The Loyal Heart (11 page)

“Well, you were gone a long time, Belle,” Cook said. “I trust you were able to speak with Sheriff Kern?”

“I'm sorry it took me so long. When I arrived, Sheriff Kern wasn't in the office. I was forced to wait.”

“And when he did arrive? What did he say?”

“He happened to be with Mr. Truax. Both of them talked to me. After Sheriff Kern promised he'd stop by, Mr. Truax walked me back.”

Winnie stopped scrubbing a silver tray and looked over at Emerson and Cook. “There's something going on with that Mr. Truax, mark my words.”

“Like what?”

“He's not here just to visit and conduct business in Galveston. He's here for a reason, and I think it has something to do with Mrs. Markham.”

“Do you think he's someone from her past? Do you think they knew each other?”

“No. But either he knows something he's not sharing or he knows something about her past. I aim to discover what that is.”

Emerson grunted. “That's all we be needing, another batch of questions and a mystery to solve.”

Belle was about to offer her guess when they heard the light footsteps of their employer.

All four of them turned to her when she entered the kitchen.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Markham,” Winnie said as she dropped a quick, impulsive curtsy. “Is there something ya need? What may I help you with?”

Their employer looked from one to the other to the other in confusion. “I . . . well, I was wondering where all of you were. The house seemed especially quiet.”

“It's my fault, ma'am,” Belle said. “I, um, was telling them about my visit into town.”

“Oh?” She paled. “What were you telling them?”

This was why it was a bad idea to lie. Instinctively, she knew it was also a bad idea to mention the sheriff or Mr. Truax. Mrs. Markham would misunderstand why she was sharing. No doubt she would think Belle was gossiping about her instead of being concerned.

Therefore, she let the lies continue. “Um, two new ships arrived at the port today,” she blurted.

Mrs. Markham blinked. And who could blame her? Now that the war was over, since when did any of them care what ship pulled into port? “Oh?”

“Yes.” When all of them were looking at her expectantly, she babbled on. “One . . . um, one looks to be from England. Or France!”

Mrs. Markham tilted her head to one side. “You don't know?”

“No. You see, I couldn't see the flag.”

“Then how did you know it was from another country?”

This was terrible. But in for a penny, in for a pound. “The . . . um . . .”

“She was just telling us about the sailors' uniforms, ma'am,” Emerson said quickly. Just as if he noticed sailors' uniforms all the time. “They were white.”

“I see. Well, as interesting as sailors' uniforms are, I need your assistance, if you please.”

Emerson strode forward. “How may we help, ma'am?”

“We have a new guest waiting in my husband's study to be escorted to his room. The sheriff has just arrived as well.”

Immediately, the four of them set into motion.

“I'll go out to see to the guest,” Winnie said importantly. “Belle, you accompany Mrs. Markham and see what refreshments the sheriff would like.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Belle said, leading the way out of the kitchen, outside to the short gap that separated the kitchen from the main house, then into the hall leading to the parlor.

Beside her, Mrs. Markham's movements were wooden.

Though it might have been a bit cheeky, Belle asked, “Are you ready to speak to the sheriff now, ma'am?”

“No, but I guess it's time. So I had better be ready.” Looking Belle in the eye, she said, “Try as I might, I haven't been able to forget the past. I guess it's time to deal with the present.”

Belle thought truer words had never been said.

Johnson's Island, Ohio
Confederate States of America Officers' POW Camp
February 1865

P
HILLIP
M
ARKHAM
'
S STATE OF HEALTH WAS WORSE
.

The gangrene that had settled in his arm had spread to his shoulder. Angry red welts radiated from his wound, ran down to his fingertips and up along the lines of muscle and veins that marked his upper arm.

Fever had set in, along with delirium. The man's only source of relief was the cool compresses they placed on his skin and the water he drank. Robert would have given a mint for a healthy dose of laudanum or a bottle of whiskey. Anything to give Phillip a few moments of relief from his misery.

Yet, true to form, even though Phillip was undoubtedly in extreme pain, he never complained. His stoic determination to even die like a gentleman humbled them all. Especially Robert, who had never claimed to be anything close to a gentleman.

Even their idiot Yankee guards had seemed to pity Phillip. One stopped by daily to see how he was doing. Another guard had even given Thomas a jug of fresh water for Phillip to drink. He'd
gone so far as to assure them they only needed to let one of them know when it needed to be filled again.

That, perhaps, was the true testimony to the man Phillip was. Even their enemy knew they had someone special in their midst.

Because they'd known Phillip's time was near, four of them had been taking turns sitting with him. It was degrading enough for one of the finest men they knew to have to die as a prisoner of war. No one wanted him to have to die alone in their barracks.

