. Get to Granger’s camp as quickly as you can.”

“And what are you going to do?” Liam demanded.

“Lead them astray with Blaze.”

Liam shook his head. “No. No. Absolutely no. Your brother—”

“My brother will never know.”

“Miss Tia, I’ll lead them astray—”

“No!” she said quickly. These particular Yanks were out for blood. “We can’t spare you—I can’t help Hank lift Gilly and the others; I have to be the one to create a diversion. Besides, I can just be a good local Unionist out for a ride. No harm will come to me. All I have to do is mention Ian’s name, and I’m perfectly safe with the Yanks.”

“No—”

“Liam! You have to listen to me. That is the truth. You all are in danger from the Yankees; I am not. I’ll be just fine. If there’s a Federal camp near here, I may just sashay in for dinner!”

She spoke lightly, and with assurance. But he frowned, looking at her. “Where’s your clothes, Tia McKenzie?”

“On the rock there. Go now, please, please! Get Gilly out of here. Get to Lee Granger’s camp, and don’t worry about me. I’ll deal with any situation as it arises.”

Gilly shifted suddenly, moaning.

“Get him out of here, quickly! They’ll hear him.”

Liam gave her a stern look. She frowned fiercely back. But when Gilly made a deep, moaning sound again, Liam came to life, hobbling on his one leg, but very strong despite that fact. He had barely moved Gilly before Tia saw one of the Yanks come through the trees, heading for the water.

He didn’t see her at first. He dipped his head into the cool stream, then made a cup of his hands and drank deeply. She stayed perfectly still, barely daring to breathe.

He drank, and drank. He splashed his face.

Finally, he looked up.

He wasn’t old himself, though not as young as most of the Rebs she helped patch up these days. He had a round face, thick beard, and ruby red mouth. He was round himself, as well.

She hadn’t seen a heavy soldier in a very long time!

He stared at her; she stared at him.

He opened his mouth as if he would cry out. No sound came at first. She rose slowly. She was in her pantalettes and corset. The latter boasted the tiny pink rose centers of her breasts.

“Ah ... hello,” said the soldier.

“Hello,” she returned.

He kept staring at her. She let the seconds go by, hoping she was giving Liam enough time to get moving.

“Ca-Ca-Captain!” he cried at last.

She waited. Waited, counting the seconds. She wanted the captain to see her.

In a minute, the captain appeared. He was more the soldier she expected. Tall, slim, his lean face hardened and saddened by the years of war gone by. She had a feeling he had been in it from the beginning.

He looked across the water at her.

“Are you looking for the enemy?” she called.

“Who do you call the enemy, er-ma’am?” he called back.

“I’ll show you!”

She scampered up the embankment, through the trees. She looked to the place where they had been forced to stop.

No sign of the troops.

She whistled; Blaze came trotting to her. The mare wasn’t saddled. Tia took a running leap and careened on top of the horse. She headed back through the trees, not wanting to lose the Yankees.

She could hear them, splashing through the trees, shouting. There were at least a half-dozen of them, or maybe more, since she could hear many different voices calling out.

“Where’d she go?”

“Who is she?”

“What’s she up to?”

“Where can she lead us?”

“She’s naked—”

“Half-naked—”

“Tons of hair—”

“Godiva!”

“My God, yes! Godiva—who has led hundreds of men to their doom.”

“That’s her, yes!”

Her, yes? Hundreds of men to their doom? Dear Lord, how on earth could truth become so horribly exaggerated?

It didn’t matter how she had become such a villain. Her estimate was right—there were six or seven men after her. Seated on Blaze, she tried to count their exact number.

She didn’t want to play the wretchedly “dooming” Godiva, adding more fuel to the fire of rumor, but she had to.

She rode hard down to the embankment again.

“This way, fellows!”

She turned Blaze, and started racing first downstream. The Yankees needed to retrieve their mounts. She slowed her gait, making sure they were behind her.

She left the river embankment, heading for the road. She heard them following. She turned, making sure they could see her.

A branch slapped her in the face. Hard. She decided to give more attention to the direction in which she was going.

Ten minutes, twenty. She kept ahead of them by at least fifty lengths, trying to think of a place where she might lose them. Finally, she thought of the pine hammock to the north. The area was riddled with streams and small lakes and ponds. She could plunge into the hammock, follow around the pond, through the pine trails there, cross the stream and the pines on the other side, then head straight out to the copse.

She could hear Blaze breathing as they raced. How long had she run her horse? The Yankees would have to slow when she did, she assured herself.

She reached the hammock, then veered into it. She heard the shouts far behind her when they first followed. They had even lost one another.

She smiled, circling around the pond, at last slowing her gait.

Dismounting from Blaze, she quickly led the horse through the thicket of underbrush, heading again toward the trail of pines along the stream’s edge.

She could still hear the Yanks behind her. They remained mounted, without the least idea of where she had gone. They wandered in circles. They couldn’t run through this terrain; they didn’t seem to realize that neither could she. But she knew where she was going. Once she cleared the pines and passed through the stream, she’d be free. She’d have reached the copse, and so many ways to go it would take a bloodhound to track her. One of the trails led southward. Along that trail there were a multitude of abandoned Indian cabins where she could hide—and perhaps find clothing.

She moved quickly, running through the shallow water, swimming across where it deepened at the river, finding the slender flow of the brook again beyond the main body of the small river. She slipped into the pines, still leading Blaze, but running herself as she realized she neared the copse where she could mount up and ride again.

