Flashback (19 page)

He poured them each a cup of coffee from a pot in a coffeemaker with numerous buttons and digital readouts. The cups were good quality china, thin enough to be elegant but not so thin one felt in danger of crushing them. The rims were gold and royal blue, the side decorated with four small pink rosebuds. They were of a piece with the rooms and the Japanese kimono and at odds with the burly biker physique of their owner.

Sitting across from one another at a blond wood table with matching chairs, probably Swedish, possibly expensive, they chatted about the noise, the wrecked go-fast boat, the heroics of Bob Shaw.

"The heavy fuel load-smugglers?" Anna said.

"Could be. A lot of it goes on in this part of the world."

Anna had known that: drugs, guns, people, exotic plants and animals, even the tried-and-true classics, Cuban rum and cigars. Neither she nor Daniel had answers, and for a while they sipped excellent coffee from their understatedly elegant cups. Talk soothed Anna. Silence was even better. The fogs of weird were lifting. She could feel the slipped gears of her brain snicking back into their proper grooves and wondered if it indicated a second wind or was engendered by the knowledge that sunrise was near; the dark that frightens children in their beds and is home to hobgoblins was soon to be banished. Sitting, sipping, muscles unclenching, mind clearing, Anna felt the sleepiness that had evaded her for the past twenty-four hours fold around her.

"Two bedrooms?" she asked, just to make conversation.

"I'm one of the lucky few," Daniel acknowledged.

"It must be nice to have a place to put guests besides on the sofa."

"Second bedroom belongs to Mrs. Meyers."

Not knowing Mrs. Meyers, Anna said nothing.

Daniel tilted his head much as a quizzical dog might. "Haven't you ever met Mrs. Meyers?"

His voice changed subtly, triggering Anna's internal alarms. She was being set up for something, she just couldn't figure out what. Moving her coffee away slightly, she gathered her feet under her in case a quick exit was called for. "Can't say as I have," she said neutrally.

"That's right," Daniel said as if remembering something of importance. "Mrs. Meyers hasn't been out since you came onboard. You want to meet her now?"

Grisly images of mummified grandmothers in rocking chairs, corpses in freezers and blood-splashed walls flashed through her mind. The weird was back. She sighed. "Sure. Why not?"

With the excitement of a twelve-year-old showing off his favorite toy, Daniel abandoned his coffee and veritably bounced to the nearer of the two doors. Anna followed, too tired for caution and grown unnaturally accepting of the bizarre.

Daniel moved with a light-footed buoyancy that was unsettling in a man of his heft. Reaching the door, he paused, shot Anna an elfin look at odds with his troll body and beard, and said: "Shh. She may be sleeping."

He opened the door, then stood back that Anna might enter. "Mrs. Meyers," he said with obvious pride and affection.

In the middle of the otherwise empty room was a vintage 1952 Harley Davidson motorcycle. No dirt marred her perfect surfaces, no grease besmudged the gleaming exhaust pipes or dulled the black shine of her engine.

"Wow," Anna said, genuinely impressed. "And all this time I thought you lived alone."

"Tank full of gas, key in the ignition," he said delightedly.

For the next fifteen minutes he extolled Mrs. Meyers's finer points, and Anna fought the sandman to a draw in order to stay on her feet. Finally he wound down. She mumbled her thanks for the coffee and compliments to Mrs. Meyers and all but staggered back to her quarters.

As everything had been this longest of nights, the fatigue was sudden and unnatural. It wasn't the simple tiredness after too long without sleep but the bottomless exhaustion left when amphetamines wear off and the user crashes.

Piedmont was curled into an orange ball on her pillow. The bedside clock read four twenty-seven. Anna nudged cat and pillow to one side and crawled in beside them. Because it was a lifetime's habit to read herself to sleep, she'd brought a piece of Aunt Raffia's correspondence with her. The last thing she remembered was the slither of paper as the letters slid from her hands to scatter on the tile.

