Page 3 of Sweet Savage Love

3

A s the second week of his incarceration limped slowly by, Steve Morgan also prayed in his own way that something would happen.

The major lingered, hovering on the edge of death, and Steve stayed in the small gray cell they’d put him in, with only one hour’s exercise allowed him every day.

He hated it—this impersonal imprisonment. Even worse than the thought of the hanging or the firing squad that might await him. All his life he had enjoyed the outdoors and the sense of freedom that open spaces had given him. And now, because of his own burst of temper and his too-good aim, he found himself locked in here.

He spent his time either pacing restlessly around his cell or sitting morosely at the rickety wooden table with his chin in his hands, staring into space. Occasionally, he forced himself to read. Books he hadn’t seen nor thought about since he had attended the university in Paris. He remembered a doctor from India whom he had met in London—a gentle, philosophic man who had spoken of an ancient religion he called yoga. They had travelled to Italy and to Germany together, and Gopal had tried to teach Steve about detachment and the power of the mind. But in those days, he hadn’t been quite ready for philosophy or a way of life that withdrew from life itself. Now—he had time. Too much time— or not enough. It depended on how he looked at it. At any rate, he found himself thinking and remembering more and more about Gopal, and his yoga teachings. Strength, that was it. A man’s strength comes from within himself and from the knowledge that he is part of everything that is.

“We do not look for outside help from some deity, you see,” Gopal had said once. “To us, each man is God. There is a potential in all of us that needs to be understood to be tapped.”

Trouble is, Steve thought ruefully, I’ve never been penned in before. Not for this long, anyhow. He wished, sometimes, that Major Hart would die and get it all over with.

The only visitors Steve Morgan had were his erstwhile corporal, who brought him daily bulletins on the major’s condition and the general’s mood, and Denise—the lovely quadroon girl over whom he’d fought the major. Denise, who had been the perfect mistress—uncomplicated, undemanding, and completely uninhibited. She came daily, in spite of the leering looks and ribald comments she received from the soldiers who guarded him; and she brought him books and fresh fruit and cried—every single time.

They spoke in French so that the soldiers who lounged outside his cell would not understand, and Denise blamed herself, while he reassured her impatiently and sometimes irritably. Occasionally, when he’d been angry with her, tired of her eternal tears and unnecessarily harsh, he would think that this time she wouldn’t return. But she always did.

Sonya Brandon neither came nor sent any message—but he’d expected no such thing from her in any case. Only her icy unapproachability had attracted him to her in the first place—and later, for a time at least, the surprising passion and abandonment he’d discovered in her. But she was too full of guilt feelings, and she had begun to cling and pout and demand too much. Steve put her out of his mind easily without any pangs. As a matter of fact, there had only been one woman, apart from his mother, that he had not found too easy to forget, and she had been his Comanche wife. He had married her when he was only fifteen, and she had died in an Apache raid, carrying his child. Since then, there had been many women, but he had loved none of them. He made love to them, and in a way he needed them, but he was ruthless and innately selfish in his dealings with women. One would do as well as another, and if he took the time and trouble to arouse a woman physically it was only because he preferred taking a woman who was willing and passionate. Sonya Brandon had begun to bore him, but for Denise he felt an almost unwilling kind of affection, perhaps because of her naturalness and spontaneity. At least Denise had never demanded or tried to pretend.

On the evening of the fifteenth day of Steve’s imprisonment, Major Hart finally died. Steve spent most of the night writing a long and rather difficult letter to his grandfather, who was his closest living relative. He had already been informed in no uncertain terms by General Butler himself that if the major died, his own sentence would be carried out without delay. Army officers in wartime did not engage in duels with each other, no matter what the provocation. And an example must be set, not only to the Union soldiers, but to the citizens of occupied New Orleans as well.

Dispassionately, Steve Morgan understood the truth behind the general’s reasoning. If he did not particularly want to die, he was not afraid of death either. It was something he had long ago learned to live with and accept as inevitable. He had been close to death many times, and the thought had ceased to frighten him. There was, in fact, a streak of recklessness in Steve’s nature that had made him, on several occasions, almost tempt death. He enjoyed taking chances and found a kind of excitement in danger. His only regret now, when he allowed himself to think about it, was that it had to be this way—locked up like an animal to wait for death, instead of going out to find it.

When they came for him the next morning, he was already dressed and waiting. Tossing the letter he had written onto the table, he asked one of the soldiers to give it to Denise when she came. He had scrawled her a short note, lightly worded, asking her to see that the letter to his grandfather was safely despatched. And he had enclosed, as well, all the money he had on his person.

Now that everything had been taken care of, Steve Morgan left his cell with the soldiers, wondering only, with a detached kind of curiosity, why they hadn’t bound his arms, or sent him a priest.

