Chapter 13

I’ve got joy like a—whoa. Libbie stopped mid-sentence and pulled back on the reins. Pilot stopped. There was a man crouched by the spring. Libbie was just about to make a run for it when Pilot whickered. The man jumped up, spun about, and snatched the forage cap off his head.

“Wait. Miss Blair.” The words wouldn’t have carried much farther than the trail, but the tone was urgent. Pleading.

Libbie hesitated. Pilot took another step, and a gray horse came into view, standing broadside to the rock wall jutting out of the hillside. She glanced up to the top of the ridge. Clever. No one would see the gray from up above. Or the bay behind him. Two horses, standing nose-to-tail. Where was the other rider?

“It’s Jack Malone, Miss Blair.” The soldier stood still, his cap in his hands, the expression on his handsome face wary. “Please don’t scream. I was just getting a drink here at the spring. You nearly scared me to death. The last thing I expected…”

While Jack Malone rambled, Libbie looked past him toward the horses. The gray was a fine animal. She couldn’t remember ever seeing a Malone astride a horse, though. What was going on? Something crackled just behind her on the trail. Pilot danced sideways, and another soldier stepped up. He must have been up above them. Had she ridden right past him without seeing him? He moved quickly, and before Libbie had time to react, he’d pulled her out of the saddle and clamped a filthy hand over her mouth.

She struggled against him. Pilot threw a fit. Jack Malone grabbed the reins, barely preventing the horse from bolting. Grabbing the bridle, he backed Pilot up until his hind quarters were practically touching the wall of rock, trying to calm him down. The soldier who was holding Libbie forced her into the shadow of the rocky ledge.

Pilot settled down, but Malone kept hold of the horse’s reins while he spoke to her. “Don’t scream. We aren’t going to hurt you, but we can’t let you sound an alarm.”

Libbie grunted a response. Struggled some more.

“If the sergeant lets you go, promise me you won’t raise the alarm.”

Libbie stopped fighting. Nodded. The hand came away from her mouth. She tried to pull free. “I’m not going to holler,” she hissed. “Just. Let me go!” The man must have been looking at Malone, for when the Irishman nodded, the soldier released his grip.

Libbie whirled about. She glared up at him, but she kept her voice low as she spoke. “Who in tarnation are you?” She looked over at Jack. “And what do you think you’re doin’? Don’t you know there’s men guarding the landing not half a mile upriver? You could get yourselves killed roamin’ around Wildwood Grove.” She looked toward the river. “Where’d you come from, anyway?”

Malone and the other soldier—a sergeant, Malone had said—exchanged glances, and Libbie realized. Lord have mercy. They were spyin’ on the Guard. She noticed Malone’s bandaged hand. “You’re hurt.”

Malone looked down at his hand and then back up at her. Something flickered in his blue eyes. He tilted his head. “So are you.”

Libbie’s gloved hand cupped the left side of her face. “I—uh—I fell.” Now why couldn’t she remember the story she’d already concocted? She swallowed, suddenly aware of being thirsty. She cleared her throat. Nodded at the bubbling spring. “All right with you if I get a drink?”

Malone handed Pilot’s reins to the stranger and retrieved a tin cup from the saddlebags on the other horse—the one half hidden behind the gray. Libbie looked over at the sergeant. “I don’t recall ever seein’ the Malones ride. Is the gray yours?” He didn’t answer. She shrugged. “He’s a beauty.” Malone dipped his cup into the spring and then handed it to her. While she drank, the silent sergeant led Pilot over and let him drink, too. Libbie handed the cup back to Jack Malone and thanked him.

She looked over her shoulder at the river, then back at Malone. “I heard what happened at your farm. I’m sorry.” She glanced at the silent sergeant. “I truly mean it.”

The words were out before she realized that Jack Malone might not know about it, but he must have read her expression, for he said, “Thank you.” He held up his bandaged hand. “When I was reported as wounded, Maggie tracked us down. Came all the way to Boonville.” One corner of his mouth curled up as he said, “She told us about the farm in the middle of giving both Seamus and me a very thorough scolding for not writing to tell her I was all right.” He paused. “I hadn’t stopped to think there’d be a list of the wounded in the paper.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re all right,” Libbie said, and she truly meant that, too. She supposed it might seem strange for a Southerner to say such a thing about neighbors who’d decided to stand with the Union, but how could anyone wish ill on hard-working people like the Malones? As for considering them her enemies, she didn’t think she could.

Maybe she’d feel differently if Walker or someone else she cared for had been hurt.

