The Whistle Walk: A Civil War Novel (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 1)

by Stephenia H. McGee

  Mother’s fingers flew through their task, and soon Lydia’s entire head was tied in tight curls. Mother never let anyone else work on Lydia’s hair. She always insisted on doing it herself. Lydia couldn’t be sure if Mother enjoyed the time or if she simply didn’t trust anyone else to do it correctly. When she married, who would tame her wild mane?

  “One more thing,” Mother said, breaking into her thoughts. “Your father and I have gifts for you.”

  “Oh?” She turned in her seat to see the small leather book her mother held out.

  “This is from your father. He said it is for you to write down your thoughts and the joys of your new life.”

  Lydia smiled and unwound the thin leather cord wrapped around the cover. Inside, blank pages waited for her to fill. Excitement welled within her. What would she write? Drawing the little book to her chest, she smiled up at Mother. “Thank him for me. It is most thoughtful.”

  Mother nodded and pulled something from her dress pocket. Lydia held out her hand, and Mother dropped a delicate piece of jewelry into her palm. Lydia held it up to the fading light to study it. Thin strands of silver swirled together around little milky-white stones that were cut into the shapes of four-petal flowers. “A broach,” Lydia mused.

  “Yes. It was my grandmother’s. She gave it to my mother on her wedding day and my mother gave it to me on mine. Now it is your turn to wear it.”

  Lydia blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over. “Why have you never shown it to me before?”

  Mother straightened her shoulders. “I have been saving it.” Her voice cracked, and she waved her hand. “These are dogwood flowers,” she said, pointing to the little tiny stones. “Grandmother said the dogwood flower is in the shape of the cross. White, except on the tips where it looks torn and darkened. That represents Christ’s blood. The dogwood reminds us to keep him close.” She patted Lydia on the shoulder. “The guests will soon be here. I will see you again in the morning.”

  Lydia put the broach next to her comb and smiled at her mother in the mirror. “Goodnight.”

  As soon as Mother left the room, Lydia pulled on a nightdress and grabbed the gown, holding it up in front of her in the mirror.

  Tightness gripped her chest. This gown was far too beautiful for someone like her. She returned it to the hanger.

  Lydia sighed and gathered a pen and a well of ink. How well Daddy knew her heart. She untied the bindings of the book and stared at it. What could she write? She couldn’t yet blemish the clean pages with her galloping thoughts. No, she must save them for something important. Tomorrow, she would become a wife and the lady of her own home. Maybe after tomorrow she would have something of more consequence to record than the twittering of a girl afraid to wed.

  Cedar Hall Plantation

  “Bridget, you got to light that lamp. I can’t see nothin’,” Ruth whispered. She rubbed the sore spot on her leg where her shin had found the hard lines of a plank bench.

  “Shush,” her sister answered. “If they sees the light we might get caught.” Bridget shuffled behind Ruth and felt along the kitchen’s brick wall. “I found it.”

  Finally. If someone caught field hands stealing from the kitchen, both their hides would show the marks for it. Of course, if the Harris family fed their people better, she might not have had to risk her skin over one measly sack of flour.

  The lingering scent of smoked meat made her stomach growl. Ruth pushed her hand against her complaining innards and willed them to silence. “How you gonna tell which one of them sacks is flour and not sugar?”

  Bridget’s answer came out in hissed words through clenched teeth. “I don’t know. Open them.”

  Ruth shook her head fervently even though she knew it was too dark for her sister to see it. Bridget must have sensed it anyway.

  “Ain’t no other choice.”

  “They might not notice one bag of flour gone, but they for sure gonna notice if all them bags are opened.”

  Bridget sighed. “Fine, light it. But turn it as low as you can.”

  Ruth pulled the match from her skirt pocket. Maybe her sweaty palms wouldn’t make it too damp to use. With a flick of her wrist, she scraped the tiny stick against the brick wall. A little flame jumped to life.

  Shadows danced across Bridget’s drawn face as she pushed the lamp into Ruth. “Hurry up.”

