A Secret Refuge [02] Sisters of the Confederacy (20 page)

By late afternoon she felt as though she were chasing a will-o’-the-wisp or a swamp light. Many people she asked had seen him, but he’d gone somewhere else and they weren’t sure where. When she finally located his simple camp, she dismounted and took up residence on a rock. Better to wait for the mountain to come to her than hightailing it after a mountain that moved around more than a hound hot on a rabbit trail.

If frustration had a name, today it was Wolf—Gray Wolf Torstead for a full name, but few called him anything other than Wolf. Instead of snarling as he wished, he stood silent, dark eyes blank, body still as his namesake on a hunt. He wanted to be wagon master of this forming train about as much as he wanted to dig an arrow out of his thigh, something he’d been forced to do some years in the past. The scar reminded him of that whenever he stripped to tribal dress.

He listened to the two men arguing and dreamed of home. Of the land of the Oglala Sioux, where the rivers ran clear, not the muddy brown of the Kansas, and the wind blew clean, not fetid as it did in this morass of an encampment. The smoke of cooking fires and blacksmith coals hung like that of a far-off forest fire, burning both nostrils and eyes.

He waited.

“So what do you think, Mr. Wolf?” The shorter of the two turned to the silent third of their party.

“Just Wolf. No mister.”

“Ah, sorry.” The man scrubbed a hairy hand across an equally hairy face. He reminded Wolf of a badger, pointed skinny nose, beady eyes, and scrabbling for a toehold where there might be none. When backed into a corner, as he was being now, he would fight to the finish.

“Can they join us or not?”

“Only if they have sufficient supplies and a wagon that will go the distance. I inspect everything. Anything less will slow the entire train.” He knew from the glances they exchanged that when he spoke the language of his father, white men were surprised. He looked more Sioux than English. Before he died, his father had taught him well. To read, to write and do sums, to speak the good King’s English, as Eviar Torstead called it. He also taught his son smatterings of Norwegian, Eviar’s native tongue. His mother’s people taught him to walk tall on the land and be one with horse and wind.

This would be his last train. The only reason he took the position of wagon master was for the gold it would bring. Gold that would buy guns for his people to hunt the buffalo, knives to skin them with, and blankets to warm them in the winter. Thanks to his father, he believed that whites and Indians could live in peace, learning from each other and sharing the riches of the land.

Everything always came back to the land.

While keeping his thoughts as his own, he waited for a response.

The taller man spat into the mud. “Ain’t no breed goin’ to inspect my provisions.” He turned the last words into a sneer.

“Then you will not be joining my wagon train.” Wolf heard the
my
and wondered when he had accepted responsibility. Up till then it had been
their
.

“You gonna let him talk like that?” The spitter spun on the badger.

“He’s the boss. He promised to get us to Oregon, and I aim to follow his good sense. He’s made the trip four times as a scout and knows whereof he speaks.”

“Well, I ain’t lettin’ no breed tell me what to do.” He spat again, this time within inches of Wolf’s boot.

“That’s your choice, mister.” Badger nodded to Wolf and the two walked away, leaving the spitter sputtering.

“Sorry about that.”

“Not your fault. We’ll have enough trouble on the trail without someone like him along.”

“Trouble? You don’t mean Indian trouble—oh, pardon me, but do you?”

Wolf shook his head. “There’s plenty else waitin’ for the unwary. ‘A wise man counts the cost before he begins to build his barn.’ ” Quoting from Scripture came easily to him. After all, he’d learned to read from that one book his father kept with him always.

“You said that right. I’m hopin’ one day to do just that, build me a barn, but out in Oregon Territory. They say the trees are so big you only need one to build a house. That true?”

“Depends on if you saw up lumber or build a log house.” Wolf paused, catching sight of a slim young boy sitting in his campsite. “Looks like I have someone waiting for me.”

“I’ll be goin’ on, then. How soon you think we might be ready to head west?”

“When I’m certain everyone is ready.”

“Oh, ‘course.” Badger sketched a nod and turned away, settling his hat more firmly on his head as he went.

Wolf kept track of the man out of the corner of his eye, all the while aware of his visitor. If someone had sent the boy, he had to know Wolf wasn’t looking for any single young men to join his train. Singles, either male or female, spelled nothing but trouble on a wagon train.

Washington

“Miss, a box came for you.”

Louisa turned at the clerk’s call. “Thank you.” She turned to Mrs. Hinklen, who appeared to have spent as sleepless a night as had Louisa. “You go on and order us coffee while I take this up to my room.”

Surprised at the weight, she took the stairs as quickly as possible, what with trying to keep from stepping on the hem of her skirt and not drop the box. Only her name and room number identified the box tied with brown cord. Once inside with the door closed, she tried untying the knots, but when they didn’t yield, she snatched up her scissors and cut them away. A note lay on top of a tightly woven bag of something.

“Dear Louisa, take this and do with it as we discussed. Do not count on seeing me again before you leave for Richmond.” The
Z
told her whom it was from, even though the writing was difficult to read. And the message mind numbing.

