Beaudry's Ghost Page 3

  The Yankee rubbed his faceand 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 hand
led 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, and 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, boy.”

  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.”

  Chapter Two

  Before Taylor could even begin to sort out what it all meant, a hard hand on her shoulder spun her around. She gasped. The hand on her shoulder sent impressions so strong, yet so conflicting, that she staggered under the impact.

  It was a quicksilver feeling of pure evil, overlaying a faint cry of protest. One word cracked through her mind—hostage!—before Stephen pulled his hand away and spoke.

  “In the future, Private,” Stephen hissed, “you will refer to me as ‘Lieutenant Harris’ or ‘sir’. Do you understand, Private…Private…” He looked her up and down as if he’d never seen her before. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  Taylor didn’t like that look. She also didn’t like his breath, which smelled of whiskey. Stephen? Drinking? When had this started?

  “It’s Taylor, H… uh, sir.” She swallowed nervously at the cruel twist his mouth had taken under his light brown mustache, and wondered fleetingly if he really didn’t know who she was. No, that was impossible. They’d been friends since childhood.

  “You seem to be new here, Private Taylor, so you get one warning.” A stiff finger jabbed an inch from her left eye, and she forced herself not to flinch. “One.”

  Taylor let herself take a breath only when Stephen was several yards away, delivering orders to break camp at once. He had never acted like this before. Or was he deliberately being cruel because she wore Troy’s uniform instead of her usual hoopskirt? No, no, that couldn’t be. Hostage. The word echoed in her mind as she watched him walk away. Dread settled heavily in her chest as a possible explanation dawned.

  Could Zachariah Harris really be here, now, in the body of her friend?

  She tried to shake off the notion, but it wouldn’t be shaken. She remembered the double images she had seen minutes ago by the fire, and shuddered. Could they all be here? Harris and his men? In the bodies of her friends? There was one way to find out, and the prospect made her tremble with fear. She would have to find a way to unobtrusively lay a hand on each and every one of her friends, and open herself willingly to whatever her psychometric powers found.

  “No!” she said aloud, causing a few men nearby to glance in her direction. No, no, no. There was a logical explanation for all of this. There were no spirits here, no one was possessed by anything other than the love of re-enacting. Things were just a little more…realistic than usual, that was all. Someone was taking the experience a big step further.

  The rope she held gave a sudden tug, and she turned to find the Yanke
e swaying on his feet, blinking as he stared at his hands. Again, as if he’d never seen them before.

  “Sir!” she called at Stephen’s retreating back, trying to sound strong. “What do I…do with him?” She pointed at her charge.

  He impatiently threw up a hand, not even bothering to look back as he strode away.

  “Don’t let him get away, Private, if you know what’s good for you. I’ve got plans for him later.” And with that, Stephen—or rather, Lt. Zachariah Harris—disappeared into his tent.

  Eyes stinging, face flaming, and not quite sure what to do with the prisoner now in her charge, she finally headed for her own small tent, the Yankee in tow.

  “Sit,” was the one word she could manage when they reached the front of the tent, and the Yankee sank straight down as if his legs couldn’t carry him another step. She briefly considered tying his feet, too, but he looked pretty harmless. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was going to try anything for real. Because this whole thing wasn’t for real. Someone was playing one big fat practical joke. That was why everyone was playing along with this Beaudry character, the subject of one of many of Leon’s legendary ghost stories. Leon. Of course, Leon would be the one to think this one up!

  She caught Beaudry watching her as she drew a shaky breath and made a quick swipe at her eyes. “Sand. Just sand.”

  His gaze dropped to the canteen she carried on her belt. Remembering his dry voice a few moments ago, she yanked it free and plunked it, sloshing, between his knees. She turned away and hauled her few belongings out of her tent, pitched separate from the nearby four-man versions.

  Her movements slowed as she realized what she was doing. Breaking camp? Now? At this time of night? The unit wasn’t supposed to move until late tomorrow. But then again, almost nothing had gone as scheduled today.