Her Tender Adversary

Chapter One


Charleston, South Carolina
March 1861


Julia Cameron ran hell for leather up Meeting Street away from the Battery. She didn't dare look back at the man chasing her with the gun for fear she would step into one of the many ruts that cut deeply into the dirt road. One small misstep would be the difference between life and death. The streets were nearly dark, the only light coming from sporadic gaslights. Her two-size too large riding boots slowed her significantly but still she ran. The binding she had wrapped around her breasts felt like a vise, preventing her from taking the deep breaths her lungs craved. Fortunately, the pants she wore made her stride much longer than was possible in one of her gowns. The blood pounded in her ears and tears clouded her vision, but still she ran on. Her breathing became more labored, as she ran still not daring to look back. A sharp pain in her right side tore the breath from her chest as she jammed her hand into the intruding ache. Her stovepipe hat began to slide off and she held onto to it with her free hand. She thought she could hear the slapping of the other man's boots on the hard packed dirt as he gave chase. She willed herself to run faster, away from the predator. A gunshot rent the air, the sting of the bullet grazed her upper arm. She let loose her hat and hoped it was dark enough that her pursuer did not see her hair braided and pinned around her head. Julia glanced down at her arm, envisioning the blood seeping through the cotton shirt. She did not know how much blood one could lose before passing out but she feared if she didn’t get home soon she would find out.
She knew she was a good distance from home but she was afraid she would be followed. She tried to block the morbid image of her being murdered in front of her father, stepmother and brother, but it would not release itself from her mind. Run! She yelled to herself. She finally chanced a look over her shoulder to see the man slowly gaining on her, his pistol in hand, but not pointed at her. She cut left onto Broad Street, searching for somewhere to hide.
The streets were dotted with people going about their evening business. Julia ran trying to avoid them but still occasionally bumped into one trying to lose the stranger in the crowd. He was good. He had not taken his eyes off her, running into people, not stopping to look back, his eyes, she could sense, possibly his soul, intent on killing his prey. Instinctively she turned onto King Street, her street, and immediately regretted it. She prayed it seemed random but was afraid he would know she lived here somewhere. She continued to run, her eyes darting here and there to find a place to hide. Then she saw the horse and cart blocking her view. If she couldn’t see what lay behind it either could her attacker. She rounded the horse and cart and darted into the alley alongside a tavern.
It was rank with rotting fish and garbage, but she hid behind a barrel, not daring to look out into the street for fear of being seen. The man's footsteps came dangerously near, paused near the alley. She heard him, his breathing as loud and uneven as hers had been. He muttered an oath then his footfalls began to fade. Julia stayed behind the barrel for a few minutes to catch her breath.
Her arm felt like it was on fire. She peeled off the jacket and looked at the burn on her arm. She touched it and hissed, then tore a piece of the shirt she wore and wrapped it around the wound. Her breathing evened and Julia leaned back against the building. She closed her eyes to gather her wits and figure out a way to get back home.
Julia climbed out from her hiding place and looked around the corner of the building. The man who had been chasing her was nowhere in sight. She looked on the wooden planked walkways, in the shadows, in the street. Then she saw him, his silhouette barely visible on the roof of the hotel only two buildings away from the alley. She looked around and noticed a laundry line. She yanked a dress down, stripped out of her breeches, shirt and binding and slipped the too tight dress on. The beard and mustache she wore gave a painful tug as she pulled gown over her head. She carefully peeled the false hair off and wrapped them in the bundle of clothing she carried. Julia glanced at the man again. He was looking opposite her and she hurried into the street. Her eyes looked up at him, while she still tried to look forward. She sashayed her hips and hoped the man did not notice the too large riding boots under the too-short hoop skirt she had donned. As she walked farther on, she saw a hackney and hailed it, trying not to seem too panicked.
"Where to miss?" The driver asked.
"24 King Street." She answered then leaned into the back of the seat with a heavy sigh.
Julia stole in through the kitchen entrance of Cameron Manor and hurried up the back stairs. The hour was late as she tiptoed into her bedchamber. Cissy, her waiting maid, had left the lamp burning low. It cast long shadows on the wall as Julia undressed. She carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage from her arm, sucking in her breath as pieces of cotton stuck to the wound. She bathed it in water and ripped another piece of the shirt to wind around the bullet wound. Julia winced as she tied it. She then walked to the wardrobe and put on her nightrail. She crossed to the dressing table and let the pins out of her hair. Her honey-hued hair fell in thick waves down to her waist. She blew out the lamp, crawled into bed, and lay with her good arm behind her head staring up at the lace canopy. Julia still shook from her near death experience. She had not recognized the man. She had not even known he had been following her until he called out her name. She had turned and the first shot rang out. People on the street screamed and ran for cover. The bullet had missed her but not by much. Her saving grace had been a rut in the road forcing her to dodge to the left. Julia had taken off like a bat out of Hell, praying for someone to stop the man. Of course, she should have known no one would stop him.
Julia searched every recess of her mind, trying to figure out if she recognized the would-be murderer. He did not look familiar. She could not make out any distinguishing features in the dark except that he was exceptionally tall. Instinctively she knew that he would never give up pursuit. Perhaps he was the one who had killed another abolitionist, Allan Dumfries. Allan had had three attacks on his life in one month before being stabbed outside his own home in Tennessee. She had a damn good disguise. Now she just had to keep her wits about her and survive until she could find the devil.