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

by Stephenia H. McGee

  “I will serve you, my lady. I will lead as you ask of me.” A strong voice off to her left. Ruth searched for the face to go with it. A tall man with his chin lifted. Ruth remembered him. The man who had seemed kind. Mr. Peck. The head foreman she’d seen that ill-fated day Lydia had thought it would be a good idea to do Mr. Harper’s rounds.

  “I thank you. Foremen, if any of you doubts he can work under Mr. Peck by the parameters I have given, feel free to leave Ironwood in peace.” Lydia’s voice carried across the yard, her intentions clear.

  Ruth counted seven men who turned and walked off, one spitting at the ground and glaring at Lydia before he strode away. The others exchanged glances but held their ground. Ruth turned back to watch Lydia nod with resolve.

  “This will not be easy. Forging a new path means we will have to cut our own way. There will be trials. There will be doubts. There will be fear and uncertainty. But when the times are hard, remember today. Remember that we pledged to work together. We pledged to stand strong. Remember that today we birthed freedom at Ironwood!”

  The people cheered, and Ruth clasped her hand over her heart. Lydia turned from the crowd and retreated into the house. How long they stood there in the throes of change she did not know. But something had shifted. Life had begun a new path the day Ruth had first met a strange white lady who had bought her in the same way she would have bought a new dress.

  Where Ruth had once been enslaved by culture, she was now liberated by courage. Bought with a price and freed with a price. Ruth looked around at the crowd. Would they ever know how much it would cost Lydia? How much it already had? Would they ever understand the price that woman had, and still would, pay for them?

  She prayed someday they would. And that they would never forget.

  Corinth, Mississippi

  October 8, 1862

  “I think he’s wakin’ up.”

  Charles lifted the weight of his eyelids a small slit and then squeezed them tight against the bright light. He drew long breaths, his body slowly bringing every ache, soreness, and stabbing pain to his attention until they threatened to send him back into the comfort of the darkness.

  Lydia.

  The thought of his wife pushed past the cloying call of unconsciousness and reminded him that he must fight through whatever circumstances threatened to keep him from her. He peeled back his eyelids and blinked rapidly, the fuzzy image of a female face slowly coming into focus.

  She frowned down at him, part of her wrinkled brow encased in the white scarf wrapped around her head.

  “Is you awake?”

  He tried to speak, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. The woman pressed a tin cup to his lips, and he pulled in a sip of tepid water. As the moisture coated his lips, he suddenly realized how thirsty he was. He gulped the liquid, draining the cup.

  “More.”

  She shook her head and placed the cup on a small table that sat between his and another cot. “No more right now. Don’t want it comin’ back up.”

  He studied her. A Negro woman, but perhaps mixed. What was she doing here? He turned and looked at the four walls surrounding him. They’d jammed at least eight cots into a small single room so there was hardly room to walk between them.

  “Where am I?”

  “Tishomingo Hospital.”

  Someone in the room coughed, another moaned. Was he a prisoner? Then he remembered putting on the jacket of the dead Federal. Did they know?

  “You been in and out for a long time. Thought the infection and fever might be the end of you, but you done fought past it. Right now you is in a room with other men the doctor thinks’ll make it out of this building alive. You is one of the lucky ones.” She pointed her finger at him and put a hand on her hip. Something about her mannerism nagged him, but he couldn’t place it. Had he seen this woman before?

  He must choose his words carefully. “What happened in the battle?”

  “The Reb’s were sent running. A few got into the town, but there weren’t enough of ’em to do much ’bout it. They all gone now, except for a few of their wounded downstairs.”

  Charles nodded. It wouldn’t be long until someone figured out who he was. He’d have to find a way out of here. And soon.

  He swung his legs to the side of the cot.

  “What do you think you doin’?” the woman asked, laying a staying hand on his arm.

  “I’m getting up.”

  “No, you ain’t.”

  “Nurse? Nurse?” a man called from across the room, then erupted into coughing.

