Beaudry's Ghost Page 5

  She sighed and leaned against the wagon, the roller coaster of suspicion and relief, terror then more relief, taking its toll.

  Thank God, she thought, everyone was just acting after all.

  Stephen and the Union re-enactor were merely planning how to make the most of “Beaudry’s” unexpected appearance. She turned her back and tapped her foot impatiently as the water trickled into her canteen, trying to shrug off a nagging uneasiness.

  Finished, she capped the container and walked over to retrieve her knapsack and fiddle case, pausing once to tighten her shoelaces in a fruitless attempt to keep the sand out of Troy’s oversize shoes. She arrived just in time to see Stephen rise slowly to his feet, his cheeks turning scarlet and his body shaking in rage as he brought the pistol to bear on Beaudry’s defiant, upturned face. Taylor dropped the canteen.

  This had gone far enough.

  “Stop it!” she cried, taking three long steps and closing one hand around Stephen’s outstretched wrist.

  Stars exploded behind her eyes and pain shot through the side of her head as a heavy blow knocked her sideways and down. The next few seconds were a blur of motion as the Yankee lunged, knocked Stephen’s pistol aside and used his head as a battering ram to the man’s gut.

  Cursing, screaming, Stephen went down on his back. Beaudry twisted around, trying to use his legs to entangle those of Private Gulley.

  A stone wall would have been easier to bring down, for Gulley outweighed Beaudry by a good seventy pounds. Any hope that he might make it as far as the maze of dunes died as a shouting wall of grey-uniformed men descended upon him.

  By the time Taylor pushed herself to a sitting position, holding the side of her head tenderly with one hand while groping for her lost glasses and slouch hat with the other, three Rebel soldiers had the Yankee pinned from neck to ankles. Gulley pressed a musket intimately against his ear, and Stephen, still cursing, slapped at the sand ground into the seat of his pants. The rest of the unit, seeing the situation now under control, sheathed their weapons and trudged back to the business of breaking camp.

  She felt the side of her head, then looked at her palm.

  “Shit.”

  She found Beaudry’s gaze on her, then his eyes closed in what she could swear was relief.

  A blinking red light nibbled at the edge of her peripheral vision, and she didn’t need to look to recognize the lady with video camera. The woman called her companions to come back, because they were missing the best part of the show.

  Looking up, Taylor saw a matching patch of red on the butt of Leon Gulley’s musket.

  “Leon?” Her voice came high, wavering with shock and disbelief. “Leon? What have you done?”

  Gulley appeared not to hear her. Taylor rose unsteadily to her feet and took a few wobbly steps in his direction, holding out her hand for him to see. “Gulley!” she said, stronger and angrier now, “Look at this!”

  The raisin-dark eyes that met hers were black with indifference. She took a step back.

  “That’ll teach you to lay a hand on a superior officer, boy,” he grunted.

  “Let his head up,” Stephen bit off the words as he used his sword as a balancing point to lower himself within the Yankee’s limited line of vision.

  “Superb effort, Sergeant Beaudry, superb. Were I in your boots I would have attempted the same. However,” Stephen took the hilt of the sword in both hands and abruptly drove the point into the sand, dangerously close to Jared’s wrists, “this will cost you dearly, son.”

  Jared’s eyes focused on the blade planted barely a foot from his face, its shiny surface colored blood-red from the dying fire. Here we go. His journey had begun. Too bad he was about to lose his hand. Again. He had hoped, since this was a re-enactment, that he’d be spared this atrocity, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Beaudry,” said Harris soothingly. “You aren’t going to die. Not just yet. You’re much too valuable to me alive.”

  Jared managed to turn his head just enough to see the man’s face. Where he found the grin he could feel on his lips, he didn’t know and didn’t care.

  “Death doesn’t frighten me, Lieutenant. We’ve met once already.” Jared heard Taylor’s quick intake of breath, but she had moved outside his limited field of vision.

  Harris canted his head with interest. “Have you now? Then your death must not have been thorough enough for you not to fear it. This time, Beaudry, this time your death will be memorable. A hundred years from now, you will remember how you died, and still it will make you scream from the depths of the hell to which I’m sending you.”

