In The Face Of Death (35 page)

With her free hand she unfastened the last buttons on his half-discarded shirt, then reached out, laying her hand on his bare chest. She felt his heartbeat quicken.

He placed his hand over hers. “If you insist on this, on going into the night of my soul, then I surrender to you for tonight.” The lamplight softened his stern features, yet revealed the longing in his eyes.

She had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him. “I insist,” she said before she stepped back and took off her bodice, folding it once and setting it atop his shirt. “Do you want to do the rest?”

He nodded, unable to speak aloud, and with a care that bordered on reverence, he began to untie the laces of her camisole, removing it cautiously, unsure of himself now that he had given over so much of himself to her. “And the skirt? What about your skirt?”

“It fastens in the back, with hooks,” she said, never looking away from his eyes. “Shall I turn around?”

He put his hands around her waist for an answer. “If I am to be lost, I will do it with a will, and facing front. I think I can manage from here.”

“I’m wearing one flounced petticoat. No hoops.” There was a hand’s-breadth between them, and it seemed filled with electricity, so great was the complex tension between them. She bent her head so that her forehead touched his chest, seeking the solace of touching him.

“I will manage,” he promised, working on the hooks of the skirt until it slid down her legs to the floor.

“The petticoat has laces.”

“If they’re knotted, I swear I will break them. I won’t take the time to—” He tugged the end of the lace and felt the bow-knot give; a moment later, her petticoat fell onto her skirt. Now she had only her simple gartered drawers holding her stockings, and, incongruously, her sensible laced boots. “I . . . I don’t—”

Madelaine reached out and unbuttoned his trousers, and his suspenders. “Now we’re equal,” she said as his clothes fell around his ankles. “Take off your shoes, Tecumseh, and I will remove my boots.”

He hastened to obey, the pain fading from his face to be replaced with a hard sensuality; he skinned out of his drawers as he bent to unbuckle his shoes, and tossed them aside. His shoes followed the rest of his clothes. When he straightened, he was nearly erect. He flushed with embarrassment and pride as he approached her. “How do you do this to me?”

“You do it, Tecumseh,” she said. She had sat down and was drawing off one boot. “That is your passion; I do nothing but suit your desires. What we have from your passion is joy.”

“You’ve said that before, in San Francisco. I’ve remembered,” he said, going to his cot and lying down on his back, arms extended over the sides. “There isn’t much room. And it isn’t very steady.”

“You are a good tactician and strategist. We will find a way.” She set her second boot aside and rolled down her stockings, feeling him watch her as she did.

“You are so young,” he said as she came toward him; there was awe in his voice. “And so full of light.”

“I am well over a century old,” she reminded him gently. “One hundred forty in November.”

“You are a glowing girl, and I am turning into an old man.” He held up his hands to her as she came to the side of the cot. “You will have to get on top of me, I fear.”

“Dreadful fate,” she said softly, and stretched out on his thin, hard body. How she loved the sudden voluptuousness that came over him as he sought to explore their carnality in this unpromising place. He was filled with an anodyne frenzy, wanting the consolation of their fulfillment as a bastion against the horrendous weight of his grief.

“Since you will have me, have all.” He held her eyes with his. “I will have you, as well, to the core.” His long fingers discovered new ways to rouse her, sliding between their close-pressed flesh to the petal-folds at the apex of her thighs; all the while he watched her, searching her violet eyes for the revelation he yearned for. She shivered at the first tentative probing, moving as much as she dared to give him better access. “Deny me now at your peril,” he whispered as he moved beneath her and fully into her in the same motion.

Their joining was tempestuous, ineffable, so intense that the exultant spasm they shared seemed to create its own remarkable lume. And when it was over neither was quite certain where one began and the other left off. They lay still, both rapt in evanescent unity.

“The camp will waken soon,” he said, reluctantly ending the enveloping silence. “And this will be a hard day, I think.”

“More fighting,” Madelaine said, knowing it would be so.

“Yes.” He made no excuse for what was to come as he tried to move onto his side to provide her a place next to him.

She snuggled close to him and was able to maintain a semblance of balance on the edge of the cot. “It’s useless to say this, but do not be reckless, Tecumseh. I will worry for you.”

