The Sapphire Brooch Katherine Logan (best beach reads TXT) 📖

the perfect costume for the role she was playing in the afternoon tableau Jack had scripted. She was used to telling patients what to do, and expected them to follow her orders. Jack, on the other hand, studied people and had a far better understanding of human motivational and situational behavior. He believed if he added to the guards’ stress, their anxiety would reduce the attention they paid to their jobs and to Charlotte. She wasn’t fully convinced, but she hoped he was right.

She was only a few yards away from her destination when a red-haired soldier skedaddled from Jack’s corner, ran across the street, and dashed toward the door of the prison, where a gaggle of soldiers had gathered on the doorstep.

“What? The army’s evacuating?” The reek of the soldiers’ fear surged through the crowd like the leading edge of an incoming tide.

“Yep. Tonight.” The red-haired soldier’s voice wobbled slightly. “Depot’s already pressed with civilians trying to get out of town ’fore the army leaves.”

Another soldier raked fingers through his disheveled hair. “I need to get my family on a train right quick.”

The red-haired soldier shook his head. “Only a few left going to Danville. No room on ’em. Folks are bein’ told to go home or try the packet boats on the canal.”

“Boats? Ain’t no boats to carry nobody anywheres unless you can pay with gold.”

A guard who had been listening from the door came out onto the stoop. “Won’t do no good to go home. Damn Yankees will bust down the door and shoot ’em dead.”

Another soldier rocked back on his heels, leaned against the wall, and shoved his hands under his armpits. “What about President Davis and the rest of the government?”

The red-haired soldier stretched his neck, looking up and down the street like he expected to see the Union Army marching toward him with guns cocked and loaded. “Heard they’re packing up to leave tonight, too.”

The rocking soldier stopped rocking. “Jesus.”

The redhead punched him in the arm, flashing a nervous grin. “Didn’t hear no news about him. Reckon he’ll stay or go, depending on who needs him more.”

There was a smattering of nervous chuckles.

Charlotte hobbled up to the group. “We’re evacuating,” she said. “President Davis is moving the government south. I’m here to count the number of prisoners who can’t walk without support. Step aside. Let me through.”

The soldiers came to attention, saluting. “Yes, sir. We heard. What happens to us if Richmond falls?”

Charlotte leaned on the silver-handled malacca walking stick on loan from Elizabeth. “You’ll keep fighting. If General Lee believes the Confederate cause is best served by abandoning the capital, you’ll follow him.”

“Can I help you, sir?” the red-haired soldier asked, holding the door for Charlotte to enter. “I’m on guard duty.”

“Good. You can escort me to the sick bay.”

As soon as she stepped past the prison door, the smell of rot and decay assaulted her. The building had no ventilation, and the stifling air was like an impenetrable thicket of poison ivy. She angled her body back toward the exit and, without thinking, pressed her foot down hard on the stones, knocking herself off balance in an effort to avoid the pain. She toppled sideways, slamming her shoulder into the wall.

The soldier grabbed her arm. “You okay, sir?”

“Damn leg,” she said. The stones were stark reminders of what she was doing and why.

The red-haired soldier, a private, told a guard stationed at a desk inside the door, “We’re evacuating Richmond. The doctor’s got to count the prisoners who cain’t walk.”

A coarse man, roughhewn, reeking of well-aged perspiration, and built like a bull, saluted her. Then he lowered his head, studying her. “Never seen you ’afore, Major. You got an order?” he asked in a deep, staccato voice. He set his jaw and slapped the desktop with stubby fingers tipped with dirty, bitten nails.

She pulled the order out and handed it over. “Can’t have just anybody walk in off the street and demand to see your prisoners, can you?”

He read the document, or appeared to, before handing it back. “Like I said. Never seen you ’afore.”

“You heard of Mallory Plantation? We’ve lived there for over a hundred years. I was with the Second Corps of Northern Virginia until I was wounded last month. Just now getting out, starting to walk a bit.” She was jabbering and needed to shut up. “Can’t stand for long. Haven’t been able to operate, but I can do this job while others treat the wounded and prepare to evacuate.”

The private, beanpole thin and jittery, moved closer to the desk. “We don’t have much time. Yankees is comin’.”

The sergeant’s brow creased as he eyed the private. A moment of intimidating silence saturated the air around the desk. Then the sergeant hawked and spat a blob of tobacco juice, which landed on the floor with a splat, missing the spittoon by mere inches. Charlotte tamed her rolling eyes and moved her foot away from the dark brown spot, one of many wet patches on the wood plank. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of her face, but she ignored it, letting it plop to her collar. He waved Charlotte away as if she were an annoying fly. His lips compressed, showing only the edges of decaying teeth. “Private Franklin will show you to sick bay.”

“And if I need anything else—” The front door blew open.

Six guards rushed in, crowding the entry. She inched back out of the way before they could crush her with grossly sweating bodies reeking of unwashed male, fear, and onions. The distraction was a welcome relief, and untied one of the many knots in her stomach. The men and their concerns should keep the sergeant occupied while she searched for Braham.

“Richmond’s being evacuated—”

“They’re opening the banks—”

“On a Sunday afternoon—”

“So customers can get their money to leave town—”

The sergeant worried the flesh of his lower lip with one of his crooked yellow teeth as he followed the conversations. “I ain’t got no money to get