Surrender the Wind (13 page)

She asked him many questions about his soldiers, where they might be camped, what he thought Lee’s next move would be and how many men did he think Lee had left? From the Battle of the Wilderness, he gave her a speculative synopsis of Colonel Mosby, Longstreet’s probable location, Early’s encampment and Lee’s thinking.

He pointed a fried drumstick at her. “Enough questions about the war. I have not eaten so well during this war. Samuel’s mother will have me as big as a fatted bull.”

His recovery was remarkable. When she had found him, he had been far too lean, but now had filled out quite well. He needed more time to recuperate and she had been stalling for time, keeping him in the dark of the war’s events, she had refrained from purchasing newspapers. He chomped at the bit to return, and she fretted from his restlessness. To think of him maimed or killed?

Her heart was heavy. He’d leave soon. If only things could stay the way they were. A sixth sense awakened and ice spread in her stomach, veering her mood. She stood and paced. “I don’t want you to go back.”

“I have to go back,” he said carelessly.

Her hands clenched. The orphanage she had built in New York brimmed with sad, lonesome children, orphans of war. There was a wide gulf between them. “It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

“Nothing is uncomplicated and for all practical reasons, I’m torn by my duty to my country. The nature of war is that people are killed. The South will continue to fight. Our principles are involved. I am an officer and a soldier. I do what I am commanded to do, just as I command my soldiers to do. As a General, I don’t have the luxury of walking away.”

But Catherine wouldn’t leave it alone. “What of the atrocities? And what about you general?” She hated to think of it.

“Yes, I am a barn burner, destroyer of homes, pilferer of goods,” he said. “I don’t like such work. But it is not a civilized war.” He ripped out the words. “Your Union Army is more like an armed mob. The south will be slow to forgive or forget the damned Yankees who perpetuated the war.”

“But it was the South who were the aggressors. Who fired on Fort Sumter? Who was first, may I remind you?”

“Your dear Lincoln who exceeded his power—went over the rights of the constitution, suspending habeas corpus, declaring war without congressional approval. I am a man caught in a trap of time and of duty. You think I enjoy watching my men cut down by Yankee bullets, maimed for life or dead, never to return to their families? You think I love the sight of surgeons plying their vocation, cutting arms and legs with their bone saws…or doctors and their assistants stripped to the waist covered in soldier’s blood? I have to persevere. The Cause must be maintained.”

“The lost cause,” she huffed.

He paid no heed to her bait and stared with a hard, cold-eyed smile. “Most inspiring are the buzzards over us, waiting to pick our bones. At least they like the worms, are indiscriminate in their taste, for they eat both Rebs and Yanks alike.”

“Don’t you ever doubt?”

His expression darkened with an unreadable emotion. “Only fools never doubt. Sometimes events click in my mind, thoughts about my life…which always lead me to thinking about my death. It’s like running my fingers through stinging nettles.”

He reached into the basket for a jug of cold spring water. “If anyone could make me forget the anger, the revenge or the hatred, it would be…” He froze. A newspaper lined the bottom. “You said Pleasant Valley didn’t have a paper.”

Catherine jumped at the bitter scorn in his voice. To come up with a hard and fast reason on why she hid the news from him—he would never understand. “It’s not what you think.”

His hands trembled as he read the headlines. “May 11, 1864, ten days after my capture. Stuart’s dead! Confederate Cavalry General, James Ewell Brown Stuart killed at Yellow Tavern, Virginia, in the battle for Richmond.” Rourke savagely scanned the paper for other news. “The Battle of the Wilderness where I was wounded. Old news. Of course, Union papers claimed it as a victory. Who really knows? Battle of Spotsylvania, May eighth and it’s still going on. The Union is moving closer to Richmond. If they seize the capital?” His lips flattened in a snarl.

John raked his fingers through his hair. “Stuart dead? We were good friends. There had been some controversy during Gettysburg when Stuart had ridden off on an independent operation while Lee invaded the North. He had deprived General Lee of the ‘eyes’ of his army, a singularly grievous mistake that cost the Confederacy. But Stuart had served the South success after success, with his daring, riding circles around the Union Army.”

Catherine cringed, “Before my uncle came upon us, I contacted your brother, Lucas in the War Department in Washington to help you.”

