The Railroad War (16 page)

Jane gave the sergeant a radiant smile.

Happily, the lieutenant managed to catch on to the sergeant’s drift. “I think you have a point, Sergeant,” he said. “Let’s
do that.” Then to Jane, “How soon do you think you can be dressed and ready to move?”

“I’ll be no more than twenty minutes,” she said. “Would you wait for me in the sitting room?”

“Of course, ma’am,” he said.

“Thank you.”

*    *    *

It took the lieutenant and the sergeant more than two hours to locate Captain Hawken, and another hour to arrange a meeting
for Jane Featherstone with him. But, for Jane’s purposes, the wait was worth it. By the time she was ushered into the captain’s
presence, the Union soldiers and officers who were dealing with her were treating her with deference. The confidence in her
voice when she spoke of her connections with the captain and with General Dodge convinced her escorts that she was worth treating
with care.

It was quite clear that no one was going to find the slightest fault with her or her action in shooting the boys who had assailed
her.

And the initial meeting with Captain Hawken accomplished everything that she wished it would. When she finally was ushered
in to him, he was setting himself up in the governor’s mansion, where Sherman was placing his headquarters. Hawken listened
to her account of the attempted rape, nodded curtly, and went into the general’s rooms for a few moments. When he returned,
he had papers for her that entitled her to special treatment by the Federal forces. And, he said, the body of the man she
had shot would be removed from her rooms as soon as men could be found to do it. The other soldiers who had broken into her
rooms would be appropriately punished, and he hoped she would be able to forget the incident. What the boys had tried to do
to her was a criminal act, and it was unforgivable. But it had happened in the heat and madness of war, which might, he hoped,
lessen the impact of it in her memory.

In fact, she had every intention of keeping the memory of this day alive forever—she had never felt so exhilarated.

The best part of her meeting with Hawken came at the end, when he agreed to call on her that evening. And, yes, he’d be delighted
to dine with her.

Hawken, in accepting, had the foresight to offer her food, since there was scarcely anything to be had in Jackson. She accepted
his offer with more than pleasure. She hadn’t had a good meal in weeks.

Hawken had told her he’d arrive at eight. But he didn’t appear until after nine. Earlier, a squad of soldiers had removed
the body and even made some generally ineffective efforts to clean up the mess. She managed to conceal most of the remaining
damage, however, by the artful placement of a few throws.

There was a dark bloodstain on the bedroom rug, though, that no amount of soap and water would remove. It did not displease
her greatly that that was the case.

She wore a simple dress of blue linen with puffy sleeves. It wouldn’t do, she decided, to wear anything finer. And besides,
she had learned that simple styles were often more fetching—and becoming—than elegant and fashionable attire. She wanted the
captain to pay attenton to her and not her clothes.

It was just as well that he was late, at least as far as her cooking was concerned. Jane missed having Francoise there to
do the work. Nevertheless, in spite of her lack of confidence at the stove, the pork, black-eyed peas, sweet potatoes, and
greens turned out perfectly edible.

Indeed, Sam seemed to hardly notice what he ate, and she flattered herself to think that that was so because he was noticing
her.

Over the meal their conversation was spare, but easy and casual. He seemed to find peace in eating a quiet meal, and she enjoyed
attending to him. It wasn’t very often that Jane Featherstone played hostess, a lack that she regretted. So she relished keeping
Sam’s plate and glass filled, and she kept a demure smile on her face, and, with growing awareness, she knew that he found
her silence attractive.

After supper he stood for a time before the piano, fingering the keys, making random sounds. As he did so, he contemplated
her conservatory diploma.

“You must play well,” he said finally, in his soft but firm voice.

“I’m competent,” she said.

“You must play for me, then. Will you, later?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’d be happy to.”

Through the windows she could see that many of Jackson’s buildings were in flames. Sherman’s men were relentlessly going about
their business of destroying the town. But all this hardly impinged on her mind, even though the red and orange glow flickered
through the room. She couldn’t tell whether it impinged on his.

