A Thousand Shall Fall

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “No. Let her rest in peace.”

  Peyton wondered if Carrie would change her mind once she felt better. He’d broach the subject again at a later time.

  “How and when did you discover that she was here in Martinsburg?”

  Carrie still didn’t look at him. “Joshua told me. Last night on the footbridge. That’s why he came.”

  “Ah …” Peyton clenched his fist then forced himself to relax. “That explains a lot.” He rose from the bed and paced the room. Perhaps the man had some good in him. Still, Peyton was more than certain that her childhood friend would like nothing better than to tear him and Carrie apart and see him, a Union colonel, dead. They were, after all, enemies. “Did Joshua help you leave Winchester last night?”

  “No. I left of my own free will—and alone.”

  Her reply pained him.

  “Now that I found … Sarah Jane—” Her voice cracked. “I have to find Papa.” Finally, she turned toward him. “But I’m grateful for your thoughtfulness, Peyton.”

  “I’m not being thoughtful. I’m being your husband!” His renewed aggravation would not be stemmed. In fact, his anger and determination had been what kept Brogan galloping nearly the entire way to Martinsburg. “As for that love letter you left me, it’s in the hearth where all rubbish belongs. What’s more, you can search for your father—but from Piccadilly Place where I don’t have to worry about you.”

  “Oh …” Carrie covered her face with her hands, but not before he caught a glimpse of her teary eyes. Immediately he regretted his harsh words. Years spent at West Point and in the army didn’t foster a man’s sensitive nature, that was most certain. He rubbed his whiskered jaw and vowed to work on it. Carrie wasn’t one of his enlisted men.

  He softened his tone. “We made vows to each other, Carrie. Vows I take very seriously.”

  She removed her hands from her tear-streaked face. “I know, but—”

  “We love each other and we belong together. You said so yourself.”

  She nodded.

  “There will be no annulment. I wish you had waited and told me that you located your sister instead of running off and endangering your life.”

  Carrie’s tears leaked from her eyes and coursed down her cheeks. Her narrow shoulders shook with a sob. “I should have told you a number of things, Peyton.”

  “I won’t argue.”

  Peyton sat down on the edge of the bed and retrieved his handkerchief, pressing it into Carrie’s palm. She dried her eyes and gathered her composure.

  “What made you believe that I am so unforgiving?”

  “I can hardly forgive myself for contributing to Tommy’s death. How can you ever forgive me?”

  “I love you. I forgive you freely.”

  “Even though I lied and deceived you?” Her blue eyes shined through the moisture filling them.

  “You explained the reasons for keeping your friend’s identity secret, and I believe you. I also trust you won’t keep secrets from me again.”

  “I won’t.” She dried her eyes and met his gaze.

  He smiled gently at her, and relief crossed her pale face.

  “However, we do need to discuss a few additional matters.”

  She nodded.

  “About Tommy … I know you cared a great deal for him. I apologize for being so cross with you last night.”

  “You had good reason to be cross.” She stared into his handkerchief. “You cared about Tommy too. I still can’t believe he’s … gone.”

  Peyton had seen too much death to question it. “Tommy died a Union soldier, with valor and honor. That’s all he wanted.”

  After several moments lapsed, Carrie looked up at him. “How did you find out about Joshua?”

  “Before he died, Tommy told me that you called Major Brown Joshua. I guessed the rest quickly. I was livid, and regrettably, I acted on my emotion.”

  “I would have been angry too, if I were you.”

  “But you’re not me, Carrie.” Peyton spoke softly. “You can’t assume my thoughts. You need to talk with me instead of jumping to conclusions and running away.”

  Carrie dropped the handkerchief and covered her face, but Peyton pried away one of her small hands and enfolded it in his much larger ones.

  “I have so many regrets, Peyton.”

  “Like marrying me? You were rather coerced into it.”

  “No! I don’t regret marrying you for a moment. The love I feel for you is real. What I regret is keeping Joshua’s secret.” Her eyebrow dipped with a heavy frown. “I never imagined anyone would get hurt or die because I said nothing. It was a naïve and foolish belief. I know that now. Now that it’s too late for Tommy.” Her shoulders sagged as she expelled a rueful sigh. “And then there’s Sarah Jane … I regret not finding her in time to save her life.”

