1862 (27 page)

“You need help?” Rawlins asked in reference to Nathan’s bad leg. Grant had made a point of asking about it and Nathan was surprised that Rawlins had remembered it.

“Nope.”

Like Grant’s drinking, constructive activity and doing something useful seemed to drive away the pain in his leg. It had been disappearing for a long while, and now it seemed totally gone.

Nathan slipped once in the mud, but climbed the few feet up the damp and slippery embankment, where he clearly saw the destruction wrought by the bombardment. It was extensive, although he saw no sign of any casualties. Perhaps they’d been removed. Perhaps, he hoped, there hadn’t been that much in the way of human suffering. He hoped not.

All around him, ships were unloading while still more units moved inland. There was no resistance, and no one could recall whether the Canadians had even fired at the invaders. A few handfuls of Canadian civilians watched stoically. Their expressions did not betray the anger they must have been feeling.

Messengers raced up to Grant, and Nathan quietly moved as close as he could to hear their reports. Fort Maiden had fallen without resistance. To the north, a small Union detachment had crossed the St. Clair River south of the American city of Port Huron and had taken the Canadian city of Sarnia.

The landings had been a complete success. There was a sense of pride and exultation in the air. The United States was taking the war to goddamned Great Britain. There would be vengeance for New York and Boston.

Alan Pinkerton crept slowly through the overgrown field towards the country house that Valerie and Henri D’Estaing called home. It was a large, rich-looking farmhouse and, since his sources in the State Department had said that Henri D’Estaing had been ordered back to France by Seward, it was a possible source of corruption and spies. It certainly had never been used as a farm recently. While the house was well kept, the fields were a collection of weeds.

He was further intrigued by the fact that, while Henri D’Estaing was not at home, his amoral wife was, and that strange widow Rebecca Devon was her guest.

In a city where human spiders spun webs of intrigue, the relationship between General Winfield Scott and Nathan Hunter led to Rebecca Devon, and then to Valerie D’Estaing and her corrupt husband. It was a path that needed to be explored. At the least, Pinkerton thought he would find that Rebecca Devon, a woman whose late husband had been as rotten as a long-dead and sun-ripened pig, was somehow involved in influence peddling. At the most, Pinkerton hoped to find information that would destroy Winfield Scott and bring General George McClellan back into favor. The country needed McClellan. He would end the war on honorable terms for the Union.

On a personal note, Alan Pinkerton, too, needed to be returned to power by McClellan, his mentor and, hopefully, his savior. Once a very important man, Pinkerton now found himself on the outside and not taken seriously. It wasn’t his fault that his estimates of Confederate numbers were considered inflated and ludicrously unrealistic. He had done what McClellan had asked of him and now ridicule was his reward.

The sound of muted female laughter carried from the second-floor window, and Pinkerton wondered just what was going on. There was only one way to find out.

Slinking through a farmyard was not something Alan Pinkerton would ordinarily do himself, but he had no other operatives available for the task. Besides, he told himself, he needed to do something like this on a periodic basis to keep his hand in the game. As the head of the Chicago-based detective agency that bore his name, he had performed a number of clandestine tasks similar to this. The last time he had spied on someone directly, he had climbed a ladder to peer in the second-floor window of the Confederate spy Rose O’Neal Greenhow. Mrs. Greenhow had been arrested and awaited her fate in the Old Capital jail. She would either be hanged or deported. Either way, Pinkerton considered it a triumph.

That, however, was in the past. He needed a new coup. He also needed a ladder. He swore under his breath and walked stealthily to the barn. The door was open and he slipped in without making a noise.

Pinkerton was so engrossed in his task that he never heard the soft footfalls behind him and never felt the small sack of sand colliding with his skull until his consciousness went out in a blaze of red before his eyes.

As he lay on the ground, former sergeant Fromm first checked that Pinkerton was alive. Satisfied that he had done a good but not lethal job with his sand-filled blackjack, Fromm bound and gagged Pinkerton and slid a hood over the unconscious man’s head.

General Scott had asked him to do a favor for both the general and for Mr. Hunter. He was to make life miserable for Pinkerton and discourage him from following Rebecca Devon. Fromm liked Hunter. He had given Fromm good advice regarding Bridget Conlin and he figured he owed Hunter one.

