Beaudry's Ghost Read online

  Hours must have passed before he could see again. Pain still seared up his right leg, but in the left arm, blessed relief.

  Weak, he hauled himself upright in the saddle, lifted the arm and flexed his hand. Intact, gauntlet and all. Odd. He didn’t own gauntlets.

  He drew a deep breath as understanding streaked through him. A gurgling noise emerged from somewhere below his chin, and he didn’t have to touch it to know what it was. He’d taken his captor’s place in hell, while the other man used a stolen body to fight for his immortal soul.

  In the moonlight, he saw the Confederate unit marching steadily northward. He knew his captor marched with them. Taking quick inventory of the equipment strapped to the saddle, he closed his left hand around the hilt of a cavalry sword, drawing it from its scabbard with an icy hiss. He didn’t know if the sword would do him any good, but the heavy hilt satisfied his hand.

  Taking control of the wildly careening horse, he steadied the stallion and pointed the animal’s nose toward the grey column of men. For a split second, the man in black—the one who had subdued him and dragged him out of his own body and into this agony—appeared in front of him, arms upraised as if to stop him. With a flick of the reins, the horse dodged neatly around the obstacle and raced on. Only one thought burned through the red haze of the rider’s mind.

  I’m going to kill him.

  Chapter Four

  Jared sat with one foot propped on the edge of the wagon bed, the other dangling a few inches from the hard-packed sand rolling beneath him. In the darkness beyond, muffled fits of laughter punctuated the sound of tramping feet as Gulley’s flask made the rounds.

  Glancing to one side, he checked on Private Taylor, who had finally succumbed to exhaustion and now dozed in a fitful heap beside him, using piles of tent canvas for support. Her Enfield lay cradled loosely across her lap, less than an arm’s length away, but he made no move to reach for it. Escape was beyond his reach now. But now that he had a few more of his wits about him, he wished to hell he could convince her she needed to get out while she could. He had a brief idea that he could simply knock her senseless and dump her out the side of the wagon into the soft sand. No one would notice.

  Two things. One, he’d never hit a woman. Period. Two, she’d taken a blow from Leon Gulley, a man more than twice her size, and still stood upright. After that show of grit, Jared didn’t have it in him to knock her down again. Added to these reasons, some wordless knowledge within him told him he needed her. That if he somehow succeeded in taking her out of this equation, events would add up to the exact same conclusion—dismemberment and disgrace. His salvation, his protection, lay in her.

  But every instinct within him protested that idea. It was his duty to make sure she came out of this thing safe and whole. His duty to protect her.

  The horses pulling the wagon snorted and their harness jingled as one of them shook sand out of its ears. Between the distracted men behind, and the sleeping wagon driver ahead, Beaudry thought it safe for his “guard” to take a short rest. Too many thoughts raced through his mind to sleep, and he knew she would quickly awaken if needed to resume her duties.

  He fingered the cut on his lip, the same one she had doctored for him before fatigue had dragged her down.

  She had torn herself, trembling, from his grip and fumbled for her canteen and the old red bandanna she carried, still stained with her own blood.

  “All right,” she had murmured as she wet a corner of the cloth with water.

  “You believe me?” he’d said doubtfully. “Just like that?”

  Cautiously she’d moved closer and raised the damp cloth toward the cut on his lip, intending to wipe away the dried blood. She clearly wanted to do it without actually touching him, but he made it difficult by leaning into it like a man starved for a touch. Any touch at all. The more he leaned forward, the farther she leaned back until he had had to grab her hand to keep her from falling off the wagon.

  He’d held on a moment longer than he had to, watching her face, studying her reaction. She looked away, wet the cloth again and continued her doctoring.

  “Well, for a ghost,” she had said, “you’re pretty three-dimensional.” She sniffed and let a corner of her mouth turn up. “You don’t smell much like a ghost, either. Hell, for all I know you’re just like the rest of these guys, a real man who’s been possessed by a spirit. But,” she finished her task and stuffed the bandanna back into her pocket, “I believe you.”

  Jared tilted his head to one side, confused by her reaction.

