Kary, Elizabeth (9 page)

Before
the day was out, Leigh had heard the same thing from several other doctors and
two of the St. Louis hospitals. No one wanted her help. And what was worse,
their reactions of dismay and shock had made Leigh begin to doubt her own
resolve. Could nursing injured men be such a horrendous and difficult task that
it would somehow destroy her? Was she so sheltered and fragile that she must be
protected from life's hard realities? Everyone seemed to think so, everyone but
Hayes Banister.

With
a soft smile on her lips she contemplated the Yankee engineer, his quiet words
clear and sharp in her memory: "If anyone has a calling for medicine, you
do." Banister, stranger though he was, seemed to have more faith in her
strength and abilities than anyone else. "What you have, Leigh, is an
honest compassion for people in need." Somehow in their short
acquaintance, Banister had come to understand her far better than others who
had known her all her life. Perhaps that explained why she had felt compelled
to tell him about her desire to study medicine, when she had never confided her
hopes in either her grandfather or Bran, and why she wanted so desperately to
see Banister now. As she made her way back to the carriage, an almost
overwhelming urge to talk to Hayes swept over her. Then, with a pang of
conscience, she remembered how they had parted on Friday evening. Surprisingly
it was grief, not anger, she felt when she remembered why she had sent him
away. She had told him she never wanted to see him again, but she had to admit
she'd been wrong. She wanted desperately to be with him now, to be held and
comforted, to be encouraged by his faith in her abilities. For a moment she
considered going to the Planters' House to find him, to seek him out in spite
of her best resolves and her engagement to Lucas Hale. Hayes would not scoff at
her need to do something to ease the suffering the war would bring; he would
understand her disappointment at being refused a chance to use her skills. But
as soon as the idea formed, she rejected it. No woman who considered herself a
lady could seek a man out at his hotel. And even if she were foolish enough to
go there, it was entirely possible that Hayes Banister would refuse to see her.
Instead, feeling lost and disappointed, Leigh made her way back to where she
had left Jeb and the carriage.

They
had traversed a good part of the city when she heard someone call her name. At
her signal, Jeb pulled the buggy to a halt at the curb as a tall, uniformed
horseman appeared from the dimness of the tree-shaded cross street. Smiling
broadly, he rode toward her and doffed his hat in greeting.

"Good
day to you, Miss Pennington."

"And
to you, Major Crawford," she returned pleasantly though with an effort,
eyeing the man who, in spite of his politics, was one of her mother's favorite
callers. Nor was it difficult to discern the reason for his popularity with
women of her mother's milieu. Major Aaron Crawford was a man in the prime of
his life, as evidenced by his impressive physique; his rugged, sun-bronzed
countenance; and his raven-dark hair and sweeping hussar's moustache
dramatically tinged with silver. He was neither too old to escape a maiden's
notice nor too young and inexperienced to bore those same maidens' mothers.
Though Leigh knew the gossip was unfit for her ears, she had heard his name
linked with several of the city's wealthy matrons in the scant year since he
had come to St. Louis. And no wonder, Leigh found herself thinking as she
watched the horse- man beside her. Wherever he went, Aaron Crawford cut a fine
figure: impeccably dressed, unfailingly polite, handsome in the classical
sense, but with a military man's toughness and swagger. Yet, in spite of his
many attributes, Leigh did not like him, though she was at a loss to explain
her strange aversion.

As
she sat back against the open carriage's plush upholstery, she was
uncomfortably aware of his intense, slate-gray eyes moving over her, taking in
everything from the flush in her cheeks to the fit of her new apple-green gown.

"You're
looking lovely this afternoon, Miss Pennington," he observed coolly,
"though I question the wisdom of being out alone after what's happened.
How have you and your family fared in these last few days? We did have some
reports of looting and vandalism out your way, though I've had no time to ride
over and check on them myself."

"I
thank you for your concern, Major Crawford, but we've been quite safe. There
are certain advantages to living in 'a house divided,' " she observed
ruefully. "Neither side considers us their enemies. However, Father and
some of our men did chase rioters from the Hale property next door."

