One Wore Blue

by Heather Graham

  She hugged her again. Kiernan found herself before the fire with Thomas while Lacey went into the kitchen to prepare tea.

  “Thomas, what has happened here?” she asked him. “It is so terribly desolate!”

  Thomas sucked on his pipe, studying the fire. “It’s been bad here, you know.” He shrugged and screwed up his face in thought. “Let’s see—the vote for secession happened in April. We had a Rebel soldier at the telegraph office and Union boys at the arsenal. It’s hard to keep track of things, they change so quickly. On the eighteenth, southern forces marched in. The Yanks had destroyed what they could of the armory before leaving. A local man, an Irishman named Donovan, had shouldered a musket to guard the place, and when the Rebs marched in, poor Donovan was very nearly lynched for his Yankee sympathies.

  “It’s been a hard road here, Kiernan, what with folks split in their beliefs, some for the old government, some for the new. It was tough with the Rebel soldiers in town—young, green fellows for the most part, brash, and impressed with their own importance. ’Course, they were all Virginians in here then, and I’ve heard tell that we’re the most tolerant of the folk, and that if it had been soldiers from the Gulf states, Donovan would be as dead as a doornail by now. Harpers Ferry is between the hawk and the buzzard, I do tell you!

  “Let me see, the Rebs were here a few months. Jeb Stuart came in to form up a cavalry corps—a friend of yours was with him and stopped by, young Daniel Cameron. He was as fine and cavalier a soldier as ever, but I tell you, Kiernan, even though it was our southern boys in here, it was still the downfall of the town. The strutting militia fellows were pulled out and a fine man, a colonel named Jackson—he’s a general now, distinguished himself at Bull Run, he did, the one they’re calling “Stonewall”—he came in, and things were better. But the town was tainted somehow. Suddenly everyone either was a spy or was thought a spy. There’s been black-marketing and the like ever since. With all the soldiers in—well, women of the weaker persuasion have flourished.”

  “Everyone seems to be gone!” Kiernan murmured.

  “Oh, there’s still folks about, though not so many. Things got worse. There were cries of ‘Yanks!’ every other day. One day there was a horrible hailstorm—yes, ma’am, a hailstorm—and the troops all went marching out to meet up with a supposed attack. They came back frozen and wet and soaked through, and their brand-new uniforms a wreck. The machinery in the rifle workshops has all been dismantled and sent south to Fayettesville, in South Carolina. The Miller place was dismantled along with the one-time federal works—but the Rebs did leave payment for that. The Millers’ lawyer put it all aside and has taken good care of it. You’ve still got some control of the place your Pa and Andrew and me set up a year or so ago down in the valley. We can talk on that later.”

  He fell silent, a sad old man. Kiernan prompted him onward. “What happened then?”

  “Let’s see. Jackson left, and General Joe Johnston was put in command. Then on June fourteenth, the Rebs started blowing things up. They blew the railroad bridge and the arsenal buildings, and they retreated up the valley. Some Mississippi and Maryland troops came through at the end of the month, and they finished off the bridge. Then on the Fourth of July, there was a lively skirmish. Yanks said they won, Rebs said they won. But at nightfall, the Yanks were firing across the river from Maryland Heights, and they killed a civilian. Then things got worse. A Union general, Patterson, was after the Reb Joe Johnston’s troops, but Johnston gave him the slip to make it on over to Bull Run and throw in his lot with Beauregard. Patterson pulled back here to Harpers Ferry. I tell you, Kiernan, whatever prowess the Union soldiers might lack on the battlefield, they do not lack in foraging! They ravaged this town. If it wasn’t tied down, they took it. Why, some of the boys have told me that they even stole a tombstone out of the Methodist cemetery!” He paused, and exhaled slowly. “Well, they’ve gone now. There still seem to be some sharpshooters up on the heights yet, and we get some Confederates running around in town—mostly up on the heights this side—to return their fire. But the town—well, she’s been wounded. Sometimes I think it’s been a mortal blow.”