Yet at the fringe of the trees, she came to a dead stop, startled and dismayed.

There was a camp in front of her.

A Yankee camp.

Tents were pitched; fires burned. It was an organized camp, with pickets down the length of the pines. A large tent far to her left appeared to be a hospital. Wounded men sat about before it. Elsewhere, soldiers cleaned their weapons, cooked over the fires, smoked pipes and eased back against the trunks of trees. A few had books. Some wrote.

Pickets walked the outer circumference of the camp as well, watching the east and west trails, assuring the men who rested that no large body of men could come crashing through the pines to destroy them.

It was an excellent position; easily defended, well placed for water, food, the best of the sunlight.

She hadn’t imagined that the Yanks would know it; it was not an area that had been well mapped in the past.

Ah, but the Yanks were learning the state. And there were, of course, more and more Unionists in the state daily. Those who tired of the war. Those who had voted against secession. Those who might have organized the territory this side of the state into East Florida—with a Unionist government to run it.

She heard the men behind her.

She cursed the camp.

It would be her death!
she thought.

The soldiers behind her remained lost in the maze of trees, rivers, and ponds.

But they wouldn’t stay lost for long.

Dozens of Yanks lay before her.

She hugged a pine, trying not to panic. She searched the camp, shivering. It was growing dark. A large tent, probably an officer’s quarters, held a prime position right by a little inlet of water pulsing from the stream. The pines encroached upon the very back of it. The positioning of the tent allowed for privacy within, and escape to the brook—should a man desire his own counsel under the stars.

As she stared at the tent, her heart quickened. A man exited from the canvas flap—tall, dark, imposing. She saw nothing but his back. He wore no jacket, just a bleached muslin shirt and Union-issue cavalry trousers. He had to be an officer; she was certain by the assurance with which he moved. Command was visible in his carriage, in his manner.

He paused by a young, sandy-haired, freckle-faced soldier at a cooking fire some distance from the tent. She didn’t hear what he said; he spoke with a deep, low voice and his back remained to her. She did hear the sandy-haired soldier’s reply since he was looking in her direction and his voice seemed to carry straight to her.

“Yessir, I understand. You’re meeting with Colonel Bryer, and will be with him for some time. If the scouting party returns, I’ll tell Captain Ayers that you’re with Colonel Bryer, and he may find you there, or wait to speak with you here later, but you wish to see him tonight.”

The officer moved on. Tia looked down the length of the pines. She could hear the soldiers coming closer. She ran along the pines, leading Blaze.

Behind the officer’s tent, she gave Blaze a firm pat on the rump. “Go on now!”

The horse trotted off as bidden. Tia watched her horse, fingers clenched into her palms. Blaze wouldn’t go too far—she hoped. Tia didn’t want her horse to give away her position. She hoped, as well, that Blaze would stay deep within the pines, and avoid the copse that was so heavily laden with men and tents.

She didn’t want her well-loved mare stolen by the enemy.

“Go on, girl, go on!” she whispered.

Tia watched her go, glad that Blaze soon discovered a nice thicket of grass concealed by the pines.

Sure that the mare had moved on far enough, she plunged quickly through the trees, and then, just as quickly, she drew back, hesitating.

Carefully she viewed the area. She could make it into the tent without being seen, she was certain. She could bide her time, perhaps find more clothing, then slip back through the pines after the soldiers had given up searching for her.

Yes, she could. Easily, if all went well.

But what if the officer who lived within the tent came back before she dared slip back into the pines?

He wouldn’t! He had just informed his sergeant that he would be gone for several hours.

She sped the short distance to the tent, fell to her knees on the soft grassland crawled beneath the canvas wall of the tent.

Within the enclosure she rose, shivering. The night was growing very cool. She was soaking wet. Her hair lay like a cold, damp cloak around her shoulders, trickling little droplets of ice down her spine. Her fear didn’t help. Her teeth were chattering. She needed a blanket. Searching for one, she surveyed the strange refuge she had so desperately chosen.

The tent was large, a welcoming place. There was even a throw rug over the earthen floor. A large camp bed lay beside a camp desk. A map of the area was stretched out across the desk. An officer’s frockcoat was draped over the folding chair in front of the desk. There was a standing shaving mirror, a chest that housed eating utensils, and a small table that was piled high with books. She found herself looking at the titles. There were military manuals and medical periodicals. Books on engineering and books by Audubon. They were well-read books, and she was tempted to go and look through them. Her father’s library at Cimarron was extensive, and he had encouraged his children to read. Her mother loved books; she had told them often enough that books were like luxurious voyages—they could take you wherever you wanted to go from the comfort and warmth of an armchair. Books were teachers as well, opening up the world to those who cared to learn. They were friends with whom to curl up on a rainy day, company when you were lonely, cheer when you were feeling the weight of the world.

She almost walked over to pick up a book. She stopped herself firmly.

She wasn’t here to read! she warned herself. She had come to hide—and find clothing. She could not wear a book!

And so, she kept looking around the tent. Another traveling chest was at the side of the first. There was a clean white cotton shirt folded atop it.

Everything in the tent was neat, and yet, the space seemed to have the indelible imprint of a personality upon it. She was intrigued by who might be staying here. The tall, dark-haired officer she had seen leaving. A Yankee, the enemy. Yet the term “enemy” was best when it was a faceless term. Her brother was the “enemy,” and yet a cherished face within her life. More than ever, she despised the war.