  Ruth touched the flame to the wick and turned the burner down as low as she could make it go. A soft glow filled the glass chimney and cast a gentle light across the room. Ruth drew a deep breath. She’d never seen the inside of any part of the big house before. Not even the kitchen. Momma said it was a strange thing for a kitchen to be connected to the house. Said she’d never heard of such a thing before. Where Momma came from kitchens were always separate.

  “Stop gawkin’ and bring that thing over here so I can see them bags.”

  Ruth hefted the lamp and held it up to the shelf Bridget searched. “Here,” she said. “I think this one says flour.”

  Ruth tilted her head back to see the top shelf, grateful for the reading lessons her grandmother had given them in secret. She’d expected large sacks tied with hay strings sitting on the floor and not small, neat bags lined on shelves. But then everything was strange up here. “That’s it. Grab one and let’s go.” At least it would be easier to carry, and only taking a little eased her conscious.

  “Maybe we oughtta get one from the back,” Bridget whispered.

  “What for?”

  “Then they won’t notice one from the front’s done gone missing.”

  “Ain’t no need. Just grab the one from the front and then pull one of the others up into its place. Then it looks just the same.”

  Bridget stretched to her tiptoes, her short stature only allowing her fingertips to brush the bottom of the sack. Even though Ruth was a season younger than Bridget’s nearly twenty summers, she was the taller of the two.

  “You gonna have to get it for me,” Bridget said.

  Ruth turned and scanned the area behind her. Her gaze fell on the bench that would surely leave a bruise as evidence of their crime. She set the lamp on the bench and reached for the bag, slipping it off the shelf and cradling it like a suckling infant.

  “I got it! Let’s go.”

  “Wait, we gotta pull the other one forward.”

  Ruth handed the treasure to her sister’s waiting arms and lifted herself to her toes. Just a little more. She stretched. There. Got it. Her fingertips grasped the bottom corner of the sack. She should find a stool. No. No time and too much trouble.

  “You got it?” Bridget’s words came from right behind her back, tickling her neck with hot breath.

  “Hold on. I got it. Just a little more.” Ruth shifted her weight back and strained her fingers, the wood of the shelf digging into her bent wrist. With a grunt, she yanked back and slid the reluctant sack forward. Her grip slipped, and she stumbled backward.

  “Ugh!” Bridget’s feet were right up underneath her. Ruth crashed into Bridget, and they tumbled to the floor, knocking over the bench with a loud crash.

  “We got to go! Someone mighta heard that,” Bridget said, her eyes wide. Shadows danced across her face, and light sprang up around her.

  Ruth pushed her sister’s crouching form aside. The toppled lamp spilled fluid over the floor, and flames escaped the glass chimney and scurried along the floor like frightened mice.

  Ruth’s mouth went dry. She stared at the dancing flames that gathered courage and multiplied. Bridget shook her shoulder, breaking the fire’s spell.

  “Come on! We gotta go!”

  Ruth shook her head. “No, we got to stop this fire. We can’t leave.”

  Panic raced across Bridget’s face, but she nodded. They stomped the nearest flames, but the thin soles of Ruth’s shoes did little to hinder their advance.

  The fire found the dry flour and potato sacks and greedily consumed its way farther along the wall and up the shelves. Black smoke thickened the air. Brid
get coughed. She stopped stomping and looked at Ruth.

  “We ain’t gonna stop it.”

  If only they had a bucket of water or something that would help them smother the flames. Ruth’s gaze darted around the room but didn’t land on anything that would help them. Smoke burned her nostrils, searing its way deep into her lungs. She coughed it up reflexively but found no relief.

  “We got to go, Ruth. If they catch us here now we’ll hang for sure.”

  Bridget was right. They had to go. Ruth jumped the flames and threw open the door to the inner house.

  “Fire!” she yelled, hoping her single warning would bring help but still allow them to escape. Ruth ran through the fire that licked at her legs and caught hold of her skirt. Bridget waited for her at the rear door, smoke clouding her figure. Ruth dove through the door and out into the night air.

  “You’s on fire!” Bridget grabbed Ruth and shoved her to the ground, beating at Ruth’s skirts with her hands. The flames sputtered and died and the girls lay on their backs heaving in air. Shouts drifted through the doorway on the heels of the billowing smoke. Bridget’s terrified gaze found Ruth’s.

