Beaudry's Ghost
by Carolan Ivey
Copyright © 2017 by Carolan Ivey. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Prologue
Help me.
The lock-picking tools fell with a metallic clatter to the concrete floor. Startled, Taylor Brannon froze in her kneeling position by the old trunk.
Turning only her eyes at first, then her head, then at last her shoulders, she looked around the museum’s storeroom to assure herself she was alone.
On a ragged sigh, she sat back on her heels, jammed her fists between her knees, closed her eyes and willfully refused to acknowledge the familiar tingling vibrations running through her body.
She didn’t like this feeling, like a door opening and cold air rushing in. The feeling of…exposure.
Opening her eyes, she rubbed her arms, retrieved the tools and once again bent over the ancient trunk’s rusty lock. The trunk was a donation, a leftover from some estate auction. It was so scarred and battered that no one, not even the most avid antique hunter, had bid on it.
But you never knew what treasures lurked inside drab packages. And that knowledge had kept her working at the lock through her lunch hour.
Tucking her hair behind her ears, she guided the pick into the keyhole.
“One last try, my friend, and then it’s Mr. Crowbar for you…” And, like magic, the lock fell open into her hands.
Her heart beat a little faster in anticipation, yet she steeled herself for disappointment. She set the heels of her hands on the front lip of the lid and pushed. The hinges creaked and the trunk coughed up a grey puff of dust that set her to sneezing and waving her hands in front of her face.
As the cloud cleared, she pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves. She told herself that she needed the gloves to protect the artifacts she might find inside—not because she needed protection herself.
Carefully, her tongue catching at her upper lip in concentration, she peeled back layers of white tissue paper. The scents of cedar, lavender and years wafted up to her nose.
A Civil War-era, Union-blue uniform coat lay on top, neatly folded. Sergeant, from the insignia on the sleeve, and the buttons indicated he’d ridden with the cavalry. There were several carefully mended rips in the cloth. Eagerly, she slid her hands under the folded garment and looked underneath, hoping to find the rest of the uniform intact. She found more fabric, mostly baby clothes and embroidered linens, but no more uniform pieces. No trousers, hat, or sword.
Nothing. Just the coat.
She frowned in disappointment and wondered why someone had taken such great pains to repair and store that one piece, but not the rest. She chose, for the moment, not to think about the injuries that could have destroyed the remaining pieces of the soldier’s uniform.
She unfolded the coat and spread it out on the clean, hard floor. Telltale signs told her someone had altered it to fit unusually broad shoulders and a trim waist. She smoothed her gloved hands over the fabric and smiled as she imagined this soldier’s mother doing much the same while fitting the coat to her son’s body. For a moment, voices echoed in her imagination.
“Stand still, boy, or I’ll never get this done in time.”
“Aw, Ma, nobody’s gonna care how I look when we’re routing those Rebs.”
“No son of mine is going off to war wearing something that fits like a potato sack. Now hold still.”
The imagined voices in her head faded as she turned the garment over to examine the back. Her breath caught when she found how this soldier had died—a gunshot wound. From the back, meaning his back had been turned toward the enemy at that moment. Perhaps his horse had simply spun around. Or maybe he had been running away, in which case this bullet hole was a mark of shame.
Her heart ached a little for the mother who had clearly gone to great pains to pack the uniform coat away despite what could have been damning evidence of her son’s cowardice.
Taylor held the coat a little closer to examine it. Dark stains embedded in the blue cloth could be powder burns or blood. Other faint stains on one sleeve and around the collar bore the marks of a sincere effort to remove them.
Taylor shuddered, quickly flipped the coat back over and refolded it, but as she worked something within the garment crinkled. Not finding any outside pockets, she slid the front buttons free and found one inside. A corner of yellowed paper protruded an inch, showing the edge of a postmark.
A letter. The mother lode. Troy’s going to love this. She brought her thoughts up short. Her brother was overseas on assignment with the Navy SEALs, and their last stinging words to each other guaranteed he wouldn’t be taking her calls anytime soon. She’d have to break the habit of reaching for her cell phone to call her twin every time she came across an interesting Civil War-related artifact.
A wave of regret, then cold uneasiness swept over her as she unfolded the paper, but with ease of long practice she firmly quelled it. She couldn’t remember when she’d had an impression this strong from touching an object, and the fact that it zinged right through her thick cotton gloves struck a note of concern.
She couldn’t stop now, though, not when there could be more treasures waiting in this trunk. Shutting out the warning bells in her head, she focused instead on the letter, and smiled at the writer’s clumsy attempts at decorum and spelling.
June 15, 1868
Mrs. Elizabeth B. Garrison
Little Hocking, Ohio
Dear Mrs. Garrison,
I pray I have found the right person to send this parcel to. It took some doing to find you, seeing as you have remarryed since the war.
I believe this uniform belonged to your son. With shame I admit I relieved him of it after his death. I, along with many of my companions, often collected such trophys during our service under Jefferson Davis. The posession of this prize, however, has become a weight on my soul through the years, and I am compelled to relieve my conshense of the burden.
Your son was captured in February 1862, during the Roanoke Island skirmish. He was taken on Bodie Island while scouting a rebel camp, and was killed many miles south on Cape Hatteras.
It was I, through sheer accident, who came upon him and brought him with some cheer to my commanding officer. Had I known what awaited him, I would have been more inclined to let him go without a word to anyone, and gladly have taken whatever punishment I earned.