She placed herself at one end of the dark red, threadbare love seat. “Come,” she said, “will you sit next to me?”

For a moment he considered it. Then, with a slight nod of assent, he said, “It would be a great pleasure to sit next to you.”

“You said you are from Texas?” she asked after he was seated.

“That’s right,” he said. “When did I tell you that?”

“Three days ago,” she said, “during your first visit.”

“You have a good memory.”

“Not actually. There are few Texans wearing your uniform.”

He had no reply to that.

“Tell me,” she said, inclining her head toward him, “why are you not fighting for the South?”

He smiled. “I don’t like to be on the losing side,” he said.

“That sounds like an answer you’ve rehearsed,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“It’s easy to say, and it’s glib. But do you really mean it? Don’t you have family in Texas? Attachments?” There was a flicker
of distress on her face. “You are not married, are you? I’m right in assuming you have no wife?”

“No. Nothing like that. I have no family to speak of. My mother and father died some years ago from cholera. I was their only
child.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said automatically.

“So that has left me with no attachments—except to the army, I suppose.”

“And so the army is your only family?”

“Something like that. The closest thing I have to brothers are some of the men who were with me at the Academy.”

Somewhere in her mind Jane recalled that Noah Ballard had been at the Military Academy at about the same time that Sam was,
but she thought it prudent not to mention that to Sam right now.

“Is that why you wear the uniform you wear?”

He shrugged. “When secession came, I was in the Second Cavalry in San Antonio under Lee. He was ordered back to Washington
then. They had hoped to offer him a high command in the Union Army.”

“I remember that.”

“Right. He refused. He would only fight for Virginia. It happened I was ordered to acompany him, and on the ride from San
Antonio to Corpus Christi, he and I had occasion for long talks.”

“About who to fight for?”

“That’s right. He told me he expected I would fight for Texas. He just assumed that.”

“But you had other ideas?”

“It’s not Texas that holds me, Miss Featherstone.”

“Jane,” she said.

“All right…Jane.”

“It’s not Texas that holds you?” she urged.

“No,” he said.

“What holds you?” she asked.

“I was born in Texas, but I’m not a Texan. My home is the West. That’s where the future is.

“Have you been to California, Jane?”

“No, of course not.”

“But you will go there. It’s part of your arrangement, I recall, with General Dodge.”

“It’s his idea to protect me, but I have no reason to do that. I like what I’m doing now.”

“It’s the future, Jane. California and all the territory between here and there. The railroads will make that land great.
If secession fails, North and South, united, will become a great continental power. It will dwarf Britain and France and all
the other little tin-pot nations in Europe.

“If the South can stay separate, then this continent will end up a couple of dozen countries, just like Europe.”

She caught his eye, drew a long breath, then said, “You think a lot, don’t you?”

“No. Not really. I don’t have time to.”

“Oh, no?” she said with a laugh. “Your words this evening say otherwise.”

“I don’t often get asked such probing questions.”

She laughed again. “Now are you glad you made the choice you made?”

“Glad? What do you mean?”

“Did you expect to burn and pillage cities, make women and children homeless?”

“I don’t like it,” he said. “But the war is not my doing.”

“Nor the orders to make sure that central Mississippi starves.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m asking whether you enjoy taking part in General Sherman’s sacking of Jackson.”

“No,” he said. “But don’t think that I disapprove of his actions just because I don’t like them.”

A fascinating idea flashed in her mind. I wonder if he is the one who caused the train wreck three nights ago, she thought.
He is certainly a likely suspect.

She toyed with the idea for a time, and even thought of asking him outright, but decided against it. Too risky.

Later, perhaps.

“Enough of me,” he said. “I’d like to hear about Miss Jane Featherstone—conservatory graduate, music instructor, beautiful
woman, smart, unmarried spy. That’s quite a pedigree. I want to hear more about you, Miss Jane Featherstone.”

She managed a shy smile. “Oh, really. I don’t know.”

