When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  As if he could sense her feelings, even if he could not see her expression, Guy suddenly said, “Go on, Leigh. I’ll be all right,” he told her, managing to find and pick up his napkin.

  “Miss Leigh!” Jolie called again, her hands on her hips as she waited for Leigh to take her place at the head of the table, then sitting down to take her place next to Stephen, and across from the two children, who were chattering. Hushing them, they quieted as Leigh said grace, then the ordinary sounds of a family dining together filled the room.

  “You don’t eat enough, honey,” Jolie told Leigh as she cleared the empty plates from the table. For a moment she watched Leigh cradling the baby in her lap as she fed it, handing Leigh a cloth when the baby gurgled and laughed, dribbling gravy down its dimpled chin, its small hand pushing away the spoon. “She’s close to bustin’, you got her so full of milk and honey and gravy. An’ sure am pleased to see Miss Althea eatin’ somethin’ more than she has,” Jolie said, glancing over at Althea, who was sitting up, Noelle and Steward on either side of her as she read to them.

  Stephen was putting another log on the fire, but soon he and Jolie would help Althea to her room. He’d already brought in a couple of mattresses and blankets, which he’d place close to the hearth later, and where he and Guy preferred to sleep each night. Guy claimed it was far easier for him to remain in the study than to stumble upstairs, but his real concern was the safety of the house. Although they’d never said anything, both he and Stephen felt better being downstairs where they could be easily alerted if anyone prowled around Travers Hill at night; Guy’s hounds growling at the least little noise.

  “I’m going to take her upstairs and tuck her in,” Leigh said, holding the warm bundle close against her breast for a moment, then across her shoulder as she patted her gently, the resulting burp causing Steward to giggle and mimic her noisily until Althea surprised him by admonishing him into quietness, for he’d never received a reprimand from his mother before.

  “Are you quite certain you want that little rascal in your bedchamber tonight?” Leigh questioned, holding out her hand for him to kiss with gentlemanly dignity and giggles, which was their usual ritual every evening.

  “I’m a gentl’mon, Steban says,” he told everyone proudly. “Jus’ like my papa.”

  Althea stared at her son in surprise, never having heard him put more than two words together. “You certainly are,” she told him.

  “Alwuz kiss Auntie’s hand,” he said, and Leigh suspected it was only a matter of time before he’d be winking at her.

  “Me too, Mama?” Noelle asked, staring at her mother hopefully.

  “Yes, indeed, both of my babies are going to be with me tonight,” she promised, pressing a warm kiss against her daughter’s cheek.

  “We’ll have to get that little fellow on Pumpkin’s back one of these days soon, never heard of a Braedon, and certainly not a Travers, who couldn’t sit a horse, or at least a pony, properly,” Leigh heard Guy say as she walked to the door, taking the lighted candle from Stephen. She turned at the door, watching them gathered together; all that was left of the Travers family of Virginia.

  The rest of them were gone now.

  The foyer was cold, the darkness hiding the bloodstains on the pine planking of the floor where wounded soldiers had lain dying. The flickering candlelight guiding her, Leigh made her way up the stairs and along the darkened hallway.

  Reaching her bedchamber, she placed the candle on the windowsill, then carefully put the baby down in another, far more elaborate cradle next to the big four-poster. The canopied cradle, draped with delicate damask hangings to keep out the drafts, had rocked several generations of the Travers family into peaceful slumber. Lovingly, Leigh covered the baby with a thick quilt, tucking it in securely around the already sleeping child.

  Leigh stood for a moment, resting her shoulder against the bedpost, remembering the sound of voices and the pale images of familiar faces.

  Palmer William. Almost a year to the day, July 21, 1861, after that summer four years ago, Palmer William had died in the Battle of First Manassas. The Yanks called it Bull Run. Riding with his onetime professor from the Virginia Military Institute, it had been the battle where General Jackson had won the name “Stonewall.” Palmer William had fallen in the afternoon, at Henry House Hill. The Confederate troops had made a valiant defense, driving the federal soldiers back. It had been a costly defeat for the Union; and an even costlier one for their family.