The events between his capture and murder I will not repeat, as I have no wish to cause anyone more distress. I will tell you that he suffered mightily at the hands of my commanding officer, but be assured that your son died bravely and well.
With deep regret I cannot say where his remains lie. Hard storms have changed the lay of the island, making it impossible to find landmarks or any markers we might have left behind.
Perhaps knowing he is at peace will bring you some small comfort.
I must close here, as I have many days journey home after posting this parcel to you. I beg you do not attempt to find me, as there is little more I can tell you and it is my wish to lay the whole sorry event to rest.
But I will never forget your son’s courage. For you see, it is the curse of those of us who have no courage, to spend our lives haunted by men such as him.
The letter was postmarked Richmond, Virginia. The handwriting was round and childlike, as if the writer was unaccustomed to laboring over so many words and so many memories.
She turned the page over, hoping for some clue to the writer’s identity, but it was blank.
Murder. Murder? She shook her head. Some people might think him a victim of murder, others just a casualty of war. She made a mental note to make a copy and fax it to Troy anyway. This was just the sort of mystery that would intrigue him, and it would pull double duty as a peace offering.
Refolding the letter, she reached for the garment. Her gloved fingers accidentally touched the hole in the uniform. An odd sensation shot up her arm, raised the hairs on the back, and then settled in a hollow ball in the pit of her stomach.
Help me.
She didn’t hear a voice. Not exactly. Just an incredibly strong impression of crushing fatigue, confusion and…and…she touched the hole again in spite of herself, for once leaving herself a little open to her psychometric ability.
Pain. Terror.
Taylor gasped, dropped the coat and scrambled backward, her frantic breathing echoing in the cavernous room. Her gaze stayed glued to the untidy pile of blue cloth as she shakily regained her feet, fighting the childish notion that it might jump up and come after her. Then, leaving the coat untouched, she backed away and ran.
Chapter One
One Year Later
Jared Beaudry circled the campfire, his mind racing with questions.
A group of Confederate soldiers lounged around a fire, smoking or drinking coffee. Their quiet conversation, ribald laughter, and occasional mournful songs of home were so familiar, so beloved, that Jared ached in the place where his heart had once beat.
Friends. Comrades in arms. Brothers. He remembered well the bond among soldiers. How many years had it been since he’d sat by a campfire of his own? He’d lost count, but enough time had passed that these men should be long dead.
Jared hobbled closer, guarding where he placed his good foot. Then he laughed bitterly at himself. Old habits truly died hard. He could clatter about like a traveling tinker, or lean down to the closest ear and shout the rudest epithet, and no one would notice.
Only a gifted few could see a ghost.
Confusion swirled in his mind, momentarily blocking out the pain and the sickening sensation of his own blood draining from his wounds. Blood that flowed from a wellspring of rage that never ran dry.
Who were these men? Why, after all these years, were they back here on this island? Had war broken out again? Had he somehow been thrown back in time? Or had a piece of the past torn free and landed here in his horrible reality?
Before he could sort it all out, the sound of his own name brought him up short, and a singsong voice drew his attention back to the campfire. The men fell silent as they listened to one of their own, apparently the resident storyteller.
“…And they say the ghost of Union soldier Jared Beaudry rides the Outer Banks to this very day, looking for his lost arm and leg. Looking for revenge against Bloody Zachariah Harris, the Confederate lieutenant who took them and his honor, by shooting him in the back.”
A moment of rapt silence followed. The large, red-bearded man who had been speaking settled back and sent a long stream of tobacco juice hissing into the fire, signaling the story finished.
The rest of the men released the breath they’d been holding, then broke into hearty laughter. Jared’s mind reeled. These men knew him! They remembered his name! They spoke of his death as if they’d seen it! How…?
“Hell’s fire, Leon. That tale just gets better every time you tell it. You almost had me believin’ it this time!”
“Yeah, you shoulda been a politician, Leon. Nobody tells a lie bettern’ you.”
Jared moved closer to the one named Leon as the huge bear of a man stiffened in mock offense.
“Fisher, you can insult my truck, my dog, or my wife but don’t never call me a liar.”
The men guffawed and various insults flew among them, save one. For the first time, Jared noticed a gangling youth huddled on the sand just outside the circle, with knees drawn to chest and arms clasped tight around them. Jared could swear that beneath the oversized grey uniform, the youth was trembling.
Something about the boy drew Jared nearer. Yes, the boy was trembling. Shaking, as a matter of fact. Without thought, Jared reached out, then drew back in self-disgust when he realized he was reaching with his handless left arm.
To Jared's amazement, the boy inhaled sharply and jerked around to look directly at him.
He fell back a step, startled by the depth of terror in the boy’s green eyes. Yet he sensed something in this youth that was different from the other men. He could feel the boy mentally reaching out to search the darkness, looking for something that his eyes could not see.
Hope surged. For so long, he had pleaded with God. For an end to the pain, the loneliness of his prison on earth. For a chance to somehow live those last days over again, this time keeping his wits about him—and his limbs.
And at last, when God hadn’t answered, Jared had screamed out for help to anyone who might be listening. Anyone.
Could this boy be his answer? Jared reclaimed the backward step he’d taken, and extended his good hand toward the boy’s shoulder.
“Beaudry.” A voice, sharp with warning.