“You can do better than that.”

Jane had in mind a story she had told before, a story of failed love, of marriage promised, then abandoned, followed by a
life of loneliness and spinsterhood. But she decided that that story would not capture Sam Hawken’s sympathy. It was too ordinary
for him.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t then imagine a biography better suited to his particular needs. Her aim had been to unsettle him,
but she was aware that the longer they were together the more he was unsettling her.

“No, really,” she said, “I’m not at all interesting. There’s hardly any part of me you would want to hear about.”

“You don’t part with much of yourself, do you, Miss Featherstone?”

“But do let me play for you,” she said, brightening. “And I can sing, too…or at least so I’m told.”

Before he could reply, she was on her feet and offering him her hand. “Come,” she said. “Sit next to me by the piano.”

“The stool won’t hold more than one,” he said practically, letting her hand dangle untouched in front of him.

“Don’t worry,” she said. And then she skipped over to the piano. Beside it next to the wall was a straight-backed chair. She
lifted that and moved it next to the piano stool. “There,” she said after she was done. “Now come,” she beckoned, flashing
her most fetching smile.

“All right,” he said.

When she was on the stool and he was seated beside her, she turned to him, letting her hand rest lightly on his forearm. “Do
you know Chopin?” she asked.

“I’ve heard a little.”

“Do you like it?”

He nodded.

“Then I’ll play a nocturne. I love his nocturnes.”

She placed her hands on the keys and began.

As Jane Featherstone played that evening, she knew that she had never played better, even at her graduation recital at the
conservatory. She took him through three Chopin nocturnes with fluid charm, grace, and finesse, after which she sang some
Foster songs. And then, noticing that he seemed to be taken with her performance, she switched to something stirring and passionate
by Beethoven.

And when the piece forced her to lean over him to reach the keys of the upper register, her arm kept grazing his in a most
pleasant way.

Toward the end of one especially ravishing climax, her hands fell still and she lifted her face to his and found his lips.
His hands moved to her shoulders, then drew her to him.

Jane sighed deep in her throat.

Sam Hawken drew his face away and laughed!

“Oh!” she blurted, shocked, wide-eyed. “What…?”

“Up with you, girl,” he said, rising abruptly and leaving her to take care of her dignity the best way she knew how.

He laughed again when she sprawled on the floor.

“What…?” she cried again, in pain this time.

“You are quite the performer, Miss Jane Featherstone,” he said.

“I…you…” she said, dazed.

“Do you need help?” he asked, bending down and dropping his hand hard upon her shoulder as he smiled infuriatingly.

“No!” she said furiously. “I don’t need any help.”

“Somehow I didn’t think you would want my help. But still, on your feet, girl. You look damned silly on your ass.” His grip
on her shoulder was like a vise. He drew her to her feet by force.

“What’s this all about?” she snapped, once she was standing. Then she added, “You bastard!”

“Hi ho!” he said with another of his infuriating laughs. “The maiden doth emit a word from the gutter.”

“Bastard!” she yelled, eyes blazing.

His hand, she realized then, had not left her shoulder. Now the other hand was on the other shoulder and he was dragging her
close to him. Before she could begin to consider what that meant, his lips were hard against hers. She softened, melted.

“I have a message for you, darling Jane,” he said.

“What’s that?” Her breathing was shallow and fast now. And it quickly became faster and shallower, for he was very .close
to her, so close that his body was just touching hers.

“You’ve tried to play me with all the skill you use on your piano. And I have to admit that you’ve been pretty good at it.
But I want you to know that I’m not to be played with. I’m not one of the men you use as toys.”

“I don’t understand,” Jane said, and as she said it a single tear welled at the corner of each eye and began its journey down
each cheek.

“Of course you understand, my darling maiden, and perfectly.”

“How could you,” she said, starting to gather herself together now, “after we ate such a lovely meal together—and after I
played for you and sang for you—how could you,” she repeated plaintively, “turn on me so?”