Fromm was very strong, and he easily carried the inert Pinkerton to where he’d hidden his carriage. He then retrieved Pinkerton’s carriage and tied it behind his own. Mr. Pinkerton was going for a very interesting ride.

Women’s laughter came from the house and, for a moment, Fromm thought he’d been seen. No, whatever it was, he decided, didn’t involve him. There was more laughter and Fromm grinned. He wondered just what the devil was going on up there.

The second-floor bedroom was its own wing, which meant it had windows on three sides. Thus, even in the heat of a Washington summer, there was usually a relatively comfortable breeze blowing through. Light screening kept the insects out, so anyone within would be quite comfortable.

Rebecca and Valerie had sketched, painted, eaten, and now were enjoying a couple of glasses of champagne before turning in. Rebecca would spend the night, and a second bed had been moved into the room. The two women wore only thin robes, and the only light in the room was a candle.

“How much more time?” Rebecca asked.

“We will be leaving in about a week. There is so much more to pack that I do not think I will ever be ready.”

“I will miss you.”

“And I you.”

Rebecca took a deep breath and looked puzzled. “I feel a little light-headed. The champagne must be stronger than I thought.”

Valerie smiled. It wasn’t the champagne; it was what she had added to it. “Are you warm?”

“Yes.”

“Then lie down on the bed and let me tend to you.” Rebecca lay down on the larger of the two beds while Valerie walked over to the dresser and poured a pitcher of water into a bowl. She dipped a cloth in it and wrung it out. Then she placed it on Rebecca’s forehead.

“Feel cooler?”

“Yes, but I still feel like I’m drifting away. It’s very strange. It’s as if I’m conscious but not in control.”

“The heat has been terrible. Here, let me help you.”

Without waiting for a response, Valerie untied Rebecca’s robe and guided her out of it. Then she removed her own. Again, she compared herself to Rebecca. Where Valerie was soft and rounded, Rebecca was slender, almost boyishly lean and with much-better-defined muscles, particularly in her thighs and calves. It came, she supposed, from Rebecca’s habit of going for long walks that were more hikes and forced marches than gentle strolls. Thank God the fuller-figured woman appealed to most men. Valerie hated exercise like the plague.

“You’re just too warm.”

Valerie took the cold, damp cloth and guided it across Rebecca’s naked body, pausing to touch her breasts and thighs.

“Do you like this?” Valerie whispered. She knew her answer. Rebecca was breathing deeply, and her nipples had stiffened. “Then you will like this even better.”

Valerie dipped her hand in the water and let her cool fingers dance across Rebecca’s body, pausing briefly at the burn scar on her neck and shoulder. Then she caressed Rebecca’s breasts with one hand while, with the other, she slowly and gently began to explore the suddenly moist softness between Rebecca’s thighs.

“Oh, God,” Rebecca moaned. It was nothing she had ever felt before. Her own body was glowing with a radiant and glorious heat. It shouldn’t be happening and she knew she should stop it but she was unable to make her body move. It was as if she were paralyzed. She could only lie there and receive the pleasure that came on her in increasing waves.

“Are you happy?” Valerie asked gently.

“Oh God, yes,” groaned Rebecca in a slurred voice. Now even her tongue had betrayed her.

“Then let me make you even happier.” Valerie lowered her lips over Rebecca’s breasts and began to kiss her erect nipples while she continued to caress the other woman’s thighs. Within a couple of moments, Rebecca gasped and spasmed, involuntarily clamping Valerie’s hand with her thighs. Valerie smiled. Rebecca had just had her first climax.

“Did you like that, little Rebecca?”

“Yes,” Rebecca managed to gasp. Her own voice sounded strange, distant. Valerie still caressed her inner thighs. “That was wonderful.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want it to be even better?”

“Yes. No. It couldn’t be. Yes.”

Valerie slowly moved her face down Rebecca’s belly, gently licking at her slightly sweaty skin. When she reached Rebecca’s thighs, she replaced her fingers with her softly probing tongue.