  “There are some things that are beyond our control. Life and death are among them. We do what we can for the sick and dying, but ultimately God’s will prevails.”

  “True enough.” She seemed to consider the matter further for several moments. “My next regret is losing Aunt Ruth’s respect.”

  Peyton narrowed his gaze. “Aunt Ruth?”

  “The Monteagues’ home would still be standing if it weren’t for me.”

  “More rubbish. Mrs. Monteague and Lavinia harbored spies—”

  “Joshua and Rodingham?”

  “Correct. And both ladies were unapologetic about it when confronted, after which Mrs. Monteague charged one of my sergeants with a fireplace poker.”

  Carrie’s jaw dropped slightly.

  “Had it been just me in the room with no witnesses, I might have overlooked Mrs. Monteague’s aggression. Her son Edward had just died. However, I had a number of officers with me, and the burning orders came from General Sheridan himself. I had no choice but to see them carried out. Aunt Ruth knows all of that. She doesn’t blame you in the least. Furthermore, she wanted me to round up the entire Union cavalry and search for you.” Peyton grinned. “I selected a somewhat smaller group of enlisted men to accompany me.”

  Hope shone in Carrie’s teary eyes.

  “Aunt Ruth loves you, my sweet. You haven’t lost her respect—nor mine. And please know this—I’m not like your stepmother or anyone else from your past who has refused to forgive you.”

  “I should have known that,” she whispered.

  “And now you do.”

  “Now I do,” she echoed.

  She brushed one finger over an ages-old scar on the back of his right hand, a permanent reminder of some skirmish years ago.

  “Oh, Peyton …” Carrie rolled forward onto her knees. “I beg your forgiveness. I love you and I swear I will never keep a single secret from you again.”

  He pulled her onto his lap and wrapped her in an embrace. “All is forgiven, Carrie.”

  He kissed her, and then his lips moved from hers and glided across her cheek. She snuggled into the place betwixt his neck and shoulder. He rested his chin against her forehead and stroked her soft, curly hair. “I’ve lost far too many people in my life, people for whom I cared deeply. I watched friends die on the battlefield. I’ve seen good men cut down like saplings. When I look back on my life, it’s like peering out a window on a gloomy, rainy day. After Christ saved me, the world became brighter, but I still had this small dark void deep inside. It was as God said, it’s not good that a man should be alone. Then I found love in a sycamore.” Peyton would never forget that day.

  Leaning back and smiling, Carrie put her hands on either side of his face and touched her lips to his in the sweetest of kisses. He tasted remnants of her salty sadness when they parted.

  “You brought sunshine to my dreary existence, Carrie. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”

  “You won’t.” Again she kissed him, dousing the last smidgen of his concern. “I’ll never leave you again.”

  She whispered the promise against his mouth, and at her words, a deep, abiding love burned inside him, a l
ove that would weather life’s storms. Peyton had no doubt that God created Carrie especially for him to love, cherish, and protect—and to make him a better man.

  “And no matter what,” he promised in return, “I’ll love you till the day I die.”

  CHAPTER 1

  October 6, 1864

  “Well, I’ll be hanged. The Yankee Cavalry is ridin’ into Woodstock.”

  Margaret Jean Bell paused in midstroke and dropped the rag she’d been using to clean the sticky bar. She looked toward the entrance of the Wayfarers Inn where a raggedy-dressed old man stood staring out to the street. “More Yankees in town?”

  “That’s what I jest said, girl.” The old man swayed slightly and kneaded his bristly jaw. “Judging by the black smoke over yonder, them blue-bellies is burning ever’thing in sight too!”

  Margaret clutched her midsection as if the panic crimping her insides was visible to the few male patrons around her. Questions tumbled through her mind. Would one of the Yankee soldiers recognize her and, if so, did he have an inkling of her trickery?

  Instinct screamed, run! Her breath came and went in quick repetitions, as if she’d already cantered a mile up Main Street.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  Her light-headedness slowly abated. Logic soon returned.

