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“Lyman!” Merrit lunged forward. Hester had her by the hand and the impetus of her movement almost overbalanced them both, dragging Merrit to her knees.
“Get up!” Trace said bitterly. “He’ll be all right.” He gestured to the man on the ground, then jerked his hand at Hester. “She’ll stop the bleeding. Then you’re coming with us.”
“Trace?” Breeland seemed startled to see him. He had not yet looked at Merrit.
Trace’s voice was pitched sharp, on the edge of losing control, his face smeared with dust and blood, rivulets of sweat running down his cheeks.
“Did you think I would just let you go?” he demanded. “After all that … did you think any of us would let you walk away? Is that your great cause?” He sounded on the edge of hysteria and the gun in his hand was shaking. For a terrible moment Monk was afraid he was going to shoot Breeland right there.
Breeland was nonplussed. He stared at the gun in Trace’s hand, then up at his face.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
Merrit swung around to Hester, defiance in every angle of her body, and justification.
Monk kept his gun level, pointing at Breeland. “Get up,” he ordered. “Now! Let Hester tend to the soldier. Now!”
Slowly Breeland obeyed, automatically cradling his injured arm. He did not reach for any weapon himself. He still appeared totally confused. Monk was not sure if it was their questions, or more probably that for him the inconceivable had happened: the Union had lost the battle; but worse, far worse, they had panicked and run away. That was not within his belief of the possible. Men of the great cause could not do that.
“We found Daniel Alberton’s body, and those of the guards,” Monk said between his clenched teeth, remembering what he had seen, even though it was dwarfed by the slaughter around him now. Still there was a moral gulf between war and murder, even if there
was no physical one. Different kinds of men committed one from those who were caught up in the other, even if the death was much the same.
Breeland frowned at them, and for the first time he looked at Merrit, and a rush of shame added to the confusion.
“Papa was murdered,” she said with difficulty, forcing the words out. She was too drained of emotion to weep. “They think you did it, because they found your watch in the warehouse yard. I told them you didn’t, but they don’t believe me.”
Breeland was incredulous. He looked at each of them in turn as if expecting at least one to deny it. No one spoke; no eye wavered.
“You came for that?” His voice cracked into a squeak. “You came all the way over here …” He flung his good arm out. “To this! Because you think I murdered Alberton?”
“What did you expect us to do?” Trace said bitterly. “Just count it as the fortune of war and forget about it?” He rubbed the back of his hand across his face, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. “Three men are dead, not to mention six thousand guns stolen. Your precious Union might justify that for you … it doesn’t to anyone else.”
Breeland shook his head. “I didn’t kill Alberton! I bought the guns fairly and paid for them.”
Inexplicably, completely unreasonably, it was not the lie that infuriated Monk; it was the fact that Breeland had never once touched Merrit or offered her any compassion. Her father was dead, and he was concerned only that they believed he was guilty of it.
“We’re going back to England,” he stated. “You are coming with us, to stand trial.”
“I can’t! I’m needed here!” Breeland was angry, as if they were being stupid.
“You can come back with us to England to trial, or I can execute you here and now,” Trace said with a level, almost flat voice. “And we’ll take Merrit to stand trial alone. She can tell England what noble men the Union soldiers are … they shoot unarmed Englishmen in the back of the head and leave their daughters to take the blame.”
“That’s a lie!” Breeland moved forward at last, his face filled with anger.
Trace kept the gun aimed at him. “Then come and prove it. I don’t mind if you doubt I’ll shoot you.” He did not need to add the rest; it was wild and glittering in his face, and even Breeland in his indignant dismay could not have misunderstood. He stepped back a little, and turned to face the creek and the way back towards the road to Washington. “You’ll not succeed,” he said with a very slight smile, gone almost before it was seen.
“Nobody’s making it back that way.” Trace’s contempt was like a lash. “Your good Union citizens crowded out for a Sunday afternoon’s entertainment to watch the battle, and they’re blocking the roads. We’re going south, through the Confederate lines to Richmond, and then Charleston. No one will help you there. In fact, if they learn what you’ve done, you’ll be lucky to make it all the way to the sea. If you really think you can show a British court you are innocent, you’d be very wise to come easily and say nothing to anyone else. Northerners aren’t very popular in the Confederacy right now.”
Breeland took one last, aching look after the remnant of his men, the clouds of dust showing their retreating route, and his resistance collapsed. He took a deep breath and followed after Monk. Hester and Merrit walked together, a little apart from him, as if to support each other. Trace came behind, still holding the gun.
6
It took them that evening and the next day to reach Richmond. They traveled partly by trains, begging rides where they could, amid the wounded passing back from the battlefront. However, unlike the Union troops, the Southerners were elated with victory, and several spoke of it being the end of the war. Perhaps now the Northerners would leave them alone and allow them to live as they chose as a separate nation. Hester saw in their faces a bewilderment as to why there should have been any fighting anyway. Among some there were jokes, a kind of relief that they had been pushed to the final measure and not been found wanting.
Breeland’s bruised and dislocated shoulder had been wrenched back into place and was now in a sling. It must have been painful, but it was not an injury that needed any further treatment. His other cuts were minor. Most of the blood on his clothes was other people’s, from when he had been trying to help the wounded. Monk had found him a fresh jacket, not for cleanliness but in order not to give away his Union loyalty. Like all of them, he was exhausted, but perhaps more than they, he was heartsick. He could hardly be otherwise.
Several times Hester glanced sideways at him as they rode south. The sun picked out the tiny lines in his skin, which were dirt ingrained and deepened by weariness. His muscles seemed locked tight, as if, were she to touch him, they would be hard. His hands were clenched on his legs, surprisingly large hands, very strong. She could see anger in him, but not fear. His thoughts were far away. He was struggling with something within himself and they had no part in it.
