by Karen White
The plodding pace soothed me, each step lulling me closer to sleep until I felt myself fall over the horse’s neck. Pamela yanked me up by the back of my dress. It was then I noticed that the sounds around us had changed. The birds had stopped twittering in the trees; even the sound of chirping crickets had ceased. I looked up through the thick canopy of trees and saw clouds creeping over the sun and casting us in shadow. But there were no storm clouds; nothing to cause the rippling of flesh up my spine.
I stifled a scream as a man in a dark blue uniform stepped out of the trees in front of us, his rifle pointing at my chest.
“Halt!”
Leaves above us rustled and I craned my neck to see another soldier roosting on a branch, his weapon trained on a spot near my head. I pulled on the horse’s mane, assuming it would know to stop. A speckled yellow leaf drifted down on my lap as the tree climber swept down to stand in front of us. He was at least a head shorter than the other soldier, with light blond fuzz covering his cheeks. He looked no more than nineteen.
The taller soldier walked over to us. “What have we got here, Johnny? A couple of rebs, if you ask me.”
Johnny took his hat off. “Looks like a couple of women, Corporal.” His rifle wavered but remained fixed on us.
Without lowering his gun, the tall corporal asked, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Pamela shifted the carpetbags, which seemed to have made a permanent wedge in my back, and reached for her pocket.
“Stop!” The corporal approached the side of the horse and, without apology, stuck his hand in Pamela’s pocket. I forced myself to remain calm and reminded myself that Pamela was smart enough to have removed her gun.
My heart sank as he pulled out a folded letter. I stole a glance at Pamela, but her eyes were on the soldier, staring at him expectantly. “Open it.”
He did, and then looked back at Pamela, while Johnny reached for the letter. “Are you Mrs. Pamela Broderick?”
She nodded, her eyelids downcast in mock servitude.
He indicated me with his rifle. “And who is this?”
“This is Laura Elliott, William Elliott’s sister-in-law.”
“And you are Captain Elliott’s mother-in-law?”
Again she nodded.
“Is he expecting you?”
She shook her head. “No. But I am carrying important information for him to pass on to our General Sherman. Once I obtained it, it was too late to notify Captain Elliott—and far too dangerous. The information I am carrying is much too sensitive for it to fall into enemy hands.”
I peered down at the letter in his hand. I recognized the handwriting from an old letter from William that Julia had shown me.
“Why is this young lady with you?” The shorter soldier spoke to Pamela but stared at me.
“I needed her for protection. I am an old lady—not as strong as I used to be.”
The boy raised his eyebrows and looked at me. “Are you armed?”
Pamela answered, “No, but she is a lot stronger than she looks.”
I sat quietly on the horse, my hands clenched tightly in front of me.
The older soldier ordered us to dismount, taking a step backward as I reached the ground. His gaze traveled up and down me while he spoke. “Ladies, we will escort you to our sergeant. He will bring you to the provost marshal, who will decide if you will see General Sherman.” He turned his head slightly and spit a long stream of dark brown juice out of the side of his mouth, then wiped the remaining bits clinging to his lip with his sleeve. “And if you ain’t who you say you are, Uncle Billy will probably string you up, women or not.”
The younger soldier led the way and we followed him down the path. I saw more shadows in the woods and knew we were being watched by other soldiers on picket duty. Our two guards no longer pointed their rifles at us but still held them where they could easily be aimed and fired. The taller one led the horse by his halter.
“Why do you call General Sherman Uncle Billy?” I asked.
Johnny answered with a shy smile, “On account of him being one of us. Real personable. Me and the corporal been with him since Shiloh—and there just ain’t a better soldier.” He paused for a moment. “But he don’t much like women, preachers, or newspaper people in his camp, that’s for sure. I recommend telling him what you need to and then getting out of the way.”
For the first time in this odyssey, I was nervous. I remembered pictures I’d seen of the sour-faced Sherman, and his reputation in Georgia as being the Nero of the nineteenth century. This was the man I was supposed to seduce. Being shot sounded like a fine alternative.
We walked in silence, our footsteps punctuated by the occasional wet slap of tobacco juice and spittle against dead leaves. We crested a ridge, and I felt a tightening in my chest. Below me lay the South’s destruction. White canvas tents, filled with men in blue uniforms, covered the green slopes and hills. I sighed into the breeze as I eyed the show of strength before me. Soldiers filled the ground between tents like ants at a picnic, scurrying from one place to another. Horses and artillery crowded the far rise, and I sucked in my breath, imagining the force behind these placid pieces. History said that all the pride and patriotism of Johnston’s Southern army would be laid low in the deep grass of Georgia’s hills, bowed down in the face of the awesome power of lead and the sheer numbers that lay before me. But the ink in the history books was apparently not indelible.
Our procession attracted stares and downright leers as we were led deeper into the encampment. Campfires littered the ground, and the smells of bacon fat and burning coffee made my mouth water. I hadn’t eaten since dinner the previous evening. I was acutely aware of my status as a female in a sea of males who were prepared to die. I gathered my skirts closely around me and hugged the carpetbag over my chest.