  Leigh walked over to the blanket chest that had been pushed against the wall beneath the window to make room for the trundle bed. She opened the lid, moving the candle closer to reveal the contents. Her hand found the fringed officer’s sash and she held it tightly for a moment before carefully placing it back in the trunk, next to the pair of gauntlet gloves and the jaunty slouch hat with the ostrich plume Palmer William had favored as being far more dashing than a kepi. His sword lay on top, next to the pistol he had carried into battle, and which she had used that day to kill the looters. His possessions had been returned to them by the family that had buried him in their own family plot, Justin Braedon having carried his friend’s body from the battlefield to a nearby farm to be buried with dignity.

  Justin Braedon. It hadn’t been long after that, just after Christmas, in the first month of a new year, that they’d heard from Nathan that Justin had been killed in a skirmish in the Shenandoah Valley. It was during the Romney Campaign, and his troop had been trying to destroy the tracks of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. He’d still been with Stonewall Jackson, riding proudly into battle to the stirring music from the Stonewall Brigade Band, the brass band of the Fifth Virginia Infantry. Palmer William had written to her about them, claiming he had taught his horse, Bourbon, to prance in time to “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” but he’d charge whenever he heard the first notes of “The Star Spangled Banner,” sensing there were Yankees around.

  Leigh reached deeper into the trunk, lifting out a large leather-bound book that had been placed against the side. Carefully, she opened it, staring curiously at the watercolor scenes of Confederate troops camped in the woods, of a young, unidentified cavalry officer, of gunboats patrolling a peaceful stretch of the James River, and various landscapes she’d never seen before.

  Stuart James. He had left his artist’s portfolio with her the last time he had visited, before he had been wounded at Gettysburg last summer. Somehow it seemed almost appropriate now that Stuart James had been wounded while attacking a place called Cemetery Hill. He’d lingered for six months. He was buried now next to other members of the Travers family who’d died before him, but most of them peacefully, and not before their time.

  Thisbe Anne. A bitter smile curved Leigh’s lips as she thought of her former sister-in-law. Thisbe Anne had spent most of the war in Philadelphia. She’d run back up to the North as soon as she’d discovered all the fighting was in Virginia and the rest of the South. The only time they’d heard from her was six months after Stuart James had died. She wanted information about Willow Creek Landing, as well as Travers Hill, for as the widow of Stuart James, the eldest son, she wanted to know if she now owned the Travers house and land. She was also now Mrs. Stanway Billingsley. She had married a prosperous Philadelphia businessman. With pleasure, Leigh had written to her informing her that Guy Travers was still alive, and as the only surviving son, was heir to Travers Hill. To assure his wishes were followed, when his eldest son had inherited Willow Creek from the Palmer estate, Stuart Travers had made a will naming Guy as sole beneficiary of Travers Hill, and had he died without issue, then Palmer William inherited. Stuart James’s widow had no claim to Travers Hill. They would hear no more from Thisbe Anne. Leigh’s only regret was that they’d never see Stuart James’s children. And if they heard again from Thisbe, then Nathan would know how to deal with her.

  Nathan. They’d received word from him in the fall that he was in Tennessee. He’d gone with General Longstreet to reinforce the Confederate troops fighting at
Chattanooga. They’d joined the battle at a place called Chickamauga Creek. Jolie had told them that Chickamauga was a Cherokee word. It meant “River of Death.” None of them had slept easy after that, and when word had come that Nathan was missing in action, Jolie hadn’t seemed surprised.

  He’d know what to do about this too, Leigh thought, taking the piece of stiff paper from her skirt pocket, where she’d been hiding it from the others. She stared down in dismay at the tax assessment she’d received, wondering how they could possibly pay it. They didn’t have any hogs to slaughter, or horses to sell, or fattened cattle to send to market, the government taking the share it believed it was entitled to in bacon, cavalry horses, or beef to feed its troops, courtesy of a generous tax assessor. They certainly weren’t fools, Leigh mused, since they wouldn’t accept the inflated Confederate currency, which bought so little, as payment of taxes.

  What was she going to do? Angrily, she wadded up the offending piece of paper, stuffing it deep into the trunk. Then she smiled, pulling out the thick packet of letters she had received from Blythe.