  Cold sweat broke out on Jared’s body, and he stared at his hands, bidding his left one a silent good-bye. Again. But losing a hand didn’t matter to him now. All that mattered was that at some point, he was going to get his remaining one around Harris’s throat…

  “NO!”

  That voice again, screaming from within. Jared’s breath halted. How could he have forgotten? This hand didn’t belong to him!

  An indulgent giggle sounded from somewhere off to Jared’s right. Harris didn’t react, but Jared turned his eyes toward the lady with the tiny silver box attached to her hand. She held it to her eye and looked through it, much like he’d seen a photographer peering through the tintype equipment used to take his picture long ago.

  “Isn’t this great, Bob? Even the blood looks real!” The woman moved a step closer, poking her box in between two Rebel soldiers, who treated her as if she were air.

  In spite of the situation, he couldn’t help himself. Jared smiled for the camera.

  Then the burning in his hand increased to full-fledged scalding, and the reality of his situation crashed down on him. Somehow he had managed to fix it so that there was good chance he was going to get sliced up. Again.

  Leaning closer to Jared’s face, Harris continued. “Did your colonel think to surprise us and spring a trap, and thus hope to capture Roanoke Island with his pitiful little regiment? I think not, Beaudry. All we have to do,” Harris withdrew the sword from the sand, taking the hilt in both hands, “is perform a little operation to make sure he follows as we lead him into our own trap.”

  Jared’s breath came in hard, painful grunts as the weight on his back increased and Harris laid the edge of the blade on Jared’s left wrist.

  “An invitation, if you will,” finished Harris. “Hold him!”

  Jared held his breath and silently begged forgiveness of the man whose body he possessed.

  Shock numbed Taylor’s skin as Harris planted his boot on Beaudry’s outstretched hands and brought his sword up in preparation to strike. Taylor knew exactly how sharp that sword was. Stephen had used it that morning to slice a hunk of partially frozen bacon. Zachariah Harris, with a little more effort, could use it to easily lop off a man’s hand.

  The men on Beaudry’s back exchanged uneasy glances, not at all sure they wanted a ringside seat to this impromptu amputation. Still, they said nothing, a mark of respect for—or fear of—their commanding officer.

  Taylor took a step forward, and another, then halted, her insides cramping in terror at what she had to do. A quick look at Gulley confirmed her decision. Leon Gulley’s face was an encouraging blend of uncertainty and outrage.

  He doesn’t like this any better than I do. Determination carried her the last few steps.

  “Sir! I must ask you stop!” she cried, mustering from her bones all the power she didn’t really feel. She held her breath, her face only inches from the blade Stephen held poised, her foot planted between Beaudry’s outstretched arms.

  Astonishment, anger, and then supreme patience chased across Stephen’s face before he lowered the sword—to the side of her neck.

  “Stop?” Harris glanced at the night sky and smiled slightly, shaking his head. “But why, General Taylor? Quickly now, before I decide your head will serve my purpose just as nicely.”

  Taylor swallowed. If she’d had any doubt before, she was now a
bsolutely certain.

  Stephen Powell was gone. Zachariah Harris now occupied this particular piece of human real estate.

  Ghosts. Possession. The very things that frightened her to the point of spending her life denying they existed. Or that, if they did, they couldn’t touch someone who refused to acknowledge them.

  How foolish.

  To gain thinking time, Taylor quickly fished in her pocket for an ancient red bandanna, and pressed it to the cut above her ear.

  “General Wise,” she said slowly, then gained speed as she gained courage, “will be mighty displeased if you bring him only half a Yankee.”

  “Oh? Yes, do go on, Private.”

  “Sir, General Wise happens to be a relative of mine,” Taylor went on, spurred by Beaudry’s hot, ragged breath on her ankle. “He prefers prisoners be treated humanely. Makes them more valuable to trade for our brothers being held in Old Capitol. Wouldn’t you agree? Sir.” The first part was actually true. Her Uncle Hugh, wild white hair and all, camped on Roanoke portraying the aging general, and her cousin played the role of Wise’s son Jennings.