  Kiernan stood up and came to his side, setting an arm around his shoulder and laying her cheek against it. “I’m so sorry, Thomas.”

  He patted her hand absently. “I’m sorry for you, Kiernan. So quickly a bride, so swiftly a widow. Anthony was a very fine young man.”

  “I know,” Kiernan said.

  “Here’s tea!” Lacey announced, bustling through from the kitchen. She offered Kiernan a wry grin. “It’s not much, but it’s all I could muster. There’s some fine cold chicken, Kiernan. Those Yanks carried off nearly every feathered creature in town, but Janey sent this one over when Thomas told her you were coming. She wants you to know, too, how happy she is to have you coming.”

  Janey would have thought of something like that, Kiernan thought. She remembered briefly that Janey had been freed by Anthony’s will, but that paper work still had to be taken care of. She would get to it quickly, she promised herself. She felt a chill steal over her. There was so much.…

  There was the beautiful home in the mountains, Montemarte. Anthony had loved Montemarte very much. It was old, like Cameron Hall. It was beautiful, it was graceful. It had been built nearly a century ago. It belonged to Jacob now—Jacob, a boy of twelve.

  She owed it to Anthony to protect that heritage for him.

  There was Patricia, too, and there was the business, the Miller Firearms factories.

  She suddenly felt weary. She wondered if she was competent to deal with it all.

  You will be competent! she commanded herself sternly. You will! After everything that you did to that poor man!

  “Kiernan, dear?” Lacey repeated. “Are you all right? Of course, you’re not. I keep forgetting that poor Anthony has barely grown cold, that we’ve not even gotten his body into the ground.”

  “It’s all right, Lacey,” Kiernan said. She smiled. She and Thomas sat down to the meal that Lacey had worked so hard and so anxiously to prepare. Kiernan did her best to do justice to the meal. She pushed most of her food around, but her tea was very hot and sweet, and she suspected that Lacey had braced it with a touch of something a bit stronger.

  “Was everything all right?” Lacey asked her.

  “Everything was wonderful,” Kiernan assured her. She smiled, still holding her teacup.

  “I’ll get more tea!” Lacey told her.

  The town had changed drastically since she had last been here, Kiernan thought. When John Brown had conducted his raid, there had been several thousand people in town. It had been a prosperous place. And now?

  The silence was oppressive. As darkness approached, it seemed to fall even more heavily. No light seemed to flicker into the house from outside. No street lamps were lit, and inside the house, no light was lit.

  Thomas Donahue must have sensed her question, for he explained softly to her, “Can’t have too much light. The Yanks over there shoot at anything. We keep it dark.”

  “Oh,” Kiernan murmured.

  Thomas leaned close to her. “Kiernan, you’ve got to take grave care.”

  “Why is that?” she asked him, her eyes widening.

  “Well, Miller firearms have been provided for many a fighting man. Andrew managed to get his stock and himself out of town before the Yanks could come for him. Now Andrew and Anthony are dead, but down in the valley, our employees are still manufacturing arms at a startling rate for the Rebs. The Yanks might still decide to come in for the house.”

  “Montemarte?” she inquired, startled.

  “Montemarte,” Thomas said.

  “But that would be wanton destruction of property!” Kiernan protested.

  Thomas smiled bitterly. “Watch the war unfold, Kiernan. There has already been wanton destruction of property. I’m not saying that anything will happen, I’m just warning you that you’ve got to take care, and be prepared.”

  She straightene
d her shoulders, though her heart was sinking.

  She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to go home to her father. She wanted to endure the war in Tidewater Virginia. She wanted to know what was happening to Daniel.

  And no matter how she despised him, she wanted to know of any word from Jesse.

  But she had married Anthony, and her place was here now.

  “I’ll manage,” she told Thomas. She realized that her voice was harsh, and she squeezed his hand to take away the sting of it. But when he looked at her, she knew that he saw the tears that she held back, and that he understood.

  He pushed back his chair. “Seems I ought to be taking you out to Montemarte now.”