Jared pivoted on his good leg and nearly fell flat. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”
A tall, blond man dressed entirely in black stood a few yards away, holding the reins of the horse Jared had left ground-tied among the dunes. The horse—rather, the ghost of it—had been the only other creature to share Jared’s nightmare. Until now. The man, relaxed now that Jared’s attention was off the boy, looked him up and down. Then his mouth quirked.
“Not even close. My name’s Troy.” He patted the horse’s neck.
Jared realized the figure before him was another like himself. The ghost of a man who had once walked the earth. The reason he no longer did so became apparent when Troy dropped the horse’s reins and stepped closer. A fist-sized bullet hole glistened on the right side of his chest, the lack of blood showing that he had most likely died quickly.
A luxury Jared himself had not enjoyed.
Something about Troy’s black clothing, though unfamiliar, and the way he carried himself told Jared something else. Troy was also a soldier.
“How…how do you know me?” He marveled that he was actually communicating with someone. Until now, he’d had only his horse for company. Emotion choked him, and he stifled the urge to grab the man’s shoulder and shake him to make sure he was real.
Troy laughed. “Leon’s been telling that story since I was a six-year-old drummer boy in this re-enacting unit.” He sent a sad, affectionate glance toward the men around the campfire. “We never got tired of it.” His image flickered for an instant, but steadied as he narrowed his eyes in apparent concentration.
“Re-en…” The term was unfamiliar to Jared. He’d known units of sharpshooters, horsemen, infantry, and artillery, but he’d never heard of a re-enacting unit.
Troy jerked his chin toward the men. “These men are living history—acting out 1860s army life and battles that took place more than a hundred years ago. They’re called re-enactors.”
Living history? Who the hell would want to… A hundred years!
The hope that had flared in Jared’s chest died a little. “So this is still the present time, and I haven’t somehow gone back…”
Troy shook his head. “No.”
If he’d had any tears left, Jared would have shed them in rage and frustration. For years—more than a century, he now knew—he had been trapped, a spirit who searched among the faces of living people for the one who had taken him prisoner, cutting him to pieces, and dishonored him by shooting him in the back.
Yet he gathered himself, a part of his remaining self still refusing to believe all was lost. “You seem to know why I’m here. What brings you to this little strip of paradise?”
Troy regarded him with a steady eye. “The only reason you’re here, Jared Beaudry, is because you choose it.”
Jared laughed, hard and long, the noise gurgling from the open gash in his throat causing his own stomach to roll. “I have a choice?” What did Troy think, that he enjoyed his hopeless existence? “Come, tell me. What choice do I need to make in order to leave this place?”
“That depends on where you’re going after you choose, I suppose,” said Troy, an eyebrow arched. Then he shrugged. “It’s simple, Beaudry. From what I’ve seen, all you have to do is let go of your rage and your lust for revenge. That’s all that’s holding you here. Can’t take baggage like that through the gates of heaven.”
Let go! Jared swung away from his newfound companion, instantly dismissing the notion. He gazed with lonely hunger at the soldiers—re-enactors—some of whom were drifting toward their tents and sleep.
“And your choice is to stay here, as well?”
Troy’s voice, sounding oddly fainter, came to him from behind. “That’s something I’m still trying to figure out. But for now, I’m here because of her.”
Her? Jared saw no women among the re-enactors, only men clad in grey. One of them, the boy, glanced nervously over his shoulder, staring in Jared’s direction. No, past him and toward Troy, eyes wide as if desperately searching for something, but afraid of what he might find.
Abruptly the boy rose to his feet and snatched an Enfield musket from the nearby stack. At the campfire, all conversation halted. Jared sensed an odd combination of sympathy and resentment rushing out of the men to envelop the boy, who hunched his shoulders.
“I’m going out to relieve Jimmy on the picket line.”
Jared was faintly surprised at the soft, husky quality of the voice. The boy sounded even younger than he looked.
“It’s not your time yet, Taylor,” said Leon, keeping his gaze locked on the campfire, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at the youth.
The boy shrugged. “I won’t be able to sleep, anyway, thanks to you, Leon Gulley.”
Leon shifted his chaw to the other cheek. “It’s only a legend. Who knows if it’s even true.”
The boy checked the cartridge box on his belt and turned away. “And if Jared Beaudry was real? It’s not a good idea to speak ill of the dead, Leon. Especially on the same battleground he died on.”
Now Leon did look up. “Taylor.”
The boy paused, but didn’t turn around.
“It’s been a year. There’s no need for you to…” Gulley sighed when he saw Taylor’s back straighten. “Stubborn,” he muttered as he resettled himself.
Without another word, the boy walked out of the circle of light and into the dark, stiff wind of the Outer Banks night.
“Her,” said Troy quietly, nodding after the retreating figure. “My sister.”
Jared didn’t want to know what a woman was doing in battle uniform. His voice dropped needlessly to a whisper. “Can she see us?”
Troy shook his head. “She could, but we’re shielded. For a short time, anyway. And don’t,” Troy pointed a warning finger at Jared, “even think about it, Beaudry. You leave her alone. One look at you and she’d never sleep, ever again.”
Jared frowned mentally at the woman who headed toward the dunes. “I’m not shielding myself from anyone,” he said, confused.
Troy smiled sadly. “It’s my doing. And it helps that she isn’t focusing on you.”
