Slaves of Obsession (22 page)

Several times Hester glanced sideways at him as they rode south. The sun picked out the tiny lines in his skin, which were dirt ingrained and deepened by weariness. His muscles seemed locked tight, as if, were she to touch him, they would be hard. His hands were clenched on his legs,
surprisingly large hands, very strong. She could see anger in him, but not fear. His thoughts were far away. He was struggling with something within himself and they had no part in it.

She watched Merrit, who also was little aware of the lovely country through which they passed with its heavy shade trees and small rural communities. They saw few men working in the fields, and those they did see were white. Merrit could think only of Breeland. She did not interrupt his thoughts, but she watched him with tense anxiety, her face almost bloodless. Hester knew that in spite of her own horror and exhaustion, the girl was trying to imagine herself into his sense of confusion and shame because of the way the battle had turned. His beloved Union not only had lost but had done so with dishonor. He must feel his beliefs threatened. What was there one could say to a man suffering such pain? Wisely, she did not try.

Hester looked also at Philo Trace. She judged him to be almost ten years older than Breeland, and in the harsh sunlight, tired and grimed with dust and gun smoke still, the lines of his face were deeper than Breeland’s and there were far more of them from nose to mouth and around the eyes. It was a more mobile face, more marked by character, both laughter and pain. There was not the same smoothness to it, the intense control. It was a private face, but there was no timidity in it.

There was something in Breeland’s features that frightened her. It was not a presence so much as an absence, something human and vulnerable she could not see or reach. Was it that which Merrit admired? Or was it simply not there yet because he was younger? Time and experience would write it in the future.

Or did Hester imagine it all because she knew he had killed Daniel Alberton for the guns as coldly as if he were … she had been going to think “an animal.” But she could not have killed an animal without horror.

They rode in silence except for the necessary words for convenience and understanding. There was nothing else to say; no
one seemed to wish to bridge the gulf between them. With Monk there was no need to speak. She knew they felt similarly, and the lack of words between them was companionable.

Nearer Richmond, they passed large plantations, and it was here that they saw black men laboring in the fields, backs bent, working in teams like patient animals. White men kept control, walking up and down, watching. Once she saw an overseer raise a long whip and bring it down across a black man’s shoulders with a sharp crack. He staggered, but made no cry.

Hester felt sick. It was a very slight thing—it might happen dozens of times a day somewhere or other—but it was a sign of something deeply alien to all she accepted. Suddenly this was a different land. She was among people who practiced a way of life she could never tolerate, and she found herself staring at Philo Trace with new thoughts. She had liked him. He was gentle; he had humor and kindness, imagination, a love of beauty, and a generosity of spirit. How could he fight so hard to maintain a culture that did this?

She saw the flush on his cheeks under her gaze.

“There are four million slaves in the South,” he said quietly. “If they revolt it will become a slaughterhouse.”

Breeland turned and stared at him with unutterable contempt. He did not bother to speak. Merrit’s expression mirrored his exactly.

The color in Trace’s cheeks deepened.

“America is a rich country,” he went on steadily, refusing to be silenced. “Towns are springing up all over, especially in the North. There’s industry and prosperity—”

“Not if you are a colored person!” Merrit snapped.

Trace did not look at her.

A brief, contemptuous smile curled her lips.

“We export all kinds of things,” Trace went on. “Manufactured goods from the North where industrialists grow rich—”

“Not on slave labor!” Breeland spoke at last. “We profit on what we make with our own hands!”

“Out of cotton,” Trace said quietly. “More than half our
nation’s exports are cotton. Did you know that? Cotton grown in the South … and that doesn’t count sugar, rice and tobacco. Who do you think plants, tends and picks the tobacco for your cigars, Breeland?”

Breeland drew in his breath sharply as if to speak, then let it out again.

Trace turned away and looked across the lovely, gentle countryside. There was grief and guilt in his face, a love for something that was beautiful, and terrible, and that he feared to lose. Perhaps he also expected to lose it, if not for everyone, at least for himself.

