“Do with me what you will,” she challenged furiously, “because as far as I’m concerned, all of you can go to hell!”
Hembree reeled, struck by the glow of hatred in her sightless eyes. “Very well, Miss Sinclair. You leave me no choice.” He bellowed to the soldier outside, who promptly rushed in to receive the order, “Get a detachment here to take the prisoner to Ship Island. At once.”
Anjele felt a wave of panic. “But why there?”
Hembree told her a prison had been established there, near Fort Massachusetts, since the Union was now using the island as a base of operations on the Gulf. “You won’t be able to help the Rebs find the plates from there.”
“I told you,” she said between clenched teeth, “I don’t know anything.”
“Maybe a few weeks locked away all by yourself will refresh your memory, but I warn you, don’t take too long. Should they be found without your help, General Butler will have no mercy for you. He’ll leave you in that prison, locked in solitary confinement.”
“I know nothing. As for solitary confinement”—her lips curved in a bitter smile—“I think that’s where I already am.”
After she was taken away, Hembree opened the drawer of his desk and took out the folder containing the names of recently arrived soldiers and officers. At a party only the night before, some of the officers had been discussing how relieved they were to hear an Acadian had been assigned as a scout in the bayou, and Captain Bishop, Hembree recalled, had an interesting tale to share.
It seemed when one of the new officers came to his camp, some civilians—Cajuns, working for food—had recognized him. Bishop had then listened with interest to the discussion about Brett Cody and how he’d once lived in Bayou Perot.
At the time, Hembree had only been mildly impressed.
Now, however, he was ecstatic.
The man, the Cajuns had said, was known by another name, because of an amazing battle with an alligator some years before.
He’d been known only as Gator.
The similarity could not be coincidence. Bayou Perot, he knew, was adjacent to the Sinclair property. Gator, the Cajuns recalled, had abruptly disappeared about four years ago. From what Claudia said, that was the same time she’d seen Anjele in a sugarhouse with a man also called Gator. It had to be the same person, and Hembree was confident he’d been struck by an idea that could not fail.
First, he went in search of Captain Bishop to share his idea. Bishop agreed it was worth trying, and Hembree promptly sent a dispatcher to find Brett Cody.
It took nearly a week.
Brett was not easy to locate, for he spent most of his time doing what he had been sent to do—leading Union patrols into the swamps of Bayou Vista to search for Reb bushwhackers or Southerners fleeing New Orleans. He did not like being summoned to headquarters and didn’t care who knew it.
“What’s this about, Major?” he demanded as soon as perfunctory greetings and salutes were exchanged. “As far as I had to come, written communication would have saved me a lot of trouble.”
Hembree flushed with irritation over what he considered insolence but reminded himself he needed Cody and it was best to keep things peaceable. “Well, this is something that couldn’t be put in writing.” He forced a patronizing smile as he went on to comment how he’d seen Cody’s records and was quite impressed. “You’re highly regarded by every officer who’s known you, Cody.”
Brett merely stared at him in stone-faced silence, thinking how quickly opinion would change if they knew he’d like just to walk away from it all. No longer did he want revenge on the past by witnessing the destruction of Anjele’s world. Hell, he didn’t even hate her anymore. She’d become part of the past, and in the horrors of war he’d come to realize that if it happened yesterday, it no longer mattered. All he wanted was to make it through today and do the same tomorrow. And more and more, he found himself wishing he’d stayed out West and out of the war.
“I don’t think,” Brett finally spoke, “you brought me here to talk about my record.”
“You’re right. I have a new assignment for you. A very important assignment. I can almost guarantee a citation and promotion if you’re successful.”
“I don’t care about a citation or a promotion if it’ll get me back to the Army of the Potomac instead.” He didn’t like leading whining soldiers who were scared to death of everything from big gray spiders dropping down out of the moss to slithering snakes. Two had fainted at the sight of an alligator. He felt like a guardian instead of a scout.
