Chapter 31

MAY 6, 1862

Cassie sat on a fallen log at the edge of the battlefield, staring at nothing. The rain that had clung to them the past week was finally lifting, but the gloom remained like a wet cloak.

The past days had been grueling. After Yorktown had been abandoned, McClellan must have realized he’d let a golden opportunity to crush the Rebels slip through his fingers. When orders came to pursue the Confederates “until not a gray back was left,” the Michigan Second, along with a host of other regiments, had attacked.

Rubbing her palms into her eyes, she tried to scrub away the images emblazoned into her mind. But nothing could wash away the horror, the disillusionment, or her own demons.

In the fiery heat of battle, she’d grabbed a litter and rushed to retrieve a fallen soldier. Cannons pounded the ground. Bullets whizzed past. Screams. Blood. She’d constantly felt covered in sticky crimson.

As she knelt to assess the soldier’s condition, his eyes had sought hers and she fell backward, her heart rising into her throat. She couldn’t breathe.

He was the very image of her father.

The man lifted his hand in a plea and released a strangled cry before blood bubbled from his mouth. His open blue eyes had faded into vacant orbs.

Her stomach clenched and soured. It wasn’t Father. She knew it wasn’t. So why did he continue to invade her dreams and snatch her sleep?

Forgive him.

Pinching her eyes shut, she heaved a thick sigh.

Time is too precious to waste in bitterness. It will steal your joy.

Time.

She reached into her pocket and brushed the cool metal of the watch Captain Johnston had gifted her.

His irritation with General McClellan’s refusal to believe her report was palpable, yet instead of speaking ill of their superior, he’d thanked Thomas Turner profusely for his courageous and astute work. He’d pressed the watch into her hands, a gift for her service. The gesture had rendered her speechless.

Now she fingered the delicate carving of the encasement. The chain clinked in her fingers. Flipping the watch open, she watched the spindly hands shift ever so slowly.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Or was that only the rhythm of her heart? It didn’t matter. Both were destined to cease at some point.

She clicked the watch shut and dropped it back into her pocket. Weight settled in her chest like a brick.

When the battle had ended and both sides had declared a truce to collect their injured comrades, she’d stood in the middle of the field watching men of blue and gray shuffling the chilled, groaning wounded into litters. Why now were they agreeing to cooperate after their bullets had cut each other down?

Nothing made sense. The world was a convoluted mess of rage and regrets.

She clomped through the mire, looking for signs of life among the bodies strewn throughout the slimy field. With mud coating everything, it was hard to tell whether some soldiers were Union or Confederate. In the end, it didn’t really matter much.

Moans and mewling cries drifted over the quagmire. She crept close to one body that looked different from the others. Mud squelched under her boots as she approached. He was altogether odd, resting on his hands and knees. As her vision sharpened, she swallowed down the acid in her throat and turned away. His body remained but his head had been blown off.

It was too much. The carnage and death. The screams and wailing. The horror of wondering if the next moment would be her last. And the pretending. Always pretending.

Pretending to be Thomas Turner. Pretending to be a peddler. Pretending to ignore Gabe while every fiber of her being yearned for him. And worse yet, pretending her father hadn’t poisoned every area of her life.

What else was to be done?

Don’t think. Just do.

She trudged forward to check the breathing of the nearest prostrate man. Don’t think.

The directive was becoming harder to follow.

“Do you think the photographer will cooperate?”

Cassie stood inside Captain Johnston’s tent and fumbled for a response. “You want Mr. Avery to sneak into Richmond with me?”

Johnston leaned back in his chair and rested his hands on the brass-buttoned rows of his uniform. “Pinkerton has readily admitted he and McClellan should have listened to you concerning Yorktown. Your information, if they had actually believed it, was invaluable. McClellan is preparing to launch an assault on Richmond but needs solid numbers. Troops, storehouses, artilleries, signal stations, anything that might help him plan the best course of action.”

“I understand, but why the photographer?”

The captain pressed the bridge of his hawk-like nose between his fingers. “We want him to take photographs of the landscape. Topographical information is of utmost importance.”

She frowned. “Then why would you need me?”

“You’ve completed several missions for us now. You have experience in spying. He doesn’t. We dare not send him into such a task without an overseer. And while he captures the images we need, you can collect numbers and other valuable information.”

Work side by side with Gabe? The thought both thrilled and terrified her. It would be nearly impossible to keep her emotional distance while traveling for days on end together.

