Free Alias Dragonfly by Jane Singer Page A

Thank goodness, I see my captain yonder.” He pointed to a group of men just beyond the water trough.
    “I’m good now, Jenny,” he said, moving, stumbling away.
    I’m not good, Jenny, I thought , but I’m safe for now, and by God, I’m going to find our man.
    I made it to my aunt’s place more dead than alive.

Ten
     
    I stumbled up to the cellar door. It was unlocked. I pushed it open and tripped, falling to the floor. I was trying to get up when someone grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. Though there was only a single candle burning by the washbasin, I made out his face. It was the Negro man I’d seen when I was in the woods with Jake Whitestone.
    He pressed a knife to my throat. “I’ll cut you where you stand,” he whispered.
    “I’m—” I drew a deep breath, hard to do as he held me fast. My words were sputters. I took a chance and said, “I’m a friend to your mother.”
    There was a silence. His knife pressed harder against my throat.
    “Yeah?” His breath was hot in my ear.
    “What do you know about it?” He pushed me to the floor. Close by I could hear a child whimper and a woman hushing it.
    “I know you are helping these people. I saw you near Centreville,” I said. “In the forest. Do you remember?”
    I could feel his body relax just a bit.
    “I swear here and now, I will say that I didn’t see you here or there, or ever,” I said. As he hadn’t yet killed me, I kept talking. “I’m a stranger here. Where I come from, we don’t have their ways.”
    He drew the knife away. I moved away from him, and he grabbed me again.
    “What ways?” he whispered. “Make me believe you, or I’ll slit your throat like a set-down hog.”
    “Here, they treat your kind like animals. That is a mortal sin. My father is fighting for Mr. Lincoln, all the way from New Hampshire. God’s truth.” I struggled to rise.
    With me in tow, and still holding the knife, he went to the corner of the room. “Stay low,” he said to the woman I knew was there. “It’s all right.”
    I could hear her exhale. The child began to whimper again.
    “Isaac, go get them out of here, please,” I said.
    “You don’t know my name. And don’t you say nothing to my mother.”
    “I swear I won’t.”
    “You best pray you speak truth,” he said. “I ain’t blind. I know your face.” He pushed me to the floor. “Don’t be moving, and shut your eyes tight.” I could feel his hand on my back.
    In a far part of my brain, I knew they were leaving. There were footsteps, whispers and again the whimpering of a child. I heard a low whistle, and horses chuffing and the sound of a wagon stopping just outside the door.
    I lay there. There was silence. Were they gone? I let my breath out easy and struggled to my feet. My neck burned where his knife had scraped it.
    Without looking back, I lurched over to the narrow staircase that led up from the cellar, and into the kitchen, I heard voices from above. I was gasping for breath. I could feel wetness on my neck.
    When I reached the top of the stairs, wobbling and dizzy, I went toward the voices in the dining room. I heard the clinking of glasses and cries of Victory! Down with the Yankees! I fell forward in a swoon, right over a chair, and landed limp as a rag on the floor. I was conscious, but so very weak . . . from hunger, and worry, from everything. Faces swam before my eyes. I smelled roasted meat, and of all things, my head was in a puddle of Aunt Salome’s s prized brandy that had spilled from the decanter, as I must have knocked the table before I fell. I tried to get up, but the brandy fumes made me even dizzier.
    Mr. Webster bent over me. “She breathes slightly, and there’s some blood.”
    “My Lord, is it Madeline?” my Aunt Salome said. “I thought she’d gone missing for good!”
    It was Nellie who lifted me in her arms, crooning and pressing her ear to my heart. I was fully conscious by now, but I decided to stay limp until I could figure