Robert had been sitting with him for three hours. He'd bathed Phillip as best he could but hadn't been able to coax him to drink any water. Instead, his friend had simply been lying listlessly on a pallet on the floor.

Robert had placed his hand on Phillip's pulse more than once just to make sure the man was still alive.

Now his shift was over. “I'm going to let someone else take a turn with you now, Lieutenant,” he said. “You're in for a treat too. Next up is none other than our esteemed captain.”

Though he was fairly sure Phillip wasn't even aware he was there, Robert continued. Maybe he was speaking more for himself than for Phillip. “If you can, be sure to give Captain Monroe some grief. He's been altogether too confident and merry of late.”

Robert chuckled, his forced laughter sounding hollow even to his own ears. “You know how Cap gets—always thinking daisies are gonna start blooming and tomorrow is gonna be brighter.”

When Phillip didn't so much as flinch, Robert knelt down and clasped his thin, lifeless hand. “Don't give up, Lieutenant. I'll be back tomorrow, and you better plan to open at least one of those eyes for me.”

Still reluctant to leave his side, Robert pressed his other hand to Phillip's, curving his palm around Phillip's limp one, attempting to impart some of his strength to him.

But still, Phillip's hand only hung limp between his own.

Feeling more depressed than usual, Robert turned away and walked out of the dank and dark room. The moment he stood outside, he inhaled deeply. It was a relief to feel fresh air on his skin and to be away from the cloying scent of Phillip's disease.

Of course, he immediately felt guilty for even thinking such a thing.

After taking a number of fortifying breaths, Robert spied Captain Monroe. His back was facing Robert, his front leaning against a fence. His arms and elbows were resting on the top rung. For once their captain didn't look like he was plotting or worrying about anyone. Instead, he seemed captivated by the expanse of water that could now be seen, thanks to some recent chinks in their outer fence.

When they'd first arrived at their camp, Robert had been shocked at just how big Lake Erie was. Though he'd learned about the Great Lakes in a geography text, he'd never imagined anything quite so large.

Now he was used to their surroundings enough to feel something of an authority on them. At the moment, white caps dotted the waves.

Robert predicted they were in for another rough night. He'd been there long enough to take notice of the changes in the water's patterns. He hoped a storm wasn't on the horizon. A storm would bring a fresh blanket of snow and hours of pounding ice on their buildings.

It would also make their barracks blindingly cold.

For a moment Robert considered sharing his weather report, then decided against it. No doubt their captain had already surmised the same thing.

He'd just opted to leave and find someone else to sit with Phillip when Monroe turned to face him. “How's he look?” he asked.

Robert exhaled. “Like a man facing death.” There was no other way to describe it.

Devin flinched. “Don't expect it will be long now,” he said after a pause. “He'll be in heaven before we know it. Too soon.”

“Maybe a day or two at the most.” Robert was torn between hoping he was wrong and praying he was right.

Cap nodded. “Figured as much.” Still looking out at the waves, he said, “Heck of a way to die, though.”

Robert had learned from an early age that death was always unpleasant. His experiences on the battlefield reinforced that idea, along with the knowledge that, while death was unpleasant, there were worse ways to die than others.

But yes, Robert understood his commander's statement. Phillip was a good man. A true Southern gentleman. Loyal and true. It was going to be hard to come to terms with the fact that this good man could meet such a painful and dark death.

Just as Robert was about to say something about pain and suffering and how he wished the Lord would decide to go easier on Phillip, Devin spoke.

“Truax?”

“Sir?” Robert realized he had unconsciously stood at attention. “When you sat with Markham . . . did he say anything?”

All of Robert's senses went on alert. There was a new thread in the man's tone that signified his question was important.

After reflecting on the last three hours, he said, “Yes, sir, he did speak. Well, he spoke for a bit the first hour I sat with him, though I couldn't be sure if he was speaking to me or merely talking in his sleep.”

The captain tensed. “What did he say? Tell me exactly.”

“I don't recall his exact words, sir. They were a mumbled mash.”

“Try, Lieutenant.”

“He, uh, was talking about Miranda.” Though he was a grown man and had grown up on the streets, he felt himself blush. “Something about her skin, sir.” He truly hoped Captain Monroe wouldn't ask for more details than that.

Captain relaxed. “Is that it? He only talked about his wife?”

Robert stared at him curiously. “Yes, sir. Isn't that enough? Ever since we've known him, she's been his favorite topic of conversation. He used to talk about that woman most every waking minute.”

“I hope that continues to be the case.”

His words were cryptic. And though it wasn't usually his place to question his commanding officer, he asked, “What is on your mind, Captain? Does Markham know something you're worried about getting out?”

After looking around their vicinity, Captain Monroe lowered his voice. “Phillip was a skilled horseman. Skilled fighter.”

