Surrender the Wind (37 page)

Men shouted at them, calling for blood, but John had no ears for them. He kept his gaze fixed on Mallory’s cold, black, glittering eyes.

“I promise you,” Mallory sneered. “You will kneel to me before the day is out.”

“I’ll live to see the stars fall before that happens.” John pushed away from him.

Mallory came on him with the fierceness of a tiger and power of an ox. John blocked the blows, defending himself, letting Mallory exhaust his strength. John gave a massive cut to the right and twisted his wrist to come straight at Mallory’s belly. Mallory quickly sidestepped and in an instant his arm came around and smashed him in the jaw. For a moment John saw only a haze of white as Mallory came at him again and again. He pushed away and shook his head, trying to clear his eyes, flicking the sweat-soaked hanks of hair from his forehead. It was hot in the July sun. He watched Mallory. The racket shook the meadow from the men shouting and could probably be heard all the way to Richmond.

Over Mallory’s head John focused on Billy, his left hand punching the air. He knew John was a southpaw. Through the haze, his mind cleared, and John smiled at the black soldier. John pummeled Mallory, never letting up. Then Mallory ducked and pulled a revolver out of his belt, lifting it high over his head and smashed the butt end down on John’s jaw. He turned just in time for the blow to glance off his mouth, but it still dropped him to his knees so fast, he didn’t have the chance to taste the blood.

Catherine screamed and was pulled back by her brother.

“Let him finish,” Shawn bellowed.

John whipped his leg around and tripped Mallory, bringing him down to his level, finishing him off with a crack to the jaw. But the fight wasn’t over. Mallory pulled a knife from his boot and only the sharp glitter of it brought John to attention. He narrowed his eyes, never leaving Mallory’s eyes. Mallory took a slash toward him, then another. Rourke, despite his size, was on his feet, dodging every attempt, leaving Mallory frustrated.

In his fury, Mallory charged. “You’re one dead Rebel!”

Ducking, but not quite enough, the knife glanced off his forehead and blood poured down. It burned like the fires of purgatory. With one glancing blow to the wrist, John knocked the knife from Mallory’s hand, the weapon sailing on the ground between them. Mallory dove for the knife, but a rifle shot from the Rebel quarter spit up the ground in front of them spinning the knife out of his reach. With the shot going off would there be a free for all?

“Hold your fire, boys!” shouted Father Callahan. “He shot the knife out of the way.”

John started punching, his knuckles bleeding from landing on bone and anything else he could reach, his strikes coming at Mallory with the speed of a cobra striking. In desperation, Mallory fought just as hard, his fists finding well-aimed targets into John’s face and ribs and stomach. John tried to stave off the soreness, aching in every part of his body.

John faked a feint with his right and with a left hook powerful enough to disembowel an ox he smashed his fist into Mallory’s face, knocking him out cold. Disgusted he stepped over Mallory’s prone lifeless form. John didn’t look back. He hoped that when he died, he wouldn’t wind up in the same circle of hell as Mallory. It would be tiresome to have to fight him all over again.

Catherine ran to him and threw her arms around him, cooing to him over his bruises. “Careful woman, remember I’m immune to pain, I’m a general.”

“I’m taking care of you now,” she ordered him.

The Yanks dragged away Mallory’s body and tied up his thugs.

“That was an amazing fight, General Rourke,” Captain Joseph O’Donnell admitted. “Even though I lost a hefty chunk of gold, it was worth every cent of it.” He looked at the old priest gloating in the sunshine. “I have a funny feeling Father Callahan knew the outcome of this match before it started.

“I could say, of course to that notion, if you consider yourself a half-wit, but I know you wouldn’t find that idea agreeable. Instead, I’ll introduce you to Boxing Billy of the South.”

The captain frowned, and then glanced to John. “You’re the famous Boxing Billy? The South’s boxing champion, the greatest legend in boxing history, even the world?”

John shook his head. “He was my tutor. Great boxer though, left both painful and powerful impressions on me as a lad. To tell you the truth, Boxing Billy was a slave on a plantation neighboring mine. We sparred often. I consider him the greatest of friends. He disappeared when the war started. I haven’t seen him until he popped up recently.”