  “Oh, it’s very simple,” she’d said in a tone that said it was anything but. “This whole unit is caught in a time bubble. Everyone thinks it’s February, 1862. Or, more likely, the ghosts of the Confederate soldiers in the time bubble grabbed hold of the first available bodies. Us. Apparently you, or your ghost, or whatever, was in the right place at the right time, and got caught in it, too. Or maybe,” she’d eyed him suspiciously, “you triggered it on purpose.”

  Jared had chosen to neither confirm nor deny that fact, for now. “Aren’t you afraid?” he’d asked instead.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t afraid of you. I just said I believed you.” She scooted away. “Now, you stay on your side of the wagon, I’ll stay on mine, and I’m sure we’ll get along just fine, Mr. Ghost.”

  Jared had leaned toward her urgently. “I think the best thing for you to do is get out of here. Now. What’s going to happen between me and Harris isn’t going to be pretty.”

  He should have expected her reaction. Her eyes had narrowed and her shoulders had squared. “I’m not going anywhere until I figure out what I can do to put a stop to this mess,” she’d said grimly. “These ghosts—your ghost—put all these men in danger, and I won’t leave them to be hurt or killed without a fight.” And with that, she’d turned her back on him.

  Jared blinked back to the present as the back of his neck prickled. During the war he had learned quickly to trust this early warning system of his, and it didn’t fail him now. From somewhere far up the beach, he caught the steady rhythm of hoof beats drawing nearer. On full alert, he drew his feet under him and rose to a crouch, hands gripping the side of the wagon for balance as the sense of foreboding in his belly deepened.

  There! From out of the darkness, Jared saw the nightmare he had himself been living all these years. The image of the ghostly horseman drew abreast of the wagon and plunged directly toward Jared with sword drawn. Instinctively Jared rose to his feet, swaying for balance, and placed his body between the sleeping woman behind him, and the charging apparition ahead. He didn’t think the ghostly sword would do any real harm, but he couldn’t take that chance.

  The horseman slowed the stallion beside the wagon and, bringing the sword point to bear on Jared’s throat, kept the animal dancing in a sideways passage to stay even with the slowly moving wagon. Jared briefly admired this beautiful piece of horsemanship, then quickly checked on the soldiers trailing behind. Apparently they were oblivious to the sight.

  “So you can ride, after all,” he said sardonically, resisting the urge to reach out to stroke Raven’s nose as it strained toward him in recognition.

  A rough, gurgling growl emerged from the horseman’s throat, and he urged the horse even closer, bringing the sword point within inches of Jared’s borrowed flesh.

  Jared raised his palms in a gesture of peace. “I know—”

  “Then why? And how?”

  “More than a century ago, Zachariah Harris used parts of my body for bait to try lure Union troops into a trap. Here, now, this moment, is my only chance to relive those last days so I can die with my body intact. And maybe exact a little retribution.”

  “Revenge is not a good enough reason to steal a man’s body and put the lives of all these people in danger. Ah, God, this hurts…”

  Jared grimaced as the man’s arm wavered. He knew well the other man’s weakness, his pain. “It won’t be for long, friend. Troy tells me—”

  “Troy?”


  “The man in black. He’s the one who made this possible. He tells me the arrangement is only temporary. In a couple of days you’ll have your body back in one piece, and my soul—”

  “Do you know what could happen in that amount of time?”

  “—and my soul can rest in peace!” Jared cursed himself as the man slumped over in the saddle and he reached down to clutch at his throbbing leg.

  Suddenly the man gathered himself and brought the sword up again.

  “I should kill you.”

  “I’m already dead, don’t you see? The only one you’ll be hurting is yourself. Besides, that sword won’t do anything to me. It can’t touch me any more than—” his voice faltered as he remembered how lonely his existence had been all these years “—than you can.” He sighed. “And I’m sorry about that, too.”

  The man’s body fairly vibrated with frustration, and for a moment he looked ready to go ahead take a swipe with that sword.

  “I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

  Jared did a mental about-face. Here he’d stolen a man’s body and hadn’t even had the courtesy to ask his name, much less permission. “I’m called Jared Beaudry, 10th Ohio Cavalry.”