  “Run!” Ruth screeched.

  They gathered their skirts in their hands and ran with hunched backs, darting across the open yard and to the safety of the tree line. Ruth pulled Bridget behind a large pine. They peered around either side of the rough bark. Flames now leapt from the windows and tickled the roof. One ember caught, then another. In a few moments, the fire raced along the roof and covered the wood walls. People shouted, their hazy forms scurrying around in the yard.

  “What’ve we done?” Ruth whispered.

  Bridget wrapped her in a hug. “We didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

  Ruth placed her chin on her sister’s ruffled hair. “We shoulda never been in there. Now they’s going to lose the whole place.”

  Bridget nodded against her neck.

  Ruth pulled away. “We gotta get deeper in these woods before someone sees us.”

  She laced her fingers with Bridget’s, and they hurried through the thick undergrowth, briars and thorns tearing at their legs and shredding their skirts.

  Ruth shivered. The hard ground poked and prodded her body, making her stiff limbs ache even more. She shook her sister, her form barely visible in the half moon’s light. Bridget stirred and rolled to her back.

  “You think it’s safe to go back yet?” she whispered.

  Ruth scanned the woods around them, unable to tell how long they’d been in the woods or how far they’d run before collapsing. “I don’t know. But maybe we should start making our way back and see what’s going on.”

  “Yeah. Can’t get no rest against this tree no ways.”

  Ruth stretched her stiff joints and shook the dirt from her skirt. The smell of smoke drifted to her nostrils and twisted her gut. Maybe her warning had been enough. Maybe they had gotten the fire stopped before it took the house. She’d prayed until the exhaustion overtook her. Surely that would mean something.

  Bridget grasped her hand. “Come on. I think we needs to go back this way.”

  Her sister had a better sense of direction than most, so Ruth followed Bridget’s lead through the thick underbrush, her feet tripping on exposed roots.

  After what felt like hours, Ruth noticed an orange glow warming the sky in the distance. Sunrise? They must have been hiding longer than she thought. If they could get back home before the morning foreman came, no one would know they’d been out all night.

  Bridget squeezed her fingers fiercely.

  “Ow! You’re hurting my hand!” Ruth stilled. “Hush!” The faint sound of shouts drifted to them through the trees.

  Bridget tugged on her hand, and they made their way through the forest as quietly as they could. The orange glow grew brighter. Smoke. That was no sunrise.

  The trees thinned, and she could see it then. The entire house was engulfed in flames, people running frantically around outside. Children wailed. From where they stood, Ruth could see where the blaze traveled along the dry ground, rain-starved grass providing food for its devilish hunger. It traveled beyond the barn and out past…

  Ruth gasped. Bridget turned to her with wide eyes. No words were needed. They had to get home. They burst through the trees and into the cleared area along the edge of the yard. Ruth prayed no one would see them, her legs pumping hard and carrying her closer to her greatest fear.

  They topped the hill and were greeted by a horrible sight. The cabins had caught fire. The stiff breeze carried it easily from one roof to another. People scrambled about desperately trying to quench the flames with buckets of water from the well, but the tiny splashes of water did little to quench the fire pouring from open windows.

  “Momma!” Bridget shrieked, racing down the hill and into the chaos below.

  Ruth regained enough of her mental abilities to remind her feet to move. Her home stood closest to the big house. The first on the line. The first that would….

  No! No, it couldn’t be. Flames consumed their two-room log cabin, black smoke billowing from the doorway and through the roof. Ruth scanned the faces running to the well.

  “Momma?” Panic gripped her stomach. “Momma! Where are you?” She dashed to the well, grabbing a young girl by the shoulders. “Has you seen my Momma?” The girl shook her head. “Or my little brother?” The girl shook her head wildly, ripping her arm from Ruth’s grasp and running away.

  More faces streaked past her with terrified eyes and shouts that came from horrified lips. She knew them all, but none were the ones she sought. “Have you seen my mother? Violet! Have any of you seen Violet?”

  This was her fault. All her fault. She had to find Momma and little Jessy.

