When the Splendor Falls

by Laurie McBain

  “Would’ve tasted mighty fine right now,” the Bucktail said, licking his dry, cracked lips. “Got one hell of a thirst.”

  “Well, at least that fire-breather won’t be eatin’ up any more bluebellies for breakfast.”

  “Killed the steely beast, we have,” someone said with satisfaction as he mounted his horse, pulling sharply on the reins as the horse shied nervously when a thunderous roar sounded as another flatbed car loaded with shells and supplies fell into the ravine below.

  “Come on, McGuire. Better ride as fast as you talk, now, ’cause the cap’n has already cleared the ridge. Know how he don’t like to dally none,” someone warned, seeing the reddish-brown rump of the captain’s big bay disappearing through the trees.

  “Ain’t the time to be sittin’ here enjoyin’ yer handiwork, boyo,” someone else advised, glancing around to see a troop of soldiers making their way along the ridgeline, ducking automatically when he saw a flash of gunfire, then heard the thud of impact as a bullet hit and embedded itself in the bark of a tree trunk beside his head, flying splinters of oak scratching his cheek.

  “Don’t understand it. Half the bridge is still standin’. Didn’t get it all this time, an’ I used plenty of powder.”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll burn to the ground soon enough, or if it don’t, you can come back tomorrow and finish it. Get a reb to light the fuse for you, be real gentlemanly of him. Figure, though, with this side gone, ain’t nothin’ goin’ to get across to the other side fer some time.”

  “Git movin’!” someone cried, urging his mount up the slope, his spurs jingling the alarm.

  “Don’t need to convince me none!”

  “What the hell?”

  “Lord help us! Where’d they come from?” the Bucktail croaked, his eyes widening in dismay as he reached the narrow road atop the ravine and saw the riders approaching at a fast gallop along the road from the opposite direction, their gray uniforms, glinting sabers, and fierce rebel yells leaving little doubt that a whole regiment of cavalry must be close behind. “Hell, no one knows we’re even here, leastways till now they didn’t. We been as quiet as mice tiptoein’ ’round a sleepin’ mouser.”

  “Got us caught between them! Ain’t s’posed to be no cavalry behind us! Saw them cross the river yesterday!” a voice cried out unnecessarily, because the sound of gunfire sounded all around them as bullets whizzed past their heads from seemingly every direction except from above.

  Then, as if to mock them, a troop of graybacks suddenly appeared over the crest of the hill above the road, bayonets fixed as they charged down the slope, copses of proud old oaks and cedars affording adequate cover for their attack.

  If he lived to tell the tale, this would be one of the best adventures yet, Lieutenant Chatham thought excitedly as Captain Dagger and his Bloodriders returned fire, but they were outnumbered, the patrol of foot soldiers having taken up defensive positions in the underbrush as they fired on the federal troops. Caught like sitting ducks in the middle of the road, the lieutenant mused unhappily, wondering if, perhaps, it was to be their last daring raid and his memoirs would be published posthumously.

  McGuire felt a burning sensation in his shoulder and slumped forward, but still managed to keep his seat, determined no reb was going to capture him without a fight. It seemed to be the captain’s opinion too, because he yelled a bloodcurdling cry, which never failed to raise the fine hairs on the back of McGuire’s neck, and raced back toward them, right toward the line of infantrymen who’d now moved into the road to block their escape—never a retreat—signaling to his men to ride back down into the ravine while he drew the enemy fire. With a look of mingled pain and anger, McGuire saw the young, bespectacled Lieutenant Chatham, who always seemed to be just a step behind the captain, unseated and begin to fall as his frightened horse reared suddenly as a barrage of bullets caught the dappled gray in the chest. The lieutenant’s boot caught and held in the stirrup, and for several frightening seconds he was dragged beneath the horse’s hooves before he finally tumbled onto the road. McGuire couldn’t believe it when he saw the little lieutenant struggling bravely to his knees, trying to pull his sword free to defend himself as he stood his ground alone against the onslaught of the rebel cavalry charging down the road toward him.

