“It happened at Gettysburg. After the fighting was over. My battalion had captured a squad of Rebs. One was a kid, not more than fifteen. He was injured, pretty badly injured. Hell, India, with no wagons to get the wounded to the field hospitals”âit set Connor's teeth on edge, Congress not decreeing an ambulance serviceâ“we couldn't even evacuate our own men, much less the enemy.”
She nodded.
He further disclosed, “The Rebel kid was from Memphis. I knew his family. That feeling of kinship caused me to neglect my own men, to order the boy moved to the doc. My commanding officer shouted for me to rescind my order. I wasn't a good officer for the Union that day. I disobeyed him.”
“You did?” She tilted her head, incredulous.
“Yes. I bent down to pick Carl Walters up. Carl drew a hidden pistol. The boy wasn't a sharpshooter, but he did clip the sergeant beside me. My career on the battlefields was over. It was all I could do to keep from being court-martialed.”
Mercy softened her eyes. “I never realized.”
“Why should you have?”
India left the chair, went to pick up the eyeglasses. While straightening the bent wires, she asked, “Your punishment was to spend the rest of the war here?”
“I'm banking on a break.” He wouldn't mention that a telegram from Stewart Lewis had reached him, giving coded information. It wasn't a transferâDimpled Darling put up too much of a ruckusâbut Lewis still worked on one.
“I mean to get sent back to the front.” Grant parlayed with Sherman about a new line of attack Lewis had relayed. Perhaps in Georgia?
Connor wouldn't get another drop of sympathy from the peace dove, and her infuriating way of twisting everything back to her single-sighted viewpoint surfaced. “I should imagine Colonel Lawrence would be impressed were you to get this camp in order.”
“That's where you're wrong. Roscoe Lawrence hates the Rebels. He's a tight-fisted administrator to boot. He prides himself on saving Union dollars. And the more prisoners who die, the fewer dollars need be spent to feed them.”
“Roscoe Lawrence ought to be shot.”
“That's not for you or me to decide.”
She rushed to Connor, kneeling at his feet. “Buck him. Turn him in to the War Department. Your Congress allocated money for prisoner upkeep. Your senators will be forced to deal with Lawrence, especially if someone spreads the word in the press.”
“Don't you dare,” Connor warned. “Don't you even begin to entertain that thought.”
“You do it.”
“Not noâhell, no.”
“Then you are more of a coward than the sissies who bolt upon being conscripted into your precious army.”
“So be it.”
Any show of respect fading from her face, she turned away. “I suppose I should thank you for telling your whys and why-fors. I am glad to know what I must deal with.”
“You're in no position to deal with anything . . . but how to save your pretty neck.”
Studying the floor, she asked, “What are you going to do to me now that you know I'm not with the Sanitary Commission?”
“Do yourself a favor, India. Get the hell out of here before Lawrence returns and finds out you aren't on the up and up. With his sadistic streak, he'll do you worse than he'd ever dream of treating the prisoners.”
“I'm not a coward.”
How well I know, Squirt.
“You're forgetting something. The acting commander of this prison knows you for a fraud and an enemy. It's my duty to see you prosecuted.”
“Will you do that? Will you have my head?”
“Why don't I give you the choice?” he asked, determined to knock some sense into that head of black hair and arresting eyes. “Which would you rather? I can have you shot, or I can let Washington take care of you. Or I can make certain you're on the next outbound train.”
“Except for the latter option, do with me as you wish.” She went to the window to stare outward. “Provided you allow Matt his liberty to save our family.”
Connor didn't cotton to the sound of this, and it had nothing to do with her request. “What's wrong with you that you would sacrifice your life?”
“I'm of no importance. He is.”
It angered Connor, her response. What had life done to her? What kind of hell had belittled such a vibrant belle, given her such scant will to survive?
He didn't get his answers that night. India wanted to speak only about Mathews Marshall. Connor gave up, took his leave, and went to bed. He fell asleep agonizing over her, and over what he would do about the Marshall problem in general.