They went by train, first from Richmond down through Weldon and Goldsboro to the coastal port of Wilmington in North Carolina. From there they went inland again to Florence and finally to Charleston in South Carolina, where, just over three months before, the first shot of the war had been fired to start the bombardment of Fort Sumter.

Monk and Hester remained with Breeland and Merrit while Trace went to make arrangements for passage to England. The trip south had been tense and exhausting. Breeland had made no attempt to escape, nor had Merrit tried to help him, but Hester and Monk were both aware that only extreme watchfulness could assure that it did not happen. It was necessary for them to take turns in keeping awake, with a loaded pistol always to hand.

Once Breeland glanced at Hester with a look of disdain in his eyes, until he considered her face more carefully, and the contempt was replaced with the knowledge that she had seen more death than he had. He was no longer certain that she would not shoot … perhaps not to kill, but certainly to cause extreme and disabling pain. After that he made no attempt to escape from her vigil.

There was much talk in Charleston of the blockade that Mr. Lincoln had declared along the entire coastline of the South, right from Virginia around to Texas. They speculated as to whether it would succeed, and there was talk of gun-running through the Bahamas or other such neutral islands.

But on the second day Trace returned to say he had found passage, and they would leave with the tide the following evening.

The journey back across the Atlantic took only thirteen days, and they seemed to have a fair wind almost all the way. In every physical aspect, it was a pleasure to walk on the deck in the sun with a blue sky around them and a vivid blue sea in every direction, unbroken to the horizon. Merrit was barely recognizable as the girl she had been before the battle and its loss. The determination was still there and the passion, but a joy in her had been destroyed, at least for a time. The heroism of reality had been nothing like that of her dreams. If she had also seen a vulnerability in Breeland, even a flaw, she was too loyal to betray it even in the meeting of a glance.

Emotionally, however, it was quite different.

When Breeland had recovered from his exhaustion of body and the pain in his shoulder was considerably eased, he demanded to speak with Monk. The cabin arrangements had been made so that Trace could keep a reasonable watch upon Breeland. No more was necessary, since escape was obviously impossible. Breeland refused to say anything except if Monk should see him alone.

Monk would have refused him, but his own curiosity was piqued, and he was moved in spite of himself by an urgency in Breeland, as if what he wished to impart was not merely the expected justification of his actions or an offer of some bargain in exchange for his freedom.

They stood on the deck, a little apart from the other passengers, of whom there were far fewer than on the outward voyage. There were no return immigrants, no one coming back from the new world to the old, hoping for better opportunities, greater freedoms. It seemed either no one wished to, or if they did, they were unable to flee the war.

“What is it?” Monk asked a little ungraciously, staring at Breeland as he leaned over the rail watching the blue water churn away to the side and behind them.

Breeland did not move or turn to face him. “Mrs. Monk told Merrit that my watch was found in the warehouse yard where Daniel Alberton was killed,” he said.

“It was,” Monk replied. “I found it myself.”

“I gave it to Merrit, for a keepsake.” He was still staring at the water.

“How gallant of you,” Monk said sarcastically.

“Not particularly.” Breeland was dismissive. “It was a good watch, given to me by my grandfather as a gift on my graduation. I intended to marry Merrit … I thought then that I would be free to do so.”

“I meant how gallant of you to mention the fact, now that it has been found at the scene of her father’s murder,” Monk corrected him.

Breeland turned slowly, his face cold, contempt in his gray eyes. “You can’t possibly imagine she could have murdered her father—shot him, apparently. That is despicable. Even Philo Trace would not stoop to suggesting that.”

“No, I don’t believe it,” Monk agreed. “I think you did, with her there, either helping you or as a hostage.” He smiled grimly. “Although I did consider the possibility that you were alone, and you dropped the watch there on purpose, knowing we knew she had it, in order to stop us from following you.”

Breeland was startled. “You thought I’d do that! In God’s name—” He stopped abruptly, shaking his head, his eyes wide. “You have no idea … have you? Your mind, your aspirations are so … so low, you think of abominations. You have no concept of the nobility of the struggle for the freedom of others. I pity you.”

Monk was surprised he was not angrier, but there was a cold passion in Breeland’s face too alien to stir such a familiar emotion in him.