  McGuire’s eyes widened with incredulity as the captain wheeled the big bay around and, hanging low on one side of the saddle, swooped the lieutenant up into his arms right in front of the enemy. Throwing him across his saddle horn, he spun back around and charged the rebel line of infantrymen that was advancing steadily down the middle of the road under cover of fire from the underbrush. The captain jumped the big bay over several rebels who were too slow, or startled, to move or shoot, while scattering the rest like a basket of overturned butternuts before he turned and disappeared into the thicket with the young lieutenant looking like a side of beef, his sandy brown head, hatless now, bobbing up and down on one side of the saddle, while his feet, one boot missing, stuck out on the other side.

  Captain Dagger’s men had claimed they’d follow their captain into the burning fires of hell if they had to. Some of them must have thought that boast had come true as Captain Dagger, the big bay’s coat turned bloodred, disappeared into the black, swirling smoke as he raced into the flames that were spreading to the trestle that still stood, leading his men either toward certain death or freedom as they followed.

  * * *

  “So much smoke,” Leigh murmured, staring out at the gray clouds, her gaze lingering on the black smoke that rose high into the sky just the far side of the low hills in the distance. She pulled the window shut on the cold, acrid-smelling air. “No one is likely to notice the trail of smoke coming from Travers Hill today,” she said, turning away from the big kitchen window and picking up the load of linens she’d pulled from the beds and dumped on the brick floor by one of the big wooden tubs. “Guy said it wasn’t thunder, and he was right. I wonder what blew up.” She spoke more out of habit than interest as she began to sort through the pile, dropping the pillowcases into the steaming, soapy water, then pushing them down with a long stick.

  “Now, Miss Leigh,” Jolie said, hands on her narrow hips, “I told you I’d do this washin’.”

  “And I told you, Jolie,” Leigh said, mimicking her with a grin, her hands placed on her hips as she faced her, “that you cannot do all of the washing yourself, and cook, and care for all of us, and since no bed at Travers Hill, no matter how darned the linens are, will be made with dirty sheets, I intend to help you. We owe it to Mama,” she added, glancing down at her chafed hands as if they belonged to someone else. “Remember what that Yankee major said about never having slept so well in such sweet-scented sheets?”

  “Hmmmph! Sweet-talkin’, an’ sweet-dreamin’, that’s what he was doin’. Kept my eye on that good-lookin’, honey-tongued Yankee after that, ’cause I figured he had himself a wife an’ children back home, an’ if he didn’t, then he was hopin’ to take you back home with him, only figure he wasn’t plannin’ on waitin’ till he got home to start that family. Saw the way he was eyein’ you, missy. Wasn’t decent. Those Yankees got no manners. Shouldn’t be ’round decent folk. He was jus’ waitin’ for a chance to get you alone. An’ you didn’t help none bein’ so sweet to him like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Should never have smiled at him, missy. You can’t smile at a gentleman like that, especially when he’s no gentleman. An’ the look in your eye jus’ dared him to do something no gentleman should with a lady. Lost a week’s sleep worryin’ ’bout you. One of these days, Miss Leigh, you’re goin’ to smile like that at the wrong man, an’ you’re goin’ to look like that from those big blue eyes, darin’ a man, an’ he’s goin’ to do something ’bout it.”

  “That Yankee did leave us some flour and beans, enough for two weeks’ cooking. Those biscuits were mighty good.”

  “Hmmmph. Probably stolen from some other poor family up the road a piece, an’ probably left a red-eyed, swollen-bellied
miss back somewhere too, grinnin’ devil that he was. Jus’ lucky, we are, that we don’t have a bluebelly’s baby layin’ in that cradle next to Miss Lucinda right now.”

  Leigh’s cheeks flushed brightly. “I’ll do what I have to do to keep this family from starving, or being turned out of our home. I’ll do just about anything to keep us all alive, except get into bed with a Yankee,” Leigh told her, pleased to see Jolie’s startled expression at her plain talk for a change. “Smile and sweet-talk a Yankee, yes, even shoot one, or a bushwhacker, whatever the color of his uniform is, yes, I’ll do that, and that’s the truth. But I’ve still got my Travers pride, and that is one thing I’ll never lose, or shame,” she said, pushing a long strand of hair out of her face, and even though her shoulders ached, and her back felt like it was going to break in two sometimes, she never felt ashamed of herself and how they lived at Travers Hill—at least it was still here, and theirs.