  Bridget’s scream nearly stilled her heart. She turned to where she’d left her sister standing in shock outside of their cabin.

  “Momma!” Bridget screamed.

  Ruth dashed to her sister’s side and heard the sound that had ripped such a terrified wail from Bridget’s chest. Her mother. She could hear her mother’s screams coming from inside!

  Ruth sprang toward the front porch, but before she could reach it, it gave a terrible groan and collapsed, spraying sparks into the air and sending Ruth stumbling backward. The screams stopped.

  “No! Momma!”

  No sounds came from inside.

  The smoke blackened the sky and rose into the night. The flames consumed everything they touched. The heat became so intense it allowed her no closer. Ruth sank to her knees. She should have gone in sooner. If only she had braved the flames.

  How? How could the fire possibly have taken over so much so fast? Her mother and her brother…gone. All because she’d wanted to make a cake for Jessy’s ninth birthday. A day he would never see. Ruth’s stomach knotted, threatening to retch up its meager contents.

  Cool hands gripped her forearms, pulling her up. A voice pricked holes in her blanket of dark thoughts, but she shook her head to make it go away.

  “Ruth!”

  Her gaze snapped to her sister’s face, the fog lifting from her brain. Bridget’s eyes reflected the fear constricting her own chest.

  “Ruth! Come on!”

  Ruth frowned. Where could they possibly need to go? Their home was gone, their family lost.

  “Ruth? Is you listening to me?”

  Ruth squeezed her eyes tight, trying to get herself to think. “What?”

  Bridget sank to her knees and put her head next to Ruth’s ear. “The cabins are lost. Maybe even the big house. We got to get away from here before we burn up, too.” She tugged on Ruth’s arm again. “Ruth, your skin is so hot. You got to get away from the fire.”

  The panic in Bridget’s voice broke whatever spell she was under. The heat washed over her, and she suddenly felt like her skin was covered in biting fire ants. She jumped to her feet. Bridget grabbed her hand and dragged her back to the woods, to the welcoming cool of the tree’s shelter. There they huddled together and watched
their world burn.

  Cedarwycke Plantation

  March 16, 1862

  Charles Harper paced the floor in the guest room given to him, frustrated with the nervousness gnawing his stomach. He balled his fists at his sides, cursing himself for feeling like a caged bobcat.

  It was past time he wed. If his mother were still alive, her harping for him to produce an heir would have long since seen him properly tied to a suitable match. He looked at his wedding attire in the mirror. Many had called him handsome, though he suspected the weight of his name supplied more attraction than his square face and mop of dark hair. Yes, his mother would have loved to see him this day even if it were late in coming.

  At twenty-seven, if he didn’t start a family soon, there would be no one to leave Ironwood to and continue his name. These last ten years learning to run the plantation on his own had hardly left him time to attend many balls, much less start courting. Besides, vapid smiles and veiled attempts to charm him out of his fortune were scarcely what he deemed attractive. He needed a helpmate, not a decoration. But Lydia…she was different. He sensed great depth behind her timid smiles.

  Charles tugged on his waistcoat and squared his shoulders, smoothing on the face of practiced composure. Time to go. He strode through the door and down the wide staircase.

  “Ah, here comes our groom now.”

  Charles smiled at Lydia’s doting father and bowed slightly. “Good afternoon, Mr. Cox.”

  “Come now, you’ll soon enough be family. Call me Bamber.”

  “Yes, sir. It is a fine day for the ceremony, and I must say the grounds out back look splendid.”

  Bamber clapped him on the shoulder. “Mrs. Cox has been rather busy. The poor dear has worked herself into a frenzy making sure all is perfect.”

  “She’s done a fine job.”

  Bamber beamed. “Come, it is time we got you outside. The guests are seated, and my daughter will come down any moment.” Bamber shuffled out the back door, and Charles followed behind him.

  Long benches lined up under the shade of ancient oaks, filled with ladies in brightly colored dresses and even a few men in fine suits. He searched until he found Mr. Lloyd with his contraption. Charles smiled, pleased with himself that he would be able to take an image and present a photograph of her wedding day to his bride. He made his way to the steps and down the center aisle, nodding at well-wishers and taking his place next to the preacher.