The Velvet Shadow (52 page)

Flanna choked back a sob of gratitude as Wesley’s smile widened
in approval. “Think you can manage putting on a man’s uniform, sister?”

Flanna met his grin with a larger smile of her own. “Brother, you’d be surprised how well I can manage.”

T
en minutes later, Flanna finished slicking her hair back with Macassar oil, then stepped out of the pantry wearing the light blue trousers and gray coat of a Confederate infantryman. Wesley whistled in appreciation as she twirled for his inspection.

“Add this,” Mrs. Corey said, taking a cap from a pile of discarded clothing she’d collected from the wounded. She tossed it to Flanna, then moved to the stack of weapons and closed her hand around a rifle barrel. “You should take this too.”

Flanna slipped the cap over her hair and stared at the rifle musket in Mrs. Corey’s grasp. “Are you certain you want to give me that?” Her eyes met the widow’s. “When they find out I’ve escaped, they won’t appreciate the fact that you gave me a rifle.”

“It’s not loaded.” The widow pushed the gun toward Flanna, then took a hasty half-step back as if glad to be rid of it. “I don’t have any bullets or powder, so the gun will be useless to you if you get into trouble. But how are they to know?”

“How indeed?” Wesley asked, picking up his own knapsack and rifle.

Overwhelmed by gratitude, Flanna propped the rifle against the table, then clasped the older woman in a brief embrace. “I wish I had known Willie,” she whispered in Mrs. Corey’s ear. “With a mother like you, he must have been a very special young man.”

Tears trembled on the widow’s sparse lashes as she patted Flanna’s
shoulder. “I packed your green dress in your knapsack. Promise me you’ll change as soon as you can. You’ll be safer traveling as a woman.”

“Yes ma’am, I promise.”

The widow patted the tiny curls at her ears in a distracted gesture. “I also put some cornbread in the knapsack, as well as your medical bag and your book.”

Her journal. In the horrors of the last few days, Flanna had nearly forgotten about it. “Thank you.”

She gave the widow a kiss on the cheek, then picked up the rifle and knapsack. As the widow sighed loudly and sank into a chair, Flanna and Wesley walked toward the front of the house. A thrill of frightened anticipation touched Flanna’s spine as she paused by the door.

“Just act like you know what you’re doing,” Wesley said, reading her face. “Salute the officers, ignore the others. The guard saw me come in, and he’ll assume you were with me.”

“And if he questions me?” Flanna quailed at the thought of being arrested again. The colonel would not be as merciful a second time, particularly if she was apprehended while trying to free two Union officers. And what might happen to Wesley if she failed?

Wesley cocked his head at a jaunty angle. “If he questions you, just turn around and march back inside the house. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Flanna swallowed hard, then slung her rifle over her shoulder, and reminded herself that she’d been marching and drilling for months. If any woman on earth knew how to walk like a soldier, she did.

“Let’s go.”

Wesley swung the door wide. Flanna blinked in the bright flood of sunlight, then followed her brother down the stairs.

An hour later Flanna and Wesley stood outside the same majestic white building where she had been taken the day before. There were no crowds this time, just a handful of soldiers loitering in the shade of the columns. A cool breeze was sweeping away the heat of the day, and the western sky had begun to glow with crimson and gold.

Flanna felt her hands go slick with sweat as an entire regiment of Confederate soldiers came around a street corner, marching in straight lines as the drums and fifes played a sprightly version of “Dixie.” Flanna turned slightly and thrust her hands in her pockets as they passed.

“Nice job, Private,” Wesley joked, puffing on the end of a cigar he’d fished from his pocket. “Remember—wait patiently, stay calm. You know what you are doing.”

The hands on the city clock moved slowly, marking the time. Six o’clock, and yet no sign of prisoners.

“Are you sure this is the right door?” Flanna glanced up at Wesley. “What if they’ve taken them out another way?”

“Hold your horses, lass.” Wesley’s eyes scanned the street as he lifted the cigar to his lips. He drew heavily on it, making the tip glow bright, then held it out and stared at it. “Nasty habit,” he said, a thin plume of smoke drifting from his pursed lips. “But it’s all I have to keep me warm most nights.”

Flanna leaned back against a pillar, wishing she had something to do with her hands. The swollen sun hung low in the west, so if the guards waited much longer they’d be transporting prisoners in the dark. What had delayed them? Had Alden taken a turn for the worse? Or were they merely delayed by some other trial?

“Look sharp, Private.” Wesley’s voice brought her out of her reverie. Flanna glanced up to see the double doors opening. Two Confederate guards appeared, followed by Alden and Roger. Both were bound at the wrists, and both walked with their heads bowed. Someone had draped a dark blanket over Alden’s shoulders, but the sight of his pale profile made Flanna’s heart twist in misery.

“You there, Sergeant,” Wesley called out, lifting his cigar in the guard’s direction. “We have orders to relieve you.”

“Orders?” The sergeant came forward, frowning. “I know nothing of any orders.”

Wesley jerked his chin toward the prisoners. “These are the men bound for Libby Prison?”

“Yes.”

