William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

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
    I
T 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.
    She watched Merrit, who also was little aware of the lovely country through which they passed with its heavy shade trees and small rural communities. They saw few men working in the fields, and those they did see were white. Merrit could think only of Breeland. She did not interrupt his thoughts, but she watched him with tense anxiety, her face almost bloodless. Hester knew that in spite of her own horror and exhaustion, the girl was trying to imagine herself into his sense of confusion and shame because of the way the battle had turned. His beloved Union not only had lost but had done so with dishonor. He must feel his beliefs threatened. What was there one could say to a man suffering such pain? Wisely, she did not try.
    Hester looked also at Philo Trace. She judged him to be almost ten years older than Breeland, and in the harsh sunlight, tired and grimed with dust and gun smoke still, the lines of his face were deeper than Breeland’s and there were far more of them from nose to mouth and around the eyes. It was a more mobile face, more marked by character, both laughter and pain. There was not the same smoothness to it, the intense control. It was a private face, but there was no