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

by Stephenia H. McGee

  “You may bring my meal to my room tonight. I will not eat at that big table alone.” She walked past Ruth and ignored the look on her face.

  That evening she finished her meal and waited until the house settled into silence. Then, carrying only a single candle, she crept down the hall and into Charles’s study. His desk loomed like a huge beast. She circled around it and placed her meager light on its polished surface.

  She pulled open the top drawer as far as it would go. She felt around at the back. There. Her fingertip brushed a bit of metal. The back came free. Lydia reached in behind it and pulled a stack of bonds from the hidden compartment. Charles had told her where they were in case she had need of them.

  He had assured her they would be safe here. Yet something gnawed at her. An undeniable need to hide them away in her little secret hole. She replaced the drawer’s false back and closed it quietly. She drew the papers close to her chest and retrieved her light.

  She would have to move her things back into her own room. She could not take the constant reminder of Charles’ absence that his things brought upon her. Lydia moved her side table and lifted the board free. She sat down on the floor, her cotton nightdress giving little warmth against the cool planks.

  Lydia cradled the jewelry box Charles had given her, now filled with her treasures. It would be safer here. She lowered it into the dark hole along with the bonds wrapped in a thin cloth.

  Safe. In here her treasures would be safe. But where, she wondered, would she?

  Pocahontas, Tennessee

  September 20, 1862

  The sun hung high in its zenith, casting harsh light onto the rows of tents flapping against a brisk breeze in their own disjointed rhythm. Charles scanned the scene from the top of his red stallion. They stood a short way off, still unnoticed by sluggish soldiers who huddled around small campfires that released lazy smoke curls to mar the pristine sky. At the camp’s rear stood a modest white house, no doubt ousted of the family who had once called it home.

  Charles would be joining a group of men demoralized by a recent horrific loss under Van Dorn and facing the impossible task of regaining Corinth from Federal occupation. How many of this dirty, ragged group would survive the coming days?

  He pulled his slouch hat low over his eyes. They expected him to be an officer. A man with no military experience who’d never been the first to jump into an altercation. They had told him he would be a captain in Company K of the Mississippi 35th—a group of men who called themselves the Invincible Warriors.

  Sweat tricked down his neck and between his shoulder blades. Charles had never been into Tennessee before, but he saw little difference between the Pocahontas weather the weather farther south. The oppressive heat would make their march difficult.

  Someone ahead gave a shout and waved an arm at him.

  “Time to go, Draco.” He patted the horse’s thick neck and squeezed his legs against the saddle fenders.

  Charles made his way down the hill and met an enthusiastic young man near the bottom. The boy couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

  “Who goes?” the youth asked, thrusting the end of his bayonet in Draco’s direction.

  The horse snorted at him and pawed one massive hoof on the ground. Charles stroked his neck to calm him. “You may want to be careful with that, young man.”

  The boy took a step back and shielded his eyes against the bright sun, sweat rolling down his wide brow and his sparsely whiskered cheeks.

  “Who goes?” he said again, though slightly more warily.

  Charles looked down at the new gray uniform covering his arms and legs in stifling wool, brought to him by Lieutenant Monroe, and thought the answer seemed rather obvious. But then, he did have to admire the boy’s dedication.

  “I am William Charles Harper, here to join up with the 35th Mississippi.” He squared his shoulders and looked down on the young man in a manner he hoped would show both authority and honesty.

  The boy dropped the end of his weapon to the ground. “We’ve been waiting on you, sir. They sent me to look out.” He puffed up his chest.

  The horse snorted again, and Charles nearly lost the ability to keep a smile from turning his lips.

  “That’s a fine horse you got, sir. Mighty fine. I ain’t never seen one so red like that. What do you call him?”

  “His name is Spiritus Draconis, meaning Breath of the Dragon. But I call him Draco.”

  The boy let out a low whistle. “Well, my orders are to direct you to Lieutenant Monroe, and he will take care of you from there.” He turned on his heel in precise military fashion and led Charles to the edge of the camp.

