"Did you learn anything?" It was Mary B., a large bowl of bloody water swishing in her arms. Both women ignored it.
Margaret nodded, her eyes searching for Eddie. He was propped up by a chipped column, his face cleaned, no doubt, by one of the new lady nurses who would be gone by evening. His eyes snapped to hers, questioning, and she hurried to his side.
Before speaking a word, she glanced around his blanket, making sure there was no one else listening to their conversation.
"It was that piece of paper," she whispered, "Ashton copied it, I suppose, to figure out its meaning. Lee, Davis, and Longstreet saw it, and now they think Ash is a spy."
"Bloody hell," he spat. But his anger wasn't directed toward Margaret, and she continued.
"We have to figure out a way to get him out of there. He's in a room at the Old Customs House, guarded by a pair of gorillas. How can we help him escape?"
Eddie was about to speak, a sudden spark in his eyes, when he fell back, as if in exhaustion or pain.
"Oh, Eddie, forgive me." She placed a hand over his good arm. "How are you feeling?" When he didn't reply, she began to babble. "You need to rest, not to hear the rantings of a demented sister-in-law. I should not have bothered you ..." An unexpected smile touched his lips. "No, Mag, I truly feel better, and Dr. Parish thinks his original diagnosis may have been in error, and perhaps the bone is not shattered. I'm just thinking that I may have been very wrong about you." The smile vanished as he spoke. "But Mag—listen to me. We cannot help Ashton escape."
For a moment Margaret was speechless as Eddie watched her closely, the emotions so clearly played out on her features. "Do you mean because of your arm? Well, of course I realize you won't be able to scale walls or anything. If you could help me come up with ideas, help me plan his escape, that's all I need. I'll do anything, Eddie. Don't even consider my safety, because they wouldn't bother with a female. Look at Belle Boyd—the North had absolute proof of her guilt, and they gave her a simple slap on the wrist and sent her back South. What would the Confederacy do with me? Why, the same I imagine, only send me up North. But if Ash is safe, well, it would be more than worth it."
As she paused for breath Eddie interrupted, "Think, Mag. You know Ashton as well as I do, maybe better in some respects. Would he ever escape from anything if his honor was still in question?"
Her mouth was about to open with a response when the meaning of his words penetrated. Eddie was right. Ashton would never escape, never slink away from the Confederacy. That to him would be worse than death.
"Bloody hell," she moaned.
The two sat in miserable silence. Every time Margaret thought of an idea, she realized that Ashton would never agree with the plan.
Wild thoughts popped into her mind, of electrocuting the guards, of somehow using a crude camera obscura and projecting a phantom image on a wall, then grabbing the guards' keys while they ogled the ghostly vision. She thought of dressing up as a man, forgetting for a moment that she was no longer six feet tall. Also forgetting that dressing up as a man would do little to free Ashton. Then she wondered about the lock, if she could pick it with a hairpin or jiggle it with a piece of wire.
But every idea dead-ended when she thought of Ashton. They could blast a hole the size of Kentucky in the side of the building—another one of her unformed plots—and Ashton would still refuse to escape.
They were so absorbed in their own dismal musings that Mary B. cleared her throat several times before attracting their attention. Eddie frowned, but she was not put off.
"I just asked you, Edward, if you would care for a bowl of soup. It's not quite as elegant as the fare at The Oaks, but believe me, it's a far sight better than army rations."
Still receiving no response, Mary B. turned to Margaret. "I do hope you realize, Mag, that your skirt is on fire and your hair has just turned blue."
Margaret gave her a distracted nod and again tried thinking of ways to help her husband.
"Excuse me." She raised her voice a notch higher, shifting her weight to the other foot. "If I am interrupting anything, please just let me know. I can take a hint."
Margaret glanced up, her eyes flying to Eddie's. "Should we tell her?"
Eddie's face was wary. "I don't know . .."
"Tell me what?" Mary B. leaned closer to the two.
Margaret swallowed, and Eddie finally gave a weak one-shoulder shrug. "We need help, Mary B., but first you must promise not to tell a soul what we're about to tell you."
Suddenly serious, catching the somber mood of Eddie and Margaret, she nodded. Swiftly, in little more than a barely audible hiss, Margaret and Eddie revealed the situation Ashton was in.
"Bloody hell," she murmured, joining the two in contemplative silence.
"Maybe," she said softly, and Eddie and Margaret turned to her, hope daring to flicker in their eyes. Then she shook her head, as if dismissing her fledgling idea as hopeless.
"Anything," said Margaret. "Please, any ideas at all. Time is running out. My guess, from the look on everyone's face this morning in the president's office, is that they want this matter resolved and out of the way as soon as possible. They are going to execute him." Eddie started to speak, but Margaret hushed him. "They think they have to—they will shoot him quietly, then announce in the press that he died from his wounds at Gettysburg or that he banged his head or fell down a flight of stairs. You both know it—it makes sense. So anything at all, Mary B., no matter how silly, please tell us."