“I am not a reckless man,” he said, sliding his hand up her side to cup her breast. “Recklessness does not win wars.”

“Of course not,” she agreed, not believing a word of it.

Suddenly he gave her a business-like kiss and pushed himself up on his elbow. “Come. You must be away from here shortly, or you will be discovered. And that would not do.”

“I suppose not,” Madelaine agreed, rising with him. “And I should be back at the mill.”

“You have your men to tend to, and I have mine,” he said companionably, reaching for his clothes. As he drew on his trousers he said, “If you would not disdain my gratitude, I would offer it wholeheartedly.”

“Why should I disdain it?” she asked him, struggling to fix the buttons of her bodice.

He looked at what she was doing, and said, “I’m sorry. I should not have done that. I ought to be better self-disciplined.”

She shrugged. “I will sew them properly this evening.”

He was pulling on his shirt, wanting to make the most of this brief time with her. “Will you follow the army when we take Atlanta?” He held his breath waiting for her answer.

“If you need my help treating casualties, I will,” she said. “I will not go if you intend to keep me isolated.” Her bodice was almost closed now, and she gave up setting it completely to rights. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want,” he said very quietly, “this war to be over. I want the Union restored. I want the slaughter to stop. Until it is finished, I have no right to want more than that.”

Madelaine sighed and sat down to pull on her boots. “When you have made up your mind in this regard, send me word.” She busied herself with the laces, then stood up and walked over to him as he buttoned his tunic.

He came to her, bent and kissed her cheek. “If I did anything to offend you, I am heartily sorry. If you will attribute it to the press of circumstances—”

She interrupted him. “The only thing you did was to refuse to mourn your son and your friend; that is not for me to pardon, but for you to pardon yourself.”

For a moment he said nothing. “All the good in the world is being sacrificed to this national catastrophe. I am afraid that there will be nothing worthwhile to come out of it if the cost continues to be as great as it has been.”

“I have a . . . very remarkable friend. He has seen losses that neither you nor I can imagine.” Her violet eyes were haunted as she remembered Saint-Germain, their now-inaccessible intimacy, and all he had written to her while she was at Luxor, forty years before. “He has managed to endure the losses by treasuring what he has while they are alive to be treasured, or so he has told me. He has also said it was a hard-won lesson.”

Sherman caught something of her emotions, for he said, “This man, who is he?”

“His name is Saint-Germain—” she began.

“Hah! That name again! There was a charlatan by that name in Paris in the last century,” he exclaimed, making no attempt to conceal his jealousy.

“Saint-Germain is no charlatan. He brought me to his life with his blood.” She regarded him steadily, until he could find nothing to retort.

He conceded this to her with a gesture. “I will not dispute you; you were there to observe for yourself.”

With an impulsive smile, she took his hands in hers. “How often does anyone get such accommodation from General Sherman?”

“It is Tecumseh who speaks, not General Sherman,” he said, his banter gruff. “It is always Tecumseh who speaks to you, because it is Tecumseh you love.”

If she had been able to weep, her eyes would have filled with tears. “There you are wrong. I love the whole of you, and wholeheartedly.”

There were sounds of movement in another part of the house. He raised his head and listened. “It’s time you were away.” He started toward the door, drawing her after him.

“My case,” she protested. “I must take it back with me.” She indicated the two vials standing on his writing table. “Those are for you, to take when you need them. I will try to bring more, but. . . .”

He grabbed the case and shoved it at her. “Hurry. I want no gossip about you.”

She allowed herself to be rushed to the door, only touching her fingers to her lips and then his before she was all but shoved into the hall, to face the waiting lieutenant who had brought her to Sherman earlier that morning.

“Take care of her,” Sherman ordered the young man. “See her safely back to the mill, and report to me when you return.” And with that he closed the door.

“He is much better,” the young lieutenant marveled. “You really helped him.”

Madelaine stared at the closed door. “I hope so,” she said before she turned to follow the lieutenant down the corridor and out into the waning darkness.

French Mill, near Dallas, Georgia, 11 August, 1864

Tecumseh’s army has moved on Atlanta, and I am faced with the decision of whether I should follow it there or remain where I am. . . .

Two of the women were trained nurses; the third was a Missus MacFarlane with the Sanitary Commission, sent to supervise the transfer of wounded.