  “Figure you wouldn’t have much to say if some Yankee, and no gentleman, is smart enough where you’re concerned, decides he wants you in his bed. Figure you couldn’t sweet-talk yourself outa that, missy, ’cause was sweet-talkin’ that got you in his bed in the first place. ’Course, you keep workin’ yourself like some field hand, there won’t be no Yankee, nor reb, gentleman or not, who’ll want you, so we won’t have to worry none, an’ I’ll be sleepin’ easy again,” Jolie muttered with a disapproving glance, still unable to accept Miss Leigh bending over a tub scrubbing soiled linens, although she had to admit she did a better job than Jassy ever had. Jassy, hmmmph, Jolie thought, a glint in her yellow eyes as she remembered how quickly she’d run off with some upstart that’d come onto Travers land trying to lord it over the Travers family. Jolie looked heavenward, remembering the sight of Jassy sashaying off barefoot, and wearing the fanciest bonnet Jolie had ever seen, her nose held up in the air as proudly as if she were gentry, Jolie thought, still worrying about the little maid and wringing out a sheet as if it were Jassy’s fool neck between her hands instead.

  Dressed in a plain gown of somber, dove-gray wool, the sleeves of the bodice jacket rolled up around her elbows, the prim collar opened and unbuttoned to the top of her chemise beneath, her hair woven into a thick braid that hung down her back, Leigh bent to her work. She felt the muscles tightening across her shoulders and down to the small of her back as she stirred the soapy water, then scrubbed the linen back and forth between her hands with more determination than strength.

  “Runnin’ out of soap,” Jolie said, careful of the amount she had used in the tub she was loading with another batch of linens. “Don’t know how we’re supposed to wash when we don’t have any hogs an’ cattle to slaughter to get the fat. It’s mighty lucky I know where to find soapwort out in the woods. Not too much lather, but it cleans nice.”

  “And we’ll rinse everything twice in sweet water,” Leigh said, glancing over at the tub where the fragrance of lemon balm was strong.

  “Just hope there aren’t more Yankees ’round,” Jolie said. “We’re never goin’ to get them outa bed.”

  Leigh smiled bitterly, thinking it might just be the best way to win the war. For the next two hours she and Jolie washed and wrung out the linens, hanging them up to dry on the flaxen lines they’d strung across the kitchen.

  Blowing a stray strand of hair out of her face, Leigh dropped the last diaper onto the pile she’d just finished washing, flexing her leaden shoulder muscles as she straightened away from the edge of the tub. Easing the pain that nestled in the small of her back like a grumpy animal curled up for a long winter’s hibernation, she found herself wondering if spring would ever come.

  She stared at the sleet blowing against the windows and rubbed her chilled arms, hugging her own warmth close for a moment. Picking up the pile of dripping linen squares, once a fine bedsheet, now very serviceable diapers for Lucinda, Leigh glanced around the kitchen as she began to hang the diapers. At first glance, the room seemed little changed from before the war, with clay pots of aromatic cooking and medicinal herbs filling the windowsills, bunches of drying herbs hanging from the raftered ceiling, along with woven baskets, a corner cupboard displaying a shelf full of dusty recipe books and crockery, and in the hearth, a large copper pot bubbling perhaps with chicken and dumplings or corn chowder. But upon closer inspection, one would have found the copper pot was filled with a thin broth that would do little to satisfy one’s hunger; the crockery was chipped from constant use; there was no smoked ham, succulent and pink, the pride of Travers Hill’s smokehouse, sitting on a fine china platter to be served for Sunday supper; no beaten biscuits or flaky rolls were browning in the ovens along with cinnamon squares and brownies; nor was her father’s bourbon pecan cake sitting in sweet splendor, a candied cherry crowning it.

  Bowls full of creamy butter, large brown eggs, snowy white sugar and finely ground flour, pitchers of sweet milk and buttermilk, and chunks of chocolate would once have crowded the tabletop. Instead, several jars of preserves and pickled vegetables sat on the table, and were all that was left of the summer crop from the orchard and vegetable garden. Over half of the orchard had been burned, along with the fields of wheat and corn, and the kitchen gardens, full of ripening tomatoes, squash, peas, beans, and other vegetables almost ready to be harvested, had been trampled when troops from both armies had fought near Travers Hill last summer.