  Opening a couple she scanned them quickly. Remembering, without even seeing the words in the dim light from the candle, Blythe’s descriptions of Richmond, written with such incredulity and humor.

  …April 17, Leigh, we’ve just about, or so Adam tells me, seceded from the Union. By May we will have. You wouldn’t believe the excitement. They pulled down the old flag, the Stars and Stripes. I have to admit, Leigh, it made me feel odd, sad even, because that is our flag, but they pulled it down. Bells rang, cannons fired, and the cheering was deafening. All week long, the celebrations continued. There were torchlight processions through the streets of Richmond. Rockets! Roman candles! Music from countless bands. Down Main Street, past Church Hills, past the State Court House, beyond even the Exchange Hotel, speeches and cheering, all the way down Franklin Street. The speakers say we’ll capture Washington within days.

  …such incredible people you see on the street, now, Leigh. No one can be certain if one is talking to a spy, a pickpocket, a counterfeiter, a lady of ill-repute, or a government worker. Adam says there is little difference between the latter two.

  …Leigh, I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but Julia has done something quite scandalous. She has run off with a married man. He is a gentleman, or so they say, and an Englishman with a title. Adam is outraged, since he introduced Julia to the man. He was in America, supposedly on behalf of the British government, to buy cotton. I fear, Julia is ruined. Adam received a letter from her from Paris, and she says she has never been happier. She hasn’t heard about her mother. I don’t think Adam is going to tell her. I would.

  …there was a riot today. Aunt Maribel Lu and I were out trying to find lamb chops, when, suddenly, all of these angry women swarmed onto the street, led by this woman brandishing a pistol, a six-shooter, Leigh, and marching on Capitol Square. It was frightening! Aunt Maribel Lu and I got caught up in the crowd, and I thought I had lost her, until I caught sight of the Stars and Bars and recognized her bonnet. We managed to escape, but we never got our lamb chops.

  …$9 a pound, Leigh, for bacon! $275 for a barrel of flour! Potatoes, $25 a bushel. Everyone barters now. Two bushels of salt for a pair of shoes. Five scrawny turkeys for a bonnet. Fortunately, we had five of Aunt Maribel Lu’s bonnets to trade for one fat turkey.

  …and tell Papa that the cavalry has been quartered at the racecourse, and, for once, appropriate quarters for them and their horses. The federal prisoners have been quartered in a smelly tobacco warehouse on the James River. Papa would be quite pleased with the arrangements.

  Blythe Lucinda. Little Lucy. It had been Blythe who had married her beloved Adam that following summer when she had turned seventeen. They had honeymooned in New Orleans, sailing there aboard Adam’s ship, The Blithe Spirit, a coincidence of names which he very seriously believed, almost superstitiously, was a good omen for the future. They’d stayed at Royal Bay until the war had started, then moved to Richmond, living with Nathan and Althea, Blythe helping Althea with her newborn son and Noelle. And, later, they’d comforted each other when their husbands left to fight.

  Leigh thought about her own wedding. It should have been in April of 1861, but had been postponed because of the death of Matthew Wycliffe’s mother. She and Matthew had waited, watching the events unfolding around them. South Carolina had long since seceded, along with state after state across the rebellious South. A Confederacy, made up of states that had seceded from the Union, had been proudly established. Matthew had visited them very little that winter after the announcement of their engagement. He’d hardly stayed more than a day or two at Travers Hill during his many trips between Charleston and Montgomery, Alabama, where a Confederate cabinet had been formed, with secretaries of state, the treasury, and war, meeting to discuss strategy.

  But she had never been forgotten by him, and had always been in his thoughts. Even in this time of emergency, she’d received letters and gifts—special little reminders of his love—from Matthew almost every day.

  That April, when she and Matthew were to have been wed, the Virginia State Convention passed an ordinance of secession, and Richmond was offered as the new capital of the Confederacy. Fort Sumter was fired upon by Confederate forces demanding the removal of federal troops from Confederate soil. And Matthew returned to Charleston immediately, fearing that, finally, the secession of the united states of the South from the Union had finally led to armed conflict.