  Wasn’t she accustomed to soldiers, Yanks and Rebs alike? She was, sure as the sun set in the west. She’d learned men were men, bluecoats or gray, and she could handle herself in their presence. Should one of the soldiers insist on getting his money back for services that were promised but never rendered, Margaret would simply tell the truth. Mr. Veyschmidt snatched her ill-gotten gains. Therefore she could provide him with no refund. Afterward, she’d accept the beating likely to follow.

  Oh, God, if only I could get out of this place!

  How lucky her oldest sister Carrie Ann was to escape by marrying a blue-belly. Her younger sister, Sarah Jane, managed to get away by running off with a peddler, except she got herself killed in the process. Sad as it was, death seemed preferable to life here at the Wayfarers Inn. Mama, too, was gone now, died at the end of September, leaving Margaret in the care of a temperamental, tyrannical innkeeper who enjoyed reminding her of the debt she owed. He insisted on federal currency no less. He paid her nothing for the daily chores, nothing for serving plates of food and ale to customers. Many times she worked until the wee hours of the morning. Each week the sum she owed grew larger, not smaller. Margaret, in all her life, would never be able to repay him, so this was a life’s sentence.

  Yes, death was preferable to this wretched existence.

  She set down two bottles of Mr. Veyschmidt’s backroom concoction, which he called ale, on the bar. Then she waited. Soldiers usually had a powerful thirst when they walked in. She glanced over at the portly innkeeper. He stared out the window and nervously chewed a fingernail. The swine. What a blessing it would be if the man got shot dead by a Yankee bullet.

  Within minutes, a tall, bearded, blue-clad officer crossed over the threshold. His spurs chinked against the plank floorboards with each step he took. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to his dimly lit and smoky surroundings. The gold trim ornamenting his uniform bespoke an upper rank. Odd. Men like him usually didn’t wander in to the Wayfarers Inn.

  Two additional Yanks followed him inside. They made such an ominous threesome that the few remaining men loitering about in the saloon scattered like roaches after a match strike.

  The first officer made his way to the bar. He removed his wide-brimmed hat.

  “Care for a drink? The innkeeper says it’s on the house.” Margaret poured a glass of ale and pushed it toward him.

  “I said no such thing,” Veyschmidt growled. Then he seemed to reconsider, just as Margaret expected him to. “Well, all right. Just one’s free.”

  “No, thanks. I’m looking for Miss Margaret Bell.”

  Her heart stumbled over its next beat.

  “That’s her.” Mr. Veyschmidt pointed a thick finger. “Right there she stands.”

  No help or hope of protection from him—as usual.

  Margaret set her hands on her hips. “Listen, mister, I don’t give refunds, so—”

  “Are you Miss Bell?”

  She nodded and lifted her chin, fully expecting to feel the explosion of pain after his fist connected with her face. If he was like all the others, she’d swindled him. She prayed he’d knock her senseless. Maybe she’d never regain consciousness.

  “My wife would like two jugs of the innkeeper’s ale.”

  Margaret blinked, the tense muscles in her body relaxed, and she released an audible sigh of relief.

  “My wife claims the ale aids in the healing of wounds. In fact, I’m living proof it does.” The Yankee cracked a grin and arched a brow before his gaze slid to Mr. Veyschmidt. “She also insists the stuff makes an amazing metal polisher. Wonder of wonders.”

  “Metal polisher?” Margaret tipped her head. The only person who touted Mr. Veyschmidt’s ale as good for something other than sheer inebriation was …

  Margaret sucked in a breath. Could this be her oldest sister’s Yankee husband?

  She looked him over again. Not a chance. This man was large and handsome with a head of thick blond hair and neatly trimmed whiskers. His upper rank and sophisticated demeanor suggested he was too refined for a poor, skinny, pie-in-the-sky dreamer like Carrie Ann. More likely a customer heard of the ale’s supposed benefits and spread the word. Medicine was scarce, what with wounded men pouring into towns up and down the Valley, so every sort of home remedy was in high demand.

