An Unconditional Freedom Read online

  He sucked in a breath, readjusted himself slowly and deliberately in his seat. He ignored the tightening at the base of his neck and the sweat that broke out on his upper lip, hidden by his beard.

  “We swear Four L’s in this society,” Dyson continued, his voice gathering strength like he was a preacher at the pulpit. “Loyalty, Legacy, Life, and Lincoln. Those are the things we swear to uphold. You’ll note that cruelty is not among our tenets.”

  Daniel hauled himself to his feet, running his hand over his grizzled beard. He hadn’t groomed with a mirror for days and could only imagine what he looked like to others. Gone were the days when women called him baby-faced and his peers looked to him as an example of a stylish modern man.

  The detectives seated nearest to him shifted slightly away—he knew what they said about him. Addled. Insane. Broken. They weren’t wrong, to his shame and consternation. He had once been happy, carefree, his greatest trauma that the woman he loved hadn’t loved him back. Perhaps all that had befallen him had been to teach him some lesson, a Jobian test of sorts. That thought might have been a comfort if his belief in the Lord hadn’t been beaten out of him like dirt from a carpet.

  “If this is about that Reb I killed over in Tennessee, can we not just be forthright?”

  There was a grumbling among the detectives.

  Dyson nodded, holding Daniel’s gaze. “Very well. Your mission as a detective was to gather information about a Rebel who might have ties to the Sons of the Confederacy, and to use him to find others of his ilk. Instead, he was found stabbed to death, and now the local whites are talking about a vengeful Negro.”

  Dyson paused, as if Daniel would refute that moniker. It was as accurate a descriptor of him as any of the others given to him since he’d joined the Loyal League.

  Daniel said nothing, and Dyson pressed on. “There’s been talk of ‘stringing up a few darkies’ to remind the slaves what happens when they step out of line.”

  “You provide such a detail to convince me that killing slave owners is something I shouldn’t do?” Daniel asked, garnering a few muffled laughs from around the room. Dyson opened his mouth to speak, but Daniel had heard enough. “I killed that man because it was necessary. We may not wear the Union blues, but we are at war and all’s fair, in case you need reminding.” Daniel’s face began to grow warmer. “I don’t recall being told upon my recruitment that I should value the life of some bastard secesh more than I value my own or that of my people.”

  “Don’t twist my words, Cumberland,” Dyson said. Daniel felt like he could have twisted the man’s neck, more than his words, but that wouldn’t have helped his position. “We are running covert operations here, and wanton killing ain’t exactly covert.”

  “I don’t kill wantonly.” Some people thought Daniel enjoyed taking lives, but each death was just another stone added to the shame and anger and disgust that bent his back with their weight. He didn’t savor killing, but neither did he shy away from what needed to be done.

  When he’d seen the slave owner, the burly man had been holding the wrist of a girl barely older than Elle had been when she’d arrived in Massachusetts, pulling her along behind him. The fear, and acceptance, in the girl’s eyes had left Daniel with no choice. The fact that some people thought there was a choice was the real issue.

  “I trust that Brother Cumberland wouldn’t do anything to endanger the 4L,” Logan Hill, the detective who had recruited Daniel, said. Logan had been a slave once, too, and though he didn’t understand Daniel, he tried to. Given that Daniel didn’t understand himself any longer, he appreciated Logan’s attempt. “And the loss of one slaver is a boon to us, if anything. We will find other links to the Sons. It’s not as if the bastards are few and far between, unfortunately, and they’ve been stirring up more trouble as the war goes on.”

  Dyson nodded tightly, but his mustache bristled. “I hope Cumberland will exercise more caution in the future.”

  Daniel sat down, hands crabbed together in his lap as Dyson droned on, and though the room was filled with his brothers and sisters in arms, he felt utterly alone.

  War was a lonely thing he’d discovered. Survival was, too.

  He inhaled deeply. That was all right. He needed to be alone. Being around others for too long only reminded him of what he had lost. Even kindnesses grated upon him. He often wondered how he’d been strong enough to survive the cruelties borne upon him, only to feel so weakened by the mere memory of them.