He expected to be taken out into the courtyard and summarily executed, but they escorted him, instead, to the general’s private office.

General Butler came from behind his desk, looking angry and disapproving. A medium-built, rather nondescript looking man in civilian clothes turned away from the window, where he’d been standing and glanced at Steve, studying him without seeming to, his gray eyes cool and noncommittal.

“All right—you soldiers may wait outside,” the general said brusquely. They saluted smartly and wheeled around, closing the door behind them; leaving Steve standing at attention before the general’s desk.

A frown drawing his bushy eyebrows together, Butler turned abruptly to the civilian.

“There’s your man Mr. Bishop,” he said gruffly. “A foolhardy, undisciplined ruffian, if you ask my opinion, but I suppose he might meet your qualifications.” His glance swept coldly over Steve. “Captain Morgan, you may consider yourself under orders to answer any questions Mr. Bishop may put to you. Mr. Bishop,” he added dryly, “is with the Department of the Army in Washington—Special Services. It appears he’s been studying your dossier for some time.”

Turning his back, General Butler stamped off to the window, where he remained looking out, his stiff carriage showing his patent disapproval.

With a slight, mirthless smile, Bishop walked behind the desk and sat down calmly, leafing through some papers there.

He looked up at last, and met Steve Morgan’s carefully guarded eyes with a level glance.

“Well, Captain Morgan, I think I have your complete file here, but there are a few questions I’d like to ask—a few gaps you might fill in for me, if you please.”

Jim Bishop had, at first glance, impressed Steve as being colorless and ordinary. But by the end of a half-hour Steve had formed a grudging respect for the man, who was not only coldly intelligent, but surprisingly clever and knowledgeable as well. He seemed to know more about Steven Morgan than it was possible for anyone to know—and what he did not know, his blunt questions had soon informed him of. Steve was frank with the man—after all, he had nothing left to lose, and it had soon become apparent to him that he might have something to gain—it was obvious that Bishop had something in mind; he would hardly make the journey here from Washington, or be so interested in Steve’s past history if he did not have a purpose for doing so.

All the same, he listened almost unbelievingly when Bishop offhandedly offered him a job—of a sort; and then went on to outline its risks and possible disadvantages in his concise, rather pedantic manner.

“You understand, Captain Morgan, that technically, at least, you’ll be branded a deserter. But since you are under sentence of death, it will not surprise anyone that you’d seize a chance to escape, if such an opportunity presented itself. In actuality, you will still be carried on the army payroll and will retain your present rank, although you will not be wearing a uniform. But your name will only be carried on our books.” Bishop glanced down at the papers before him for a moment before he looked up again. “You have travelled a lot, and you know several languages; that alone will be an asset to us. You will still be required to travel. Perhaps in Europe, where we are having trouble with Confederate spies trying to drum up support for their cause—and perhaps in the Western states and territories of this country. You’re a Western man, and for the most part, this area will be your base of operations. On occasion, you may be sent into Mexico.

“You’ll be contacted from time to time by—other members of our organization, and given various assignments. Needless to say, all these will carry a considerable amount of risk and danger. But you’re used to that, of course.”

Bishop’s eyes were hooded, for a moment. “If you are ever apprehended, it must be understood that naturally, we’ll disclaim all knowledge or responsibility for you or your actions.”

He looked inquiringly at Steve, who said a trifle wryly, “Oh—naturally!”

Bishop gave one of his thin smiles.

“Good—we’re beginning to understand each other, I think!” He continued, “After you leave here, I will see that you are contacted by—um—one of our more experienced men. He’ll fill you in about the type of assignment you’ll be handling, and what we’ll expect. And—as a suggestion—you should build yourself a reputation as a gunfighter—a fast draw—a man who will hire his gun out for pay. But try, if possible, to stay just on the right side of the law. I think you know what I mean, and it would save needless complications. If you have to kill a man, try to make it happen in a fair fight—in front of witnesses. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite clear, sir,” Steve said politely.

“Well, then!” Bishop actually looked quite pleased. “I think you will find this assignment more—er—suited to your temperament than the one you are just about to vacate.” His voice was bland, but Steve sensed an undercurrent of something close to humor in the man, which surprised him.

“Well—” Bishop said again, more briskly, “we’ll arrange for your escape tonight. You’ll leave New Orleans on a flatboat. We’ll talk again of details after you’ve breakfasted, and I will meet you myself in Los Angeles, California, in two months’ time.”

Steve saluted, and had turned to leave when Bishop’s voice halted him.

“Oh, by the way, Captain Morgan—in case I should forget to mention it later—the bullets they’ll be shooting at you when you escape will be real ones. Do try to be careful.”