He got no more than a few hours rest, leaving him tired, irritable . . . and unprepared for the havoc that greeted him in morning light.
Seven
Ezekiel Pays, bivouacked in a Rock Island town hallway, proved wonderful at spreading the gospel according to India Marshall. Zeke. A gentleman not too craven to buck authority.
Thanks to the venerable sergeant, a baker's dozen women and a pair of menâone civilian, one militaryânow stood in the snow on the island's wharf and listened to India preach from atop a bale of hay.
“We must do something to stop the mistreatment inside those gates,” she shouted, having given up on Connor O'Brien the past evening. “There are men without shoes, men without shirts, men without blankets. Food is scant. I have never seen human beings so cold, so emaciated. And I have never, ever seen the contagious housed with the healthy.”
There were many startled intakes of breath, despite the previously spread gospel.
India went on. “Men are dying daily. With the guards living within a breath of distance from your loved ones, how long will it be before smallpox spreads to your own homes?”
The women listened, turning agitated. “We can't let that happen!” one exclaimed. “We are good peopleâgood Americans!” “Disgraceful, the command of this island!” “Shocking.” “We must do something.”
“Then write to Washington, let the politicians know what is happening here, and promise the congressmen that your husbands won't have their votes if something isn't done,” India suggested, knowing she'd be long gone by the time anything would come of it. “In the meantime, scour your homes for blankets, clothing, and food. Good, nourishing food. Bring your donations here and Sergeant Pays will distribute them.”
India introduced her gaunt hero. “This is Sergeant Ezekiel Pays of the Fourth Regiment Veteran Reserve Corps. Sergeant Pays fought in the War of 1812.”
He was met with a round of applause, which finally tore his lovelorn eyes from India. His beard waving in the wind like a battle-torn flag, he saluted the crowd.
India indeed had found an ally in the Iowan. A suitor, as well, for Doot Smith had delivered a letter to her at breakfast: a love letter from the old soldier, written in spidery script.
It had touched her. Standing at the back door when she'd stepped outside had been Ezekiel Pays, a bouquet of paper flowers in his grizzled hand. He might be older than Granny Mabel, but India wouldn't spit in the eye of fortune. Zekeâhe insisted on familiarityâwould abet her causes.
India continued her speech to the assemblage.
The civilian man, a carrot-topped reporter for the Rock Island
Argus
, wrote copious notes in a journal. Then, “Hasn't the War Department ordered rations cut in all prisons?”
“Sir, do you believe the hawks of war play fair?”
“Haven't you heard of an eye for an eye, miss?” The reporter's lip curled. “What about our boys? Exchanged prisoners report ill treatment at Southern hands. Why should we spend money on Rebels when our own troops are abused?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but clamped it. Charging toward her, a quartet of foot soldiers hurrying to catch up, the post surgeon to their rear, Connor O'Brien rode toward her on a majestic Arabian stallion, mahogany bay in coat.
The stallion's black mane sailed like masts in a gale, his svelte, muscular neck holding a proud head and trim, pointed ears that beseeched the onlooker to take note of his splendor. Man and beast were both beauties, hard to miss. Easy to fear. Mostly. That pair not being water and the snakes it might hide, India didn't fear a horse or this particular man riding one, and wouldn't cower at the mere sight of noble perfection.
And Connor epitomized perfection, were a woman seeking the military type. He wore hat and attire as rakish as a cavalryman, down to the smart leather gloves that surely weren't afforded the prisoners inside that daunting fence.
“Hark, ladies and gentlemen. Chivalry is not dead.” She arced her hand. “Behold our knight in Union-blue armor and his faithful steed. Saved, we are.”
The crowd parted.
Connor slid from the saddle, gave the reins to a huffing and puffing groom, then stomped to the hay bale.
“You.”
“ âO, what can ail thee, knight-at-armor?' ” she quizzed, quoting Keats.
“You.”
She started to employ Cervantes and his use of a knight of sorrowful countenance, but, his hands fisted at his sides, Connor snarled, “Get down from there. Now!”