  “Daniel?” He looked up at Logan, who was now sitting in the seat beside him. The other detectives were filing out of the cabin. The meeting had ended and he hadn’t noticed.

  “I . . .” Daniel shrugged.

  Logan knew.

  “It’s all right. You didn’t miss much. Brother Dyson speaking about some of the operations in the area, the new detectives arriving. Things have gotten hot in the field since Chickamauga.”

  Daniel nodded. The Rebels had won, but the victory was far from a decisive one. Confederate officers ranted about General Bragg’s incompetence in front of their slaves, and talked up their petition to Davis to have the man fired. The slaves had passed the information on via the whisper network until it reached the ear of someone sympathetic to the 4L cause. Judging from the number of reports they’d received, there had been a lot of ranting officers.

  Logan shifted uncomfortably, and because the detective wasn’t prone to awkwardness, Daniel knew what was coming.

  “It helps to talk, Daniel,” he said. “I’m not saying you have to, but if you ever need to lay down your load, I’m here. Most of us detectives have demons to deal with—demons unleashed upon us by this cruel society. You can’t let them fester in you.”

  Logan meant well. He did. But even the idea of telling someone else what he had experienced, of his shame and embarrassment and the trouble he had caused, nauseated Daniel.

  He couldn’t.

  Everyone else seemed to manage their demons just fine, unless they overindulged in moonshine as some were wont to do; Daniel alone seemed unequal to the task of everyday living. That was shameful enough without sharing the rest of his pathetic tale.

  “A toast to the Union Cause! And to our abolitionist brothers in arms.”

  Daniel gritted his teeth. He’d been such a gullible fool.

  Logan sighed. “That gal Ellen? She wrote to see how you were faring, and sent along another letter for you.”

  Logan handed him the slip of paper—yet another reminder of all the evils that had befallen him. He took it only to avoid embarrassing himself further. When one of the 4L’s top operatives sent you a message, you were supposed to read it immediately. Daniel would store this one with the others. Unopened.

  “I know you two go way back. Maybe seeing her would do you some good.” Logan raised his thick, arched brows.

  Daniel imagined Elle, who he’d thought would be his wife, sitting intimately with her husband. Her white husband—Malcolm McCall, the man responsible for securing Daniel’s freedom. He imagined her sharing reports of Daniel’s behavior in pitying tones, and both of them knowing him for the sad excuse for a man he was.

  “I’ll give it some thought,” he said, slipping it into his pocket.

  Logan nodded and made to stand before sitting back down.

  “The man you killed—”

  “Which one?” Daniel asked. He drew a dark delight from the way Logan’s mouth dropped into a frown, but did not tease him further. “If you mean the man Dyson brought up—I will do many things in the name of gathering information, but I won’t allow a man to hurt a child on the chance he’s in possession of useful information.”

  Logan startled, but then nodded and stood. He clapped Daniel on the shoulder, and Daniel allowed himself a bit of pride in the fact that the touch didn’t set his teeth further on edge.

  “Come along. There’s dinner to be had and information to be shared. If there’s some way to put this infernal war to bed, maybe we’ll happen upon it over a drink.”<
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  Daniel had his own ideas on how to end the war—but he knew better than to tell anyone else. If there was one thing that had been pounded into him—quite literally—since the morning he’d awoken hog-tied and gagged, it was that you could not trust anyone. Or you could, but betrayal always awaited you for such a foolish decision.

  “Right,” he said, following Logan.

  “There’s also the business of the new recruits,” Logan said. “There’s something Dyson asked me to discuss with you.”

  Of course, Logan wanted more than a drink. Daniel nodded grimly. He had a feeling that whatever this was, he wasn’t going to like it.

  CHAPTER 2

  Janeta had no idea where she was. Ohio? Kentucky? North Carolina? She’d never been farther inland than Florida until just a couple of months ago, and now she had traveled so much that the states—Confederate and Union both—were beginning to blur. She hadn’t realized how truly vast a country could be. From the safety of her father’s cane plantation, Cuba had seemed like a place too large to ever fully explore, and America was many, many times larger.