She
saw his eyes gleam with quick intelligence and could have bitten her tongue for
her unintentional disclosure about the state of things at the Hale home. For
whatever else he might seem to be, Crawford was still the provost marshal and,
as such, wielded substantial power now that martial law was in effect.

"Oh,
have the Hale boys gone south, then?" he probed, though it was disguised
as a polite observation.

"I—I'm
not sure just where they are," Leigh lied, unwilling to volunteer any more
than she had already unwittingly revealed.

"They
were among the prisoners from Camp Jackson, though," he reasoned aloud,
obviously hoping to glean more information from her, "so they both must
have disregarded their sworn oath of allegiance to the Union and set out to
join the Confederates."

"I
don't have any idea where they've gone," she repeated with greater
conviction. "Perhaps they refuged along with so many of the other Southern
sympathizers."

Crawford
frowned. "It's possible, but unlikely. You realize, don't you, Miss
Pennington, that if Lucas and Brandon Hale bear arms against the Union, they
will be considered traitors?"

Leigh
could feel the color drain from her face. "I—I think your conclusion might
be a trifle premature, Major Crawford."

"We
shall see," he muttered darkly. "But if I have my way, any followers
of Jeff Davis and his Rebel band will forfeit their property for this act of
treason."

"Surely
Mr. Lincoln would never sanction that!" Leigh gasped in dismay.

"No,
probably not, and more's the pity! Tell me, Miss Pennington, do you think your
mother will refugee south when the war comes?"

His
penetrating questions about Lucas and Bran had quite unnerved Leigh, but this
one that hinted at her mother's defection threatened her last bastion of
security. Her fiancé and her best friend were gone, and she could not
countenance the suggestion of any further disruption of her safe little world.
How could this callous, prying, reprehensible man even suggest that her mother
might leave St. Louis, too?

"Of
course not! No! Mother's place is here in St. Louis with Father and me!"
she told him fervently.

"But
if she did go, would you go with her? Would you go south to marry Lucas
Hale?"

His
questions were relentless and painful, and even as she fumbled to answer them,
Leigh tried to fathom his reasons for asking such hurtful things.

"Do
you think they would let me nurse in their hospitals if I went south?" she
asked, hoping to divert him.

His
dark eyebrows flickered upward. "So you want to work as a nurse, do
you?"

He
wasn't Bran, or even Hayes Banister, but he was, for whatever reason, a willing
listener, and before she could stop herself, the tale of the day's
disappointments came tumbling out. Crawford sat in silence as she spoke, with
surprising sympathy in his eyes.

"Be
patient, Miss Pennington," he advised her. "I believe in time the
Union will welcome women like you with something to offer."

Leigh
took strange comfort in his words and smiled up at him, forgetting for the
moment her dislike for the man. "Why, thank you, Major. Yours are the most
encouraging words I've heard all day. I only want to do my part to ease the
suffering this war is bound to cause."

He
met her idealistic declaration with a derisive frown that immediately brought
back her feelings of mistrust. "Your sentiments are so touchingly
altruistic, Miss Pennington," he observed in a tone laced with a sudden
cynicism that mocked her naïveté.

Abruptly
the comfort she had found in his encouragement deserted her, and she was acutely
uncomfortable in his presence. Why had she confided her girlish hopes to this
enigmatic man? And why had she allowed him to turn her dream of helping others
against her?

A
bright flush stained her cheeks, and Leigh could think of nothing but escape
from Aaron Crawford's jeering smile. "If you'll excuse me, Major
Crawford," she mumbled in a rush, "it's getting quite late, and I
really should be on my way."

He
bent closer in the saddle, clearly amused by her discomfort. "Perhaps I
should ride along to see that you get home safely," he suggested in
taunting solicitation.

Though
their longtime coachman Jeb sat in the seat before her, Leigh was undone by an
indefinable menace she sensed in Aaron Crawford's manner. Still, she stood her
ground, though flushed and flustered. "I'm sure I'll be fine, Major
Crawford, honestly I will."