Our horse had been left on the outskirts of the camp. I wanted to ask someone to take it back to the woman we had stolen it from, but thought again that perhaps the woman wouldn’t welcome the soldiers on her isolated farm with only her single rifle to protect herself.
It was late afternoon before we found our way into Chattanooga. We had been given horses to ride and escorted from the encampment by four soldiers from 7th Independent Company, Ohio Sharpshooters. I could feel my hair springing loose from its pins and straggling against my neck. My skirt had a jagged tear up to the knee, exposing my ripped petticoat and holes from my two days of walking through the forest, and I was sure dark circles of exhaustion ringed my eyes. I hoped my brother-in-law would have pity and take us in without question.
We entered a large house at 110 East First Street. I was told that the house had been commandeered from the wealthy Lattner family, who had fled from the city when the Yankees had first captured it in 1863.
Rich carvings accented the tall ceilings, and crystal chandeliers glittered light into the rooms. Our feet tapped on the black-and-white marble floors, heralding our arrival. We were shown into the parlor and left alone to wait for my brother-in-law.
Pamela seated herself on a red velvet sofa and stared at me with level eyes. Desperate for a mirror, I searched the room for anything reflective. I noticed a mirror at the bottom of the buffet, a petticoat mirror for the ladies to unobtrusively check to see if their underskirts were visible under their dresses. Being unobtrusive wasn’t a current concern, so I knelt on the floor to inspect the damage to my hair and face.
I licked my fingers and began to remove a dirty smudge from my chin. I was in the midst of scrubbing when I heard a throat being cleared, too deep to be Pamela. I stood, hitting my head on the bottom of the buffet and knocking a dish to the floor, shattering blue and white china into tiny pieces.
Rubbing my head, I stood and found myself staring into familiar blue eyes. My heart skipped a beat as I looked at his face and saw the beloved similarities. The hair was the same, straight and dark, and parted
to the side. The nose a trifle longer, a bit haughtier. The same strong jawline. But there was something else—a fundamental difference. No light shone behind these eyes. I peered into them and saw something cold shivering in the icy blue depths.
I forced myself to smile at him. “You must be William.”
He looked at Pamela in confusion. “What is going on here?” He looked back at me and let his gaze travel up my costume—from my mud-encrusted shoes to my dirty face and wayward hair. He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”
“I’m Laura Elliott. Your sister-in-law.” I couldn’t stop myself from staring.
“My sister-in-law?” Without preamble, he grabbed my left hand to examine my ring. “This was my mother’s.” An angry flush stained his cheeks.
I could see the effort he made to smile back at me. “Then let me welcome you into our family, sister.” He embraced me, crushing me to his chest. I felt his moist lips linger on my cheek and I resisted the impulse to wipe his kiss off my skin.
I studied his face again and knew that I could never count on this man to be my ally.
Our attention was turned by a commotion in the foyer and several loud voices reverberating throughout the hallway. One in particular caught my attention. Deep and clear with staccato accents, it seemed to be a voice of authority. “Tell those busybodies that my trains are for supplies for my army. I have no room, and I repeat, no room, for do-gooders and those damned newspaper people.”
Footsteps approached the parlor, and I waited expectantly for the owner of the voice to appear. He walked in and stopped abruptly, taking us in with a bold appraisal. The elusive aroma of cigar smoke entered the room with him.
He was tall and very thin, his weathered face lined with deep crevices. His dark red hair, standing up as if at attention, somehow did not make this man a comical character. The stars on his shoulders belied the stained and sloppy appearance of his dark blue uniform. There was no doubt who this man was. I had heard him referred to by various names—from Nero to Satan to Georgia’s Nemesis. And, recently, as Uncle Billy. This man was without a doubt no other than the man who would coin the phrase “War is hell”: General William Tecumseh Sherman.
He blinked rapidly at us before turning his attention to William. “Captain Elliott. Who are these women and why are they here?”
William snapped to attention and began introductions. “General, you have met my wife’s mother, Mrs. Pamela Broderick, at a dinner in Nashville at the home of Andrew Johnson. And this is my brother’s wife, Mrs. Laura Elliott.”
The general peered at me through narrowed eyes and then turned back to William. “Captain. I believe your brother is with the rebel army.”
“Yes, sir. As much as it pains me, he is.”
“I see.” General Sherman scratched his short beard. “And your sister-in-law. Is she a rebel, too?”
“That would depend,” I interjected, smarting at being treated as if I weren’t in the room.
The general raised his eyebrow at me. “I see. And what would that depend on?”
“On who is asking the question.”
Pamela stepped forward. “I beg your pardon, sir. Mrs. Elliott and I are both staunch supporters of the Union. We are here to pass on information that might be of some use to you.”
On our long journey she had divulged the information she was speaking of. Direct from Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston’s headquarters in Dalton, she had a list of the full strength of the Southern armies—down to the last mule. She handed the small stack of papers to him without pause, knowing it would be of little use to him or his army once he was dead.
He took the papers from her and examined them, the crease between his brows deepening. “Where did you get these?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but I must keep my sources secret. Suffice it to say the gentleman in question is a member of General Johnston’s own staff.”