“Yes, he was.” For the most part, they all were. Well, except he'd been one of the few men in his unit who had never ridden a horse before the war. It had caused an endless amount of ribbing.

Monroe shook his head. “No, he was a better soldier than you know. He was a better fighter, better at strategizing, braver than most people would ever imagine. He was educated too. He knew several languages.” Devin paused, stared at him. “Did you know that?”

“I knew he went to West Point. But about the languages? No, sir, I did not.”

“Fluent in French and Spanish. It came in handy.”

“I didn't know about that.” Their job had been to kill Yankees, not speak to them.

“That's good. He was charged to keep it a secret.”

Robert wondered if his captain was reminding him of Phillip's qualities to illustrate that the wrong man was dying. If so, it was
an unnecessary step. Robert already knew he could never compare to the man Phillip Markham was.

“He was an exemplary officer. The Confederacy will miss him.” Robert knew most men who knew him would have blinked twice to hear such words flow off his tongue. Robert was a loyal man but never one to speak in such a flowery way.

“No, Robert. You aren't understanding what I'm trying to say. Phillip often went behind enemy lines. He was a spy.”

“What?”

“Markham could lose that Texas drawl and charm-school demeanor faster than you could say ‘buttercup.' He's received all kinds of commendations for his missions. One of the generals here pulled me aside yesterday and said that some of the information Phillip shared saved hundreds of lives.”

To say he was stunned was an understatement. “I . . . I had no idea, sir.”

“That is good. Lee himself swore him to silence. He would have been shot for insubordination if he ever talked about his missions.”

“He certainly never betrayed himself to me, sir.”

Monroe turned to him at last. “To be honest, by the time he came to report to me, he was done with all that. The powers that be were worried he'd be recognized. Because of that, he was placed into the regular cavalry and asked to serve under me.”

“He often told me it was his lucky day when he received orders to come to your unit.”

His captain waved off that remark. “I didn't know much of what he'd done. All I'd ever been told was that Markham was valued, with a capital
V
. I took that to mean I should try not to get him killed.” He flashed a smile, then sobered. “But then one night I learned a lot more about him.”

“When was that?”

“It was back when we were in north Georgia. I was visiting a couple of men at a hospital tent, paying respects and so forth, when a major general stopped me. After I sat down next to him, he pointedly asked how Phillip Markham was doing.”

Robert stared. “What did you say?”

Monroe smiled slightly. “About what you'd expect me to. The man's question seemed pointed and out of character. After all, it wasn't like we all went about and checked on our men like they were children.” Monroe met Robert's gaze, then turned back to stare at the water. “I kind of shrugged and said he was doing all right. I think I said something about him being good with horses or some such nonsense. That's when the blasted general told me about Phillip Markham's true contributions to the war.”

“I must admit I'm shocked.”

“I was shocked too. For a while there I even found myself strangely tentative around the man. Phillip had been important enough to the effort to earn the rank of a general. He would have far outranked me . . . if he hadn't agreed to keep all his missions a secret.”

“I wish he wasn't dying like this. Seems a poor end to such a great man.”

Impatiently, Monroe shook his head. “That isn't why I told you this, Robert.”

“What, then, was the reason?”

“I've decided to ask this of you, not Ethan or Thomas. I . . . I think you will be able to handle it the best. From now on, you or I need to stay with Phillip until he passes on.
Only you or me.
No one else. He cannot start telling tales about his past escapades.”

“He probably won't. He seems—”

Monroe shook his head again. “He very well might. He's going to start forgetting about where he is. You and I have both seen
men do that. It won't be his fault. But the fact is, no one can know about what he's done. No matter what you hear him say, you need to keep it to yourself, or if you truly feel you need to share it, speak to me. That is it.” His voice turned hard. “And if you aren't able to quiet him, you will need to silence him yourself. Understood?”

Robert felt as if all the blood were rushing from his face. “Yes, sir.”

Monroe continued to stare at him intently. “Do you promise?”

“Yes, Captain.” Above all, he was loyal to this man and to the cause.

Captain Monroe exhaled. “Thank you, Robert. And don't forget . . . no matter what, we need to continue to stress that Phillip Markham was nothing more than one of my lieutenants who happened to have a good seat on a horse.”

“Yes, sir. And, uh, let us not forget he was a gentleman who really loved his wife.”

Captain Monroe smiled. “That will probably be the truest thing we've ever said during our time here. Phillip seems to be fairly sure that the sun rises and falls on his Miranda. The man is still smitten after several years of marriage.”

Glad to be talking about something that wasn't so uncomfortable, Robert said, “Do you think any woman can be that wonderful?”

Monroe looked at him sadly. “I would like to think there is at least one woman who is. If Miranda Markham loves Phillip even half as much as he loves her, I shudder to think how she is going to receive the news of his death.”