  Margaret fetched two stoneware jugs and set them on the bar. The officer slapped a couple of bills into Veyschmidt’s wide, outstretched palm. Next the colonel retrieved an envelope from his coat’s inner breast pocket and extended it in Margaret’s direction.

  “May I speak with you in private, Miss Bell?”

  Before a single utterance passed her lips, Mr. Veyschmidt stepped in front of her as if she’d suddenly become a precious commodity. “Afraid not. You want a private appointment, shall we say, then you’ll have to pay for it like everyone else.”

  The blond officer narrowed his gaze. “I suggest you shut your mouth and get out of my way.”

  Veyschmidt eyed the man, then his comrades, and relented. “Make it quick,” he muttered to Margaret. “And you owe me every coin you get out of him.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. If hating a man was indeed the same as murder like the reverend preached, then she was guilty a thousand times over.

  The colonel moved several steps away from Mr. Veyschmidt. Margaret trailed him, wondering what he wanted with her.

  She didn’t have to wait long to find out. “Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Bell,” the brass-buttoned officer stated. “I’m Colonel Peyton Collier, Cavalry Division of the Army of the Shenandoah.”

  Collier. Margaret frowned. Wasn’t that …?

  “I’m Carrie Ann’s husband.”

  Margaret blinked. “Truly?” So this was him. How had Carrie Ann snagged such a fine gentleman?

  “Well, well …” Veyschmidt overheard the introduction and puffed out his barrel-like chest. “What a coincidence. Your, eh, wife, left quite a large tab here what needs to be paid.”

  Colonel Collier’s face reddened and his eyes narrowed to angry slits. “My wife owes you nothing, so spare me more of your lies.”

  Margaret saw the emotion blazing in his eyes as he defended Carrie Ann.

  “Destroying your inn would be within my orders,” he stated in the darkest of tones, “but it’s because of my wife’s request to leave this place intact for her family’s sake that I hesitate, should Mrs. and Miss Bell decide to remain here.” He glanced at Margaret before peering down at Veyschmidt again. “I am well aware of your abuse of the Bell sisters and their mother over the past two years. I know you habitually overcharged them for room and board, effectively enslaving them. You worked them hard and fed them little. Worse, you left my wife and h
er family unprotected and vulnerable to every kind of evil.” The shake of his head was slight. “You are a despicable worm in my estimation and had it been up to me—”

  Margaret strained to hear his words, but gauging by the fear gathering in Mr. Veyschmidt’s beady eyes, the colonel’s threat rang loud and clear.

  She worked to hide a grin. She liked her new brother-in-law already.

  “It would give me great pleasure,” he added, “to watch this sorry place go up in flames. You inflicted suffering on the Bells. For that reason, you’ve earned a black mark against you.”

  Mr. Veyschmidt wisely held his tongue, although he chewed his thick lower lip and worked his hands anxiously.

  “Pardon the interruption, sir,” one of the other Yankees said. He stood even taller and broader shouldered than the colonel. He, too, had removed his hat and an abundance of shaggy brown hair framed his face. “This establishment has most likely been a Rebel meeting place and gave sustenance to the enemy. Could be Rebels are recovering in rooms upstairs as we speak.”

  “No, no … there ain’t no soldiers here,” Mr. Veyschmidt insisted. “I refused all the wounded. Don’t want the mess. You know … blood and all.” He waved a meaty hand and shuddered.

  The colonel’s eyes met Margaret’s and she gave a slight nod. Confederate soldiers had met here only days ago. Several injured lay in rooms upstairs as the major suspected.

  “Gather your men and search the premises, Major Johnston.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Within minutes, a small army of Yankees crowded into the Wayfarers Inn. Mr. Veyschmidt grew increasingly anxious as the soldiers disbursed to search. He fell to his knees in a pathetic, theatrical display.

  “Please don’t burn my inn,” he begged. “This business is all I have left of my dearly departed mother who worked her fingers to the bone to make this a respectable place for one to lay his weary head.”

  Such lies. Margaret rolled her eyes and just barely kept from snorting aloud. And respectable? How utterly laughable.

  “Miss Bell?” The colonel’s brown eyes fixed on her. “I am allowed to show mercy where it’s warranted. What do you think I should do?”