  She was exhausted from walking and riding and hiding from Rebel pickets and the few brief but miserable hours of sleep she’d managed. Once night had fallen, she’d silently followed her guide through the wilderness. The hem of her fine dress was filthy, and she hadn’t bathed for days. She could just imagine her older sister Maria wrinkling her nose in disgust: Pero que sucia, Janeta!

  She hadn’t seen her two older sisters in weeks. They were still back in Florida, keeping watch over the family home and the Union soldiers who had decided to use Villa Sanchez as a base, seeking entertainment from the exotic beauties, as they called them. The presence of those soldiers was what had placed Janeta on her current path—that and her own naïveté. She had thought herself able to read anyone, but she was starting to believe that she’d purposely left the book of Henry unexamined.

  Henry.

  She’d just wanted to please him. The Florida boy with a bright smile and laughing eyes who’d made her feel beautiful, who surely would have asked for her hand in marriage if the war hadn’t started. Wouldn’t he have? He’d told her he didn’t care about her background, or her accent, or her golden brown skin.

  “It wouldn’t be fair to marry you just yet; I could be killed by one of these Yankee bastards any day now.”

  He’d held her tightly as she’d wept in fear of things to come, had kissed her, had made love to her. Janeta had sinned, but if loving Henry was a sin, she wasn’t sure what God had made her for. Though now that she was away from him, now that she’d had days on end to examine their conversations, she wasn’t so sure if Henry had been seraphim or snake.

  When the Yanquis had started coming to Villa Sanchez every evening, expecting food and entertainment, she’d hated the intrusion—hated even more that Henry and his fellow officers had been driven from the town after a brief skirmish.

  “I miss you so much,” she whispered. She was still vibrating with excitement and vindication after having received his letter asking to meet in secret, outside of town. She’d waited so long for that moment, and when it had come, she’d risked being captured by the Union pickets to go to him because finally, finally Henry wanted her, too.

  “Mm-hmm.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb, then gripped her face and pulled her gaze up to meet his. It wasn’t a gentle touch, but he was under pressure, after all. His troops had failed to hold the town, and he was clearly upset. He was upset and had called for her, of all women. Not either of her pale-skinned dark-eyed sisters. Not Camille Daniels, who blushed to the roots of her blond hair every time Henry looked in her direction. Janeta felt warm and like she might float away, the same sensation she got when she snuck one sip too many of her father’s finest rum.

  “Tell me, do the Yanks ever talk about things pertaining to the war while you entertain them?” Henry asked. His gaze on her was focused, direct, and hard.

  Janeta shook her head, bewildered. She had expected sweet nothings and declarations of love, not this. “Entertain them? We cannot force them to leave.”

  Henry raised his brows, just enough to show that he was dubious. “I suppose you can’t. But if you really care for me, you’ll be sure to tell me everything they say while under your roof. Smile prettily at them and get them to spill their secrets.”

  Her heart sank. “I do not like speaking to them. They presume things that they should not.”

  “Don’t you want to please me?” Henry asked.

  They both knew the answer to that. There was only silence after that, and then Henry’s fingertip traced against her collarbone. Janeta trembled, and closed her mind against the inquiet at what he’d asked of her.

  Henry had received a promotion when her information helped his regiment win an important victory, and Janeta had felt a fierce pride. She had helped him; he couldn’t help but love her now, could he? He’d asked for more information, and more, telling her he cared for her even as suspicions gathered and the danger grew. And when everything fell apart, he’d told her he could help free her father . . . at a price.

  Janeta had once thought she’d give him anything, and she’d been right.

  Here she was.

  She wondered what her life would have been like if this damned war had never started. If Palatka had stayed a calm, tourist town and busy import hub instead of getting stuck in a tug-of-war between the North and the South. Or if a true compromise had been found before Sumter had been attacked, though she wasn’t sure what compromise there could be between those who believed in slavery and those who didn’t. Those like Papi and those like the detectives in the group she had infiltrated.