Ezekiel Pays dashed up the bale to protect her, a true hero. India hid a grin. She had the major exactly where she wanted him, and wished she'd thought of this gambit earlier.
Meanwhile, the women shouted outrage at the acting commandant. “Just listen to him, bellowing at an old lady.” “Leave her be, Major!” “The youth of today just isn't what it used to be.”
From those and other reactions, India gave herself a mental back-pat. Her behind and bosom might have forestalled masquerading as a soldier, but what a boon! What youthful recruit could command such fealty?
Connor climbed the bale of hay in one fluid step; of course, he towered over her. “Ma'am, I was boorish. Forgive me,” he said with patronizing intent and for the crowd's benefit, his invented contrition as evident to India as the gray skies above. “I fear you caught me unawares.”
“What about a hospital, Major O'Brien?” She batted her lashes in the fashion of Persia.
He stalled.
Her gaze turned to the physician whom Zeke had pointed out earlier. “How do you feel about mixing the hearty with the infirm, Surgeon Hanrahan?”
Vernon Hanrahan squirmed. Squirmed and teetered. The doctor appeared to be in his cups.
The major came to his subordinate's defense by turning to the group of women. “Surgeon Hanrahan shouldn't be put on the spot. Please know that funds have been allocated for the construction of a hospital and pest house. I have this morning signed an order giving the quartermaster authority to pay prisoners five cents a day to labor on the structures.”
“A nickel a day?” the reporter questioned, turning out to be the devil's advocate. “Those are slave wages. We're at war over the issue of slavery, Major. Will you do as the Simon Legrees of the South?”
This question made the major furious. “No one will be forced into anything,” he said. “They can take it or leave it.”
India spoke. “Major O'Brien, the real issue is those facilities. I thank you for your concession. But do you have the authority to make it?”
He didn't have to answer for her to know that he'd overstepped his bounds in Roscoe Lawrence's absence. And she realized something. She had just spat in the eye of fortune.
“We're all grateful for your generous help, Major,” she said quickly. “We'll also be grateful if you'll authorize Sergeant Pays to accept supplies on the prisoners' behalf.”
Connor O'Brien looked on the verge of replaying Pickett's Charge, with her as target. He faced the group instead. “Have your supplies here on the morrow.”
The women roared approval.
If he breached his promise, he'd lose face. Yesterday and today India had taken chances, but she always gambled on long shots.
Royal flush. You got a royal flush this time.
Â
Â
Pays and the crowd dispersed under the acting commander's directive.
Too furious and frustrated to move, other than to brush his sleeve, Connor let his nostrils flare. He yearned to shake snow from India's wig and silly lace cap. Hell, he would love to shake her until teeth rattled and those eyeglasses fell away.
“You may see your brother.” Knowing hell would turn sideways once Lawrence returned, Connor didn't look her in the eye as he capitulated. His civility took every ounce of self-control.
“If
you promise to get down from your pulpit.”
“That was just what I was planning to do,” she chirped, and stepped from the bale of hay.
“That's not the pulpit I mean and you know it.”
Unable to leave well enough alone, she asked, “Will you allow me to nurse the infirm?”
“One pint-size do-gooder can't handle the job. If I were of a mind to concedeâwhich I'm notâsuccess would take many Clara Bartons.”
Construction on the hospital compound would get him in enough hot water, not to mention his other allowances. What else could he have done, though? Connor knew that if he didn't let her visit with Captain Marshall, she'd finagle her way inside the detention barracks. “You may have won this round, Little Miss Do-Gooder, but you won't win another one.”
“We'll see.”
“There's no 'we'll see' about it. If you do any nursing, it will be with Lawrence's permission. And that won't happen.”
“He might just surprise you.” She whirled around, as if to sashay through the gates and prance onward to Solitary.
“Just one minute. I'm going with you.”
“There's no need for that.” She gave her profile. “Zeke will accompany me.”