10

Tilly's doctor was a recent addition to our jolly crew. Dr. Mudd is one of the Lincoln conspirators and very possibly the most hated man at fort. Perhaps because he protests his innocence so loudly when there are those of us who can only find solace in the sincere confession and repentance of those responsible. He is not even well thought of by his own. Many of our confederate soldiers view assassination as a base and cowardly act not befitting what they view as their noble cause.

I promised Tilly I would do my best. To this end I set out to find Joseph.

He was out on the coaling dock organizing a group of men to go to the neighboring keys to dig for eggs and catch turtles for meat. (Did you know that Tortuga was Spanish for tortoise? These lonely sand scraps were named for the creatures.) I am awestruck by their ponderous beauty, yet because I am also awestruck by their delicious taste, I am as eager for the hunting of them as any soldier. Turtles have the added benefit of staying fresh-a distinct problem with meats of all kinds in this heat. The hunters simply roll the turtles onto their backs, rendering them immobile till it's time to slaughter them.

As the men moved out to the dinghies, Joseph noticed me waiting. For a moment he seemed glad to see me, but only for a moment. Then it was as if he remembered who I was and some old anger fell between his heart and his eyes.

I have often wondered what I have done that he works so hard at hating me. Sometimes I think it was that day he struck me and I swore if it happened again he would never be safe, not waking, not sleeping. I believe I frightened him. For a man like Joseph to be afraid, even once and for so brief a span of time, is unacceptable. That I caused it or, worse, saw it, must make me unacceptable as well.

Or perhaps it's not hate I see in his face but the countenance of a man eternally disappointed that the endearing kitten he brought home had the bad judgment to grow into an ungainly cat.

As the welcome faded from his eyes he came to where I stood. "What is it now? Has Tilly's pet rebel died?"

"Not yet," I told him and, though he'd deny it, I saw relief in his look.

I took it for kindness till he said: "Good. Sinapp doesn't need many more 'accidents' on his record. He's a good soldier."

"Private Lane needs to be looked after by a doctor," I said. "His hands are badly injured. I'm afraid without more care than Tilly and I can give him he will lose the use of them."

"What a pity. He'll no longer be able to pull the trigger of a gun aimed at our boys," Joseph said.

I waited. There's no responding to Joseph when he is in a sarcastic mood. Twice he ran his fingers through his hair. He wears it longer now, nearly to his shoulders. Here, where there is so much humidity, it curls. Finally he spoke to me and not just to the place in which I stood.

"Look. I've talked with Captain Caulley. He flatly refuses to treat a traitor, a man who approves of Mr. Lincoln's assassination. He might go so far as to refuse a direct order. I'm not going to risk having to put the garrison's doctor behind bars to save the hands of Johnny Reb."

"He may die," I said.

"So be it. Speaking out in favor of the murder of a United States president has consequences. I'll not pity him."

"What did he say?" I asked. I wasn't trying to provoke Joseph, I was genuinely curious. "Was it truly traitorous?"

"Damn you, woman, Sergeant Sinapp says it was, and that's good enough for me."

Since Joseph chooses not to confide in me, I've learned to read him. When he curses it's because he hasn't an answer worthy of voicing but has no intention of admitting defeat or, heaven forfend, that he is wrong. Joseph's cursing is also an indication that the next word I utter will be treated as the straw that broke the camel's back.

Standing quite silent and still, trying to look as inoffensive as possible, I waited for him to either walk away or to be overcome by what I see as his better nature and I'm sure he sees as weakness.

"You have something in mind. God knows you always have something in mind. You are the thinkingest woman ever put on earth."

"Actually this is Tilly's idea," I said in hopes of making it more palatable. "Dr. Mudd."

Raging, belittling, lecturing, laughing-I'd been braced for those. The actual response nearly knocked me to the ground.

"Why not?" he said. "Let 'em patch up their own. I'll have some of the men move him."

I made my thanks quickly and turned to go before I spoiled Private Lane's chance at professional care with an ill-advised word or look.