Jared thought about how the woman had turned toward him in the firelight, and disagreed. She might not be looking for him, but she damn well had sensed him, somehow.
As if on cue the woman, in shadow now, stopped in her tracks, and her gaze swung in their direction. Troy paled.
The woman’s grief was a tangible thing hanging in the air. Jared shifted uncomfortably on his good leg. “You should show yourself.”
For the first time, Troy showed hesitation, glancing down at the gaping hole in his chest. “I was going to, then you showed up. God knows it would scare the shit out of her to see you, must less me, so right now my energies are otherwise occupied.
“In fact,” he continued, “this shielding business is hard work.” Troy retreated to the horse and leaned wearily on the saddle. His shape wavered like a reflection disturbed by ripples in a pool.
“Wait…wait!” Jared stumbled toward Troy’s fading figure. He sensed that Troy, though dead for a far shorter time than Jared, knew things that Jared had never bothered to learn about being a ghost. “Can you tell me…is there some way, any way I can get through to these men? Speak with them? Maybe even…walk among them?”
“Why? These men are re-enacting a battle that, for you, marked the last days of your life.”
Why, indeed? The pain of his wounds flared and he stiffened his spine against it as he remembered the Confederate who had inflicted his suffering.
“To live through it this time, with my body parts intact so I don’t have to spend an eternity like this.”
Troy tipped his head to one side, as if amused. “That’s all? Not hoping for a little taste of revenge? That’s what’s kept you here on these shores, hasn’t it?”
Jared would have snorted. “It’s all I can hope for. As you say, these men aren’t real soldiers—they’re playing at it. They aren’t likely to carve me up like a chicken, now are they?”
“First of all, I’d be very careful about calling these fellows ‘fake soldiers’. Re-enactors they may be, but they’d find a way to make life miserable for you if you let that little opinion slip.” Then Troy’s expression turned thoughtful as he took Jared’s measure. “What you’re considering is dangerous. And it probably won’t even work, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking. And besides…does it really matter any more?”
Jared bristled. “Look at me. Look at you. You of all people should understand. I don’t know if it will work, if getting through this battle a second time with my parts intact means I’ll get my own back in the next world. But I have to try. Besides, how bad could it be? I’m already dead.”
Troy lifted a hand to stop Jared’s runaway train of thought. “Dangerous not only to you, but also to whoever…” Troy’s voice trailed off as he stared out into the darkness, away from the circle of soldiers. “…takes you in.”
Jared turned to follow Troy’s gaze. Though he was a bit slower, Jared sensed another presence out among the dunes. Someone else who watched the circle of Confederate soldiers. A man’s dark head showed briefly above a sand dune overlooking the camp.
The firelight caught a corner of the man’s uniform. A Union-blue uniform.
The man ducked back into hiding.
Troy took a long, silent look at Jared. “I’ve heard that it helps if you have full cooperation,” he said. “Failing that, it can be done. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Once again, Jared’s mind raced with possibilities, with plans. Eagerly, hope surging through him for the first time in a century, Jared turned back to Troy. To his horror, the man in black had almost completely faded from sight.
“Wait! You have to tell me what to do!”
“Don’t worry, my friend. I’ll be back,” said Troy’s disembodied voice. “God knows how you’ve stood the pain this long, Beaudry. Hate must be a powerful thing…”
Shaken, Jared stared at the spot where Troy had disappeared.
Fine. He would figure this out on his own. The horse snorted, pawed the ground and pushed its nose against Jared’s shoulder. Jared ran his good hand over the creature’s satiny neck, the moon and tide pulling on his soul. Within an hour the tide would be slack, the signal for them make their tortuous ride south to Cape Hatteras. The same ride they had endured every full moon for more than a hundred years.
Time was short. Very short. He had to act fast. If only I knew how!
He could no more ignore the tide’s call than he could ignore the ever-present pain of his wounds, the ever-present lust for revenge in his heart.
Swinging into the saddle, Jared cast one more glance at the players in his rapidly forming plan. The Confederate soldiers. The man in Union blue who spied on an enemy position. And the woman in grey, who now assumed a picket post atop a sand dune several tens of yards to the south.
“Don’t even think about it, Beaudry. You leave her alone.” Troy’s words echoed back to him. He set his jaw and ignored them. If this woman was a key to getting what he wanted, God help him, she was was one key he was going to turn.
Jared turned his horse into the wind and lifted the reins. The horse sprang away at a full gallop.
***
Hunkered down against the relentless offshore wind, Taylor watched from the dubious cover of beach grass, hands tight around her Enfield musket.
The electricity had gone out again, a frequent occurrence on these sparsely populated barrier islands of North Carolina. Without the reassuring lights of the development a quarter mile to the south, Taylor had no problem staying awake at her post. Darkness was for bats. Taylor preferred light. The only reason she had fled the comforting light of the campfire was Leon Gulley’s ghost stories.
She hated them.
She hated them even more now that Troy was dead. Taylor tucked in her chin and fought to keep it from quivering. Had it been a year since she had collapsed to the floor of her office, a crushing pain in her chest, knowing the worst even before she’d received official word two days later? A year of days since her last words to him came back to slash her heart? “Go ahead, big man. Go on and get yourself killed. Have a great time!”
She had told her brother over and over again a man like him had no business joining the Navy SEALs. SEAL teams were for those with no ties, no one who waited for them at home. He hadn’t listened. Craving adventure outside their little hometown, he had set his sights on SEAL training even before graduating from Annapolis. And damn them, the SEALs had been quick to take advantage of his unusual gift for camouflage.