She hadn’t witnessed the scene in town when news came that some of the local boys had been wounded, but she’d heard about it from Serena Ellerbe. Serena’s beau had fought at Boonville, too. Unlike Sheriff Green and Asa James’s brothers, William Dunn escaped the battle without injury. William would have a chance for “greater glory.” That was how Serena put it when she talked about it. It was, in fact, how many of the men talked about the upcoming battles. Fighting was a matter of honor. Not just a duty, but a privilege. Libbie didn’t understand the way they felt. Sometimes, the glittering fervor with which they spoke of fighting frightened her. Especially when she wondered if men on the other side of things felt the same way. Did the two standing here with her right now feel just as passionately about keeping the thirty-four states united under one flag as Walker and the Wildwood Guard felt about being part of an independent Confederacy? Best not to think too much about that right now.

Libbie focused once again on the Malones. “It’s good that your sister knows you’re all right. As to what happened on your farm, I am sad to say that I doubt you’ll be able to count on Sheriff Green to do much about finding whoever did all the damage. He’s resigned to join the Guard.”

“We heard,” Malone said. “To tell the truth, I wouldn’t have expected him to do much anyway. After all, we’re Irish.”

Libbie tried to suppress a sigh. Yes. She knew. As far as Walker was concerned, in the hierarchy of humanity, the Irish were barely above the Negroes—and only because they had white skin. She imagined Isham Green shared Walker’s opinion on the matter. “The sheriff’s Major Green now.” She looked from Malone to the sergeant and back again. “I suppose that’s why you’re here. The Guard.” Malone didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. With a little nod, Libbie asked again, “So. What are you goin’ to do with me?”

“That depends,” Malone said. “What are you ‘goin’ to do’ about us?”

Libbie considered. She wasn’t inclined to raise the alarm. The Malones were good people.

At the sound of a steamboat whistle screeching its approach, Libbie started. Time was passing. “If I don’t get back to the house, Walker will send someone after me. As it is, I’m not supposed to be out ridin’. He’ll have my hide.” She gazed up toward the top of the ridge. “He knows this place. Knows I like to come here.”

Something flickered in Jack Malone’s blue eyes. He was looking at the bruises on her face. “You mean he’ll hurt you. Again.”

A combination of the look on his face and the tone of voice made Libbie tremble—for Walker. She lifted her chin and forced conviction into her voice as she said, “He won’t. Not ever again.” Just saying the words made her feel stronger. Not brave yet… but getting there. “Before you ask for more information, I’ll tell you truly that I have made it my considered duty to mind my own business when it comes to my brother’s affairs. I already told you all I know about the military. I saw earthworks along the road as Pilot and I came this way.” She took a deep breath. “And so I ask again, what are you two gentlemen goin’ to do with me?”

When Malone’s gaze flicked to the other soldier and then down to the river, Libbie realized that the stranger was the problem. Jack Malone might trust her to keep the peace, but the sergeant never would. She looked over at him. “I don’t suppose you’d do me the honor of introducin’ yourself.”

“No ma’am. You already know more than you should.”

Libbie sighed. “Well, what amazin’ bit of information do you think I might reveal? Even if I said anything, all I could say was I saw a couple of raggedy-lookin’ men camped by the river. Deserters, to my way of thinking. How’s that gonna do anybody any good?” She tilted her head. Studied the stranger’s handsome face. “The truth is, there’s somethin’ familiar about you. As if I’ve seen you before.” She waved the thought away as if it were a pesky fly. “No matter.”

She looked off toward the river. Toward the landing. And just like that, she knew what to do. She gave the sergeant the most charming smile she could muster. “I’ll ride with you gentlemen a ways. Far enough and long enough that even if I did raise the alarm, you’d be long gone. Why, you can even lead Pilot until you decide to let me go.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief. “Here. Gag me so I can’t holler.”

Jack Malone spoke up. “You won’t holler.” Doubt flickered. “Will you?”

“If I was inclined to holler, don’t you think I would-a done it?” The soldier who wouldn’t tell her his name still looked doubtful. Libbie waved the white handkerchief at Malone. “Your friend doesn’t believe me.” She turned around so that he could tie the gag in place. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’m waitin’.”

Malone touched her shoulder and turned her back around. “Just don’t try to run for it,” he said, and smiled. “It wouldn’t do you any good anyway. Sergeant Coulter’s a first-class rider, and that horse of his—”

“Don’t I know it,” Libbie said. “That big fellah could likely give Pilot a run for his money.” She looked at the blue-eyed sergeant.

He said nothing. Instead, in one fluid movement, he mounted the gray horse. So. The man with the fine horse was also a fine horseman. When he nudged his gray horse close enough to reach Pilot’s reins, the two horses snorted and made a show, but Coulter wasn’t rattled. He simply grabbed Pilot’s reins and waited for the two geldings to make peace.