  Charles swung down from his saddle in one fluid motion and gripped the reins. “Where are the horses kept? I’ll need a place for him and a reliable person in charge of his care.”

  The youth brightened again. “I can take him to the corrals for you. I tend to some of the horses when I’m not helping cook. We ain’t got many, being infantry and all.”

  Charles studied him. “What is your name, boy?”

  He pulled himself to his full height. Tall for his age, Charles thought. Already close to six feet and nearly eye level with Charles. Skinny as a rail but likely to grow into a big man. Matthew had looked much the same at that age, and he had turned into a bull. “Private Steven Brame, sir,” the boy said clicking his heels together and giving a crisp salute.

  “Well, Private Brame, this horse is the pride of my farm. He’ll need his own pen and special care. But there’s incentive there for anyone willing to care for him up to my standards.”

  Private Brame grew serious. “You can count on me to do it, sir. I’ll make sure he’s fit as a fiddle and hankering for nothing.”

  Charles dipped his chin and handed over the reins into eager hands already calloused from hard labor. “Very well. See to it, then.”

  Brame directed Charles to seek Monroe out in the officer’s tents at the rear of the enlisted encampment and then led the horse off. Charles turned his attention to the camp, his boots stirring dust up from the worn ground, which coated them in a fine layer of gray film. He missed the red dirt of Ironwood already.

  Soldiers looked up at him as he passed, some nodding or lifting a hand in greeting. Charles dipped his chin to those who acknowledged his presence despite their obvious fatigue. Their uniforms in various manner of wear, some threadbare or crudely patched, gave evidence of the hard times they’d thus far endured. Guilt washed over him. His stiff new uniform now felt like a badge of cowardice.

  His gaze fell on a man with greasy hair grazing the top of his shoulders. A dirty patch covered one of his eyes. The man looked up at him, surprise flashing in his good eye before he dropped his gaze to the fire. Rage bubbled in Charles’s stomach like hot acid.

  Webb.

  In two steps Charles was on top of him, his fist landing with a satisfying crunch in the center of Webb’s nose. Webb fell backward off the log he’d been sitting on, his head banging against the ground. He moaned and tried to sit up, but Charles pinned Webb’s shoulder down with one knee and landed another blow. When he drew back, fresh blood coated his knuckles. Webb gargled as blood seeped out of his nose and down the back of his throat. Charles centered another punch into the man’s face, the thirst for revenge in his fists far from quenched.

  Men started to come out of their stupor and began to shout. Charles vaguely noticed them.

  Webb struggled beneath him with a pathetic scream gurgling through his red-stained lips. He tried to throw up a hand to block Charles’s fist, but Charles threw another blow to the man’s remaining eye.

  “I’ll have your life for it!” Charles bellowed.

  Webb sputtered and more thick blood oozed from his mouth. “Help! He’s—”

  The words were cut short by a punch that loosened a few of the cur’s teeth.

  “After I gave you a chance!” Charles pulled his arm back for another blow, but hands grasped his forearm and wrenched him backward.

&n
bsp; Soldiers pulled him to his feet, as he still snarled at the writhing man on the ground. Webb turned his head to the side and spit out a tooth.

  “What is the meaning of this?” a man bellowed from the back of the gathered crowd. The men parted for him, and he stalked up to Charles, his face flushed with anger. Charles assessed the man in the span of a single breath. Thick, dark hair. Long mustache covering a grim mouth.

  “I asked you a question, soldier. What reason do you have to cause a brawl in my camp?”

  Charles shook off the hands still holding him and tried to compose himself. “I beg your forgiveness for my brash actions, but I—”

  “This isn’t a church soldier. You’ll find punishment, not forgiveness here.”

  “This man invoked my temper. He worked on my plantation and he—”

  The officer snorted. “I’ll not have anyone under my command acting in such a manner. Take them both and tie them by the thumbs until I feel like getting them down.”