“Remarkable. I didn’t know he was a black man. You actually knew and sparred with Boxing Billy? You are very lucky to have met such a man. I would be down on my knees paying homage to meet someone like him.”

John half-grinned. “You can start kneeling now.”

“What do you mean?” asked the bewildered captain.

John inclined his head. “He’s standing next to you.”

The captain turned, studying the large black Union soldier he treated as his manservant. “You’re Boxing Billy! Why haven’t you ever said so?”

Billy flexed his hands. “You never asked.”

Colonel Ryan Rourke spoke up. “It would be nice to continue our conversation, but if we are caught like this, we’ll all feel the noose over our heads. Better to disband now.”

Colonel Lucas Rourke nodded in agreement. “I’ll make sure Mallory is locked up for a long time. I’ve have a long list of his crimes. One of his thugs was so kind to confess. And then there is the murder of Agatha Fitzgerald as witnessed by one of the servants.”

Before Catherine could say anything, Shawn held his hand up to quell her. He discarded John’s greatcoat, revealing his Union uniform. “I’m going with you to make sure Mallory pays for his corruptions.”

“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing with a Reb general?” Captain O’Donnell snapped.

Shawn lifted himself up into full stature, looking him square in the eye. “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Shawn Callahan Fitzgerald.”

“Of the Fitzgerald’s of New York—the family that owns Fitzgerald Rifles?” Captain O’Donnell gaped like a beached trout.

“The same and I suggest you rethink your attitude, Captain, or I’ll give you over to the general.”

“Yes, Sir. My apologies, Sir.” Sweat beaded on the Captain’s forehead, apparently realizing just how close he was coming to court-martial. He moved to the side of the men.

“It’s good to have you back,” Colonel Lucas Rourke said.

“Any relation to General Rourke?” asked Shawn, confusion swirling in his eyes.

“We’re brothers—” Lucas smiled. “A regrettable occurrence that derives from different opinions on the war. We need to cut this reunion short. Ryan is right. We’ve taken long enough and dare not dally any further.”

“Son of a bitch,” roared Captain O’Donnell, searching through his pockets. “Where’s my wallet. I had it here two seconds ago.”

“Jimmy!” Colonel Lucas Rourke shouted.

Catherine stood next to Jimmy and took the wallet from him, pretending to pick it up off the ground. “You must have dropped it, Captain O’Donnell,” she said, eyeing the smiling Jimmy O’Hara with a warning glance. After returning the wallet, she whispered to Jimmy. “I see Colonel Lucas is wise to your tricks.”

“He appreciates my talents. That’s why I work for him.”

Before Catherine could answer, John pulled her aside. “Do you wish to return with your brother? I’m concerned for your safety. There are no guarantees with the war on Virginia soil.”

“I’m staying with you, John. I am not fearful and you’ll never drag me away. I love you too much.”

“Then I insist on taking you to my family’s farm to live. I will not risk you near the lines of war. Do I make myself clear? There will be no disobedience this time. Do I have your word or do I send you back with your brother?”

“You have my word,” she said and laced her arms around his neck, pulling his swollen face down to hers for a kiss.

Even in February, Fairhaven was beautiful. Catherine chuckled, remembering how she had called John’s home
a little farm
. Why his family’s property took a day and half’s ride to circle the boundaries, and even more surprised to learn his family’s wealth equaled hers.

She had grown to love everything about John’s ancestral home. The house was majestically confident in its affluence, a magnificent elegant structure with everything that a hundred and more years of unlimited prosperity could accumulate. The living quarters were large and airy in the summer, and warm and inviting in the winter. The foyer hosted one of the South’s finest double staircases that curved upward with a gallery of former ancestors staring down, each with their own separate tale. Large windows let in a host of light and there was a large porch that wrapped endlessly around the entire house, lending a charm and grace caught in a time warp and, so far, devoid of war.