Rebecca groaned, then arched her back upwards while she tried to hold on to Valerie’s head with her barely responding legs. In a couple of minutes, Rebecca had had her second orgasm. A little while later, it was followed by her third, after which Valerie allowed her to sleep.

The two women sat across from each other and nibbled at their breakfasts. Both were fully dressed.

“You used me.” Rebecca said.

“I admit it.”

“What was in the champagne?”

“A mild narcotic. A derivative of laudanum. It did a marvelous job of breaking down your inhibitions, didn’t it?”

“What you did to me was despicable. The drug paralyzed me and made me helpless.”

Valerie arched an eyebrow. “Are you saying you didn’t like it, received no pleasure from me?”

Rebecca flushed. “Of course I did. I couldn’t possibly deny it, could I? I heard myself groaning and I know what pleasures I felt. I was just so helpless to stop it. You controlled me like I was a toy, not a human being.” It had sometimes felt like she was floating above herself, or, at other moments, as if she was a bug impaled on a pin. However, she had felt exquisite pleasure, not agony. “I knew everything that was happening but was totally unable to do anything about it. But what I find most discomforting was that you never told me what you were going to do. It was a sexual ambush, wasn’t it?”

“Correct again. But I couldn’t give you a warning. If I had, you’d have said no, wouldn’t you?”

“Probably.”

Valerie laughed. “No, not probably, definitely. But now you know what your body is like and what you can do with it. As I once told you, I was taught such matters at a much earlier age, but one is never too old to learn. I can leave for France with the knowledge that you are finally a woman.”

“You used me,” Rebecca said. “Betrayed my trust.”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

Valerie smiled. “How else could I have done it? Could I have brought in a strange man to service you? Or perhaps I could have sent you to bed with Mr. Hunter and hovered over you and given instructions. No, any suggestion of mine would have been overruled by you. As it is, what happened was beyond your control, which makes you blameless. Educated, but without taint.”

Despite her anger, Rebecca saw the twisted logic. “We can never be friends again.”

“Is that your wish?”

“It is,” Rebecca said firmly.

Valerie shrugged. “So be it. I have no regrets, and, when you’ve had time to think on it, neither will you.”

Later, as Rebecca’s carriage and driver took her home, Rebecca reflected on what truly had occurred. Valerie D’Estaing was as depraved and as amoral as anyone could be. What was truly astonishing was that Valerie saw absolutely nothing wrong in what she had done and had absolutely no regrets.

Rebecca had no desire to ever again have such an encounter with another woman. Had she not been under the influence of Valerie’s narcotic, she would likely be feeling enormous guilt. As it was, she could examine what had occurred with a degree of objectivity and with only a minimal amount of shame.

Valerie was correct in one area. Rebecca’s knowledge of her own body had grown from virtually nothing to great substance. She reiterated to herself that she would never permit a woman to touch her. However, a man would be different, and if Tom had been a proper husband, she would already be aware of that difference.

Rebecca closed her eyes and tried to imagine Nathan Hunter caressing her and using both his lips and his tongue on her. It was an astonishingly pleasant thought, and she found herself growing even warmer than the summer day.

   Brigadier General Patrick Ronayne Cleburne sat on the edge of his cot in his tent and wondered just what had caused the world to fall in on him so suddenly and so totally. A couple of days ago he was the darling of the Confederate army; now he was a virtual prisoner.

Cleburne’s unit was one of the few to have emerged from the battle of Shiloh with its reputation enhanced. His rise in the Confederate army had been meteoric. He had begun the war as a private and now was a highly regarded general. His intelligence: bravery: charm: and personal experience in the British army had stood him in good stead. He had commanded a division, and was told he would soon get a corps. He was a man whose star was rising rapidly.

But that was then and this was now, and there was a guard at the flap of the tent with orders to shoot Cleburne should he attempt to leave.

How had this happened? Cleburne was an immigrant from Ireland who had worked hard and finally made good as an attorney and a military man. He enjoyed the fighting and his men seemed to love following him into combat. Why not? He was a winner and the winners not only had the glory but, generally, fewer casualties. And now he was under arrest at the order of General Braxton Bragg and charges of treason were likely to be levied against him.