He nodded and folded the papers in half. His hands were callused and spattered with dark brown freckles. “Very good. I will, of course, verify these figures. But your efforts are greatly appreciated. I hope the two of you will do me the honor of dining with me and my staff this evening.”
Not pausing to wait for an answer, Sherman faced me, his eyes flickering over my appearance. “Madam, have you traveled far?”
My knees nearly buckled with fatigue, and my weariness pushed all thoughts of politeness and the purpose of my visit out of my head. “No. I always look like I’ve been in a train wreck.”
There was a stunned silence to punctuate my remark. I heard the passing of a carriage outside and someone shouting. He raised an eyebrow.
“I see. And does your husband approve?”
One knee did buckle, and I tried to estimate how many steps backward I’d have to take to make it to the nearest chair. “I don’t think my appearance is a major concern of his, General.”
He coughed into his hand, but I could see he was grinning. “Actually, I meant does he approve of your Unionist sympathies.”
“Uh, not exactly.”
He rubbed his beard, the rasping sound grating on my nerves. “Are you still on speaking terms?”
“Yes, you could say that.” I took another step backward and felt the backs of my knees at the edge of a chair. I dropped into the seat without looking. The cushion vibrated in startled movement and erupted with a loud meow.
I jumped out of the chair. “Shit!” I exclaimed, as the black-and-white feline escaped through the doorway. All eyes were on me as the blood rushed to the tips of my ears and a small gasp came from Pamela.
Ignoring my outburst, General Sherman said, “You must be tired.” He turned to William. “Captain, please see that these ladies have a room.” He emphasized the word ladies. “Dinner is at eight o’clock.” He bowed sharply and left, but not before I saw the grin through his beard.
I plopped back down in the empty chair. William came and stood before me, offering his hand. “My, my. Where did my brother find you?”
Ignoring his hand, I stood. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
He threw his head back and laughed—Stuart’s laugh. Tears sprang to my eyes. I needed him now. I needed him to tell me I was doing the right thing. I turned my head away.
“What I need now is a room and a bath. Perhaps after that I will be in the mood to chat about Julia and your family, since I’m sure they’re your primary concern.” It hadn’t escaped my notice that he hadn’t mentioned Julia’s name once.
“Yes, I would like that.” His face registered annoyance as he picked up our bags and indicated with his hand that we precede him through the door. “Ladies.”
With a heavy sigh, I followed. Low voices carried toward me from the library, like murmurs of ghosts from the past. I felt eyes on my back and I turned to see General Sherman and another officer watching our progress. I inclined my head slightly, then turned back, my feet tapping against the marble floors. The sound made me think of footprints in history. I wondered if my own would be indelible, with thick, deep impressions in the soil, or fade with time, like yellowed pages from an old history book.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
—ROBERT FROST
Alarge beetle crawled across the toe of my satin slipper. Hearing my intake of breath, Pamela turned in time to see the insect scurrying under the puddled draperies. She stooped to pick it up, its shell shiny in the thin light from the lamp, then tightened her fingers around it until it crunched. She stepped to the window and discarded the remains into the garden below.
Wiping her hand on the skirt of her dress, she walked back to me, studying my red velvet dress with a critical eye. She reached up
with both hands and tugged at the short sleeves, exposing as much chest and shoulder as the dress would allow without being obscene. My hand twitched, wanting to pull the sleeves up to my neck, but I was resigned to the fact that I would need to do whatever it took to get Sherman’s attention.
Pamela had done a decent job on my hair and I thought, as I fastened the jet earrings in my ears, that I was more than passable. The smell of cooking drifted up the stairs, making my stomach rumble. Pamela crooked an eyebrow at me. “Perhaps we should go down for a drink before dinner, hmm?”
I turned to face her, my fingers clutching at the fabric of my dress. “I need to see proof that Sarah is . . . alive.” I had promised Julia that I would send her word. Even if I couldn’t, I owed it to her to find out.
She gave me a condescending smile. “I am sorry, dear. But that is not possible.”
“What if I refuse to . . . to cooperate unless I know she’s all right?”
Her smile evaporated. “Then she will be killed. Any more questions?”
I stood, frozen, then shook my head and walked toward the door.
She stopped me with a hand on my elbow. “One last thing. When this is all over, you will not implicate me or anybody else. You are acting of your own accord, because of your hatred for the Yankees. This is part of the bargain, Laura. Follow it through, and there will be enough people to risk their lives to save you. And then you will be reunited with your daughter.”
I swallowed heavily. “How do we know this will all turn out as you plan? This is all very risky, isn’t it?”
“No different from life, Laura. We can only do what we can. Now go downstairs. I will follow you shortly.”
Pamela closed the door behind me. The stilted strains of a Beethoven sonata drifted toward me. I followed the music to a room across from the parlor I had been in earlier. I remembered floor-to-ceiling books from my brief glance inside—books left behind by the previous tenants. I stood tentatively on the threshold, one hand pressed to my collarbone where the blood pounded under my fingertips.