“I don’t think—”
“How thoughtful of you, Major,” Jack interrupted, pressing his fingers once more into her spine to get her attention. “I’m sure my wife will welcome a relaxing respite from our travels.” He shrugged and forced a wry smile. “We barely said our ‘I do’s’ before I had her on the road heading for the prison. Deadlines, you know.”
Brady nodded. “Yes, indeed I do.” He motioned to the pair of chairs facing his desk. “Please have a seat. We can chat while your quarters are being readied.”
He assisted Kitty onto one of the wooden chairs, giving her a warning glare before settling himself on the seat beside her. Those pouting lips were oh-so-pretty, but dangerous as well. If the wrong words spilled out of them, their mission was dead.
As Brady took his seat behind the desk, Jack reached into his pocket and extracted a notepad and pencil. Time for a little investigative journalism. “We might as well take advantage of our time together, sir.” He thumbed to a fresh page. “If you wouldn’t mind answering a few questions?”
“Certainly. What would you like to discuss?”
“Let’s start with the population. How many soldiers are you holding?”
“We have approximately ten thousand prisoners. But not all are soldiers. Some are civilians who sympathize with the South. Blockade runners mostly, caught on the Potomac and out in the Bay.”
“That’s a lot of prisoners to watch over. Any escapes?”
“Not since I took charge in April.” The major puffed up his chest, full of his own self-importance. “I made certain of that.”
“In what way?”
“First and foremost, I enforce all federal regulations to the letter. Body searches. Twice daily roll calls.” He tossed a glance at the darkening window. “After sundown, all prisoners are confined to their quarters. Anyone caught outside is shot without question.”
“I see.” He wet his pencil nib with the tip of his tongue and struck a bold underscore beneath the notation
enforces regulations to the letter
. “Do you take any preventative measures outside of regulations?”
“Any I deem necessary.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“I can. For example, any new captives found wearing federal blue are stripped of those uniforms. Too easy for them to blend in, if they do manage to escape.”
“A wise precaution.” Hell, with all those safety measures, Kitty might find getting her brother freed quite a difficult undertaking. The more he heard, the more he believed she was only chasing a fantasy. “Is alternate clothing provided for the prisoners should they need it?”
“We have a storehouse of donated items. Also, many prisoners write to their families and request clothes or money. Of course, all packages are inspected by this office before being distributed.”
Warning bells clanged in his head. Packages inspected before being distributed? Even the most dedicated army officer might be tempted to steal from the helpless prisoners. Who would the Reb soldiers complain to? The idea definitely warranted further exploration.
“Clothes, I can understand,” he tendered. “But why would they need to request money if they’re imprisoned?”
Brady’s gaze remained steady, no blinking, no tell-tale shifting. “Prisoners are allowed to purchase necessity items from the sutler’s store against accounts set up in their names.”
Damn. Either the man was a good actor, or he had nothing to hide.
“The sutler’s carries a variety of stock,” Brady continued. “Including female attire.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a leaflet which he handed to Kitty. “I’m sure you could find a few things to tide you over, Mrs. Porter; though it won’t be anything as fine as a well-bred Southern lady like yourself is accustomed to.”
She stared at the paper, eyes wide, fingers clasped on the edges. A second passed, no more, then she gathered herself and treated the officer to a dazzling smile. “Thank you, Major.” She folded the leaflet onto her lap. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“Glad to help. I’ll have my adjutant escort the two of you to the sutler’s. Then you can join us for dinner in the officers’ mess hall.”
Jack stowed her strange reaction to the leaflet to the back of his mind for later reflection and returned to his questioning. “Speaking of feminine attire, do you have many female prisoners?”
“A few. Most were captured along with the units they fought with.”
“And the others?”
“We have one female spy imprisoned, and another we’re currently searching for.”
“How do you know the other one’s involved in espionage?”
“Won’t know for sure until we capture and question her. However...” Brady tapped a packet of papers stacked on the corner of the desk. “This report says she was seen kneeling beside a dead courier just north of here with blood on her hands. Field orders were missing from his sack. That’s mighty condemning evidence.”
Kitty shifted in her chair, white-knuckled fingers clamped around the armrests. Her face had gone pale as the papers stacked on Brady’s desk.
