Triumph (45 page)

Taylor accepted the orders the President handed him, the one directing him to General Grant, and the other allowing him a leave of absence. “Thank you, sir. I’ve no desire, however, to leave a war half-fought.”

“You won’t leave the war, Colonel. But God alone knows when a man may need time.”

Taylor nodded. Watching Lincoln, he wondered if he didn’t have some of the precognition that plagued Julian’s wife, Rhiannon. It was said that the President had dreamed himself in a coffin; good friends said that he saw his own death. He wondered uneasily if the man weren’t foretelling an occasion—tragic? deadly? dangerous?—when Taylor would need time away.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’ve a night of leisure in the city, Colonel. Go home, rest, enjoy your time.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, but he didn’t intend to head home at all.

When he had left his audience with the President, Taylor headed straight to a tavern often habited by cavalrymen. He would not go to his own Washington town home—he had avoided it since the beginning of the war. Abby’s clothes still filled the closet; he’d never had the time nor the inclination to move them. Her touch was everywhere. She had even begun to knit clothing for the baby she was going to have, and they’d had a mahogany cradle carved.

In the tavern, he found a number of injured friends, politicians, men assigned to the forts that circled Washington, and men who had just received a change of command. In March, Grant had been in the city, conferring with Lincoln. Two known assaults would be occurring with the fine weather—the continual, Grant-determined pursuit of Lee and Richmond, and a slash across the deep South, hopefully breaking the backbone of the region. Louisiana had been drawn back to the fold; a new pro-Union government had been formed. South Carolina needed to be beaten to her knees—there lived the heart of the insurrection, and there it should be smashed and damned.

Taylor was in the middle of his second whiskey when a soldier at his side cleared his throat loudly. “Colonel Douglas, sir!”

He turned, not recognizing the man at first. He was old, with gray whiskers and a round face. He wore a sergeant’s uniform.

“Sergeant,” he said, acknowledging the man.

The old fellow grinned. “It’s been a while, sir. I was cavalry back then, a private, with you at Manassas, back at the start of the war. Got a bullet in my leg, never could ride decent after.”

“Ah ... yes. I remember. Granger. Your name is Granger.”

“Yes, sir, it is. Sergeant Hal Granger.”

“Well, it’s good to see you, Sergeant. Glad to see you alive.” He swallowed the rest of his whiskey.

“Thank you, sir. And you as well. I don’t mean to bother you none, Colonel. Looks as if you and that whiskey bottle are keeping company enough. But I’m assigned down to Old Capitol now, and I heard tell you were kin to folks named McKenzie.”

Taken by surprise, Taylor frowned. “That I am, Sergeant. Is there some news about one of the McKenzies?”

“Nothing ill, sir, nothing bad happening at all, I’m glad to say. I’ve met a number of folks by that name now. Why, the Rebel sea captain was my guest awhile, but he’s been back, a devil on the water, for some time, so I hear. Had the Doc McKenzie-—Dr. Julian McKenzie—and Miss Sydney McKenzie.”

“Sydney was in yes, I’d heard, but ... Sydney married Jesse Halston.”

“Right. But Colonel Halston, he’s been at war for some long time now. And Miss Sydney, well ...”

Taylor’s jaw tightened; his features locked into a frown. “What about Miss Sydney?” he asked.

“Ah, well, sir! Nothing’s amiss ... but she doesn’t seem to get out much, sir, that’s all. Thought she’d be mighty uplifted by a visit from you, if you’re able, before riding out.”

Taylor nodded. “Where is she?”

Granger gave him the address. Taylor paid his bill, thanked Granger, and left the tavern, suddenly feeling sober and anxious.

Twenty minutes of riding brought him to the street where Sydney had taken her apartment. He frowned, seeing a uniformed soldier seated on her porch. His hat was pulled low and he was leaning back comfortably in his chair. Sleeping, Taylor thought.

Dismounting from Friar, he tossed his horse’s reins over the hitch and approached the soldier.

The man didn’t move. Taylor kicked the chair.

The fellow came to life. “Hey, what the—”

Straightening, pulling his hat back, he started to bellow—but then noticed Taylor’s uniform and rank. “Colonel, sir—” he began, leaping to his feet, saluting.

“What the hell is going on here, Private?”