  Charles clenched his teeth. He cast a cold glare at Webb. The man sneered at him.

  Two soldiers took him by the elbows and led him to the edge of camp where two tall poles were planted into the ground, a thin sapling tied between them. They took Webb first, tying a coarse rope to each of his thumbs and then throwing the free end over the sapling. A stocky soldier tightened the ropes until Webb’s arms stretched high over his head and elicited a grunt from his throat. Only then did they tie it off.

  “I’ll not be subject to such a degrading display. I had just cause for my actions, although they were rash, and I demand to speak to Lieutenant Monroe at once,” Charles said as they stretched his arms out in front of him.

  They ignored him. A few rough tugs later he found it necessary to lift himself on his toes to relive some of the horrible pressure in his shoulders. He ground his teeth.

  “Looks like shue ain’t no better san me now,” Webb slurred through thickened lips.

  The words fanned the flames in Charles’s chest.

  “Yeah, lots ’o good tha’ high-falutin’ life does ya now, eh?”

  Charles growled. “I’ll see you hanged for what you did to my wife.”

  Webb said nothing. They stood in silence until the sun began to dip behind the tops of the tents and the soldiers began lining up for their hardtack and whatever other loathsome slop would fuel their bodies. Finally, Lieutenant Monroe came to stand in front of him.

  “Mr. Harper. I am terribly sorry for the misunderstanding. I was not aware of the situation as you did not give your name at any time during the altercation.” He nodded to the man standing a pace behind him and with two quick cuts his arms were blessedly free. When he lowered his hands, pain throbbed through the scraped skin on his knuckles.

  Charles rubbed his shoulders and studied the man in front of him. “I told the men who tied me up that I needed to speak with you. Is this how Confederates giving their all to your cause are treated?”

  Monroe’s eyebrows shot up. “My cause?”

  Charles rolled his shoulders to try to ease the tension and bring back proper blood flow. “The cause. Disregard my poor word choice. That was hardly the point.”

  Monroe cleared his throat. “Again, I do apologize. If you will come with me, the major general will see you now.”

  Van Dorn himself? Why would Charles be brought before the major general? What could such a man possibly want with him?

  Webb moaned. “Wha’ ’bout me?”

  They ignored him and walked through camp all eyes riveted on Charles. Some first impression he’d made. For a man who prided himself on composure and self-control, he’d let his rage make a fool of him. Still, he would do it again, if only to feel Webb’s face under the justice of his hands.

  They came to the small house in the rear of the occupied field. Van Dorn stood looking at an arrangement of maps spread out over a simple wooden table, stroking the small patch of sandy-colored hair that snaked down his chin. Several men gathered around. Monroe leaned close to Charles’s ear. “They should be finished soon. Then he will speak to you.” Charles stood quietly near the door and watched the agitated group with interest.

  “We will fake the building of a river bridge here,” Van Dorn said, pointing at a paper on the table, “making the Feds think we have no intention of turning east. Then we will hit Corinth from the northwest. Calvary should have destroyed the track somewhere along the Mobile & Ohio. That will keep them from sending reinforcements. As you can see here—”

  “This can hardly be the map you intend on using. Surely you do not plan to base an entire battle strategy on your memory and hand drawn sketches,” one man said, his face reddened to the point Charles thought he came mighty close to the color of Draco.

  “You will remember your place, Sneed!” Van Dorn bellowed.

  Another man placed his hand on Sneed’s shoulder. “I’m sure the major general has his reasons. I did supply him with a proper map of the defense systems around Corinth. Surely this is for a general presentation only.”

  The man named Sneed glowered but said no more. The sensible one nodded to Van Dorn to continue. The general’s eyebrows nearly touched the wavy fair hair on the top of his head. “You would do well to keep your adjutant in hand, Price.”

  The muscles in Price’s jaw worked, but remaining levelheaded, he said nothing.

