The Sapphire Brooch (The Celtic Brooch Trilogy Book 2) (51 page)

“They’ve come to burn us out,” Elizabeth said, moving quickly to the front door.

Charlotte’s sense of unease reached a high pitch. She grabbed Elizabeth’s hand. “You can’t go out there. Those men are dangerous.”

Elizabeth’s cold, trembling fingers clasped Charlotte’s. “If I don’t, they’ll burn the house down on top of us.”

“Give me a gun. We’re not going out there without protection.”

Elizabeth exhaled a pent-up breath, “There’re a dozen men in the yard. What are you going to do? Shoot them all?”

Charlotte glanced at the door. “I couldn’t even shoot one, but they don’t know what I’m capable of doing…or not doing. Give me a gun. It doesn’t have to be loaded.”

“No. You’ll get yourself shot. Stay here.”

Charlotte put her fist on her hip, huffing, as she tapped her foot on the Oriental rug. “Damn it. I’ve already been told once tonight to stay put. It’s not going to work a second time. If you’re going out there, so am I.”

Elizabeth swirled her shawl around her shoulders. “Let me do the talking, then. These are my neighbors.”

Charlotte snatched her shawl off the coat tree and followed Elizabeth out onto the porch to face a dozen snarled faces with eyes glowing red in the light.

A man reeking of whiskey yelled, “Lincoln lover.”

Another yelled, “Traitor.”

“We’re burning this Union house to the ground.”

A man threw his torch, but it landed just shy of the house. Inwardly Charlotte cringed. Although she knew the house would not be burned down, she held onto the knowledge like a mantra, repeating the historical fact over and over in her mind.

“You’ll have to kill me first.” Elizabeth faced the instigators erect and unbendable, a beacon of bravery. “I know you…and you…and you,” she said, pointing.

The mob moved forward, chanting, “Burn it down. Burn it down.”

Flames from the torches heated Charlotte’s face in the cool night air. For a terrifying moment, she no longer trusted history. Her knees shook, and she was momentarily sure the men would burn down the house. If the house caught fire, she would have to run in and rescue her medical kit. The bag was on the table next to the window in her bedroom. If she got up the stairs, though, would she have enough time to get back down?

Elizabeth stepped to the edge of the porch and, in an unfaltering voice, threatened the mob, saying, “General Grant will be here in the morning. Burn my house and he’ll burn yours.”

“Burn yours,” echoed Charlotte, and the words came out louder than she’d intended. She shifted uneasily as one of the men advanced closer to the house, his threatening torch waving in the air.

The rest of the men muttered among themselves. One man dropped his torch and then another. Charlotte took a tentative breath. There seemed to be a temporary standoff, and for Charlotte hope burned brighter with each extinguished torch. Slowly the grumbling crowd began to disperse and slink off into the night.

Charlotte and Elizabeth remained on the porch, holding hands, shaking.

“Holy shit. Oops, sorry.” Charlotte let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

Elizabeth sighed with relief. “What you said aptly describes the situation.”

The women returned to the parlor and headed straight to the sideboard and the whiskey. Each took a big gulp from her tumbler full of the highly aromatic spirit. Elizabeth carried her glass over to the sofa, where she leaned back and closed her eyes.

Charlotte sat next to her. She butted her glass against the crystal in Elizabeth’s hand and, with a slight twist of her wrist, the tumblers clinked. “You were amazing. There were a dozen men liquored up and ready to burn you out, and you valiantly faced them down. I wish I was half as courageous.”

“Don’t ever think you’re not, Doctor Mallory.”

Charlotte eyed her suspiciously. “I don’t think I ever mentioned I was a doctor.”

Elizabeth frowned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Gaylord told me.”

Gaylord had always addressed Charlotte as Doctor Mallory, so it seemed logical he would use the title when referring to her. Now really curious, she asked, “What else did he say?”

“To believe you regardless of how outrageous you sounded.”

Charlotte lifted her glass to her lips, paused, and said, “Did he say why?”

Elizabeth shrugged, “He didn’t have to.”

“Why?”

“He reports directly to Grant.”

Charlotte’s mouth dropped. “Now I know how we got out of Washington so easily.”

“The President didn’t want to send you into harm’s way again, but he knew he couldn’t stop you. You were as safe as possible during your trip here.”

“Did Lincoln know I was a woman when he sent me to rescue Braham?”

“No. He didn’t discover who you were, or claimed to be, until after his meeting with the major.”

Now it was Charlotte’s turn to sit back and close her eyes, then they popped open and she sat up straight. “Grant orchestrated the last few days. He sent Jack and me to
you
, knowing you would help us rescue Braham. But why?”

“I got the impression the major still has a mission to complete.”

Charlotte jumped to her feet. “What mission?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Charlotte stomped back and forth, thinking while she paced. “What mission could possibly be left? Richmond is being evacuated. The Union Cavalry will be here tomorrow. The city will be under the Union’s control. What’s left to do?”

She stopped and replayed the last few days. When Gaylord came to Braham’s house in Washington, he only told them Braham was working undercover. He didn’t mention any assignment. What work could Braham have been doing for Lincoln? Elizabeth kept Grant apprised of what was happening in the city. What else would be of interest?

A light flashed on in Charlotte’s brain with the intensity of a two-hundred-watt bulb. “The treasury…the Confederacy’s gold. When the government is evacuated, they’ll move the gold, and it will be vulnerable to an attack, especially by a person…” She stopped before saying out loud…
who knew in advance when and where it would be moved.
Her thought processes made another giant leap. Capturing the gold would benefit the Union’s reconstruction efforts greatly.

Charlotte smacked her fist into her palm. “I’ve got it. I know what Braham intends to do. He’s going after the gold.”

“But you said he could barely stand. How can he do anything?”