Damn. She was going to give them away. Jack cleared his throat in an effort to keep Brady’s focus directed on him. “I believe we met the patrol looking for her. Do you have any information on this woman?”
“Only what we gathered from her Negro’s feverish mumblings. He’s being cared for at the prison hospital. Seems his mistress is from Virginia, and her name is Carleton, Miss Lou Carleton.”
Chapter Five
Louisa pushed the fried summer squash into a neat pile with the tip of her fork. Jeb was here at the prison. And he was alive, feverish, but still alive. The garden peas formed a smaller hill. It’d make freeing him and Lance all the easier. She slid the crab cake to the edge of the plate. Provided the bluebellies didn’t put two and two together and come up with her.
All around her, conversation hummed, low and threatening like the buzz in a busy hive. She sat in its center, an intruder in the nest, and any moment they’d spot her. Stomach roiling with unease, she forced a bite of crab between her lips and made herself swallow. It felt as though sawdust raked her throat. She grabbed for her wine.
The officer beside her on the bench shifted and reached for a basket of rolls. His thigh brushed her skirts. She tried to inch sideways but met the end of the bench. As honored guests, she and Porter were seated at the head of the table with Major Brady, and there was no place to go without landing on the floor.
She lifted her wineglass and hid her trembling lips as she peered over the rim at the blue uniforms lining the long, linen-draped table. Yankee officers. Two dozen of them at least. Another bead of perspiration trickled between her breasts, adding to the discomfort of her sweat-soaked chemise. Once again she’d trusted a man and now had herself truly trapped.
“You look oddly familiar, Mrs. Porter,” said the officer beside her, a Captain Riggs, if she remembered correctly. He puckered his brow as he studied her. “Have you ever visited Southern Maryland before now?”
Her heart skipped a beat. Had he been part of the Yankee patrol chasing her and Jeb? She swallowed and lowered her glass. “No, Captain.” She fought to keep the quiver from her voice and concentrated on speaking like a well-bred lady. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”
He broke off a bit of bread and continued to look at her as he chewed. “Connecticut, maybe. That’s where I’m from. Middletown actually. South of Hartford.”
“N-no. I’ve never—” She dragged in a shaky breath. “—never been any further north than this.”
“Strange.” He brushed crumbs from his neat blond moustache. “You look...” His gaze drifted to her hair. He shook his head. “I’d swear I’ve seen you before.”
Dratted hair. It always seemed to draw attention and comment, mostly of a non-pleasant sort. Once, in what seemed a lifetime ago, as she’d dressed Fannie’s lank brown locks, the eldest Lawrence daughter had screwed up her face and declared Louisa’s coloring more suited a pleasure house than a lady’s parlor. There were times she wondered if maybe Fannie was right.
“Perhaps you mistake me for someone else.”
“Where’re y’all from then, darlin’,” came a drawl from farther down the table. A lieutenant with a cocky grin and looking much too young for his rank leaned forward on an elbow. “Talk s’more so I can hear that lovely voice.”
Y’all
?
Darlin’
? Her shock must’ve shown for Captain Riggs stepped in.
“Don’t mind Calhoun, Mrs. Porter. He’s from Texas. Been complaining since he arrived here that the only folks he understands are the Reb prisoners. Oh, begging your pardon, ma’am.”
She dismissed his apology with a shake of her head. “No offense taken. While I am a Southerner, I don’t hold with slavery. Never have. However, I do feel forcing the issue with violence is wrong.”
Calhoun snagged a chicken leg from a platter. “I disagree. Only way to get through to a slaver is with force.” He ripped off a hunk of meat with his teeth, then chewed ill-manneredly while talking. “Give ’em back what they been dishin’ out to the Nigras.”
A knot of resentment coiled in her belly, for the moment muzzling her fear. She met Lieutenant Calhoun’s smug gaze straight on. “Those are mighty Republican beliefs for a Texan.” She deepened her own drawl. “When on earth did Texas take up the Union cause?”
Color rushed into the lieutenant’s face. He dropped the mauled drumstick to his plate and opened his mouth to reply.