  “Get your men to work on that bridge. Make a show for the scouts that have been lurking, thinking we aren’t wise to them. You are dismissed.”

  The men dispersed, none bothering to linger their agitated gazes long upon Charles.

  Van Dorn seemed not to remember their presence. Charles glanced to Monroe, who gave a slight shake of his head. Charles examined the tiny house while he waited, though there didn’t seem to be much to take in. A few straight-back chairs, dusty rugs overlapped on the floor, and a trunk in the corner. Where Van Dorn slept, he couldn’t guess. There could possibly be a sleeping area behind the door to the rear.

  They stood silently for several more moments until Van Dorn finally motioned them over, not bothering to look up from his papers. Charles noted the map and could hardly blame the reaction it had incited.

  “Mr. Harper.” Van Dorn looked up from his map and studied Charles with a hard glint in his eyes.

  “General.”

  He scowled. “I heard a report that a newly-acquired officer engaged in brawling in my camp. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

  Charles had heard of the general’s aggressive, even reckless, nature. Standing before him now, Charles could already see there would be truth in those claims. Here stood a man bent on ambition, with a reputation for being married to his desire to claim military fame. Charles would have to choose his words carefully.

  “I must ask your forgiveness for the rash nature of my actions.” The general opened his mouth to speak, but Charles hurried on before he got the chance, while he might yet have time to salvage himself from complete dishonor. “However, I was surprised to see the man who, after begging for a job and receiving a possession on my plantation, then took his pleasure with my female slaves and attacked my wife while she picnicked. As I was away at the time, I learned of his disappearance only after my return, and my anger has had too long to simmer. Thus, it got away from me.” He took a long draw of air to refill his lungs after releasing his defense in one breath.

  The general frowned. “You are saying this man took advantage of your wife?”

  “I believe it was his intent, had she not stabbed him in the eye with a wagon spoke.”

  The corner of Van Dorn’s lip curved upward. “Did she now? Well, that would explain the patch.” He stroked his beard, and Charles wondered how he knew such a detail. He had been given to believe Van Dorn cared little about the men under his charge. Perhaps the reports were incorrect.

  “Very well,” the general said. “As you have already served due punishment for causing a ruckus in my camp, we will let it go at that.”

  “Thank you.”

>   “Normally I am not involved in such matters. However, as Monroe reported your equine skills to me, I have taken a special interest in you. And I understand your justification in your anger. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.” He pointed a finger just a few inches from Charles’s nose. “But I’ll not have such behavior from one of my officers again. You will conduct yourself properly and dole out punishment in approved order. Unfortunately, incidents outside of this camp cannot be handled within it. Otherwise half my men would be strung up.”

  Charles gave a curt nod. The general turned his attention to Lieutenant Monroe, who was still standing near the exit. “Tell them the man with the patch can stay until the first light of dawn. Then they can cut him down.”

  Monroe saluted and ducked outside. Charles let himself be satisfied with the thought that Webb would get no relief tonight.

  “Now. I hear you are an excellent horseman.”

  “It is a passion of mine.”

  “Mine as well. I believe we shall get on just fine.” Van Dorn chuckled, though it lacked any real warmth.

  “As I hope, sir.”

  “Major General.”

  Charles dipped his chin. “As I hope, Major General.”

  “I will give you a company of infantry. We are in need of good horsemen to lead. Seems I’ve lost too many.”

  Charles ignored the later part of the comment and the apprehension that festered in his gut. “That suits me well, Major General. I thank you.”

  Van Dorn gave a small grunt. “You may not be thanking me once you see my plan.”

  A chill slid through his blood, but Charles let no expression cross his face. Van Dorn stared at him for a long moment and then motioned to the maps covered with flickering shadows from the lamplight.

  “Come see my grand plan. Perhaps you will appreciate it more than my generals.”

  Charles circled around the table and came to the major general’s side, praying that very plan wouldn’t land him in the grave.

  Ironwood