“And you’re telling me this now. It’s a wonder the whole Union Army hasn’t swooped down on me.”

He was burning for a fight. “I’m leaving now.” His face was a mask of granite, upset by the turn of events, and—by her deception.

“Give up the war, Rourke. Stay with me.”

“How sweet the siren’s song.” His voice came honey smooth, yet tinged with his contempt.

She turned toward him, plunked her hands on her hips. “Follow your stupid leaders to slaughter. Lead your men to their death. There cannot be too much left to fight. The Union controls the Mississippi, the Union blockade has a stranglehold on the Confederacy, the North has the munitions and the numbers, Lee has failed at Vicksburg, the war in the west is lost, Sharpsburg, Shiloh, Fredericksburg, and Gettysburg. When will it end? When will you stop? The South has been defeated.”

“To win is to outthink and outfight the other. The Confederate soldier is a different breed—obstinate, brave, stubborn. As the South continues, we will move with steady perseverance. I am an officer. I will stay with her.”

“Fools and duty.” She dropped on the blanket and refused to look at him.

Without warning, Rourke grabbed her into his arms and pinned her beneath him, the newspapers scattering in the wind. He traced the line of her cheekbone and jaw, as if blazing everything about her into his memory. “Catherine, live with your uncle until I deem it safe enough for you to travel. Get to Washington and I’ll arrange passes for your journey through Virginia to my home.”

She made a cry of protest. She should tell him who she really was. Now. She bit her lip, living in a delusion, deceiving him, her cowardice, a failure to act in the midst of fear. Fear of his hatred.

“No disagreement, Catherine. There is little time left, and that time has to be cherished.”

So little time.
Why muck it up with the truth?

Leaving her mouth burning with fire, she was shaken at her own fervent reaction and slipped her arms around his neck. John yanked up her skirts and she opened her thighs, meeting his deep thrusts, trying to make him forget, to bend him to her will, hoping upon hope he would remain. Her heart tore apart, flooded with aching tenderness, holding fast, the time for things meant to be, the last instance where after everything else, this would remain as what really mattered.

Sated, they lay entwined, Catherine secure in his arms, knowing the strange peace was about to be shattered. Under extraordinary circumstances they had been brought together and wed, only to be torn apart by those same torrid currents. She committed to memory every line and plane of his profile. Marriage was to be long and enduring, yet what lay unspoken between them expressed volumes. She had no misgivings of their joining, only sad regrets it was to end. A gust of wind blew, as if cautioning her, and Catherine shivered, choosing to ignore its warning.

John made preparations to leave, stashing staples of food, blankets, and extra clothing into a bag, saying little and waiting for darkness to fall. Catherine gazed out her window. Everything was gray. The sun had hidden in the thick gray clouds, the rocks and crags of the mountains, a sharper contrast of gray and even the horizon was lost in a choking gray mist. It was about to storm. It was a safe wager the rain would be gray.

There was a knock at the door, and Catherine turned to answer. Samuel placed a letter in her hand and disappeared. Where had he gone in such a hurry?

No postscript. Who could have sent it? Under John’s watchful eyes she opened the note and began to read. Ice froze in her veins.
Francis Mallory.
He held Uncle Charlie hostage. Jimmy O’Hara’s warnings crushed her.
“He’s not a man to be dickered with. I’ve seen him kill men with his bare hands. He killed his father and brother to get what he wanted.”

“What is it?” John demanded.

Catherine closed her eyes. Images flashed, Mallory in the ring, his face anything but human. How to save Uncle Charlie? He was so old, so very dear to her.
What was she to do?

“What the hell is it?”

“My plans.” She stuffed the letter into her pocket and moved toward the door. All her plans had gone awry. She was married now and Agatha could not force her to marry Mallory. Hopes of hiring bodyguards and fighting Mallory, slipped away. What a careless illusion to think she was safe from Mallory’s tentacles. Of course, his hired goons tracked her down. To free her uncle, she had to give herself up.

John swung her around. “What’s wrong, Catherine?”

“Forgive me.” This was not his fight. If only she could tell him, but her life, a complicated mess had reared its ugly head. She must keep John out of harm’s way. Mallory would kill him. She had to keep him safe.