“Sorry,” Hembree said, though he wasn’t, and proceeded to get to the point. “I understand you’re from this area. A place called Bayou Perot, to be exact.”
“I worked there,” Brett admitted warily, wondering what the major was leading up to.
“You worked for a planter by the name of Elton Sinclair at a plantation south of the city called BelleClair.”
“What the hell are you getting at, Major?”
Hembree calmly continued. “We know that Sinclair was involved in the takeover of the U.S. Mint here last year. We also believe he stole new engraving plates that could be financially disastrous to the Federal government if they fall into the hands of the Confederacy.”
Brett didn’t care about that. “What does this have to do with me? I wasn’t working for him then. I haven’t worked for him in over four years. Ask him—”
“He’s dead.”
Brett drew a breath, let it out slowly before coolly repeating, “Like I asked, where do I fit in?”
“We believe his daughter Anjele knows where the plates are hidden.”
“Then ask her.” He bolted to his feet. “I don’t want any part of this.”
Hembree decided it was time to pull rank, and shouted, “I didn’t ask if you did, Captain. Now sit down and shut up.”
Their eyes locked.
Not wanting to sit the war out in jail, Brett bit back the urge to tell him to go to hell.
Hembree continued. “I understand you were once romantically involved with her, and—”
Brett tensed. “Where the hell did you hear that?”
“It doesn’t matter. And if you’ll stop interrupting, I’ll explain your place in all of this.”
Brett gave a curt nod. Inside, he was bristling, knowing he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.
“As I said, we feel Sinclair told his daughter where the plates were hidden, but she obviously hasn’t been able to get them to the right people, because they haven’t shown up anywhere. Believe me, we’d know if they had. And it will be even more difficult for her to do so now, because she’s been sent to prison on Ship Island for giving refuge to Reb bushwhackers.”
“Prison?” Brett reeled. “But—”
“She’s been quite a Rebel, herself, Cody. She gave us no choice.”
Brett shook his head. Despite everything, goddamn it, the thought of Anjele in prison was too much. “It’s not right.”
“Well, I’m glad you feel that way, because you’re going to get her out.”
“You seem to forget I’m not exactly wearing her favorite color uniform.”
“You are to convince her you’re actually a spy for the Confederacy. You’ll use a false name, and you’ll tell her the Rebs know her father took the plates, and you’ve been assigned to help her escape so she can find them, because they’re desperately needed.
“We believe,” Hembree rushed to add, noting how Cody suddenly looked amused, “that you’re the person for the job, because you know her. You know her people. You know how they think and act, and you should be able to persuade her. You also know your way around the area, and you’ll be able to find where the plates are hidden from her directions, and—”
Brett burst out laughing. All of a sudden, the absurdity of the scheme was too much. “You don’t know as much as you think you do, Major,” he said, still chuckling. “Yes, I was romantically involved, as you call it, with Anjele Sinclair, but evidently your sources didn’t have all the facts. The truth is, she accused me of raping her, and that’s why I had to leave here. I’d be the last person she’d confide in.
“I think”—the mirth faded, as his eyes became hard and cold with rekindled bitterness—“you’d better get somebody else if you want her to talk.”
Hembree solemnly shook his head. “You’re the man for the job. You can do it. As I said, you know her, know what she’s like. Admit you’re a Southerner who only pretended loyalties to the North. Hell, tell her you’re Acadian, from Mississippi. I don’t really care how you work it as long as you get your job done. Manipulate her, Cody.
“Hell, you did it once before, didn’t you?” he finished with a sly wink.
Brett let the sarcasm pass, though he felt like slamming his fist in his face. “That was a long time ago. The memories aren’t pleasant. She’ll take one look at me and it will all be over.”
Hembree chuckled. “But she won’t.”
Brett was confused. “She won’t what?”
Major Hembree reached for a cheroot and took his time lighting it. He leaned back in his chair, watching the smoke spiral upwards, enjoying Cody’s suspense. Finally, he said, “She won’t know it’s you.” He grinned in triumph. “You see, Anjele Sinclair is blind.”