Taylor rested her Enfield across her lap and pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. She fought two days’ worth of exhaustion, having decided at the last minute to join the event wearing Troy’s Confederate uniform. Disagreements they’d certainly had, but she and Troy had shared a love of history and Civil War re-enacting. Taylor rested her chin on her arm, breathing in the damp-wool smell of the uniform. The others thought she wore it merely as a tribute to Troy, and had said nothing when she had shown up early that morning. She chose to let them believe that, rather than try to explain the truth.
She knew better than to fall asleep while on guard duty, but the emotional day she had endured gradually took its final toll. Her rear end settled onto the sand. The butt of her musket joined it, but she was too tired to care.
Moments later, hoof beats drummed her awake. Taylor found herself standing on the dune, watching a horse and rider streak down the beach at full gallop.
Wherever that horse had come from, it had been running a long time. Steam trailed off the animal’s body, the light of the moon setting it to silver fire. That horse was flying. Its rider leaned low and listed slightly to one side, as if favoring an injured limb.
The messenger? He was early. And if he didn’t turn aside very soon, he would run his horse right into the giant oak ribs of a shipwreck beached on the shore.
Taylor absently fingered the back of her newly shorn hair and frowned. He wasn’t supposed to be here for another day, this messenger “warning” her unit of an approaching enemy of Union troops from the south. And something else was wrong. This rider rode down the beach from the north.
“But…he’s coming from the wrong direction…”
She realized she’d spoken aloud when the rider’s body jerked. With a low moan, he pulled the horse to a rearing stop directly opposite her on the beach. The horse, clearly not happy about being made to stand, pranced in an ankle-deep tidal pool.
Taylor strained to see if the rider wore a uniform. She observed his slumped posture and thought maybe he and the horse weren’t actually part of this re-enactment of the Civil War Battle of Roanoke.
“Hey! Are you hurt? Do you need help?”
With a Herculean effort, he straightened, turned the trembling, sweaty horse in her direction, and approached at a walk. As they closed in on her, she heard the horse’s labored snorts and something else…
With each breath, the rider emitted a gurgling, inarticulate grunt. The sound carried with it the weight of a weariness she could sense but not fathom.
The offshore wind grew louder in her ears, and Taylor reached up to grab her hat before it flew off. At that moment, she realized the physical wind remained steady.
But a roaring force pushed at her carefully walled-off soul.
Taylor’s fingers alternately tightened and loosened on the musket she held, a faintly caressing gesture as if she rubbed a magic lamp. Conjuring up someone. Or something. Like courage.
The horse caught her scent. It reared and spun, and in the rising moonlight Taylor finally caught a clear glimpse of the rider.
He wore a blue uniform. And he was…
“Oh my God.”
Her chest muscles spasmed, leaving no space for her to draw air. Sheer reflex brought her musket to her shoulder and she aimed…at what? A figure whose bound stump of a left arm oozed blood. He held it tightly to his side while he controlled the horse with his right. Soaked rags acted as a tourniquet to what was left of his right leg, but his every effort to stay in the saddle forced out more and more blood.
And the man—she guessed it was a man—had an enormous, gaping slash through his throat.
She was aiming at a dead man, her musket loaded with a useless blank. Fired, it would make a grand noise, and that was about all.
“And they say Beaudry’s ghost rides the Outer Banks to this day, looking for his lost body parts…and for revenge…”
That gurgling noise she’d heard was the sound of a man whose throat had been cut. Clear through.
Taylor grit her teeth. Those ghost stories were coming back to haunt her in a big way. Her rational mind objected and rejected as fast as her eyes fed it the irrational sight. The carefully tended wall round her soul cracked, and her demons screamed through. An answering scream clawed for space in her throat along with the hardtack and beans she’d eaten hours ago.
Trembling, she braced herself as if leaning against that wall. A dream. Of course. She was dreaming this whole thing. She’d expected to have a few nightmares—even visions—before this event was over, but nothing like this. She’d only fallen asleep at her post and—
Oh, God, it’s moving toward me!
Clouds of steam streaked from the horse’s nostrils, and as it moved closer she saw the white rings around its black eyes. Taylor closed hers.
“You aren’t real. You…aren’t…real!” she muttered through clenched teeth. A breath of air whisked right through her body in a distinctive front-to-back direction, leaving her with the odd feeling that she’d just exposed her deepest vulnerability to a lover. Taylor went perfectly still. Somebody tell me this thing just didn’t pass right through me!
“Aw, the hell with this!” Facing cannon and musket fire was one thing. Facing this ghastly evidence that a dark otherworld indeed existed on another plane, and that the two planes sometimes crossed, was quite another.
Taylor dropped her Tennessee pride in the sand behind her and fled down the steep slope of the dune. Gasping, sliding, stumbling, she hit bottom and headed for camp and for help.
Stupid! Stupid! I should have fired… Troy would have at least fired…
Risking a quick glance to the rear, she abruptly tripped over a heaving lump on the sand.
A face full of the gritty stuff knocked her vintage spectacles off and muffled the scream she finally released. Flipping instantly to her back, she scrambled backwards, spitting, flinging sand in every direction as she went. She came to rest on her knees with her musket upraised yet again.