  Harris considered. “So you’re saying trading a partial Bluebelly will net us, say, only a partial Reb in return?” He laughed softly and renewed his grip on the sword, shifting its angle again toward Beaudry’s hand.

  The wind picked up even more and Taylor hunched her shoulder against the blowing sand, not daring to take her eyes from Lt. Harris and his sword.

  She was reasonably sure this wouldn’t work. She leaned her weight backward in preparation to get the hell out of the way, for she was quite sure Harris would take her foot off along with Beaudry’s hand.

  “Suh.” Gulley’s rumbling voice cut through the wind, and everyone turned their heads in his direction. “The boy’s ri—”

  Every horse in the camp shifted and stamped, a few setting up a whinny that the others echoed. Harris’s attention turned to the black night to the north, and his eyes narrowed as he attempted to pick out any sign of movement.

  For a split second Taylor thought she caught a glimpse of a steaming, black horse with glowing red eyes among the others, but it was gone so quickly she couldn’t be sure. She shook her head, deciding not to trust this newly-released gift of hers. She’d never learned to use it, only suppress it. She had no idea if half the impressions she picked up now were real.

  After a long moment, Harris sheathed his sword.

  Glancing down, Taylor saw Beaudry’s eyes flutter shut and his head fall forward to rest face-first in the sand. Her vision blurred and she heartily wished she could also give in to relief, and collapse.

  “Let him up,” growled Harris. “We’ll have to continue this at a later time. Sergeant Howard! Is the camp ready to move?”

  “Suh, the camp is ready,” came a voice from over by the wagons. Taylor knew that voice. It didn’t belong to anyone named Howard. Good heavens, was everyone she knew possessed? She put her hand to her chest as an enclosing sensation tightened, like a bubble forming around her heart.

  “Dowse the fire, Gulley,” Harris directed as the men hauled Jared to his feet, his uniform more butternut than blue with all the sand clinging into it.

  Taylor, only a step away, met Beaudry’s eyes. His moved to the red rag she held to the side of her head, then back to her face.

  Thank you.

  Taylor hadn’t seen his lips move, but the emotion washed through her, touching her as surely as words would have, leaving her feeling weak and vulnerable to the fire in his blue eyes.

  She wasn’t even in contact with the guy this time!

  Panic threatened. Her truck sat parked only a hundred yards away. She could pick up her knapsack, collect the packhorse she’d brought, find her keys and be on her way home in a matter of minutes.

  She could run away from whatever dark forces were taking over this event. Ghosts haunted this windswept island. Too many ghosts. They inhabited the very sand on which she stood. One ghost, she could deal with. Maybe. But forty? Her friends were possessed. At the very least, they were so caught up in their own time bubbles, they had no idea who they really were or what year this was. She’d heard of this happening to other re-enactors, and it wasn’t always a pretty sight.

  She wanted no part of it.

  Forget the horse. Someone, when they came to their senses, could haul the mare home for her. Or set it free to roam with the other wild horses out here on the islands.

  Right now, she just wanted out. She turned and stumbled a few paces to retrieve her knapsack and Enfield. Without a backward glance, she walked away.

  Behind her, she heard the sounds of a struggle and walked faster, not caring if someone noticed her “jumping the creek.”

  Another sound. This one a low-pitched groan that stiffened her spine as it rose to an inhuman cry of pain.

  Quite without her consent, Taylor’s feet halted. Walk, she commanded them. They didn’t obey. A strong inner urge begged her to go back to the camp. No. I can’t. I won’t.

  Then at least look, damn you! Turn around and look!

  She broke and ran for her truck.

  Breath coming hard, she managed to unlock the door without dropping her key, and dove for the glove box and her cell phone. With shaking fingers she hit the call button. Her mother’s number flashed on the screen, then went blank.

  The phone was dead.

  “Wait! Wait a minute! Where are you going?”

  Taylor slowly backed out of the truck and found the sweat suit-clad woman running after her, camcorder light still blinking blood-red in the dark.