Margaret wasn't aware that she was crying, or that her fists were clenched as she rubbed her nose. Eddie saw the desperation there and was suddenly ashamed for all of the awful things he had thought and said about her.
"I was just thinking," Mary B. began, "whatever the plan is, we can't let Ashton know. Not only will he refuse, but the less he knows, the better for his sake in case the plan should fail."
"Right." Margaret waved her on impatiently, not bothering to mention that if the plan should fail, Ashton would be killed anyway.
"Dr. Parish has a book on botany." She looked up, just to make sure their conversation was not overheard. "It's very old. He keeps it in his corner over there, under the more current medical books."
Eddie was about to ask her what aid a botany book could offer when Mary B. gave him a withering glare and continued. "There are poisons there, some lethal, others temporary. I'm not sure if something like this exists, but what if there was a plant-based drug to put him to sleep? We could say he's dead and pretend to bury him."
For the first time that day, Margaret felt a swell of genuine hope. "And we could build the rest of the plan on the drug itself, tailor it to whatever we need! We could get him out of there in a hurry in a box or a trunk, and before they knew what happened, we would be long gone."
"No," said Eddie, his excitement obvious. "We could pretend he is dead, somehow, and get him out of there in a casket."
An involuntary shudder ran through Margaret. "I hate to think of him in a casket. What if he wakes up?"
"I'd rather have him alive in a casket than dead in one," muttered Eddie, and Margaret grew silent.
"How can we get to the book without Dr. Parish finding us?" Margaret's arms were wrapped around her, as if warding off a chill.
"Dr. Parish goes home at seven each evening for dinner and a few shots of brandy. He'll return at nine o'clock for one last tour of the ward. That should give us enough time." Mary B. reached into the large pocket of her apron and pulled out a man's pocket watch. "We have a little less than four hours." She snapped the watch shut and slipped it back into the pocket.
"I should try to see Ashton." Margaret stood up.
The other two nodded, a charged expectancy coursing through the air.
"Don't mention this conversation, Mag," said Eddie with a Cheshire cat grin. "Tell him I'm much better, and that I'm even beginning to warm to my new sister-in-law under her expert nursing."
She returned the smile. "This must work," she added softly as sh
e began to leave. But they all understood perfectly before she uttered the words.
The guards readily, even graciously, agreed to let her see Ashton, as if they had been given a crash course in jailer etiquette. One was actually posted inside his room, another was just outside the window, and the same two husky guards stood at the door.
When she entered, carrying a tin can containing some of Mary B.'s soup and a loaf of day-old bread baked at another hospital, she found Ashton reading a stack of old Harper's Weekly magazines and a Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper.
He looked up at her, a slow, welcoming smile spread across his face, as if she had just bumped into him in a peaceful living room. Other than the guards, there were no obvious signs of his imprisonment, nothing that marked him as a man who had lost his freedom. The room was airy, almost spacious, with a built-in bookshelf filled with leather-bound titles, and a heavy table set up like a dining room, with a half dozen comfortable-looking chairs surrounding the table. There were several framed prints on the white walls, and simple molding bordering the ceiling.
Clad in a white linen shirt and dark gray trousers, there was also no evidence of his rank in the army.
"Hello," she said self-consciously, very aware of the guard's watchful gaze.
In one movement Ashton stood up and reached her side. "Margaret," he murmured, wanting to say much more, but somehow unable to form the words. His hand cupped her elbow, and he noticed her slight trembling.
"Excuse me, Private Burdell," he said to the guard in a conversational tone. "Do you mind leaving my wife and me for a few moments? We would most certainly leave ourselves, but I have developed a peculiar fondness for this room."
The guard nodded. "Yes, sir." He stiffened. "Just as long as Mrs. Johnson has nothing, uh, well, nothing that might help you . . ."
"Escape?" offered Ashton.
The man flushed. "Yes, sir."
Margaret held up the tin can for his inspection and pulled away part of the cloth covering the bread. "Here, you may take a look at these, and I have nothing on me that could in any way be valuable in such an endeavor. I don't even have hoops. ..."
As she began to lift her skirts, the guard's mouth dropped open, and he exited as quickly as possible, slamming the door behind him. Ashton's soft chuckle seemed to echo in the bare room.
Raising her head to see him, Margaret tried to smile but only managed to keep her mouth from turning downward. There was a nightmare quality to the moment, a fragile veneer of normalcy to conceal how horrendous the situation really was. Her husband was touching her, his body so close she could feel his warmth, but in a matter of hours he could be dead.
"Have they decided anything?" Her voice had a tinny quality, as if someone else was doing the speaking, and her emotions were not behind each syllable. She mechanically placed the soup and bread on the heavy table.
Her fiat intonation did not fool Ashton. He inhaled deeply, gently pulling her toward him. He simply could not look at her face while he spoke the next words. As she nestled in his embrace, her arms circling his waist, he could feel the moist warmth of her breath on his chest.