“Well then.” Wesley pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and made a great fuss of unfolding it with one hand while he held his cigar with the other. “I’ve got these orders commanding me and the wee one to escort these men to Libby Prison by six o’clock.” The line of his mouth curved, a mere twitch in his bearded face. “Seein’ as how these men are already late, it’ll be my tail that ends up bein’ catawampusly chawed up by the colonel. Unless you insist on taking them in.”

“I didn’t know anything about six o’clock.” The muscles of the sergeant’s throat moved in a convulsive swallow. “And it weren’t my fault that they’re just now bein’ released. The colonel said to hold ’em until he was good and ready to let ’em go.”

Wesley suddenly whirled toward Flanna. “You there! Hold that rifle on those prisoners, you fool!”

Flanna jumped in honest surprise, then swung her rifle off her back and pointed it toward Alden and Roger. Roger’s brows lifted when their eyes met, but for once he said nothing.

“Well.” The sergeant hesitated, not bothering to look at the paper fluttering in Wesley’s hand. “If you’ve got orders.”

“My good man.” Wesley laughed and slipped his arm around the sergeant’s shoulders. “If I were you, I’d thank my lucky stars that someone else will take the browbeating. Take advantage, boy! I hear Miss Rose has opened her tavern for business. Instead of arguing with me, you could be down there debating the weather with a right fair-looking wench.”

The captain’s nose quivered like a leaf in the wind. “Miss Rose is back? I thought she’d left the city.”

“She did leave.” Wesley turned and pointed down the street. “But when our boys held the Federals, she came back, bringing all her girls with her.”

“Well then.” The sergeant thrust his hands in his pockets and broke into a leisurely smile. “I suppose I could use an hour or two of feminine companionship.”

“And jealous I am, mind you.” Wesley jabbed the sergeant’s arm, then pointed his own rifle toward the prisoners. “And if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be taking these Yanks off your hands.”

As the sergeant called to his companion and moved away down the street, Wesley jerked the muzzle of his rifle toward Roger and Alden. “Get along now,” he said, his voice as dry as a desert. “Let’s get you two settled in a more proper place.”

Alden turned, and Flanna gasped as she caught sight of a nasty bruise around his eye. The cut in his forehead had opened, and a dark red stream of blood marked the side of his face. Had they beaten him?

Alden looked up then and caught Flanna’s eye. His expression clouded in confusion for a moment, then he seemed to relax. Without a word, he and Roger walked between Wesley and Flanna out onto the street.

They turned down a nearly deserted road and walked for nearly a mile without speaking. Wesley set the pace and led the way with Roger, while Flanna followed with Alden. Her heart squeezed in compassion when she noticed that Alden had begun to drag his feet; his strength ebbed with every step.

Warehouses lined the road, so pedestrian traffic was light. Flanna waited until there was no one around to hear, then hissed at her brother. “Wesley! We’re losing Alden. We’ve got to stop.”

“It’s not safe yet,” Wesley insisted, moving relentlessly through the darkening gloom. “Soon, though. I know a place.”

“I’m all right,” Alden added, in a voice that seemed to come from far away.

Flanna yearned to slip under Alden’s arm and support him, but in the guise of a Confederate soldier she could not. Eventually, though, the warehouses fell away, and they found themselves on a wide dirt road. Flanna slung her rifle over her shoulder and slipped her arm around Alden’s waist, helping him in the gathering darkness. The glow of candles and lamps seeped through the shutters and lace curtains of several homes on the road, reminding Flanna that they had been
walking for some time. She sighed in relief when Wesley finally turned toward a small slave cabin that lay at least fifty feet behind a great white house whose windows were blank with darkness.

The little whitewashed cabin gleamed in the light from a full moon. “The owners of the house fled when McClellan landed,” Wesley explained, holding the door open as Flanna led Alden inside. “I don’t dare take you into the big house, but this place should be safe for the night.”

“What about the slaves?” Flanna asked. She eased Alden to the floor, then knelt to untie the ropes that bound his wrists.

“Gone with their owners, probably.” Wesley closed the door behind him, then fumbled in his pocket for a flint. In a moment he had lit a small lamp that sat on the table, the only piece of furniture in the room.

As the lamp flickered and brightened the small space, Wesley untied Roger, then extended his hand. “I’m Wesley O’Connor, Flanna’s brother. I’m pleased to meet you.”

Roger’s mouth split into a smile that lit his eyes like the sun. “I’ve never been so happy to meet a Confederate soldier in all my life,” Roger said, briskly shaking Wesley’s hand. “Thank you, sir, for coming to our rescue.”

“’Tis all Flanna’s doing.” Wesley extended his hand to Alden, too, who shook it with the same warmth. “I couldn’t very well leave my sister under house arrest in a heathen town like Richmond.”

“Heathen?” Intense astonishment marked Roger’s face.

“Full of politicians,” Wesley explained. He glanced around the room for a moment, then turned to Flanna. “There’s a fireplace, but I wouldn’t light it. The smoke might draw attention to you.”

“I know.”

“And you’ll have to move quickly tomorrow. My guess is that these two will be missed tonight, and searchers will be out at first light.”