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

to patient, identifying the ones who could walk without assistance, instructing them to move quickly away from the building. As the encroaching danger became more apparent to everyone, the urgency and speed of evacuation spread with the advancing flames.

A steady stream of soldiers, limping and shuffling, exited the depot, a pitiful stream of disheartened and broken souls. The smoky yard began to fill as dozens of them huddled on safe patches of ground.

Knowing time was against them, she kept one eye on the ceiling, expecting at any moment to see tongues of fire lapping at the eaves. The muscles in her arms, legs, and back cramped from the constant bending and pulling. All her life she had pushed herself to the point of exhaustion, whether it be long, complicated surgeries or running marathons. She had always been able to locate a pocket of reserve energy to make it to the end, but on this night, she had already reached the bottom of her last pocket.

All the doctors were running frantically in and out of the depot, hauling patients by their arms and legs, regardless of their injuries. Screaming men still in the building begged to be saved. Others crawled toward the door, leaving trails of blood.

Buckets of sweat rolled down her cheeks, her neck, under her arms. Hair hung in limp, matted shanks about her head. Her dress was ripped and ragged. Her brain, her muscles, her will were all impaired, fatigued by the beating she had taken hauling so many to safety.

“Get out. Get out,” Carlton Mallory yelled. He grabbed Charlotte’s arm. “The roof’s going to cave in. Get out right now.”

She jerked free. “I can save one more.” The roof was moments from collapsing, the fire chewing at the beams.

A man shrieked to her from the corner. “Help me, ma’am. Please, help me.”

Charlotte gauged the distance from where the man lay to the nearest door. When the roof collapsed, he would die horribly. If she hurried, maybe the two of them wouldn’t. Every muscle in her body tensed. Her brain flip-flopped from if I hurry to maybe I’ll die. Even in the smoke-filled air, she smelled fear, and knew it wasn’t only hers.

He begged while he desperately crawled forward, using his elbows to move him along. “Help me.” Empty trouser legs dragged behind him. He had given his limbs for the South. She could not let him die.

“Grab my arms. I’ll pull you.”

The roof crackled and groaned, and sparks rained down on them. With muscles screaming, she hissed through her teeth while she pulled harder. The heat from the flames singed her skin. Her feet slipped on the slimy floor.

Her strength and energy were gone. She humanly could do no more. The roof dropped chunks of flaming wood.

“Hurry.” The man’s face was distorted with terror and pain, his eyes blazing, reflections of the advancing fire.

Her grip on his arms weakened as the muscles in her back, biceps, forearms, and shoulders simply ceased to function. “No more.”

I’m sorry.

And then the fiery timbers supporting the roof plummeted toward them…

61

Richmond, Virginia, April 1, 1865

Braham and Jack left Gaylord at the boarding house where he had been staying. Since the rioting mob controlled the main thoroughfares, they had to weave through side streets, dodging rioters and avoiding the fires spreading into Richmond’s business center. Frightened women and children ran from their homes as flames licked at their doors and windows. The mad dash through the scorching heat back to the Van Lew’s drained Braham, twisting and squeezing him like a sponge until he had nothing left.

He licked peeling lips and gasped for breath. “Need to stop—”

There had to be protection from the roar and crackle of the flames and shattering glass, but where? Sparks carried by an intensifying south wind danced on the tops of most of the buildings and rained down into the street, now hot and littered with fiery debris. Thank God Jack had the foresight to bring boots for him. He owed the man his life.

Jack grabbed Braham’s arm, tugging hard. “If we stop, we’ll burn. Come on. Only a few more blocks.”

Braham staggered up the street, coughing, while exploding shells soared high into the night’s sky, a pyrotechnics display—a dangerous one—raining burning chunks of wood and melting glass down on top of homes and businesses. At the rate the fire was burning, there would be nothing left of the city by morning.

Only the strength of his own will held him together for the last few blocks.

When they reached Church Hill and the Van Lew mansion, the fire was several blocks behind them. Exhausted, they trudged up the stairs at the back of the house and entered, startling three of the women servants who huddled in a corner.

One of the women came forward with a lighted candle held high. “What do you want?”

Braham leaned against the wall, gasping, and began a slow slide to the floor. His legs had turned to mush along with every other muscle. He doubted he could get up again, much less find the energy to wash. There was a dull ache at the backs of his eyes from the smoke, and from days of restless sleep in a cold cell with little food. He lowered his head onto his knees, praying everyone would leave him alone to sleep or die. At this point, he didn’t care which.

Jack moved farther into the room. “It’s Jack Mallory.”

The woman turned to the others. “It’s Miss Lizzie’s guest.” There were a few beats of silence before the woman asked. “Who’s the man on the floor?”

Jack hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Major McCabe. I rescued him from the Castle Thunder evacuation.”

“Lordy, Miss Lizzie’s been waitin’ for news. I’ll go tell her you’re back.”

“No,” Braham said in a hoarse voice. “We need baths first.”

The women giggled.

“Guess they can smell us,” Braham said.

Jack pulled him to his feet. “Us? You’re the one who’s past ripe. If I ever smell as rotten, throw me in the