Still spitting, she looked up at the top of the dune she’d just vacated, blinked and did a double take.
The apparition was gone.
More likely, she’d simply tumbled down the dune in her sleep and woke up. Still trembling, her breathing shallow and uneven, she focused on the object she’d tripped on. In the shadows, it was hard to make out at first. But as it slowly uncurled from its fetal position she saw that it was human.
She sighted down the barrel of the weapon and watched as he rolled soundlessly to his knees, placed his palms flat on the ground and slowly pushed himself up.
With a soft groan, he shoved backward and rolled to a sitting position. That simple act mystified him, until he held up his hands and stared at them. His blank expression gave way to a slow-spreading grin that shone so sweet and bright in the dim light it made Taylor’s throat catch.
For several seconds he simply gazed his hands, then plunged them into the soft sand between his knees. Scooping great handfuls, he laughed softly as he watched it trickle between his fingers. Taylor’s musket sagged. The man reminded her of a toddler on his first foray into his new sandbox.
And, like that infant, the man’s attention was suddenly drawn to his feet. Dropping the sand, he clenched a fist and pounded once on his right calf. Twice. The smile, impossibly, widened even more into a painful emotional grimace as he lifted his trembling hands to his throat. Touched. Again.
The act broke something loose inside him, and Taylor thought he sobbed once before throwing himself backward to writhe like some child in the throes of making snow angels.
Unwilling to lower her weapon completely, yet somehow unwilling to intrude, Taylor stilled her shaking jaw and cleared her throat. The man froze.
“Um… are you okay, mister?”
He propped himself onto his elbows and stared at her.
Calm, Taylor. Stay calm. Now think…
Impulsively, she swung the muzzle of the Enfield aside to rest in the crook of her arm and retrieved her spectacles, blowing sand off before perching them on her nose. Then she reached into her pocket for the matches she knew Troy always kept there. Lacking a flashlight, she needed to see her prisoner better.
Because judging from his Union-blue uniform, this guy was part of the re-enactment. And he was foolishly sneaking around, apparently alone and unarmed. So, as a good soldier, she was going to capture him.
The match flared, and for an instant Taylor was treated to absolutely the bluest set of eyes she’d ever seen. She held the match far out in front to get a better look.
Blue and changing as the sea. Entirely capable of changing color to suit his mood. Entirely capable of changing a woman’s mind. His eyes held her mesmerized far longer than she’d intended.
Taylor cursed and dropped the match as it burned her fingers The man made a quick, floundering move for his boot, and she grabbed the Enfield and rose to her feet, stumbling only once on the toes of Troy’s oversize shoes.
“Well, well. Lookee here,” she grinned as he apparently didn’t find what he was looking for. “Lose something, Billy Yank?”
Frowning, the man checked his other boot. Then he let go a breath of frustration and pushed a hand through his thick hair, lifting the dark locks off his collar.
Thanks to several days’ growth of facial hair, he looked like he had just awakened from a long night of barhopping on the mainland. The man twisted this way and that as if looking for something, and in the process made himself dizzy. Opening his eyelids as wide as they would go, then squinching them shut, he leaned his weight on one elbow and, using his free hand, carefully checked his skull for dents.
Taylor decided the guy had definitely been sampling a bit too much of the local muscadine wine. Taking a quick swipe at her eyes—damn, she must have been crying in her sleep again—Taylor gestured pointedly with the Enfield.
The Yankee finally levered himself to his feet. Cavalry, she thought, eyeing his uniform. It fit his lean, broad-shouldered body much better than her brother’s fit her own. Her trousers were saved from sagging at the ankles by several rolls at the waist and a tight cinch of baling twine.
“Where’s your horse, Billy?” she asked cheerfully, mostly because she was relieved the nightmare was over, and now she could relax and allow herself to have a little fun. She pitched her voice as low as she could, even though similar efforts to sound more masculine had fooled no one in her company when she’d shown up earlier that day. She’d known no one would greet her like the old friend she was, showing up in her brother’s place wearing his Confederate uniform. But she hadn’t expected the uncomfortable silence. The hurt still stung, but she hadn’t backed down. They wouldn’t understand, and she couldn’t explain.
The Yankee rubbed his face and looked around as if he’d dearly love to know the answer to her question himself.
“Don’t know. Run off, I guess.” The man swallowed suddenly and coughed.
Taylor laughed, deciding it was safe to bend down and scoop up the pipe. “Decide he liked life as a plow horse better than getting his ears cut off by a farm boy?”
***
Jared scowled and opened his mouth. He could handle his saber just fine, thank you, and had never once lopped off a horse’s ear. He shut his mouth when he remembered he wasn’t armed, and exactly why he wasn’t armed. And just because the soldier before him was a woman, that didn’t mean she couldn’t pop a squirrel at a hundred yards with that musket.
His head buzzed, and nausea rolled his stomach. Troy had warned him it wouldn’t be easy, and he’d been right. Getting inside and taking over another man’s physical body hadn’t been as simple as slipping in and making himself comfortable in the other man’s skin. The man had fought him, fought hard. Forcing a camel through the eye of the proverbial needle would have been easier. Even now, he felt the spirit of the man inside him, struggling to break free. Jared’s takeover had been swift and not gentle. Perhaps there would be time later to explain to this man what was happening and why Jared had needed him so quickly. Yes, he’d reason with him, get the man’s full cooperation. Of that he was certain.