  Leigh ignored the rumbling in her stomach as she remembered how, at first, her father had felt it his duty and honor to send his share, 10 percent, of all the crops harvested at Travers Hill to support the war effort. And later, with tears in his eyes, he’d sent some of Travers Hill’s finest hunters and racing horses, knowing he’d never see his prized Thoroughbreds again, but at least another Confederate officer would ride proudly into battle defending the Confederacy.

  But soon, squads of Confederate soldiers had come onto Travers land uninvited, arrogantly requisitioning whatever they saw fit to take. Then federal troops came foraging, living off the land, stealing, it mattered little what they called it—it was still theft, whether by one army or the other. The few remaining stable and field hands, were forcibly taken away. Overnight, it seemed, Travers Hill was emptied of its teams of farm horses, mules, and oxen; cattle, sheep, cows, goats, geese, chickens, and hogs disappeared from the corrals and pens. The wagons and carriages, harnesses and blankets, the tools—plows, hoes, and scythes—for planting and harvesting, were gone, and there was no metal for the blacksmith to forge into new tools, so the furnace remained cold and silent, the bellows stilled, and the fields fallow, and the next year, barren.

  And finally, the remaining Thoroughbreds, the special ones so beloved by her father—the lifeblood of Travers Hill—were stolen from them too. Nothing was left. Nothing except their pride.

  Pride, yes, Leigh thought, forgetting for a moment the dull ache in her back and the stinging redness of her hands as she glanced around proudly at the rows of dripping laundry. A satisfied smile lurking in the corners of her lips, Leigh turned and began to fill a bucket with steaming water from the big kettle over the fire.

  “What’re you doin’ now?” Jolie demanded, looking up from the pair of drawers she was washing.

  “I promised Althea I would help her bathe and wash her hair today.”

  “You sit down an’ rest a spell. You don’t know if you’re comin’ or goin’, missy, an’ I heard you up last night with lil’ Miss Lucinda, singin’ an’ croonin’ her back to sleep while she suckled on a sugar teat,” Jolie told her, frowning as Leigh never hesitated, continuing toward the far side of the kitchen, where the big, slipper-shaped metal tub had been pushed against the wall. A loud scraping noise sounded as Leigh pulled it across the brick flooring by one of its handles.

  “I’m not tired, truly I’m not. I felt wonderful this morning watching Althea eat more than a biteful of food for a change. She seems so improved since just yesterday eve, don’t you think? You know how she has always hated anything dirty or soiled, and how particular she has a
lways been about her toilette. She’ll feel much better with her hair clean. I don’t want to disappoint her. It will keep her spirits up, and she was talking about taking on the darning and mending chores. She can do that without tiring herself.”

  “Just like her mama. Miss Beatrice Amelia was ever so tidy about herself an’ her fine linen chemises an’ petticoats. Such pretty things, she had, an’ always kept them so nice,” Jolie said, glancing down quickly. “Got soap in my eye,” she murmured, her eyes burning. “An’ you get that Steban to get that fire goin’ if it’s died down. Don’t want Miss Althea catchin’ her death of cold now that she’s on the mend,” Jolie warned. “It’d help us a lot, her doin’ the mendin’ too, after all, she’s a real fine needlewoman. An’ she can watch young Mister Steward an’ Miss Noelle, not that Miss Noelle ever causes us any trouble. Real sweet an’ quiet, she is,” Jolie said approvingly. “Not like some I could mention when they was that age,” she added, truly getting soap in her eye this time as she rubbed away the threatening tears when she thought of Guy Travers’s blindness. “You bring her down here. Wish Mister Guy would let us help him more, why, you would think I’d never seen his bare bottom before,” she said. “Only lets Steban help him with his bath,” she said, shaking her head disapprovingly, because in her eyes Guy Travers would always be the same little baby boy she had wet-nursed when the mistress hadn’t been able to feed him, not having enough milk of her own. Jolie’s look was tender as she remembered having plenty of milk for both Sweet John and the little chestnut-haired baby who’d been so demanding at her breast—a bond that could never be broken had been formed between them. It had been the same with Miss Leigh. She had suckled at her breast too, only that time, her own little girl baby had died, and she’d had too much milk to give to Beatrice Amelia’s little daughter, who had also received all of the love that Jolie had been unable to lavish on her own stillborn child.