"My love, you need to be strong." He felt her stiffen, and softly rubbed her back. "I must apologize for violating your privacy. You never intended that slip of paper for eyes other than your own. I should never have read what you dreamed. I had no right." She was about to speak when he interrupted her. "Please let me finish. I just want you to know that I do trust you absolutely. I don't always understand you, but I trust you implicitly.
"Now you must listen to me. Go back to The Oaks, Margaret, as soon as possible. My mother and Aunt Eppes, for all of their idiosyncrasies, will take care of you . . ."
"But what about—"
"Margaret, listen to me." His arms tightened around her until it was almost painful, but she barely noticed. "Please bear no bitterness. We have been blessed with some hours of rare joy, but I do not want you to hate anyone or to blame anyone for what will come to pass. It is my fault, everything, and I bear full responsibility. Everyone else is just reacting as they must for what they earnestly believe to be the good of the Confederacy." "What is . . ." But her voice gave out before she could continue.
"I have not been told yet, but my guess is that I am to be shot tomorrow morning,"
Dazed, she shook her head, as if that would alter what he had just said. "No," she choked.
"Listen to me." His words were barely audible. "Do you know the best part of my life has been with you? I feel remarkably lucky, Mag. Not many men have given their love so shamelessly to a woman only to have it returned tenfold when he needed it most." He continued as if he were alone in the room, his own silent reflections suddenly given voice. "I used to regret that you didn't love me, but now I understand what a magnificent purpose that served. Your love is all the more precious because I understand its value, how rare it is, how rare you are. The most important war I waged was for your heart, and I finally won."
"No," she repeated, her entire body trembling.
"Margaret, you must find happiness—I need to know this before tomorrow. The president will issue a statement that I died of natural causes—you must not contradict this to anyone. I am telling you simply because you know what transpired today in the president's office. You are too intelligent to believe I suddenly died. You would never forgive me, and you would never forgive yourself. You need to realize that this was not your fault but mine. Are you listening?"
She started to back away, unable to look in his face, unable to hold on to him until she could come up with a solution.
Ashton reached out for her, but she eluded his grasp, and his hand dropped to his side. There was an expression on her face, pale and blank yet full of sheer panic, that alarmed him.
"Margaret," he began, but she was already at the door. "For God's sake, don't do anything foolish."
"No, no, I won't," she muttered. "I'll be back as soon as possible, I promise. I have to do something."
"This is the only way," he said softly. "Margaret, this will preserve my honor. Please listen to me—it will also preserve you in the end. Tomorrow's, eh, event, will lay the foundation for your future happiness. Don't you see?"
He truly believed what he was saying, she marveled.
"I'll be back." She glanced at him, then looked away, unable to bear the sight of his posture, so straight yet alone, his palm open to her. Somehow she managed a smile. "Please eat your soup. I'll be back."
Her hand was shaking, splashing dots of hot wax all over Dr. Parish's botany text. The illustrations were beautiful, detailed, yet preserving the sense of freshness that the plants possess in nature.
"Careful," warned Mary B., her eyes searching the room for signs of the doctor's return. "I still don't understand why this couldn't wait until later, when the doctor will be gone for two hours."
It was late afternoon, but winter darkness already called for the extravagant use of a candle. Dr. Parish had only stepped out for a moment to supervise the distribution of some new patients.
"Hurry," urged Mary B., her toe tapping anxiously under her skirts.
"Here's something," whispered Margaret. "It's called Jamestown Weed and causes unconsciousness and, if you're not careful, death."
"That's not exactly what we want." Mary B. peered toward the door but could tell that the doctor was still out, otherwise she would hear him and see him bending over patients. "Does it grow here at this time of year?"
"Let's see." Her finger ran down the column. "Would you call this a warm climate?"
"Not exactly," she replied, rubbing her hands together to ward off chill.
"Damn. Most of these are native to South America or Asia. Let's see here, how about a savin shrub? The botanical name is Juniperus sabina. It says here that a nonfatal dose would cause a coma. Does that sound good to you?" Mary B. shook her head. "No." She turned her attention to the green bush pictured in the book. "Comas are too tricky, a fine line between life and death. We want him unconsci
ous, not dead."
"Well, ladies, that is certainly a comfort." Dr. Parish folded his arms over his chest, eyeing his two best nurses. He was aware that they had not seen him enter from the back door, which was usually locked. "If you wish to usurp me, be my guest. Only don't poison me. I'll go willingly enough."
"Dr. Parish," Margaret uttered.
"It seems you ladies would like me to perish." He leaned over the text. "Good God! You two can't be serious?"
"Oh, don't worry, Doctor. This isn't for you. It's for, well..." Mary B. looked up at the high ceiling, barely visible in the dim light. "It's for rats," she said triumphantly, unable to resist giving Margaret a satisfied nod.
"How kind you ladies are, not wishing to actually kill a rodent, merely wishing to render him unconscious." He was unable to repress a thin smile. "And, Miss Cox, I am especially impressed that you fear a coma would be too dangerous for a rat. My question is, what will you do with the unconscious rat. Deport him? Send him up North?"