His
looming face receded, but a wolfish grin remained on his mouth, an expression
that said he knew all her secrets and would not hesitate to use them as he saw
fit. "Then be on your way, my quixotic Miss Pennington. And give my
regards to your parents, especially your lovely mother."

Strangely
shaken, Leigh watched as Aaron Crawford disappeared into the tree-shrouded
dimness once more. As Jeb continued toward home, Leigh was aware of a nameless
dread that moved through her in primitive reaction to her encounter with the
major. And all at once she wanted nothing more than to hurry home and shore up
her safe, stable world, suddenly afraid of its crumbling in ruins around her.

***

May 16, 1861

"My
dear Mr. Banister, how good it is to meet you at last!" James Eads
exclaimed as he rose from the cluttered desk in the center of his study and
extended his hand.

Hayes
met it with his own, wringing the older man's enthusiastically and thinking that
the warmth of the greeting almost made up for the days he'd lost waiting for
Eads to return from Washington. "It's a privilege to meet you too,
sir," he replied, "after seeing the result of your work in clearing
the river channel. It is an enormous undertaking."

Eads
nodded in acknowledgment. "And an unending one as well, I'm afraid."

As
they stood together, with hands clasped over the jumble of notes and drawings
splayed across the desk, Hayes quickly took the measure of the other man and
sensed that Eads was doing the same. What Banister saw on the far side was a
man of less than medium height and slight and slender build, with a pleasant,
high-cheekboned face and a sparse, pointed beard. From the receding hair
threaded with gray, Hayes judged Eads to be well over forty, but there was
something in the alert gray eyes that hinted at a youthful spirit and boundless
energy.

In
the years when he had been piloting the
Priscilla Anne,
Hayes had become
familiar enough with James Eads's name. The man had been a salvager then,
bringing up cargo from scuttled steamboats through the use of a unique diving
bell he had invented. But Eads's innovations went far beyond the perimeters of
his own business to the development of a special double-hulled riverboat that
could be used to raise the treacherous snags and sawyers from the river and to
dredge out deeper channels as well. It was only when Hayes had begun to make
discreet inquiries as he waited for Eads's return that he began to understand how
far the man had come on nothing more than his own initiative. A ragged
adolescent who sold apples on street corners had become a man who consulted
with presidents. Eads had completed his rise from poverty and obscurity to
affluence and respectability through his own industry, without the benefit of a
formal education. And Hayes found himself in awe, not only of the plans he had
drawn up for the river flotilla but for his gumption and genius as well.

"They
tell me you've had a look at my drawings for the ironclads, Mr. Banister,"
James Eads said after a moment. "May I ask what you thought of them?"

Hayes
took the chair Eads offered him. "I must admit I was very impressed."

"But?"
The older man sat perched on the edge of his chair at the far side of the desk.

"Well,
sir," Hayes began tentatively, "as you may know, my specialty at the
shipyards is designing the engines to power the boats we build."

"Yes,
and some of the innovations you've introduced have been very interesting. No
one builds better steam boilers than the Banister Shipyards."

It
was Hayes's turn to acknowledge the praise with a nod of his head. "But
for the ironclads you're planning, I'd recommend the use of high-pressure
inclined-cylinder engines to give the works more protection from incoming fire
and the boats themselves greater maneuverability."

"And
just how could that be done?" Eads queried, his gray eyes narrowed in
concentration.

What
ensued was a deeply technical conversation between two men who shared a love of
the river and a complete understanding of the intricacies of steam locomotion.
Within minutes they were poring over the drawings of the ironclads, making
changes to improve the designs. With the glee of two small boys they plotted
not only the construction but also the deployment of the river flotilla, stumbling
over each other's sentences and elaborating on each other's ideas as they
plumbed the possibilities of these revolutionary craft. Each man found in the
other a flawless echo of his own thoughts, a perfect amplification of his own
concepts. They were two strangers bound together by a common dream, and before
the afternoon was over, their enthusiasm had been forged into a working
partnership prepared for the task ahead.