  Oh, man.

  Taylor hesitated, uncertain what to do. Here she stood with one foot somehow in 1862, the other in the current century, and pride warred with fear. In spite of her desperate urge to flee, she couldn’t bring herself to let a civilian observer see a 35th Tennessean in full-scale retreat. She shut the door and stepped away from the truck.

  “I’m just…” Think fast, Taylor. “…going out to…” An idea presented itself, and she pounced. “…set a spell.”

  “Oh,” said the woman uncertainly. Then, “Oh!” as realization dawned. She stepped closer, and Taylor shifted from foot to foot. Past to present. Past to present. The urge to keep running raced along her nerve endings.

  “But won’t the others leave you behind?” the woman asked, her voice disembodied in the darkness.

  That’s the general idea… “I’ll, uh, catch up.”

  “Oh. But why do you need your knapsack and gun for…that?”

  The heavy musket in Taylor’s left hand threatened to pull her off balance, as if some unseen hand had given it a downward yank. Troy’s musket. Shame flooded her face, and she was glad of the dark that hid it. She drew in a deep breath.

  “Actually,” Taylor said finally, “I was leaving.”

  “Leaving?”

  “Yeah. I’m not…feeling well.”

  The woman took another step closer and lowered her camcorder. “Oh, your head. Is that blood real? Can I help?”

  Taylor shook her head and backed up a step, her feet again taking up their restless shifting. “No, I’ll be fine. It’s nothing.”

  The woman laughed. “Well, the soldiers back then didn’t have it like we do today, did they? They couldn’t just take off and go to a doctor for every little scrape and cut. That’s probably why so many of them died, right?”

  Taylor’s eyes watered and heat rushed to her face. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Like that poor fellow back there,” the woman gestured back toward the camp. “He sure could have used a doctor back then.”

  The back of Taylor’s neck prickled. “Who?” In spite of herself, she looked. Beaudry was going down, dragging two of his captors with him as he collapsed.

  And she ran. This time, toward camp. Toward 1862.

  Chapter Three

  “Get away from him! Let him be!” Taylor shoved between Beaudry and the two soldiers, whom she knew as brothers Jack and Bill Smart.

  “Th
e unit’s movin’, boy,” said Jack in an accent Taylor had never heard him use. “The lieutenant said tie ’im to the back of the wagon an’ make ’im walk.” The Smart brothers were transplants from Indiana to Tennessee, and had never lost their Midwestern twang. Until now.

  “Yeah, an’ if he stops walkin’, to shoot him.” Bill, father of three little girls and the sweetest man Taylor knew, grinned and fingered the butt of his pistol. “What you think, Blaine? Think he qualifies as ‘not walkin’?”

  “Looks mighty close to me, Vernon.”

  “Shut up! Shut up, both of you!” Taylor dropped to her knees beside the Yankee and tried to get him to sit up. He trembled, his breathing hard, and bit his lip until fresh blood welled from the cut. He cradled his left hand as best he could against his body.

  Had Harris hurt him? Had Jack or Bill?

  “Let me see,” she said softly, trying to pull his bound hands from the middle of his bent body. “Come on, let me see.”

  At the sound of her voice, Jared raised his head and managed an unfocused smile that quickly twisted into a grimace of pain.

  Taylor took hold of his hand and turned it over, trying to ignore the breath-stealing sensations that snapped up her arms. Nothing was wrong with the hand, as far as she could see. No broken skin, no swelling.

  Only the barely restrained groans of the man at the other end of the arm. Only his bottomless blue eyes filled with pain.

  Carefully, she probed his cold skin, afraid her one class in first aid and CPR was unequal to diagnosing his problem.

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “My hand…wrist…burns like…” he doubled over again and instinctively Taylor’s arm went around him. Bending close to his ear, she whispered urgently.

  “Get up! Do you want to attract Harris’s attention?” Nervous, she looked around and spied Harris some distance away swinging up onto his grey gelding. The horse reared, and Harris smacked a gauntlet smartly on its rump.