But she didn’t give him a chance. He’d smeared Papa, Lance, and
her
with his comment. It was not to be borne. She heaved a sigh that would’ve rivaled any of Fannie’s theatrics. “I do swear, one would think having a newspaper man for a husband, one would occasionally hear some news. Good or bad. Perhaps I should have married a soldier after all.”
There was a moment of uncertain silence, then all down the line, laughter exploded. Calhoun, crimsoned-faced, pushed to his feet. He tossed her a furious glower, then slammed his napkin on the table and stormed toward the door.
His comrades threw taunts after him, several mimicking his Texas twang. Others toasted her witty humor and though the moment was clearly hers, she found little to enjoy. A chill scuttled down her spine. Curse her flap-happy tongue. Now she had a new, more personal enemy to watch out for.
She eyed the empty doorway. “Oh, dear...I didn’t intend to upset the lieutenant.”
“Don’t you fret none, Mrs. Porter,” Major Brady soothed. “Calhoun gets a bit hot-headed at times. He’ll soon simmer down.” He reached for the wine bottle. “Would you care for more wine?”
Perhaps a good slug of spirits would help settle her rattled nerves. “Yes, I would. Thank you, Major.”
As the officer poured a generous dose into her glass, Porter gave her a pointed look across the table. “This is wonderful French wine, Major.
Very
potent. I’ll bet the effects can sneak up on you real quick if you’re not careful.”
Brady chuckled. “Right you are. Very potent indeed. I only allow it to be served on special occasions.”
Ignoring Porter’s warning glare, she took a healthy sip. She’d have more wine if she wanted. He had no hold over her.
Frowning, Porter downed his wine and set the goblet on the table. “Where’d you come by such exclusive stock during wartime?”
“Ah, the rewards of capturing blockade runners. More?” At Jack’s nod, Brady refreshed his drink. “A large crate was confiscated from a French schooner bound for Norfolk. I’ve no doubt some unhappy Virginia gentleman is settling for weak blackberry extract with his dinner right now.”
No doubt
. She shook her head, and her vision swam. She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. Dratted wine was almost as potent as ol’ Carson’s corn liquor. Perhaps she should go easy with the spirit. Not that Porter was right. She just didn’t need her tongue loosened any further. One furious Yankee was enough. She stabbed another bite of crab. Adding something solid to her stomach should help tame the wine’s effects.
Porter’s mouth turned up in a satisfied smile. She smiled back. Let him think what he would.
“You’ll have to allow me access to this blockade runner, Major,” Jack stated. “I’d love to discover his French source.”
Brady motioned for the dark-skinned soldier standing behind him to remove his plate. It seemed, even in the Union Army, Negroes were given the lowliest jobs. “I don’t think it’d be wise for you to question the prisoners, Mr. Porter.”
She stilled her fork. How would they find Lance if they weren’t allowed to talk to the prisoners? She clamped her teeth around the question hopping on her tongue. She’d already drawn enough attention with her remark to Calhoun.
Porter wiped his mouth, then set his napkin beside a plate nearly licked clean of crumbs. Man had a healthy appetite—for food
and
knowledge. He’d uncover the major’s reason for denying them access to the prisoners. No doubt about that. She knew first-hand how the newspaperman worried at a bone until it was gnawed clean.
“Why shouldn’t I speak with the prisoners, sir?”
“They’re known to embellish the truth. I would hate for you to be misled by falsehoods.”
“I’ve become pretty adept at seeing through falsehoods.”
“Perhaps so, but...”
Jack cocked his head to the side, his gaze drifting over her before returning to the major. “I could make it worth your while.”
Alarm shot through her at his words. It wasn’t what he said, but how he said it. Slowly. Deliberately. As if he held a nugget the major couldn’t resist.
Maybe
her
, for instance?
****
Shadows lined the pathway ahead, dark pockets perfect for hiding an ambusher. Calhoun, perhaps? She shifted closer to the protective presence beside her, then tensed. Was she trading one threat for another?
Are we not friends, little Red? Have we not tendered cheer during times of distress? Protected one another from torment?
They had been slick words. Spoken with a friendly tongue and compelling her to go against all good sense. Porter also had the gift of gab. She’d seen him practice it on several occasions, first with the farmwoman and again with Major Brady. Would he use his smooth-talking talent, as Bart had, for ill? It would be wise to learn more about him and avoid such trickery.