“One caveat.” Johnston yanked her from her tumultuous thoughts.

“Yes, sir?”

He cringed. “Pinkerton wants you to dress and act the part of a woman.”

Cassie nearly choked.

“We thought it would be more prudent if you played his wife. Fewer questions. Do you think you can do it?”

She forced down the smile that threatened to form. “I’ll try my best, sir.”

MAY 18, 1862

NEAR RICHMOND, VIRGINIA

I’ve lost my mind.

He was crazy. He had to be to agree to this stunt.

He shot a sideways glance at Cassie, perched next to him on the seat of the Whatsit, her spine stiff. The swaying motion of the wagon slogging through the marshy ground of the Chickahominy swamps did little to make her relax. She looked as if she were wound tighter than a seven-day watch.

He wasn’t faring much better.

Captain Johnston had conveniently omitted the fact that Turner would be playing the part of his wife, an irony that would have been laughable had it not been for the seriousness of their task. Cassie pretending to be a man who was pretending to be a woman. Who would ever believe such a thing?

The Whatsit bounced, knocking his leg against her skirt. Clearing her throat, she smoothed the dark-blue fabric and scooted away from him. If she shifted any farther, she’d be tumbling off the side. He repressed a sigh.

Johnston had promised to pay him for his part in the dangerous task. Jacob needed any financial help Gabe could provide. But if he were honest with himself, he must admit his concern for Cassie’s safety had been the driving force in agreeing to this insanity. If she refused to listen to reason, he could at least accompany her.

It was either follow her and save her from herself, or reveal her identity to her superiors. Guilt gnawed his middle. If she only knew how many times he’d contemplated the latter in the past week . . .

But every time he’d convinced himself to spill the truth, images of her father’s fingers wrapped around her throat assaulted him. He couldn’t release her to that monster. If he hadn’t been there the night her father attacked her, he had no doubt she’d be dead. The man was evil.

Crack! The wagon stalled and tilted to the left. The horses nickered and tossed their heads, straining against the harnesses. With a groan, he peered over the edge of the wagon to find the left rear wheel had broken, several of its spokes snapped in half.

“What’s wrong?”

It was the only thing she’d spoken since leaving camp.

“Wheel broke. I have another one in the back, but it will take me a while to change it on this mushy ground.” He jumped from the seat.

She swung her legs over the side. “I’ll help you.”

“No. You stay.” Her blue eyes rounded. He held up a restraining hand but smiled to soften the edge of his words. “You’re all dressed up and pretty. No sense spoiling your gown. Everyone will wonder what kind of husband I am to let my wife do the work.”

“But you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Grasping his courage, he slid his hand over hers and squeezed warmth into her fingers. “You’re not a man today, Cassie. Rest.”

Her cheeks pinked just before she slid her fingers away from his and nodded.

Over an hour later, Gabe wiped the sweat from his face, praying he hadn’t smeared axle grease all over his skin. Tossing the tools into the back of the Whatsit, he trudged to the front of the wagon, mopping his face with a clean cloth he’d found inside. He peered up at the driver’s bench to see Cassie buffing her arms.

She attempted a smile that fell flat. “All done?”

He studied her flushed face and glassy eyes. “Yes. Are you feeling well?”

Her body trembled. “Just a little cold, is all. Did the weather change?”

Frowning, he dropped the cloth. “Not really. It feels warm and sticky to me.”

“F-feels c-c-ool t-to me.”

He walked around to her side of the bench and raised his arms. “Step down for a minute. I’ll catch you.”

Cassie blinked as if confused and grasped his forearms. He eased her down and slid his palm over her forehead. She was burning up with fever.

He lifted her into his arms, fighting back the cold alarm washing through him. She made no protest. She shivered as if she’d been dunked in an ice bath.

Her voice sounded wispy against his chest. “Wh-where are w-we going?”

“I’m tucking you into bed. You’re sick, sweetheart.”

“S-s-so cold.”

“I know.”

He carried her slight frame to the back and nudged the door open with his foot. Pulling out the bedroll, he gently laid her on it and draped a scratchy blanket over her shivering form.

“What do you think is wrong?” he asked, smoothing the dark strands of hair away from her cheek.

She clamped her jaw tight to keep her teeth from chattering. “S-seen it in th-the h-hospital. M-m-might be m-malaria.”

His breath thinned as she fell into a quivering sleep.