If Connor had pepper up his nose before, he was now even more furious. She might be masquerading as a long-in-the-tooth spinster, but he didn't want that hoary Lothario turning rheumy eyes on her. “I ought to have him court-martialed.”
“For heaven's sake, don't be ridiculous. He's a darling. And, believe you me, I would fight like a mama cat for him.”
Connor stewed. He hoped that toothless oldster tripped on his beard and fell in the Mississippi.
“You just go on about your business,” she said, “and I'll find Zeke.”
“You call him
Zeke,
when you refuse to use my given name.”
Her face turned toward the path Pays had taken, she murmured respectfully, “He is my hero. A veritable Aladdin.”
“Damn you.” Damn her for looking to old men and fictional characters for her ideal.
“Toodle-doo, Major. I must be going. 'Bye.”
He locked fingers around her arm. “I said I'll take you. You've turned this island upside down, but I'm still in charge.”
“Yes, master.”
No man would ever be India's master.
Â
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Fifteen minutes later, Connor led India to Solitary and turned the key to her dreams. He called gruffly into the dark cold room. “Marshall?”
“Go away, O'Brien.”
“You've got company.”
Captain Mathews Marshall, dragging chains, left the cot. “Who goes there?” was his wary call.
Connor did the answering. “Your sister.”
“America? Is that you, sugar?”
“No, Mattie. It's me. Indy.”
His voice less enthusiastic, though still filled with relief, the Rebel captain said, “Come in, sweetums. Come in.”
She shot across the room and threw her arms around him.
He drew back. “You're not my sister.”
“I'm in disguise.” Her finger pointed to her wig, then downward. “It's me under all this.”
With question Marshall eyed Connor. “What . . . ?”
“It's okay,” India assured. “The major knows who I am.”
“How come?”
“We have an understanding,” she replied, which seemed to placate her kinsman.
His eyes having adjusted to the low light, Connor sized the pair up. Matt Marshall was as tall as his sister was short. Of course, the brother's gray uniformâragsâhung on his frame, whereas his sister would do justice to a flour sack, if a man could see through her masquerade.
Marshall tried to pat her back, but the chains restrained him, so he limped to his cot, eased down, and his sister followed. He broke an icicle from a rail of his cot, rolling it along the side of his knee. “It's good to see you, Sis.”
“Good doesn't even begin to describe how wonderful it is to see you, Mattie.”
The siblings carried on with reunion chatter; Connor relocked the door and leaned against the frame. Again, he studied the twosome. They shared the same squarish features and Mediterranean complexion, the Marshall siblings. Same black hair, too. Connor had no desire to check the man's eye color.
As he'd assessed last night, Connor recognized a likeness in their personalities. Each was the type the cavalry loved. Either one would charge into a line of foes with no more than a saber and a cause. Well, India wouldn't make war against anyone save for a poor sap of a U.S. major, his ideals, and his fears.
Her best weapon, after all, was her saberlike tongue. Which Connor would rather she put to use against his own tongue. Or, better yet, on his lower reaches.
He cleared his throat, then shifted his weight.
By now the Marshalls were settled, seated side-by-side on the narrow cot, the brother's chains curled at the boots that had great holes in the leather. Both Marshalls ignored Connor, which suited him fine. As Aunt Phoebe always said, You learn more with your mouth closed and your ears open.
There was a great difference in the siblings, Connor further noted. India asked question after question about “Mattie” and his comforts, as well as what had caused his transfer to Rock Island Prison Camp.
Marshall, a veteran of the surrender at Port Hudson the past July, had been given the choice of incarceration in New Orleans or Sandusky. He chose Johnson's Island, on Lake Erie. To try to jump ship between Port Hudson and St. Francisville, the town not far upriver?
From the official records, Connor knew Marshall to be a rebel amongst Rebels and that in Ohio he organized his fellow Louisianans into a foiled escape attempt. The commander at Sandusky had decided to separate the leader from his friends and kin, had Marshall transferred to Rock Island.
He had no friends here, except for a sister.