  She rose. She kissed Lacey and promised that they would see each other again very soon.

  She followed Thomas out to the carriage.

  It wasn’t a long ride to Montemarte, not more than twenty minutes.

  But that night, the ride was far too short.

  Thomas drew the wagon up before the house and helped her out.

  There was a light in the window. They were far away from the snipers up on Maryland Heights.

  Thomas took her arm and led her up the walk. She wondered how the children would react to her. For a moment, an uneasy fear curled in her chest and constricted her throat. She was such a sham! Their brother’s widow. Oh, if they only knew! She’d had no right to marry him. They would look into her eyes, and they would know, and they would despise her for the hypocrisy they saw.

  She slowed her pace and stared up at the beautiful facade of the house.

  “Kiernan?” Thomas said worriedly.

  She walked forward, her knees trembling.

  For the dear Lord’s sake! She was about to meet children!

  Children could see so clearly.

  They might even see that she was in love with a Yankee soldier—a man their brother had challenged in a duel, a man who had shot their brother.

  Maybe they would see her as the woman who had caused that duel.

  God, what a coward, she railed silently against herself. She kept walking.

  Suddenly, the door burst open. In a blur of motion, someone was running against her.

  A soft body catapulted into hers. Instinctively, she stooped low, opening her arms.

  Patricia Miller, just turned twelve, easily threw herself into Kiernan’s arms. And Kiernan just as easily wrapped her arms around the little girl, who was so woefully dressed in gray.

  “You’ve come! You’ve come to be with us. Jacob said that you wouldn’t, that you wouldn’t feel you’d been married long enough to be obliged. But I knew you’d come.” Patricia pulled away from her, her warm, tear-stained eyes ardently upon Kiernan’s. “I knew that you’d come. I always knew why Anthony loved you so much. You’ll stay, won’t you? You won’t leave us too?”

  Kiernan returned her stare, and warmth flooded through her.

  Patricia was a child who had lost her father and her older brother on the same day. She was hurt and lost and alone, and suddenly, standing there upon the porch, she gave something back to Kiernan—something that Kiernan had lost, or perhaps even something that she had never had.

  “Yes, of course, I’ll stay.”

  “You’re my sister now, aren’t you?” Patricia demanded.

  “Yes, I’m your sister now. And you and Jacob and I are going to do very well together.” She looked past Patricia. Jacob, twelve, was his sister’s twin, but he was already sprouting up to be a man and was not so quick to hand over his love and trust. Kiernan would not force him to do so.

  “Hello, Jacob,” she said.

  His brown eyes, so like Anthony’s, were grave. “Hello, Kiernan.”

  What was missing in Jacob’s greeting was made up for in Janey’s. The black woman had stepped through the doorway too. “Oh, Miz Kiernan! It is good to have you home!”

  Janey hugged her fiercely.

  Home.

  But it wasn’t her home!

  She had made her bed …

  Yes, now it was hers.

  Home.

  * * *

  In the morning, Kiernan sat between Jacob and Patricia in the Episcopal church and listened while words were spoken over the bodies of Anthony and Andrew Miller.

  The reverend spoke of Anthony’s grieving widow, and she realized he meant her.

  For the first time she realized that, whether or not she had loved Anthony as she should, she had lost a very dear friend. She would never hear his laughter again, never see the sincerity in his warm dark eyes. Tears welled in her own, and a feeling of pain and loss moved through her with a startling severity. Anthony was dead. The dead did not rise, not here on earth. She would never see him again.

  The reverend spoke on about the valor and the courage of these men who had been so swift to give their lives to the great southern cause. The Millers were beloved in this country, and the reverend’s words were impassioned and earnest. He spoke of the loss of life, of youth and beauty, and of dreams, and as he did so, Kiernan closed her eyes and saw Anthony as she had seen him that last night. So exuberant, so tender, so excited, and as the reverend had said, so beautiful in his youth and gallantry and courage. Now, that was all gone. All that was left of the fine young man was a mangled body to lie and rot in a graveyard.