“We’ll get them back to proper hospitals, Madame,” said Lilly MacFarlane, her doubts about Madelaine revealed in her severe expression.

“That will certainly please the men. Even the Confederates,” said Madelaine, looking around the old mill for what she knew would be the last time. “They need regular care.”

The older of the two nurses managed to smile at Madelaine. “I would judge that they have had that, and better, while they were here. If only you had a surgeon, there would be no need to move these men.”

“Thank you,” Madelaine said, looking to her three trunks standing by the door, the last supply of her native earth with her. “How soon will the carter be here?”

“Shortly,” said Missus MacFarlane, her disapproval unchanged. “I have spoken to Reverend Sparrow about your Sergeant Winfield—”

“Sergeant Wainwright,” Madelaine corrected politely.

“Wainwright,” she repeated with heavy emphasis. “Wainwright. Yes. I’ll make sure we have it down properly.” Her attitude did not soften, but her voice became less strident. “I don’t know how you have managed here, on your own.”

“I have some experience with the dying,” said Madelaine quietly.

“So I have been told,” Missus MacFarlane said, needing to say something. “It is a wonder you weren’t driven out of this place during the fighting in this area.”

“Well, to be candid, Missus MacFarlane,” said Madelaine, a sardonic tilt to her brows, “there were times I was surprised, too. But this part of the hill is remote, and there was no obvious strategic advantage in taking it, as it is not close enough to Dallas to make much difference in fighting.” She indicated the trees beyond the window. “You see? Not many balls in them. Considering what happened elsewhere, we are virtually unscathed.”

“True,” Missus MacFarlane said, paying little notice to this feature. “You were fortunate beyond any expectation. Praise God for sparing you and these wounded men. And you.” The last was a reluctant afterthought.

“Certainly,” said Madelaine, crossing herself to show her sincerity, and was about to leave Missus MacFarlane to her task of identifying all the men when she saw the harsh down-turn of the other woman’s mouth. “Tell me what is troubling you, Missus MacFarlane.”

It took some little time for her to answer. At last, as she glanced over a list Madelaine had kept of those who had come to the mill, she said, “General Sherman is a married man.”

Since Madelaine was expecting worse than this, she laughed. “And well I know it. He is so proud of his family. I met two of his children many years ago, in San Francisco, where I had my first encounter with the General, though he was not at that time a military man.”

Missus MacFarlane looked unconvinced. “You met his children. When you were little more than a child yourself.” She folded the paper. “You would do him an ill-service if you should forget that family.”

“It would hardly matter if I did: he never does, which is much to his credit,” said Madelaine with deliberate lightness. “Unlike men of General Hooker’s sort, General Sherman is devoted to his wife and children. They are always uppermost in his mind, even when he is caught in the frenzy.” She indicated the lists of wounded men, and let Missus MacFarlane draw her own conclusions as to which frenzy she meant. “If you have any questions, in regard to the men here, I will be happy to answer them. For matters concerning General Sherman, you must address him.” And with that she went out to the barn where she found Sergeant Wainwright putting her jars of tinctures into crates, as she had asked him.

“Seems strange,” said Wainwright as he wrapped the jars in straw, “having you leave here. First time in more’n a year that I wanted to settle in.”

“It is as pleasant a place as one can find in the middle of war,” said Madelaine quietly.

“Then why not remain?” asked Wainwright plaintively. “There’s wounded men a-plenty here needing our help.”

“There is greater need elsewhere,” said Madelaine.

“And the Union General, he won’t be able to come here so smart and easy, will he, once they move on the city,” said Wainwright. “Oh, I won’t tell anyone. You’ve been too good to me; but what you see in that butcher—”

Would everyone insist on making remarks about Sherman? Madelaine held up her hand to silence him. “He is no butcher, and if you knew him, you would not think him one, either. I see in him an honorable man who is a genius at war and who hates it because he knows it for what it is, and its cost. I see in him a man who has sworn to preserve the Union he believes in. And I see in him a man who lives every day with the threat of despair over him, and grief,” She said this quietly, trying to check her emotions as she stopped Wainwright’s outburst; she took a deep breath. More pragmatically she added, “I also see in him a man it is not wise to speak out against where his deputies can hear you. He inspires great loyalty in his troops.”