The Rebel Wife Page 8

  “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.

  Bile burned in his throat. He clenched his teeth, pushing back the nausea and the memory of his own hospital stay after the loss of his eye. He would not give in. He’d promised to find out anything he could on Lance and Jeb, and by God, he would.

  His stomach contained, he continued onward. Cots occupied by heavily bandaged patients lined either side of a center aisle. He stopped at the foot of one bed, the dark-skinned occupant clearly out of place among the sea of white prisoners. Odd how some slaves fled captivity, while others fought by their master’s sides against the very army sent to liberate them.

  The Negro lay on his stomach, head turned to the side on the thin mattress. His eyes were closed, but his sleep was fitful. Long legs jerked beneath the bed sheets as though he were running a footrace. Thick, white bandages swathed his bare upper torso.

  Took a bullet in the back. Could this be Kitty’s companion? He pointed his pencil at the patient. “What unit was this one with?”

  Whitlock shook his head. “None that we know of. He was shot while fleeing from a Yankee Patrol about twelve miles north of here.”

  “Why was he running?” He pointed to the white scars fanning out from beneath the bandaging. “Looks like he might’ve been a slave.”

  “We’re not sure what he was up to. He was in the company of a woman. A possible rebel spy.” Whitlock prodded the Negro’s foot, then frowned when he got no response. “He hasn’t come ’round long enough for us to get any answers. Appears the fever’s got him for now.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Still looking for her.”

  “Major Brady mentioned you were searching for a female spy...” He flipped through his notepad, pretending to search his notes. “A Miss Lou Carleton?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. We had a Corporal Lance Carleton on the prison roster. This woman may just be a hysterical relative hoping to contact him. If that’s the case, she’s wasting her time.”

  Damn, that didn’t sound good. “Is the corporal dead?”

  “No, at least he wasn’t two weeks ago. He and four hundred other prisoners were shipped to Elmira to relieve the overcrowding here.”

  “Elmira, New York?”

  “Yes. Odd thing about that...” Whitlock lifted his hat and mopped the sweat from his brow with a neckerchief before continuing. “Just before the prisoners shipped out, the Major received a telegram from the Elmira Provost requesting we include Corporal Carleton in the shipment.”

  “Why was that odd?”

  “Our initial instructions were to send officers first. Strange that the Provost would specifically request a corporal.”

  He nodded. Strange, indeed.

  ****

  A salty tang rode the sun-warmed air. Gulls circled overhead, their shrill screeches melding with the crash of waves on the shore. A solitary figure ambled at the water’s edge. One hand cupped her wind-whipped skirts; the ot
her was clamped atop her straw bonnet. She paused and bent to reach for something in the sand.

  She was calm now, but what would happen once he told her about Lance? He’d seen her volatility before. Had a scab on his throat to prove it.

  He gave the surroundings a quick check. They were alone, but he knew better than to assume no one watched. If she became overly distressed, she’d draw unwanted attention. How would he explain her hysteria to the soldiers?

  She straightened and turned, eyes gleaming as she caught sight of him. A smile dimpled her rosy cheeks, and his heart sank to his feet. She’d risked life and limb getting to Point Lookout and her brother. And now Lance was gone. The news would break her heart, and the thought of causing her pain nearly strangled him.

  Damn. When had he started to care?

  “Jack,” she greeted as he drew closer. “How was your day at the prison? Good, I hope.”

  Good? Not quite the word he would use. “It was productive. I gathered a lot of useful information for my newspaper article.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, I learned the prisoners are fed twice a day. That’s as much as the staff can manage with so many mouths to feed.” The real issue was not how often, but what they were fed. Pig slops from what he saw at the cookhouses. But she didn’t need to know that. It would only fuel her anxiety.

  “I suppose twice a day is better than nothing.”

  “It certainly is.” He fished in his pocket. He was stalling, he knew, but he just wasn’t ready to face her disappointment just yet. “I brought you something.”

  “Oh? What?”

  “It’s a necklace of seashells. The prisoners make them to relieve the boredom and to barter for goods at the sutler’s store.”

  She took the necklace and fingered the tiny shells, her expression awed as if he’d given her a crown jewel. “How pretty.” Her lips tipped into the sunny smile he’d come to adore. “Thank you, Jack.”

  “You’re welcome. So, what did you do with your day? Did you visit the lighthouse?”

  “I did. Sure is an interesting place. The keeper, Miss Edwards, was very sweet. Invited me to have tea.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I think she might be a Reb sympathizer. She didn’t speak too highly of the Yankees. Said the conditions inside the prison were horrible. Are they?”