"Raffia," he called after me. You will think me a fool, Peggy, but I love to hear him say my name. He seldom does, you know.

"Yes?"

"You and Tilly can go with the men. You can stay and help Mudd with whatever he needs within reason. But you go only with a soldier, never alone. I will send someone by quarters."

"Thank you, Joseph."

"Don't you abuse this privilege," he snapped as if I'd already done so by thanking him.

We endured, Tilly and I, until nearly half past three in the afternoon, when the promised soldier tapped lightly on the frame. The door was open to the balcony.

"We'll be moving the confederate to Mudd's cell. The captain said you ladies had some part in it and I was to fetch you along." The soldier asked no questions, and if he had an opinion he kept it to himself. Such are the times I envy my husband's power over men.

Tilly shot me a look that I wouldn't trade for diamonds, or even a long swim in a cool river. I hope this orphaned child raised by five doting sisters never has to lie to save herself. Her emotions shine in her eyes as bright-or dark-as if an actual lamp burned there. Being a tiny baby when Mother and Father died, she suffered the fate of being the light of our lives during those awful times.

With Tilly clutching my arm, we followed the soldier across the parade ground. The men hung in the trees had been taken down before the heat could kill them. Men with small work had carried it to the east side of the fort to take advantage of what little shade there was. The fort had that sleepy summer feel. Tensions I'd not known I harbored baked out in the bright hot light.

Two more soldiers joined us. With only a little grumbling-and that done from habit or sense of obligation-they lifted Joel onto a canvas field stretcher. The three boys, probably of an age with Private Lane, were gentle when they handled him and glad to have an opportunity to laugh when Joel made the old joke about doing anything to avoid work. This has been such a strange war. The soldiers can hate one another in theory, but when brought together without officers to agitate and politicians to tell them what they're fighting for, they tend to like each other. I've seen more kindness here between soldier and prisoner than between officers and men.

Passing the sally port, we were ordered to a halt by a vicious bark from that dog in wolf's clothing, Sergeant Sinapp. He emerged from the shadows with his inimitable swagger. Like the ogre he is, he came from beneath the stone arch to where the soldiers waited dutifully in the hot sun supporting the weight of Private Lane between them. Enjoying himself, Sinapp walked a circle around the men with the stretcher and our Miss Tilly, standing at Joel's side.

"What we got here?" he asked in the most jovial of tones. "Meat for the sharks?"

One of the soldiers, the man at the head of the stretcher holding most of the weight, started to explain Joseph's orders for moving the prisoner, but of course Sinapp had no interest in the answer but only in being horrid. He overrode the man's words, saying to Tilly: "Still playing at Florence Nightingale? You all hell-bent on curing what ails somebody, you can come to me. I need some relief."

He was looking at Tilly as if she'd appeared before him again sans knickers.

"It's downright unpatriotic you giving your... attentions... to a Johnny Reb when there's good union men going without."

I had said nothing up to this point, not because that man frightens me but because I was shocked into silence by his audacity. Joseph would not put up with this thinly veiled vulgarity aimed at a woman under his protection. In my case he's defending his pride. In Tilly's he might do it simply out of affection.

"Joseph will not be pleased to hear of your rudeness," I said when I found my tongue.

"Who's going to tell him? You?"

The question took me off guard. Of course me, you stupid stupid man, I wanted to shout.

"You do that, Mrs. Coleman. You do that," he said before I'd found the presence of mind to respond.

He stepped to the side then and let us pass without further insult. I was livid, but it was undercut by an unsettling feeling that Sergeant Sinapp believed Tilly and I no longer enjoyed Joseph's protection.

It is to my credit that I did not spit at him when we passed.

At the stairs Tilly was forced to abandon her post. Spiral stairs are not ideal for the transporting of the injured, but the soldiers managed it without spilling Joel from the stretcher. To my surprise, once on the second level, they did not turn left toward the cells of the Virginia men Joel had been quartered with but right toward those located over the guardroom and sally port.