“We have different ideas of nobility,” he replied quite calmly. “I saw nothing to admire in the three dead bodies in the warehouse yard, bound hand and foot and shot in the back of the head. Whose freedom were they limiting, apart
from yours to steal the guns they weren’t willing to sell you?”

Breeland frowned. “I did not kill Alberton. I never saw him again after I left the evening you were there.” It seemed to puzzle him. “He sent me a message that night that he had changed his mind and was willing to sell the guns to me after all, at the full price, and he would have his agent, Shearer, deliver them to me at the railway station. I was to tell no one, because he believed Trace would be annoyed when he found out and might even become violent.” His lips twisted into a slight sneer. “Tragically, he was right. Only he could not have counted on you being such a fool as to believe Trace … except that Trace has been paying much attention to Mrs. Alberton, and she was easily flattered. Or had you not noticed that either? Perhaps like a lot of Englishmen, you have too much of a vested interest in the continuation of slavery to want the Rebels to lose.” It was meant as an insult, and said as such.

This time Monk was angry, startlingly so. There was something in the suggestion that Judith Alberton had, at best, turned a blind eye to her husband’s murder which filled him with a cold rage. The remark about slavery was perhaps well founded, and mattered not at all. He despised slavery as much as Breeland did. His muscles tensed with the desire to hit Breeland as hard as he could. It took a great effort to use only words as weapons.

“I have no interest in slavery,” he said icily. “Perhaps you had not noticed it, but we got rid of it in England a long time ago, generations before you were suddenly moved to take it up. Although we do buy slave-picked cotton … from you, actually. Millions of dollars’ worth of it. And tobacco too. Perhaps we shouldn’t?”

“That’s not—” Breeland began, his face a dull red.

“The issue?” Monk cut in, his eyebrows raised. “No, it isn’t. The issue is that Alberton refused to sell you the guns you wanted, so you murdered him and stole them. What for, or how noble the cause, is irrelevant.” He could not resist sneering. “How brave!”

Fury and humiliation flared in Breeland’s face. “I did not kill Alberton!” He forced the words between his teeth, standing upright from the rail now and facing Monk, the wind tugging at his hair. “I had no need to—even if you believe I was capable of it. He sold me the guns. Ask Shearer. Why don’t you ask him?”

Was it conceivable? For the first time Monk actually considered the possibility that Breeland might not be guilty.

Breeland saw the wavering in his eyes.

“Not much of a policeman, are you?” he said contemptuously.

Monk was stung. He knew he had allowed himself to be read.

“So Merrit gave the watch to Trace, who just happened to go and murder Alberton minutes after someone took the guns from the warehouse yard, and Trace left the watch there?” he said in feigned amazement. “And unfortunately this Shearer, unknown to Alberton or Casbolt, took the guns to you, then took the money you paid him and disappeared?” He shrugged. “Or alternately, Merrit gave the watch to Shearer, perhaps? And he murdered his employer and took the guns to you? His motive would be clear enough, the money. But why did Merrit do that? She did do that, didn’t she? You have no idea where she was while you were conducting this elusive business with the vanishing Mr. Shearer.”

Breeland drew in his breath sharply, but he had no answers, and the confusion in his face betrayed him. He looked away at the blue water again. “No … she was with me at the time. But she’ll swear I bought the guns fairly from Shearer, and I never went anywhere near Tooley Street. Ask her!”

Of course Monk did ask her, although he was almost certain what she would say. Nothing that had happened in Washington or on the battlefield, or on the journey through the South to the ship, had altered her devotion to Breeland or the fierce, defensive compassion she had for him in his army’s defeat. She watched him in the bitterness of his
knowledge and the ache to help was naked in her face. He could never have doubted her.

What Breeland felt for her was far harder to read. He was gentle with her, but the wound to his pride was too raw for anyone to touch, perhaps least of all the woman he loved, and to whom he had spoken so fiercely of the greatness of the cause and the victory they would win. He would not be the first or the last man to boast overmuch of his courage or honor, but he seemed to find it harder than most to accommodate himself to a setback, great or small. There was no flexibility in him, no capacity to mock himself or step, even for an instant, outside his consuming passion.