  And where do I stand in all of this?

  She’d learned many things since she’d left Palatka—about the world, and the war, and her place in both. After the move from the Sanchez plantation in Cuba to Villa Sanchez when she was fifteen, she’d thought herself worldly. She knew nothing. She’d been in the invisible enclosure of the Sanchez wealth and her father’s beliefs. Beliefs she wasn’t sure were right.

  Janeta sighed and trekked on. She was starting to think her guide was purposely confusing her, as they had turned and backtracked so many times that the only other option was that the guide was terribly lost, which Janeta knew not to be true.

  It didn’t matter; if she wanted the information, she would get it. That was how things had always been, and she couldn’t see that changing now. That was how she had found herself seeking out the Loyal League, far from the Florida parlor where she had played pianoforte for her father’s guests and laughed around spoonfuls of sweet flan. Even farther from the plantation in Santiago, where she had been called mi princesa hermosa so often she had forgotten her name was Janeta.

  She didn’t want to think about what she was now. She didn’t have a choice—she had always had to work for her place in her family, and a war wouldn’t change that.

  “Almost there,” the guide said. The woman didn’t look so different from Janeta: a complexion that showed she was mulata, thick, curly dark hair. “My name is Lynne, by the way.”

  There was a sharp undercurrent to the simple statement. We’ve been walking for hours and you never asked my name.

  And Janeta hadn’t; she’d treated the woman like she was a servant, because in her world, the woman would be her servant.

  “I’m sorry, Lynne. It was incredibly rude not to ask. I’m just so exhausted.” She thickened her accent, hoping it would cause the woman to take it as some cultural misunderstanding.

  The woman made a polite sound of acquiescence and Janeta broke into a sweat despite the cool, late-September air. She would have a reputation now: rude, uppity. Words her American tutor had taught her.

  She’d had a reputation in Palatka, too—several depending on whom you talked to. She had been described as overly friendly, standoffish, shy, intelligent, shallow. Any number of things and none of them quite fit her—or maybe, all of them did. That was the way of it
when you presented people with what they wanted, as Janeta had done since she was a girl. Since the rumblings of war had started, the descriptions had changed to things like passionate, feisty, and flirtatious. Janeta didn’t think she was any of those things, and she certainly didn’t try to be those things, but apparently the Yanquis heard her accent and saw her skin and made the decision for her. The Rebels, too. It was why she was there, after all.

  She glanced anxiously at Lynne, who’d resumed her silent march.

  You can’t make such mistakes before you even arrive. Too much was riding on this. Her family’s entire future. Her own happiness.

  “Thank you for guiding me,” Janeta said, feeling Lynne out. “I am very eager to meet the others and to help in any way that I can.”

  Lynne made a sound that somehow conveyed “you’re welcome” and “don’t worry about it.”

  “We need all the help we can get. We just lost a few good detectives, and every hit hurts.”

  Janeta said nothing. She was good at pretending, but not that good. If she achieved what she had been sent to do . . .

  Dios, me perdone.

  They came upon a cluster of small cabins. It was a good location—remote, not easily accessible, not much to look at. She’d seen more elaborate shanty towns in the countryside of Cuba. This looked like a poor farmer’s spread, not the temporary headquarters of one of the North’s most important spy rings, which she supposed was the reason they had chosen it.

  Lynne led her toward the largest building, what looked like an old farmhouse, and as they got closer the scent of food made Janeta’s stomach rumble. A low murmur of voices reached her ears, drowning out the evidence of her unfamiliar hunger. She took a deep breath and tightened her hands into fists, feeling the resistance of her leather gloves.

  Dame fuerza.

  An image of her father as she had last seen him—thin, filthy, crammed into a cell unfit for even a slave—flashed into her head. She’d remembered the giant crucifix that hung in their church in Santiago. As a child she’d hated seeing how Jesus suffered there, exposed for all to see. Her father, with his stringy hair and kind eyes, had reminded her of the helpless anger she’d felt staring at the crucifix.