  He watched the man go perfectly still, and the sword point dip slightly. A long pause. Then a ripe curse.

  “I think you already know mine.”

  “John.”

  “We’ll leave it at that.”

  Jared’s eyes narrowed at John’s thoroughly annoyed expression.

  “All right. Two days, Beaudry. That’s all. And if I find you’ve used my body to do harm to any of these people—especially the woman—I don’t care how dead you are. I’m coming after you.”

  As if to emphasize his point, John leaned forward and flicked at the side of Jared’s neck with the ghostly sword.

  Jared grunted and raised his hand to the sharp pain there. His hand came away bloody.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Stunned, Jared stared at the blood and could do nothing but agree.

  Behind him, Private Taylor gave a small, distressed cry, and Jared pivoted to see if she had awakened. She had not, but some nightmare etched her face. Jared could well guess the subject matter.

  Wiping his hand on his pants, he turned back to the ghost on the horse. “Get out of here,” he growled. “Don’t let her see you.” To his everlasting surprise, the man didn’t argue. Raising two fingers in a sarcastic salute, he reined the horse around with the other hand and disappeared into the rising tide.

  With a low cry, Taylor came awake, a terrible image imprinted in her mind. She had dreamed of the horseman again, and for a terrifying instant she’d seen him coming after her with an upraised saber. Not yet fully awake, she found herself standing in the wagon bed, her Enfield jerked reflexively to her shoulder and pointed in the general direction she’d dreamed the apparition.

  She swayed with the wagon and battled a wave of nausea, probably brought on by moving too quickly without allowing her battered head to catch up.

  Her heart nearly leaped out of her chest when, like a freight train, Lije Gulley’s considerable weight hit the back of the wagon and he vaulted up alongside her.

  “What is it, boy? See somethin’?” He looked down and noticed the Yankee. “And what in the hell are you doin’ up here, Bluebelly?” With a heavy foot he gave Beaudry a shove. Caught unprepared, Beaudry made a grab for Gulley’s leg and missed, landing heavily on the beach. He rolled and barely managed to regain his feet before his towrope grew taught.

  Sgt. Howard, driving the wagon, roused himself from a half-sleep and looked around. “What’s goin’ on?” he yawned.

  “Don’ know yet.” Gulley squinted out into the night in the general direction Taylor’s rifle pointed. “This Yank got you seein’ ghosts, boy?”

  Taylor glanced at Gulley in surprise. Had he seen the horseman? “N—no, Lije. Uh, I just thought I heard something out there.” At least she didn’t have to lie about the high, boyish break in her voice. “Can you…can you see anything?” She gestured toward the empty air.

  Gulley leaned, his rifle held ready, as he scanned the moon-sparkled waves. He plainly saw nothing. He straightened and clapped a hand on Taylor’s shoulder, and the friendly blow nearly sent her crashing to her backside. “Gettin’ a little sand-crazy like the rest of us, ain’t ye, boy? Ain’t nothing out there.”

  Taylor moved her shoulder experimentally as Gulley sat himself down and yanked off his shoes. “No need to disturb our good Lieutenant. ’Cept for him,” he jabbed a thumb at Beaudry, who now trailed the wagon with a surer step and a thoughtful expression, “they ain’t a Yankee within miles of here.”

  Sgt. Howard turned around and went back to his near-nap. Muttering, Gulley emptied his cheek of tobacco spit, dumped accumulated sand from his shoes and pulled them back on. “Damned sand,” he growled. “Almos’ ruther march in knee-deep mud. Vern!”

  “Yup.”

  “Get up here and relieve the boy. That bump on his head’s got him seein’ things. He needs a little exercise to clear it.”

  Taylor’s gaze flew to Beaudry, ready to protest. As the only re-enactor not caught up in the time bubble, she was the only one who had enough sense left to protect him from her…friends. Or what used to be her friends. And somehow she also had to protect those friends from the spirits controlling them. Forty men! Dear God, how was she going to do this?