“I just dozed off, sir. It’s traces of the fever. I had the malaria. That’s why I’m on this duty, sir.”

“What duty is that?”

The private reddened. “Well, the lady who lives here is a known Rebel spy.”

“Who says so?”

“Her, uh, her husband, sir.”

“Oh?”

The soldier grimaced uncomfortably. “She’s been caught in the act, sir.”

“Ah. Well, you can doze right back off again, soldier. I’ll be watching her tonight.”

“Oh, no, colonel, sir. I mean, I can’t—I mean—just who are you, sir?”

Taylor folded his arms over his chest. “The lady’s cousin, soldier.”

“Oh, jeez—you must be Douglas, sir! I should have known, sir!” Suddenly, he was saluting all over again. “We’ve heard about you, sir. Every soldier has heard about you. Of course, I should have seen it right away: You’re also an In—”

“Indian,” Taylor finished for him, but he felt no rancor. The young soldier seemed to be a decent enough fellow. “My cousins are Rebels, but I was under the impression that Colonel Halston had vouched for his wife, and that she had been set free.”

“Well, yes, sir, but she kept slipping back down to Richmond, sir.”

“Doing what?”

“Well, no one rightly knew, sir. That was the problem.”

“She’s in there now, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At ease then, soldier. I’ll be with her now.”

Taylor stepped past him, entering the house, closing the door behind him. It was a small but cozy place. It smelled like fresh-baked bread; a fire burned in the hearth. “Sydney?” he called.

There was no answer. He walked to the bedroom door, looked in. The bedroom was darkened. He could see a form beneath the covers.

“Sydney?” he whispered.

He walked over to the bed. Pulled back the covers. The shape of a body had been formed with pillows. No human being slept therein.

Mary was charming. Pleasant, thoughtful, and lovely with her warm, serious, silver eyes and long dark hair. Tia tried, really tried, to greet her with enthusiasm, to appreciate the woman who had made Brent so happy. When they were introduced, Tia hugged Mary and welcomed her to the family. Brent poured Tia a sherry, and she drank it, then started to cry.”

She couldn’t eat that evening. Brent told her that little Joseph Emory’s death was terrible and painful but she couldn’t make herself sick over what had happened. She didn’t know how to explain to him about the little girl who had died in Jacksonville, how it was all too unfair to be endured. He was helpless, telling her that if she didn’t calm down, he’d be wasting good opiates on her to
make
her calm down. Mary understood her better. She and Tia sat together for a very long time, and they cried together, but in the end, Brent did slip laudanum into Tia’s drink, and she fell into an exhausted sleep.

In the middle of the night, she awoke. She sat up, staring at the fire, unable to sleep anymore. Unable to cry.

Brent really didn’t understand.

She had failed Rhiannon. Rhiannon had known what was going to happen. Tia hadn’t managed to move fast enough, and so another child had died.

Brent found her there, hugged her, tried talking to her. “Tia! This isn’t like you. Where is your courage, where is your fire?”

“Gone,” Tia told him. “Dead—like the children. Like the young men we kill on a daily basis.”

“Tia, you’re really going to make yourself sick. You’re married now; you could be expecting your own child—”

“No!” she told him, swinging on him violently. “No! I will not have children, I will not let this happen, I will not have any more death!”

“Tia, you Can’t say that. You don’t know that you won’t have children. You can’t will yourself not to have children—”

“I will
not
have them. I don’t care what I have to do or not do, but I will never, ever have children!” she swore.

“I’m not sure that will be agreeable to your husband, Tia. Abby was expecting a child when she was killed. Taylor wanted children.”

“Then Taylor will have to find a new wife!” she snapped. “Unless ... unless ... he gets himself killed!”

Suddenly, it seemed that flood gates were opened and she started to cry again, and cry, and Brent decided not to argue with her anymore. He fixed her a sherry with more laudanum, and he held her until she fell asleep again.

This time, he had assured himself, she would sleep through the next day.

Taylor sat in the rocking chair before the fire in his cousin’s room, rocking, watching the blaze. He waited an hour, then grew worried.

Instinct warned him she wasn’t returning anytime soon. The smell of the fresh-baked bread was a front. Just like the pillows tucked into the bed.

Maybe she had meant to make it home. Maybe she was in trouble.

