scream, and then I’ll tell
everyone who’ll listen just what mischief you intend.”
Several faces stared at her with expressions colored by a mixture of
wariness and disbelief.
The black-haired ruffian pinned her with a fierce glare, apparently
expecting her to burst into hysterical tears or, better yet, collapse into
a swoon. Yvette rolled her eyes and sighed in feigned impatience,
praying all the while that he could not hear her pounding heart.
She held her ground, her stubbornness honed by years spent
battling older brothers. Several men shifted uncomfortably, and
the fellow who’d been holding Mr. Davis’s shoulder spoke up
once again.
“You heard the lady, Deming. Let him go—at least for now.”
By supplying her with the name, the shorter man ended the standoff.
She could now use it to report this incident, and she could tell that
Deming knew it, too. So instead of tossing Gabriel’s limp form
overboard, Deming dumped him at her feet and spat on him again.
“You want the runner so bad, you can have him,” he told her as he
turned on his heel. Trailing a stream of curses against both Gabriel’s
cowardice and her lack of womanly virtues, he shoved and swore his
way through the crowd.
Yvette gazed down at the heap of bleeding Yankee lying at her feet.
She had him now, all right.
But what in heaven’s name was she going to do with him?
* * *
“Major Fidler, might I have a word with you about the conduct of
your men?” Captain Mason asked.
Fidler, the officer in charge of the prisoners, looked distinctly
annoyed. A paroled prisoner himself, the major had been one of several
men who’d complained about the overcrowding before the Sultana left
Vicksburg. The hollow-cheeked man had proclaimed himself “quite
unimpressed” with Mason’s reassurances. This evening, his uniform
hung wrinkled on his gaunt frame, and exhausted shadows formed
dark smudges beneath his eyes.
Nevertheless, Fidler followed Mason into the pilothouse.
“I’m very concerned about the way the men are moving from one
side to the other every time another steamboat passes or we near a
town,” Captain Mason began. “With this sort of weight on top, sudden
shifting could capsize us or cause a boiler failure. This behavior must
be stopped immediately.”
Major Fidler pursed his lips, and his eyes grew as cold as chips of
flint. To his credit, however, he did not remind Mason of his earlier
objections. Nor did he mention the conditions, which Mason understood
were less than desirable.
“I’ll speak to them,” Fidler agreed, his voice sounding as tired as he
appeared. “All we want is to get home safely. God knows, we deserve
it after what we’ve suffered.”
Fidler left the pilothouse, and Captain Mason gazed out over the
dark mass of prisoners blanketing the hurricane deck. Prisoners who,
with their sheer weight, could destroy the steamboat and everyone
inside it.
“All we want is to get home safely,” Fidler had said.
“Amen to that, Major,” whispered Mason. But his true desire
was more modest still. Not home, but the prisoners’ river destination,
Cairo, Illinois, beckoned like a lodestone pulling at a compass needle.
It was that town and not his home or his wife, Mary, that J. Cass
Mason thought of when he finally whispered, “It’s all that I
want, too.”
* * *
Gabe felt as if someone had dropped a cannonball onto his head.
Experimentally, he moved it, only to find that his neck, too, throbbed
ferociously from the jarring impact. He tried to force his eyes to focus,
his mind to put together the jumbled images that skipped along its
surface like an artfully tossed stone. One after another, he saw
Matthew’s face, the mangled bodies of dead soldiers, the rows of shallow
graves he’d helped to dig, and then a steamboat, the Sultana, almost as
radiant a vision as the dark-haired beauty he’d met while waiting to
come aboard.
In stark contrast, the ugly memory of Silas Deming rushed at him,
followed by the recollection of
everyone who’ll listen just what mischief you intend.”
Several faces stared at her with expressions colored by a mixture of
wariness and disbelief.
The black-haired ruffian pinned her with a fierce glare, apparently
expecting her to burst into hysterical tears or, better yet, collapse into
a swoon. Yvette rolled her eyes and sighed in feigned impatience,
praying all the while that he could not hear her pounding heart.
She held her ground, her stubbornness honed by years spent
battling older brothers. Several men shifted uncomfortably, and
the fellow who’d been holding Mr. Davis’s shoulder spoke up
once again.
“You heard the lady, Deming. Let him go—at least for now.”
By supplying her with the name, the shorter man ended the standoff.
She could now use it to report this incident, and she could tell that
Deming knew it, too. So instead of tossing Gabriel’s limp form
overboard, Deming dumped him at her feet and spat on him again.
“You want the runner so bad, you can have him,” he told her as he
turned on his heel. Trailing a stream of curses against both Gabriel’s
cowardice and her lack of womanly virtues, he shoved and swore his
way through the crowd.
Yvette gazed down at the heap of bleeding Yankee lying at her feet.
She had him now, all right.
But what in heaven’s name was she going to do with him?
* * *
“Major Fidler, might I have a word with you about the conduct of
your men?” Captain Mason asked.
Fidler, the officer in charge of the prisoners, looked distinctly
annoyed. A paroled prisoner himself, the major had been one of several
men who’d complained about the overcrowding before the Sultana left
Vicksburg. The hollow-cheeked man had proclaimed himself “quite
unimpressed” with Mason’s reassurances. This evening, his uniform
hung wrinkled on his gaunt frame, and exhausted shadows formed
dark smudges beneath his eyes.
Nevertheless, Fidler followed Mason into the pilothouse.
“I’m very concerned about the way the men are moving from one
side to the other every time another steamboat passes or we near a
town,” Captain Mason began. “With this sort of weight on top, sudden
shifting could capsize us or cause a boiler failure. This behavior must
be stopped immediately.”
Major Fidler pursed his lips, and his eyes grew as cold as chips of
flint. To his credit, however, he did not remind Mason of his earlier
objections. Nor did he mention the conditions, which Mason understood
were less than desirable.
“I’ll speak to them,” Fidler agreed, his voice sounding as tired as he
appeared. “All we want is to get home safely. God knows, we deserve
it after what we’ve suffered.”
Fidler left the pilothouse, and Captain Mason gazed out over the
dark mass of prisoners blanketing the hurricane deck. Prisoners who,
with their sheer weight, could destroy the steamboat and everyone
inside it.
“All we want is to get home safely,” Fidler had said.
“Amen to that, Major,” whispered Mason. But his true desire
was more modest still. Not home, but the prisoners’ river destination,
Cairo, Illinois, beckoned like a lodestone pulling at a compass needle.
It was that town and not his home or his wife, Mary, that J. Cass
Mason thought of when he finally whispered, “It’s all that I
want, too.”
* * *
Gabe felt as if someone had dropped a cannonball onto his head.
Experimentally, he moved it, only to find that his neck, too, throbbed
ferociously from the jarring impact. He tried to force his eyes to focus,
his mind to put together the jumbled images that skipped along its
surface like an artfully tossed stone. One after another, he saw
Matthew’s face, the mangled bodies of dead soldiers, the rows of shallow
graves he’d helped to dig, and then a steamboat, the Sultana, almost as
radiant a vision as the dark-haired beauty he’d met while waiting to
come aboard.
In stark contrast, the ugly memory of Silas Deming rushed at him,
followed by the recollection of
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