conceded. “And if it doesn’t help, we may have to do something else. The United States is in danger of splitting into two countries if we don’t have a decisive victory soon, and that means millions will be doomed to stay slaves.”
“Slavery is a horrible thing,” Claire agreed. “But so is having thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of young men and boys mowed down on the battlefield with a single weapon wielded by one person. And then what happens beyond this war, assuming the weapon works and you win? You know it won’t stop here. American allies will get hold of it, and then they’ll inevitably turn on each other as they jockey for power, and then soon there will be no one left but women, old men, and children. Or worse, it will be turned on civilians.”
Chad tried to keep the exasperation from his tone. “And for that vague possibility, it’s worth it to you for millions of people to remain enslaved? If the Confederacy is allowed to continue, so will the slave trade. You’re advocating for a different kind of hell.” He stopped short of reminding her that should Fort Daniels be captured and he be taken prisoner, he would likely end up enslaved on some plantation after having been sold for a very high price. She didn’t care for him to that extent anymore.
“There has to be another way,” she said, but she didn’t argue his point.
Chad took one of her hands and pressed it in his to stop its trembling. The poor girl would have nightmares, but he had to do something to make her see reason. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Patrick’s aether weapon, either, but he didn’t know how else they could end the war. He hoped her treatment method would work in restoring the soldiers with battle hysteria to their full capabilities. If not…
“Let’s do a little experiment,” he said. “Come with me tomorrow to the contraband camp.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why? Isn’t it frowned upon to do studies on disadvantaged people?”
“Because it will make the plight of these poor people real to you.”
She snatched her hand back and stood. “You’re accusing me of insensitivity. That’s not fair. I do feel that slavery is bad.”
“But it’s not real to you. Think of it as having all the information before you form your opinion.”
“Very well.” She walked to the door. “Now, er, would one of you walk me back to the general’s house, please?”
Chad stood to follow her, but Patrick put a heavy hand on his shoulder before he could step forward.
“You’ve said enough,” Patrick told him. “I’ll take her.”
Chapter Eleven
Fort Daniels, 24 February 1871
Claire and Patrick didn’t converse as he walked her back to the general’s house. He only said a quick goodbye and remained outside as she used her key to go in the front door. She said goodnight and slipped inside, where savory odors of onion, beef, and rosemary drew her into the kitchen. A loaf of bread sat on the table, and Mrs. Soper stood at the stove and stirred something in a large pot. Claire braced herself, not sure what, if any, trouble she’d be in for coming in so late to dinner. Her mother and aunt had kept to a strict “kitchen closed after seven” policy.
“There you are!” Mrs. Soper turned and gave Claire a bright white smile that melted her anxiety like a pat of butter on a hot biscuit. The woman wasn’t angry. In fact, Mrs. Soper was happy to see her, and more than that, emanated the feeling of wanting to take care of her. Claire tried to hold her tears of relief back, but the tension of the day, and especially that of arguing with Radcliffe, wanted to be released, and her eyes squeezed the hot water out no matter how hard she blinked. She tried to rub her eyes without looking like she was crying.
“Now, then, what’s all this fuss about?”
Strong but gentle hands guided Claire to the kitchen table and pressed a piece of cloth into her hands. Right, a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her
“Slavery is a horrible thing,” Claire agreed. “But so is having thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of young men and boys mowed down on the battlefield with a single weapon wielded by one person. And then what happens beyond this war, assuming the weapon works and you win? You know it won’t stop here. American allies will get hold of it, and then they’ll inevitably turn on each other as they jockey for power, and then soon there will be no one left but women, old men, and children. Or worse, it will be turned on civilians.”
Chad tried to keep the exasperation from his tone. “And for that vague possibility, it’s worth it to you for millions of people to remain enslaved? If the Confederacy is allowed to continue, so will the slave trade. You’re advocating for a different kind of hell.” He stopped short of reminding her that should Fort Daniels be captured and he be taken prisoner, he would likely end up enslaved on some plantation after having been sold for a very high price. She didn’t care for him to that extent anymore.
“There has to be another way,” she said, but she didn’t argue his point.
Chad took one of her hands and pressed it in his to stop its trembling. The poor girl would have nightmares, but he had to do something to make her see reason. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of Patrick’s aether weapon, either, but he didn’t know how else they could end the war. He hoped her treatment method would work in restoring the soldiers with battle hysteria to their full capabilities. If not…
“Let’s do a little experiment,” he said. “Come with me tomorrow to the contraband camp.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why? Isn’t it frowned upon to do studies on disadvantaged people?”
“Because it will make the plight of these poor people real to you.”
She snatched her hand back and stood. “You’re accusing me of insensitivity. That’s not fair. I do feel that slavery is bad.”
“But it’s not real to you. Think of it as having all the information before you form your opinion.”
“Very well.” She walked to the door. “Now, er, would one of you walk me back to the general’s house, please?”
Chad stood to follow her, but Patrick put a heavy hand on his shoulder before he could step forward.
“You’ve said enough,” Patrick told him. “I’ll take her.”
Chapter Eleven
Fort Daniels, 24 February 1871
Claire and Patrick didn’t converse as he walked her back to the general’s house. He only said a quick goodbye and remained outside as she used her key to go in the front door. She said goodnight and slipped inside, where savory odors of onion, beef, and rosemary drew her into the kitchen. A loaf of bread sat on the table, and Mrs. Soper stood at the stove and stirred something in a large pot. Claire braced herself, not sure what, if any, trouble she’d be in for coming in so late to dinner. Her mother and aunt had kept to a strict “kitchen closed after seven” policy.
“There you are!” Mrs. Soper turned and gave Claire a bright white smile that melted her anxiety like a pat of butter on a hot biscuit. The woman wasn’t angry. In fact, Mrs. Soper was happy to see her, and more than that, emanated the feeling of wanting to take care of her. Claire tried to hold her tears of relief back, but the tension of the day, and especially that of arguing with Radcliffe, wanted to be released, and her eyes squeezed the hot water out no matter how hard she blinked. She tried to rub her eyes without looking like she was crying.
“Now, then, what’s all this fuss about?”
Strong but gentle hands guided Claire to the kitchen table and pressed a piece of cloth into her hands. Right, a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and blew her
Similar Books