Jared rubbed his face hard and looked again at the woman. He could take her, if he was just a couple steps closer. But he was pinned where he stood by the musket’s unwavering muzzle. Too far to grab for it, too close for her to miss. Then again, he’d be better off if he just let himself be taken without a fight. He had a better chance to reach his goal alive if he went quietly.
The Reb’s eyes sparkled with merriment or triumph—hard to tell in this light. Or were those tears?
“Whoever got you in the shape you’re in, I hope she was worth it, Billy.”
Jared grinned, tried to resist the comeback that automatically sprang to mind, and failed miserably. “She must have been, but I’ll be damned if I remember her name.”
She scowled and gestured to the left. “Start walkin’. That way.”
He walked, managing to do so in a reasonably straight line. His mind was also beginning to function in a more orderly fashion. “How do you know there aren’t more like me just over that rise?” he tossed over his shoulder.
She cut loose with a high-pitched yell. Jared’s reflexes forced him to whirl and face her.
“Hey, Yanks! I’m over here!” She grinned, and for a second he forgot his own name. He did, however, rather enjoy the way this body reacted to her smile.
“See, Yank? Ain’t no one coming. It’s Andersonville for you.” She grinned wider and Jared reminded himself to close his mouth and turn around. Underneath the floppy hat, badly cut hair and wire spectacles, was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“If you live that long,” she added cheerfully.
Jared swallowed and walked on. She had no idea how close to the truth she was. Andersonville would be the least of his problems if he failed.
***
Leon Gulley spewed a mouthful of coffee at the sight of the blue-clad soldier walking right into his camp, then moved his large frame with amazing speed to the front flap of his commanding officer’s tent.
“Lt. Harris! Suh!” Gulley fairly danced on his wide, flat feet as he scratched on the tent flap. “Get up, suh, Tay…the, uh, boy’s caught a whopper!”
Stephen Powell emerged from his tent, thumbing his suspenders into place and looking ready to bite the claws off a sand crab.
Taylor instantly pulled her hat brim lower over her face. Stephen, in the role of the company’s leader, Lt. Zachariah Harris, was the only one who hadn’t yet noticed her presence. In all the excitement and confusion of setting up camp, she’d managed to escape his notice.
Even Stephen, gentle Stephen who’d been her brother’s best friend, wouldn’t understand why she had suddenly switched roles, from company vivandiere to combat soldier.
“Is Wise’s messenger here already?” For a few seconds he shot a look at Gulley, who lifted his shoulders in a shrug and mouthed “Go with it.” Stephen nodded and swung his gaze back at his new prisoner, offering a slightly mad smile. It was a perfect imitation of an 1863 tintype of the real Lt. Harris, which had creeped her out the moment she’d seen it.
“You!” the Yankee whispered so hoarsely Taylor wanted to kick herself for forgetting to offer him water earlier.
Stephen rounded the fire pit, his expression inordinately pleased. Taylor wondered how far he would go in portraying the notorious Rebel lieutenant. Ever the ham, he had played many different re-enacting roles over the years, but this was the first time he’d had the chance to play a bona fide bad guy. She remembered his excitement a few weeks before when he’d first found out he was to play Harris. He’d shown up at her place and talked about it for hours until she’d affectionately kicked him out at midnight.
Stephen would probably go just far enough to have some fun and to be convincing in the role, but he’d never actually hurt anyone, Taylor decided. Dr. Stephen Powell would parole the flea that bit him.
He halted in front of the Yankee, crossed his arms and planted his feet slightly apart, faint smile in place the whole while. “So, my reputation precedes me, then? That’s too bad. Then you already know what’s in store for you.”
The Yankee stiffened and the muscles in his legs bunched. With a quick move, she shoved the muzzle of the musket between his shoulder blades to remind him he had nowhere to run. And kept her finger off the trigger, for even if the gun was loaded with blank cartridge, it still had the potential to do damage.
Hiding behind the Yankee’s broad shoulders, she told herself it wasn’t soldierly to notice how nicely shaped his back was, and how it tapered down to lean hips in closely-fit cavalry trousers. And the solid, muscled legs—a horseman’s legs—encased in high black boots.
Stephen leaned slightly to one side to glance at Taylor.
“Any more out there, Private?”
Taylor shook her ducked head, and held the musket steady despite the weight of it wearing on her arms.
“He was alone, sir.” Begrudging every word, for Stephen would recognize her voice anywhere.
Stephen studied the Yankee thoughtfully. “Unusual for a scout to travel alone. Though I’m sure he won’t be for long.” A mirthless smile crossed his face, then faded. “Norfolk.” He now stood nose-to-nose with the Yankee. “McClellan’s taken Norfolk, hasn’t he?”
The Yankee held his ground and his silence.
“Where was he coming from, Private?” Taylor jumped at the sound of Stephen’s voice, now directed over the Yankee’s shoulder at her. She froze.
“I’m…I’m not sure, sir.”
Stephen glared. Taylor withered.
“Not sure, Private? What did he do, dig straight up from China?”
She wasn’t about to tell her commanding officer she’d been in full-scale retreat when she’d tripped over the man. Not to mention she’d been sound asleep at her post—a court-martial offense in 1862, punishable by firing squad. She looked to the Yankee for prompting, who was now looking over his shoulder and contemplating her with a raised eyebrow. He looked happy to set aside his own problems for a moment and enjoy watching her squirm.