There were servants to do what was needed and Catherine enjoyed every one of them, including Old Cyrus who warned her to take care when she left the house for her walk. She took a westerly route, taking care not to travel far and admired the rich beauty of the landscape nestled in the Shenandoah. The air had the bite of late winter and with the dawn, the swollen sun hung low and pale in the frosty mist. Black starlings flocked on brown and fallow fields, and the barnyards were frozen muddy by the hooves of livestock penned for winter slaughter. A few rust-colored shriveled apples clung to the higher branches of a tree, shaking when an icy wind blew. Catherine wrapped her scarf and coat tighter. Molly with the long legs, John’s dog, nudged her hand, waiting to be petted. Catherine lifted her eyes to the horizon. A formless and heavy gray horizontal mass of cloud, released a veil of snow. She plodded through its silent beauty, incredibly lonely. Of late, she had not heard from John, understanding the Confederacy’s position to be very grave. As far as she knew, the siege continued around Petersburg, Grant pounding and tightening his noose as supplies and will dwindled for the South.

Catherine had grown ponderous with child, a secret she kept from John. He had enough on his mind. There was no need to give him additional worries. After the baby was born, she would tell him.

The stark browns and blacks of oak, hawthorn and ash were dusted white with snow. The cattle were lowing near the barns, their music making her melancholy escalate. How she missed her husband. The last few months had been agony. He had written her every day, the letters arriving grouped in packets. But of late she had heard little at all, and her preoccupation with John’s survival grew.

She did not share her anxiety with John’s parents although she discerned they shared the same fears for all of their sons. She loved his mother and father. They treated her with the deference of a daughter they never had, welcoming her when John dropped her unannounced on their doorstep. That had been several months ago and she had not seen her husband once. Christmas arrived and still, no John.

John’s parents had tried to fill the gaps as best as they could. Mother Rourke clucked over her, excited about the prospect of her first grandchild. Catherine basked in the love John’s parents shared and looked forward to having a large family of her own, something she had missed growing up in New York. They insisted she not work and showered her with gifts. She spent hours sewing clothing items for the baby with John’s mother, and was touched when John’s father presented a cradle made of black walnut, carved by his hands. As her time approached, she grew more jealous of the Cause that kept her husband away, praying daily for his safe return and a quick end to the war.

Her brother, Shawn, received an honorable discharge by President Lincoln to return home and take control of the company. Shawn had secured the Fitzgerald fortunes and used his power to put Mallory behind bars, not that it was difficult when his thugs started stating his crimes to lessen their own sentences. The foundry had been finished and now the rifle company used good barrels. And as far as she knew, his bride still waited until the war finished and it was safe enough for her to travel north. Catherine sympathized with her brother’s longing.

Her uncle was back in Pleasant Valley, taking care of his parishioners. Jimmy O’Hara worked with Colonel Lucas Rourke in Washington and she had Shawn forward funds to Washington for Jimmy’s tutors and living expenses. It was the least she could do for the orphan boy who done so much for her. She had learned from Lucas that Boxing Billy was treated like royalty by Captain O’Donnell and there had been boxing events, attended well in the Yank camps. And not one word of that day in Virginia, where an obscure but extraordinary boxing event had occurred between North and South had ever been whispered.

She paused to catch her breath, and the baby gave a whopping kick. “Stubborn like your father.” She laughed and then smoothed her hands over her swollen stomach. She waddled like a goose, her breasts were sore, and her legs and back ached. She entered the barns and moved to the stall to brush her thoroughbred, a gift from John. Not able to ride her mare yet, Catherine built up a steady friendship with the beautiful equine by grooming and singing to the animal in a daily ritual.

The front doors of the barn opened and she peered over the ledge of the stall. John? A solitary figure led a horse through the barn. He dusted fallen snow from his head and broad shoulders. About to cry out for sheer joy of her husband’s return, she stopped cold. The visitor possessed the same height and same dark hair. He turned, startled by her presence. His eyes were a different color. Her shoulders drooped.

He smiled then, that same jaunty, confident smile of John’s, and tipped his hat. “This is a pleasure ma’am and might I add, a boon to my homecoming.”

Was he flirting with her? With certainty, this was John’s youngest brother, Zachary. Feeling a little mischievous, she decided to play along and mocked him with a slight curtsy.

He led his horse into the stall next to hers. “Do beg pardon, ma’am. I have been gone long from Fairhaven, my home. Are you perhaps a new serving girl?”

Catherine smiled, her enormous middle hidden by the partition. “Perhaps? Would that be agreeable to you Mr.—”