When Brett left, somewhat in a daze, Major Hembree stood at the window and watched him going down the street. Captain Bishop, seeing him leave, came into the office to ask how everything had gone.
“Fine,” Hembree told him. “He was shocked at first, as I knew he would be, when I told him about her blindness, but he’ll do the job.”
Bishop conveyed his relief, then wanted to know, “Are you going to tell our contact about your plan, how you’re going to arrange for her to escape and lead our man to where she hid them?”
“No,” Hembree replied without hesitation. “Because I don’t care what anybody says, I don’t trust these Southerners who claim to be working for the Union. He’s served his purpose. We won’t be telling him anything else.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
No one paid any attention to Leo as he slowly shuffled along Basin Street. Shoulders stooped, head bowed, he looked neither right nor left, for he knew the way well. Each night, he made the pilgrimage to St. Louis cemetery, proud of his disguise as an old, bedraggled man.
At last he saw the gates looming and quickened his pace. He was broke. Dead broke. Had been for nearly a week. He’d been evicted from the boardinghouse, forced to sneak into a livery stable and sleep in a straw-littered stall. Sometimes, when he managed to steal whiskey and drink himself into a stupor, he’d wake up to find he’d rolled in a pile of horse dung. And damn it, he didn’t like living that way, and if The Voice didn’t return pretty soon, Leo knew he’d have to find a job, which was impossible in New Orleans, unless he was willing to work the fields like a slave, and he sure as hell wasn’t. So he would have to leave town, head west, maybe, so’s the army wouldn’t slap a uniform on him, stick a gun in his hand, and kick his ass right into the goddamn war. But if he did hightail it, The Voice might find out and see him arrested for murder.
Leo gave a soft growl of frustration as he took shuffling steps into the cemetery, appearing drunk if anybody was watching and wondered why he’d dare go in at midnight.
The sight of the impaled white glove evoked an excited gasp. At once, he ran nervous fingers across the cold stone inset about the door, laughing out loud to discover the desperately needed money.
“Be quiet, you fool,” The Voice cracked from within. “Some other drunk might be around to hear and wonder what’s going on.”
Leo stuffed the money in his pocket before crouching in front of the door. “Okay. I’m here, and thank God, you are, because I’m broke.”
“Follow my orders, Leo, and you’ll never have to worry about money again.”
“I’m listening.”
“Anjele Sinclair has been arrested and sent to a Federal prison on Ship Island. She’s housed in a shed situated next to a swampy area that runs into the ocean. Go to Biloxi. Find a man named Seward, who owns a little fishing boat. He’s been paid to take you to the island.”
“And do what?” Leo was elated to think it might soon all be over. He could collect the big money and hightail it out of New Orleans, and the South, forever.
“She’s inaccessible to us now. We can’t watch her every move. She might suddenly remember everything, including you, Leo.” The Voice paused to give him time to absorb what that could mean. “I’m afraid I’d have to have you killed. I couldn’t risk your implicating me.”
“Hell, I don’t even know who you are,” Leo roared. “Shit, you’re just a voice inside a grave, damn it. I couldn’t say nothin’ about you—”
“I wouldn’t be comfortable if you were alive, should she name you as her father’s murderer. No…” The Voice sighed in resolution. “The time has come to get rid of her. I have too much at stake. I want you to kill her.”
Leo smiled in the darkness. “You gonna pay me good, right?”
“Oh, yes. But only if you succeed. And if you don’t, you will keep trying. She’s got to die.”
Brett studied Anjele’s file, then had another session with Major Hembree. He would have liked to question Dr. Duval about her condition and prognosis, but Hembree said Duval, along with several business associates of her father, had requested and been granted permission to visit her in prison to ensure she was being properly cared for. Brett couldn’t risk Duval telling her someone had been making personal inquiries. He was going to have a tough enough time winning her confidence, anyway, especially while being careful lest she figure out who he was.