She frowned, set her shoulders and met Stephen’s eyes briefly, careful not to look at the Yankee as she spoke.
“It was dark. I, uh, caught him trying to sneak by my post. I reacted so fast I didn’t have time to notice which direction he came from. Sir.”
She glanced quickly at the Yankee re-enactor to see if he was going to call her on it. To her surprise, his eyes twinkled. He pulled a face and gave an infinitesimal shrug, as if to say that explanation was a good as any.
She stifled her own silly urge to smile back, then looked and found Stephen staring at her hard. She stiffened and waited for the worst. How he handled her uniform in front of the rest of the men would determine whether she stayed or was sent packing.
He drew out the tense moment to breaking-point perfection.
“Careless. Very careless,” he said finally. “You could have gotten us all killed. And Roanoke Island lost.”
Taylor nearly dropped her musket in relief. He had let it pass. Dear Stephen. “Yes, sir,” she croaked.
His gaze swung from Taylor to the Yankee and back. Then with a last, tilted look at Taylor that told her he wanted answers later, he commenced pacing back and forth, pumping himself up to play his role to the hilt.
“I should have you horsewhipped, boy,” he said as if he meant it, “but there’s no time. And besides,” he flashed her a grin and lowered his voice, “you might like it too much and then I’ll have to do it all the time.”
Taylor erupted with a very unladylike snort, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Gulley found something very interesting about his shoelaces, his cheeks turning as red as his beard. Several of the men hooted outright.
A few civilians from the nearby campground, Taylor noted, now gathered quietly at the outer edges of the camp to watch, gasped at Stephen’s off-color remark. One of them, a woman with a video camera, tugged on the sleeve of the nearest soldier to ask a question. He ignored her.
How odd and uncharacteristically rude for anyone in her unit not to interpret for a tourist, Taylor thought.
“I knew Burnside was going to make his move soon,” Stephen continued, still pacing. “Pray God General Wise made it back from Richmond in time!” He looked at Taylor with a gleam in his eyes that made her blink, and jerked his head at the Yankee. “Tie him up. General Wise will want to speak with this gentleman.”
Someone tossed her a length of rope, and Taylor obliged, wondering briefly what the procedure was for restraining a prisoner. Should she tie his hands in front or behind? Deciding that undue discomfort wasn’t called for, since this was only a re-enactment, she tied them in front. She glanced around at her friends, all in various stages of dress, all either muttering among themselves or staring wordlessly at the Yankee. Even the horses were unusually quiet. The woman with the camera moved on to ask her question of another soldier, and met with a similar lack of response.
Stephen slid to a halt in front of the Yankee, planted his feet and set his fists on his hips.
“First thing’s first. Tell me your name, bluebelly.”
Still fumbling with the rope, Taylor saw the Yankee’s throat knot up. If she had looked up at his face, she could almost look him in the eye. That made him just under six feet tall in his boots.
Her fingers brushed his and stilled. She looked up at his eyes at last, and what she saw there froze her to her soul.
This man wasn’t acting.
His lips worked soundlessly for several seconds.
She touched his hand. A raspy whisper scraped across her mind. “God help me, I can’t do this again.” She yanked her hand back. What the hell?
Stephen was losing patience. “Well? What is it, boy? What’s your name?”
“J…”
The Yankee drew his brows together in concentration, and sweat dripped off his face onto Taylor’s hands. She watched, fascinated, as the scared-stiff Yankee struggled to remember his own name.
“J…” If possible, his face grew paler, some inner battle leaving its mark.
She wondered if she should tell Stephen to back off.
He motioned to Gulley, who had let tobacco juice run into his bushy red-brown beard, having forgotten to spit during all the commotion.
“Bring me a brand from the fire, Gulley.”
Taylor whirled around. “Stephen, no!”
“First Sergeant…”
She turned back to the Yankee, who’d unstuck his vocal chords.
Stephen continued to hold his hand out for the firebrand, a silent threat.
“Yes? First Sergeant…” Stephen prompted as a teacher would a recalcitrant child.
“…Jared…”
Taylor’s heart flopped down to her stomach. A wave of heat, then icy cold swept through her body, leaving her dizzy.
“…Beaudry… 10th…Ohio Cavalry.”
Taylor swayed on her feet, then caught her balance. Disoriented, she looked around at the other men in her unit and suddenly wondered why she saw two of everyone. Something must be wrong with her eyes, she reasoned. Every man had a twin shadow standing right next to him; even Stephen. In the next instant, the shadows merged with their more solid companions and all was right again.
Yet somehow not right.
She couldn’t put her finger on just why.
She blinked and breathed slowly. First Gulley’s awful ghost story about the fictional Jared Beaudry, then her dreamed close encounter with the ghostly horseman, and now this man who claimed to be the legendary Jared Beaudry.
She had dreamed that ghost on the beach, hadn’t she? Taylor gathered a handful of Troy’s uniform in her fist and fervently wished she knew how to make her unwanted psychometric ability work on demand. But she had shut herself off from it too long. She’d never learned how to make it work for her, only how to keep it tamped down.
Nothing came. No sensations, no visions. Only the scene before her, growing ever more real and terrifying.
Stephen’s hand dropped to his side.
“Well, First Sergeant Jared Beaudry, 10th Ohio Cavalry,” he said, his smile growing more terrible by the instant. “Welcome to hell.”
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