  Matthew had been right, and by fall they were at war with the North.

  Matthew. Dear Matthew. He’d died somewhere in North Carolina, before he could return to Virginia, before they could marry. She’d never seen him again, and she had loved him. His aunt had written a very formal letter to her informing her of Matthew’s death. She had addressed her letter from Wycliffe Hall, where she and her son now lived. But it had been from the Benjamin Leighs that they’d learned how Matthew had died. Such a tragic waste, they had written. He’d been killed by a sharpshooter lying in wait as the column of rebel troops had passed along the road. He had never even seen the man in hiding who had cold-bloodedly taken aim on him and shot him.

  Leigh replaced the packet of letters, feeling the coldness of Blythe’s fan, the one of ivory brisé that had been Palmer William’s gift to her on her sixteenth birthday. Next to it Leigh felt the softness of the muslin shawl, Guy’s gift. Disturbing it slightly, a sweet fragrance with just a touch of something spicy drifted to Leigh. Her hand touched the dark green perfume bottle with its etched stars so like her own. Blythe had found her own special perfume, not jessamine like hers, or violet like Althea’s, or lavender and roses like their mother’s. Blythe’s scent was of orange blossoms, with just a hint of cinnamon.

  Leigh closed the chest, still unable to accept that Blythe was gone. Weakened from complications that had followed a difficult childbirth, she hadn’t been able to fight the typhoid fever that had infected her, and a month later she had died. Walking over to the cradle, she stared down at Blythe’s daughter, Lucinda. Adam had insisted they call her that in memory of her. So young, both mother and daughter.

  Leigh touched the baby, sleeping so quietly, then turned and walked back to the window. Staring out at the night, she remembered all of the other times, especially when troubled, she’d stood at this window.

  The last time had been when the Yankees had bivouacked at Travers Hill. She’d stood alone, looking out at the campfires glowing in the darkness as the soldiers began to cook their evening meal. She’d continued to stand before the window, until twilight had fallen. Suddenly, she’d heard the melancholy notes of a bugler, and the campfires and candles had slowly been extinguished. Never had she heard such a mournful sound, as if it were a cry from the heart.

  Fourteen

  Even in laughter the heart is sorrowful.

  Proverbs 14:13

  The first light of day revealed the storm clouds that had threatened the night before still hanging heavy
and low on the eastern horizon, blocking out the pale light of the winter sun. Too cowardly to show its face for long, the sun disappeared behind a blanket of clouds, hoarding its warmth to itself as the day dawned cold and bleak.

  But it wasn’t thunder that rumbled in the distance. A roiling black cloud of smoke climbed high into the gray sky and fiery comets spewed forth from its glowing underbelly, where tongues of flames licked hungrily around the charred and broken skeleton of the railroad trestle that had just been blown sky-high.

  The siege gun, with its long, rifled barrel that resembled a vicious snout and wreaked such devastating destruction with its thirty-two-pound shells, would roar no more. But the man-made beast was not silenced yet. The flatbed railroad car it had been mounted on, protected by iron plate shielding, hung precariously for an instant over the edge of the collapsing bridge and bellowed its rage. A hideous screeching and groaning, as metal was rent apart, filled the air like a death cry. Then the flatbed car, dragging the black engine still coupled to it, fell into the inferno, the artillery shells shooting like rockets into the sky as crates of ammunition continued to feed the voracious flames.

  In a thicket below the crest of the ridge, and just downstream of the destroyed trestle bridge that had stretched across the ravine, a group of men huddled, their faces glowing like brass masks in the light of the flames.

  “Damn!” someone muttered, wiping the back of his hand across his cheek and licking it curiously. “Whiskey!” he crowed, the whites of his eyes looking startling against his soot-smudged face as he stared up at the barrel that had just blown past his head. “Must’ve had a whole flatbed full of whiskey barrels on that train too!” he muttered in disbelief. “Should’ve joined up with the artillery, ’stead of the cavalry. They know how to travel. ’Specially them gentlemen rebs!”

  “Now ye tell me,” McGuire said, watching sadly as the exploding whiskey barrel disappeared over the top of the ridge in a shower of corn liquor.