  Either it was the realization that Anthony was dead and gone, or it was the sudden knowledge, deep, swift and sure, that the bloodshed had just begun. But suddenly the numbness left her, and her tears trailed down her cheeks in silent streams. At last she was able to grieve.

  The bodies were placed in a fine black hearse and drawn uphill by an ebony gelding to the cemetery. Behind it, in Thomas Donahue’s black-draped carriage, the Donahues, Kiernan, Jacob, and Patricia followed. Up at the crest of the hill, in the old cemetery, Anthony and his father were laid to rest in a gated family plot with their kin.

  Dust to dust, ashes to ashes …

  As they stood by the grave site, even Jacob’s fingers curled around hers.

  The Confederate flag that had draped Andrew’s coffin was handed over to Patricia. The one that draped Anthony’s was given to Kiernan. She and Patricia stepped forward to toss summer roses into the ground atop the coffins.

  Soon those roses would die, she thought.

  Dust to dust … like the men beneath them.

  The funeral was over.

  All that had to be endured now was the meal back at Montemarte. When they returned to the house, there was frightfully little on the tables, but there were very few people there.

  The war had already stripped Harpers Ferry and Bolivar and the surrounding countryside of much of their population.

  Still, Kiernan thought that she should speak to Janey about the poor spread that had been put on the table for the mourners.

  Janey looked at her with dark eyes that were weary and sad. “Miz Kiernan, I put out everything I could manage.”

  “Janey, if you needed help, you should have gotten it!”

  Janey was quiet for a minute.

  “Janey?”

  “Well, Miz Kiernan, this place never was a plantation, not like your home back in the Tidewater region.”

  “Well, of course not, but—”

  “We have gardens here. Chickens, a cow, and a few pigs. We used to have two more house slaves and ten to tend to the stables and the grounds.”

  “That’s what I mean. If you needed help—”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Miz Kiernan. Outside the house, there’s Jeremiah and his sons David and Tyne left, and there’s me left inside. Mr. Andrew and Mr. Anthony were gone when the Union troops were here. All but Jeremiah’s family and me done gone and run off.” She lifted her hands expressively. “Mr. Andrew were never a hard man on nobody—he never whipped a man that I know of—but that taste of freedom was too strong. They just run off. Now, if we were on the Maryland side of the river, the law would probably have gone after them all. But this is Virginia, and it’s a state in rebelli
on, and no one were going to try to give slaves back to a southern man, especially not the man who owns the Miller Firearms Factories.”

  Kiernan looked at Janey, and her heart sank. The huge house had to be taken care of. The gardens and the livestock … and they had to eat.

  But everyone was gone—everyone but Janey and a man named Jeremiah and his sons. However was she going to manage?

  She felt hysteria rise within her. She didn’t belong here, she should be home. She hated the empty mountain roads, the shell-shot streets in town, and the darkness and the depression that had settled over the area. She hated the Yankees for killing Anthony and Andrew, and most of all she hated Jesse.

  It was all his fault.

  No, she couldn’t hate him, she couldn’t even think about him anymore. She couldn’t afford to pray for his life, and she didn’t dare let herself realize that she was grateful she hadn’t heard about his death.

  She inhaled and exhaled quickly. She heard the voices of the mourners speaking softly and gently to Jacob and Patricia. There weren’t many of them—the food would suffice. They would do very well there at Montemarte—she would see to it that they did.

  There were things to be grateful for.

  “Janey, thank you for not running off.”

  Janey smiled, a proud, handsome woman. “I am a free woman, Miz Kiernan. I love those children like my own, and they love me. Why would I run off?”

  “Thank you just the same,” Kiernan said. “Because I need you very badly. Tomorrow, I’ll go and tell Jeremiah the same.” She started to walk away, but turned back. “Janey, I’ve been in something of a fog lately, I’m afraid. Do you know if Mr. Andrew made any considerations for Jeremiah in his will?”