He walked to her bedroom window and studied the sill, then opened the window and looked to the ground below. This was obviously the way she had left. A man didn’t need to be any kind of a scout to read so clear a sign.

He left by the front door, saying nothing to the soldier on duty. Mounting Friar, Taylor rode around Sydney’s street, picked up the trail, and followed it to a livery, where a man on duty remembered Sydney well. She was a beautiful woman who often rented conveyances from him. She had a brother she visited behind the lines, sick relatives just south of Alexandria.

“She’s a sweet one, she is, and a beauty, and hey ...” He paused, studying Taylor in the lamplight. “Colonel, you her brother?” Taylor was certain the man would think that anyone with Indian blood looked like anyone else with Indian blood, but the livery keeper really seemed to admire Sydney, and wanted to help.

“Cousin. And I’m afraid for her. Running into danger behind the lines.”

“Well, I found something in a carriage when she returned it one night. Keep forgetting to give it to her. Perhaps it will help you.”

The fellow limped into his office. He saw Taylor watching him as he limped back out. “Bullet in the ankle at Antietam,” he explained. “Took me out of the army right fast; they thought I’d lose the foot. Here, it’s what I found. Don’t know why I kept it. It’s just an old wrapping—for material, maybe, or a piece of clothing. But there’s an address on it. See there? Bailiwick Farm, Virginia. Do you know the place?”

Taylor did. Northeast of Fredericksburg, in continually disputed terrain. He thanked the fellow, and quickly took his leave.

From the livery, he rode out of the city.

He was well aware of the mounting tensions. Washington itself was surrounded by forts. The father he traveled outward, through Alexandria, Union territory by sheer proximity, the more he heard about the way the armies were forming. They would meet soon.

Heading south, he was challenged several times by the Union pickets. He readily stopped at the lines, handing over his papers.

By dawn, he was far past the lines and into Virginia, into no-man’s-land. Troops from both the North and the South vied for every advantage here. He avoided the main roads, taking side trails through the foliage. At one point, he barely avoided a small troop of Southern cavalry—scouts and skirmishers, he thought, watching the men from the cover of a huge oak. He could hear only bits and pieces of their conversation, but enough to know that the whole body of Lee’s army was not far away.

By noon, he had reached the farm. Time had taught him caution; he watched the house from the untended apple orchard to its northwest side before deciding how to approach it.

The place had never been ostentatious; the house itself had two stories with trellises but no balconies. Spring flowers tried to climb along the trellises, but they were withered and dying. The paddock fences were broken in places; paint peeled there as it did from the house. The place looked neglected and sad.

A few skinny chickens roamed the dirt in front of the front porch area. One bony mule hung its head sadly in the paddock to the left of the house.

There was a large barn to the right. Its double doors were closed.

Taylor placed his hand on Friar’s nose. “Stay here, boy. But come for me right away if I whistle, will you?”

He moved quickly from the orchard to the rear of the barn. Flat against the rear wall, he searched the wooden structure until he found an area of rotted planking. Slamming it with a fist, he winced as the beam itself gave with a creak. He pushed through, rolling into a stall filled with stale, damp straw. He immediately came to his feet, surveying the area.

The stables were empty—except for the wagon in the center of the work area. He walked to it; the horses hitched to the wagon were solid workhorses, in far better shape than the mule in the paddock. He moved to the double doors at the front of the structure. They weren’t latched; he could push them open and see toward the house. He watched. And waited.

He didn’t know how long he’d stood there, but then he saw a slim black girl come out of the house and start toward the stables. Frowning, he turned around and saw the ladder to the loft. He skimmed up it quickly, and went flat against the rotting hay.

A moment later, an older black man came from the house, then two youngsters, and finally a big, well-muscled black man in his prime. A field hand, Taylor reasoned.

As the older man entered the barn, Taylor saw clearly through the doors. A young, strikingly pretty black woman was racing after him—followed by Sydney. What in God’s name was she up to?

Even as Sydney ran, he heard the sound of hoofbeats.

“A Rebel patrol!” the black woman cried.

“Get in, I’ll fend them off!”

The black woman entered the barn and hovered at the entrance, hidden against the doors. Even from his perch in the loft, Taylor could see the pulse beating at her throat.