Charlotte gave a cynical laugh. “You’d be surprised at what Braham McCabe is capable of doing when he sets his mind to a task, and don’t forget Jack’s with him.”

Elizabeth sat rigid on the sofa, staring at her. “Will Jack help him?”

The mystery of what happened to the Confederate treasury had intrigued historians and treasure hunters since its disappearance the night of the evacuation. By all accounts, it was boxed for shipment, delivered to the Richmond & Danville Railroad Depot, and guarded by midshipmen of the Confederate naval academy. Solving the mystery, by preventing it from ever becoming one, would be too big a temptation for Jack to pass up.

“
Absolutely
.” Thinking aloud, Charlotte glanced at the clock on the mantle. “It’s almost ten-thirty.” Davis’s train would leave at eleven. “If Davis is captured, or worse, killed, Lincoln will be blamed and the war could escalate.” She grabbed her shawl from the chair where she’d dropped it when they came back inside. “I’ve got to find them.”

Elizabeth followed Charlotte into the hallway. “You can’t leave. You promised Jack you’d stay here.”

“I promised before I realized they’d be doing something crazy.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“I know them, especially my impulsive brother, and it leads me to only one conclusion.” Charlotte flung open the door and dashed out of the house.

Elizabeth ran out on the porch and yelled, “Charlotte, come back.”

A steam whistle pierced the night air with its shrill cry. Nothing good could come from Braham’s attempt to capture the gold at the depot close to the Mayo’s Bridge. He and Jack could get killed or captured themselves, and their lives were worth more than the gold.

Here was another frigging red-light moment. Was she going to sit still and wait, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel while the men she loved put their lives in danger? Going after them might be reckless, but as long as she stayed out of the way of the crazies and avoided areas of the city destined to catch fire later, she’d be safe. Right? She gave a sharp nod, answering her own question.

Her plan was simple. Find them, shake some sense into them, and hurry home before the city became a rioting inferno.

59

Richmond, Virginia, April 1, 1865

B
raham dozed after
he swallowed the pills Charlotte had given him. When he woke, the pain had lessened somewhat. With considerable effort, and keeping one shoulder close to the wall for balance and support, he rose to wobbly feet. On Charlotte’s one-to-ten-point pain scale, he was down to a six. His stomach, though, screamed ten. He was no stranger to hunger, but actually starving as he was now was a new experience. In the midst of his misery, a chuckle slipped out. Tonight would be a good time for someone to solve world hunger one person at a time, and he’d be standing at the head of the line.

His upper back muscles were still in tight knots. Since the bucking his guards had forced him to endure, no amount of stretching his neck and shoulders had reduced the spasms. Spikes of pain jabbed straight through him, and he groaned.

Shambling, he moved toward the small window until he reached the full length of the chain. Boards were nailed to the opening, blocking out light, but they couldn’t diminish the cannons roaring in the background or the shouting mob. The prisoners would be marched through streets packed with half-crazed Richmonders. Spotting Jack would be difficult. He’d have to stay alert and ready for his chance to escape.

He sniffed at the cracks between the boards trying, to get a breath of less rancid air. The faint scents of fish and sulfur and smoke, and something else—whiskey—hit his nostrils.
Whiskey?
Either someone was drinking near his window, or the city was drowning itself in drink. Not a bad idea when an army you couldn’t defeat was marching toward your front door.

The squeaky door at the top of the stairs opened. Braham instinctively folded his arms across his chest, opening and closing his hands, breathing through his mouth, and cringing with each loud heel strike. Conversations were too muffled for him to distinguish words.

How should he play this? If he appeared in a weakened condition, the guards wouldn’t see him as a threat and might relax their vigilance, giving him an opportunity to escape. If they judged him too weak, would they shoot him, or leave him behind? If the warehouses used for prisons burned down in the city fire, he’d die for sure if he was left behind.

He gritted his teeth against the fear, but it lingered inside of him, making his breathing fast and shallow and his heart hammer. He would appear not too alert, but not weak either. He sat, closed his eyes, and leaned against the rough timber walls of his cell, mentally preparing for what lay ahead.

Sweat poured off him while he waited agonizing minutes for his cell door to open. He counted the crossbars sliding out of the cleats and the doors thrown back. His heart beat faster with each one.

Finally, the guards were at his door, jingling the keys.

Each deep breath he took was a piecing insult to the muscles in his back, cramping and burning like he’d been slammed against the wall.

The crossbar slid back with a heavy, dull noise.
Clunk.
The door swung open, and he steeled his body and mind for the blows he knew were coming.

A guard shuffled into the cell. “
Get up
.”

Braham recognized the voice of the man who had beaten him. He tensed. Any punch would double him over. More than one, and he might not be able to get up at all.

“He can’t, Sarge. He’s beat up.” The voice belonged to the red-headed lad Braham had seen earlier.

“Maybe he needs another beatin’. You want another beatin’,
traitor
?” He slurred the word as if it disgusted him to say it.

Braham raised his head. If his mouth and lips hadn’t been so dry and cracked, he would have spat on the son of a bitch.

The lad grabbed Braham’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “Do it later, Sarge. We don’t have time.”

Braham hung his head again, moaning softly. The sergeant unlocked the bolt securing the shackle around his ankle. With the heavy weight no longer dragging on his leg, a sensation of weightless filled him with unexpected energy. He bit the insides of his cheeks to conceal his relief. The guard shoved him out into the hall, where the other prisoners waited at the point of a bayonet.

A guard shoved him, knocking him into the wall “
Move.
”

Braham wavered and tried to regain his balance. His fists clenched with fury, and he snapped them tight, like a gunfighter on a draw.

A guard holding a bayonet poked Braham’s gut with it, and with a voice rough as rust, he said, “Go ahead. Try hitting me.”