“Zachary, where are you?” She covered the box again and slid it under her carpetbag in the chifforobe. “Oh, Lord, protect him, please. I almost lost him once. Don’t let this be permanent.” Knowing that Joanna waited for her, she tucked the note into her bag and, locking the door, descended to the dining room again.

“I have decided to go to Fredericksburg,” Joanna announced as soon as Louisa had sat down. “I will not let them bury my husband in some nameless grave. I will take him home for a decent burial.”

“Surely the army would ship his body home.”

“I’m not counting on anything from the army any longer. They might have owned my husband, but they do not own me.” She sniffed back incipient tears and straightened her spine. “I have cried enough. Would you help me get to Fredericksburg?”

“Ah, how do you . . . I mean . . .”
I’ve not told her I’m from the South. How does she know?

“Dear Louisa, my husband and I lived in Kentucky for some years. I recognize your accent, and while you might be living here in Washington, I seriously doubt it.” She kept her voice low and leaned forward, her hands clasped on the table. “I will have a pass enabling me to travel to Fredericksburg. Where do you live from there?”

“In . . . in Richmond, with my aunt. My older sister sent my sister and me to live with our aunt in Richmond, thinkin’ we might be safer there.”

“And you are—so far. No one has been able to take Richmond.”

“Not for lack of trying, but you’re right.” Louisa thought of the box upstairs. Without Zachary’s hollow leg and crutch, could she stash all of the powder?

“You could travel as my companion.”

“Or, once we are in Southern control, you could travel as mine.” The two women looked deep into each other’s eyes. “And you could come on to Richmond if you like. We will always have a place for you.”

“Thank you, my dear, and likewise. I’ll contact those in charge and make the arrangements. Hopefully we can leave in the morning, depending on when the trains are running.”

When Louisa returned to her room, she found a note on the floor. The simple message made her sigh in relief. “Do not be worried.
Z
.” She sank down on the bed and clutched the paper to her heart. “Thank you, Lord, for listening and caring, even when I don’t feel like you are there. I know faith and feelings aren’t the same. I believe. Help, thou, my unbelief.”

By the time she went to bed that night, she had neat packets of white powder sewn into the lining of her traveling skirt and jacket, into the false bottom of her reticule, and into the false bottom of the carpetbag. She hadn’t needed the pocket in her Bible.

While the sun returned the following day, the streets remained a quagmire. Louisa dashed off a note to Cousin Arlington, informing him that she was sorry they were unable to meet, but she was leaving for home within the hour. She kept her tongue firmly planted in her right cheek while she penned the letter and readied it for mailing. Every time she heard footsteps outside in the hall, she paused, hop ing the doorknob would turn and Zachary would enter.

But he didn’t.

Her carpetbag was packed and ready to go. As she scanned the room for anything she might have missed, her eyes fell on the envelope she had placed on the mantel—the letter that had arrived for Zachary. Should she take it with her or leave it at the hotel desk in case Zachary should return?

She made her way downstairs, thankful that she at least had her return ticket. What if it had been with Zachary too? The more she thought about it, the more she realized their preparations had been woefully inadequate. With her mind made up she walked over to the desk. “Could you please hold this for my husband?” At the clerk’s nod she smiled. “Thank you.”

Once on the porch, she glanced around, hoping against hope to see Zachary and his peculiar gait come to her. She didn’t give up until she and Joanna were seated in their buggy and Union officers had checked their papers.

“I’m sorry you have to make such a trip,” the sergeant said, touching a finger to his hat. Not until he left did Louisa dare to relax. As the buggy started, her air released, and she leaned against the buggy window.

Within minutes, they both had their knitting in hand and, be tween watching the scenery and sharing memories of happier days, the miles sped by.

Once they had crossed the river, a Southern officer gave Mrs. Hinklen stern looks until he read her pass and then saluted. “I’m right sorry, ma’am. You’ll find the officers’ bodies, those we have any way, in a warehouse in Fredricksburg. He might already have been buried.”

“I sent a telegram.”

“I understand, but . . .”

“Whom do I need to see?”

“Captain Jefferson, ma’am.” The look he sent Louisa made her increase her prayers. Surely this poor woman would be allowed to take her husband’s body home for a decent burial. The wagon ride to Fredericksburg showed a land ravaged by war.

They said their good-byes at the warehouse as dusk rolled in. While Mrs. Hinklen still wore traces of the peculiar shade of green she’d turned when identifying the bloated body of her dead husband, she gave Louisa a hug and promised to write.

“One day, my dear, when this war is over, as it eventually must be, please know that there is a place for you in a lovely little town in the Adirondacks. People come from all over the world for the waters, and I will be greeting them on the steps of our small resort.”

“Thank you. I know Aunt Sylvania will be sad you couldn’t come farther. As I am.”

“We helped each other, and that is the way life is to be lived, war or no war.”

Louisa waved good-bye as a buggy carried her to the southbound train. Had she and Gilbert had a chance to marry, would she be a widow now too?

The closer to home she got, the more she wondered if there had been a message from him.

What am I going to tell Aunt Sylvania about Zachary?