“I have to go to town to see about Uncle Charlie. He is not feeling well and I must care for him. So this is where I say good-bye and wish you a safe journey.” Her legs like wooden pegs, she moved, and kissed him like she had never before. Breaking away from him, she dragged her feet out the door and up the road.

She blinked. Mallory stood beside a coach. To be sure, he’d not risk losing his prize. Neat as a pin, he was flawless as always, dandified in his formal black suit.

“Where’s my uncle?”

“You be a good lass, now, and we’ll determine his whereabouts.” He smoothed his well-oiled military style mustache with the tip of his finger. “You have left me on a merry chase. Me being so noble and proposing, might make me think you snubbed me. I don’t like being snubbed.” His ferret-like eyes moved up and down her body. “Keeping in the company of a certain Reb?”

So he knew.

“Your uncle with the help of a few of my good men was persuaded to confess—” Mallory sneered. “—many things.”

“If you’ve done anything to harm him, I swear—”

“You’re not in a position to swear anything, my dear. I’ve learned you’ve been busy, taking care of General Rourke, Army of Northern Virginia. Sounds like treason to me.”

“Don’t talk to me about anything nefarious with your criminal history.” Thank God, Father Callahan had not divulged they were married. She prayed John would think Mallory was a visitor she had diverted and—to hope John had escaped out the back.

A shadow moved through the bushes. Samuel. She warned him with her eyes. When he ducked farther into the brush, she let out a breath.

“What’s he like?” Mallory’s black eyes glittered. He grabbed her arm, seeming entertained when she flinched. “Never mind. We’ll know shortly.”

Catherine screamed to warn John. Mallory clamped his hand over her mouth and crushed her to him.

“Catherine,” Mallory hissed into her ear. “Behave and call your Rebel friend out here. Be quick about it, before I lose my patience.”

Catherine wouldn’t budge.

“Do it now, or I’ll have him hanged as a spy, and your uncle will experience an untimely death. However, if you choose to cooperate, and I believe we both know what that means—” Mallory let his words hang. “…I’ll let your Reb friend go.”

“How can I be certain?”

“You have my word.”

A chill crept up her spine.

Mallory motioned his men to move up onto both sides of the porch.

“He’s dangerous. Too dangerous,” Mallory’s men protested.

The larger of Mallory’s goons wiped his nose on his coat sleeves. “He’s the devil himself. Rides ahead of his troops, slashing Yanks, men drowning in a sea of blood.”

“Bullets fly off him,” added another.

“Nonsense. I pay you bloody fools good coin. Get him before I pull the trigger on you myself,” ordered Mallory.

“Remember,” Mallory warned Catherine. “Your uncle is comfortable for the time being. Make sure you act the part when the general comes out, so he stays that way.”

Hating herself, but caught in a horrible nightmare with no answer to her problem, Catherine called John. She was Judas.

John heard Catherine call to him. Once out the door, he saw a dandy holding her, and the distressed look on her face. He bolted toward her. He didn’t make it to the end of the porch.

Men fell on him. In answer, John roared out an awful challenge. He punched one in the nose, making a popping sound, dousing him in a shower of blood. With lightening quick ease, John broke free and swung his elbow into a man’s windpipe. The thug emitted a shuddering breath and somersaulted down the stairs. The rest backed off. Not surprising. These were not seasoned fighters. Who were these thugs? His eyes fixed on every one of his prey. Two down, six to go. He’d been looking for a fight.

With an answering rebel yell as bloodcurdling as that of a beast, he rushed to meet their numbers. Just as their bodies crashed together, John grasped one of the huge wrists and broke it in two. He stopped and hit the next thug with a colossal right that came all the way up from his planted feet, and felt his fist drive right through and beyond. His falling body weight whipped his head out from under his moving hand, allowing the momentum to carry him onward, shoulder first into the guy behind him. He kicked a thug between the legs, and the man’s head jerked downward at the same time John’s elbow sailed upwards, doubling the power of the blow. He aimed another savage blow at the head of another man, breaking his jaw with a high cracking sound. Too shrewd to allow anyone to get behind him, John jerked his elbow, breaking a man’s ribs, the driving force crashing his assailant through a window. Springing to one side and then to another, John outpaced them, owing his supremacy to his hardened experience as a soldier.