When Malone laced his fingers together to make a platform to boost her into the saddle, Libbie hesitated. “I don’t want to hurt that bandaged hand.” Malone took her hesitation for permission to pick her up, and before she quite knew what had happened, he’d lifted her into the saddle. She clutched Pilot’s mane as Coulter nudged his horse toward the trail that would take them away from Wildwood Grove.

Pilot tried to resist, but when Libbie urged him forward, he settled down and followed the big gray gelding. She glanced behind her just as Jack Malone mounted the bay. It was clear that that horse and rider weren’t used to each other. Thinking about Malone’s poor horsemanship reminded her of the fine team of Belgians the family owned—the ones Walker had tried and failed to buy.

What would Walker think if he could see her letting herself be led along the river between Sergeant Coulter and Jack Malone? What would he call her if he knew she’d been the one to suggest a brief “kidnapping”? The thought made her shudder. He’d call her a traitor, or worse. But as Libbie and the two Yankees made their way along the trail, Libbie realized that she didn’t feel like a traitor. She felt like a woman who was beginning to find her way to her own ideas about honor and duty, loyalty and strength.

As the three horses picked their way along the river’s edge, Libbie thought back to the night she’d heard more about Maggie Malone’s encounter with the bushwhackers. Miss Malone had to be a brave woman to have defended her uncle the way she did. It had been the talk of the dinner table one evening right after it happened. Walker’s friends had said some very unkind things about “a woman who behaved in such a manner,” but Libbie knew that while they might be horrified on the surface, they were flat out amazed by what Miss Malone had done that day. They’d be even more amazed if they knew about Miss Malone’s having set out into a battle zone in search of her brothers. Where did a woman get that kind of courage? Libbie supposed it came from having to do things for oneself—having to depend on oneself.

What would that be like? Libbie had always had either parents or Walker to take care of her. Or servants. And then it hit her. The servants! What would happen to Ora Lee and Annabelle and the rest of the slaves if—no, not if—when war came to Wildwood Grove? They’d be defenseless, unless they ran. Maybe even then. With war all around, where would a slave go? She twisted about in her saddle. Jack Malone nudged his bay and came up alongside Pilot.

“What is it?”

“I was just thinkin’. If you’re coming to fight the Guard, what’ll happen to the Negroes?”

The sergeant reined his gray horse around. “We’re not having a tea party here, and you need to keep your voice down. And for the record, no one’s received orders to fight the men camped on your plantation.”

Libbie snorted. “First of all, no one in the Guard is hidin’ in these woods. I happen to know they’re plannin’ to start patrolling tomorrow, so as long as I don’t scream to high heaven, y’all are safe. As to fightin’, there’s earthworks along the road. I’m no fool. Someone’s expecting a fight.” She paused. “Which is a special cause for concern for me as the mistress of the plantation. Walker will never let Negroes have weapons.” She glared at the sergeant. “I don’t suppose the Yankees will, either, will they?”

The sergeant was quiet for a moment. Finally, he asked, “How many slaves are you talking about—not in the county, just at Wildwood Grove?”

Maybe he was just trying to do more spying, but for that moment Libbie cared more about Ora Lee and Annabelle, Malachi and Robert, Betty and Cooper—and the others—than she did about anything else. “Twenty down in the quarters and six at the house.” She paused. Tilted her head. “Malachi and Annabelle—that’s our driver and the cook—I suppose they’d be safe if I sent them into town. They have family there, who work for the doctor.”

“You mean Dix and Sally?” Malone sounded surprised.

“You didn’t know? Dix bought himself and Sally from the Ellerbes. He’s tried to get Malachi and Annabelle away from the Grove—Annabelle and Sally are sisters—but Walker won’t hear of it.” Her voice wavered. She touched the side of her face. “Walker doesn’t let his possessions go. Not as long as they can do him any good.”

There was an awkward silence, and then Malone said, “It’s never been truly safe for anyone to harbor runaways, but right now, with things the way they are, it’d be even worse for free Negroes if they were caught doing such a thing. If you send anyone to Dix and Sally, they’ll all have to run for their lives.”

Of course that made sense, but it didn’t solve the matter of how to keep the Wildwood Grove slaves safe in the midst of a battle right here in Lafayette County. Libbie glanced over at the sergeant. “If I wanted to protect my people, how long do you think I’d have to figure a way to do it?” The sergeant looked at Malone. Libbie might not be raising the alarm, but the two Yankees weren’t about to trust her with any more information. And who could blame them?

“Y’all aren’t goin’ ta answer that. Don’t reckon I blame you.” Libbie smiled. “If it’s all the same to you two gentlemen, I think we’re far enough away now that you might let me go. Even if I was inclined to raise the alarm—which I am not, although I don’t expect you’ll believe that—you’d be clean into the next county and then some before anyone could give chase.”