  Beaudry smiled slightly and answered her worried look with a quick shake of his head. Taylor hesitated, then finally slid off the moving wagon and joined Gulley, Blaine and the others back in the ranks, while a grinning Vern took her place. In the dim moonlight, she saw Vern lean over and mutter something that made Beaudry’s body tense in a way becoming all too familiar.

  Please, Jared, please, she prayed. Keep your mouth shut.

  A few minutes later, surrounded by laboring, puffing, softly swearing men, it hit her. Beaudry no longer walked with his left shoulder hunched in pain.

  And in her dream, the ghost had brandished his saber with a whole left hand.

  *

  Jared watched the eastern horizon brighten, accompanied by a chorus of snores as he tried unsuccessfully to shift to a more comfortable position.

  He was “bucked”, but thankfully not gagged. Harris had specifically ordered it. He’d been forced to sit, legs drawn up, and a shovel handle had been passed under his knees. His elbows were hooked under the pole, and his hands tied in front of his knees and anchored to his feet. This under/over technique had eliminated the need for a guard to watch over him during the remaining few hours of darkness. He couldn’t have moved if his life depended on it.

  And he didn’t care.

  The ghost of the man who’d taken his place still lacked a leg and sported the deep gash across his throat, but he now had two whole hands. Two. A fine sweat broke out on Jared’s body at the knowledge. His plan, with Troy’s manipulations, was going to work. He had only to hang on for a couple more days.

  True, his spirit lived, but not in his own flesh. He had taken over a body by force, just like Harris and the others. How Harris had done it, he didn’t know. Maybe what she’d said was true, that he himself had somehow triggered a chain reaction of spirit possession. The more he pondered, the more he thought she was right. Harris and the others still lived in 1862, and acted as if they didn’t see anything that hadn’t been here in that year. Not the houses, the people, the lights. Somehow he must have caused a wrinkle in time.

  He scooted around until he faced the offshore wind and let it wash over him, reveling in the touch of the air on his skin, letting it dry the sweat on his face. He smelled the rich, salty scent of the sea. Reacquainted himself with sensations he’d taken for granted and even cursed in his past life. Sensations like hunger pangs. His stomach growled, and he nearly laughed out loud.

  For so long he’d moved about in a void, filled with such pain and loneliness he’d gotten to where he couldn’t tell one from the
other. Sometimes seeing, sometimes hearing the laughter of families at play, the sounds of couples in love. But always on the outside. Never touching, or tasting, or smelling, or having the power to act on anything or anyone around him.

  The storm that had paralleled the coast most of the night had dropped off the edge of the horizon. Just audible over the dying breeze, Jared heard the subdued voices of the pickets checking in with each other. Harris had doubled the pickets during the night, sending two scouts ranging far to the north in search of any sign of pursuit. The rest of the company lay pretty much where they had fallen after the order to halt had come, too tired to pitch tents or even to eat.

  He shifted again, turning in a slow, turtle-like circle. Sand had worked its way under every layer of his clothing, making his situation damned uncomfortable. He tried to scoot a little farther up the beach, away from the rising tide, hoping to move his rear end from over the top of some tide-line creature’s den. Probably a crab. After all this time, it would be the perfect ending to an imperfect century if he were pinched in the—

  The rustling sound of feet displacing soft sand returned tension to his shoulders before he recognized her. She crept toward him in a half crouch, settling so close he could see her eyes, now minus the spectacles. He wished she’d left them on. The impact of her eyes had him remembering other sensations he’d lived without for a long time, too.

  “It occurred to me,” she said, reaching inside her coat and pulling out a bag made of some sort of clear material, “that there’s a very good chance you’re starving. That is, if ghosts eat.”

  “You’re very kind, madam,” said Jared with a brilliant smile that grew wider when she almost dropped the bag. He hadn’t lost his touch after all. He’d always comported himself as a soldier and a gentleman—nearly always—but it had been said his smile could seduce a girl’s soul to the devil. Sometimes that reputation had been a handy thing to have. Sometimes…not. Her hands trembled and lack of sleep showed in her shadowed face. “You should be resting like the others.”