  “Hold on just one second, Bill,” she said, her eyes never leaving Charles. She leaned closer to him, pushing him into the rough wad of cloth that could hardly be called a pillow. “Now, you stay put.”

  He said nothing. After a few breaths she swished away, threadbare skirts skimming the wooden floors. He looked down at himself. He wore nothing but his drawers and was scarcely covered by a thin blanket. A clean bandage covered his right shoulder.

  “No more signs of infection. Been a plain miracle.”

  The woman’s voice startled him. How had he not noticed her approach? “Where are my clothes?”

  “Burned.”

  “What?”

  She shrugged. “Who you think’s going to wash all them blooded and torn uniforms? Besides, too much sickness spreading. We burned all of them. But don’t you worry. You’ll get issued new ones. The lieutenant should be back ’round here in the morning to take his records again. You’ll be awake for them this time.”

  A chill ran up his spine. “That’s good, then.” He’d have to get out of here tonight.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’s the one that dragged you in from the street.”

  He stared at her.

  “Seems kinda funny to me. What with the hole in your shirt and the way that thing was bleeding. How come your jacket didn’t have no hole in it?”

  No moisture remained in his mouth. He turned his head and coughed. “Water?”

  She snatched the cup from the table and crossed to a pitcher in the corner to refill it. What would he say? She’d call him out on his ruse for certain.

  “What is your name, nurse?” he asked as soon as she thrust the cup in his direction. He grabbed it and downed.

  “What’s yours?”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, an understanding that dared not be voiced passing between them.

  “How did you come to be here, nurse? Seems an odd place for you.”

  She raised her chin. “I came across the Union soldiers encamped here. They needed women to tend to their wounded, and I took the job.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “And where did you come from before that?”

  “Why do you care?”

  He looked at her until she started to turn away from him. “You remind me of someone.”

  She shook her head. “No, I ain’t ever seen you before I found you on the street.”

  “How’d you get that scar?”

  She reached up and touched the jagged line that ran out from under her scarf and down her temple. “I don’t remember.”

  He settled back and watched emotions play across her face. She must have sensed the way he studied her. She straightened her back and glared down at him. “You stay in that bed. I’ll check on your bandages later.” She turned on her heel and darted from the room.

  At least he’d stopped her from asking any more questions. He turned his head to the left and looked into a pair of light brown eyes.

  “She’s a good one. Makes you wonder, don’t it? They say that Negroes aren’t really human. That all they are good for is hard labor. Then you see one like that, and all it does is convince you even more that the Rebels are the real barbarians.”

  Charles swallowed past the thickness in his throat. “You think all Southerners are barbaric?”

  The man shrugged, a bandage similar to Charles’s own wrapped around his chest. “More things to wonder about. Let’s say there is a man w
ho owns a farm and two Negroes who work for him. Every day the two Negros get up to help him and his six children in the field. Side by side, they plow and plant, hoe and harvest. The man needs the help to keep his farm running. If it weren’t for those two men, the family wouldn’t survive. When they work, so does he. If he eats, so do they.”

  “So what’s the truth, then? Are the Confederates evil or aren’t they?”

  The solider looked hard at him. “I wonder if there are men who mean well but haven’t considered that just as God made the birds of the air and the beasts of the field in an array of color, so too did he make man. What right has one man got to own another? What if God had given me black skin instead of white? I’m the same soul inside. The same man, I reckon. What then? Am I now nothing more than livestock?”

  Charles’s stomach churned. These were questions that had haunted him often. He did right by his people. Made sure they were fed well and not overworked. Where many abused their slaves, Charles believed happy, healthy people worked better. But still, there were those who had not been born to the Harpers whom his father had bought at an auction when he had built Ironwood. Charles himself had never actually purchased a slave nor sold one. Still, he owned all the people of Ironwood. He’d not tried to question that life too much, only to care for what had been left to him.

  “What do you think, soldier?”

  The man’s words drew Charles out of his thoughts. “I don’t know. I guess it is the only life they’ve ever known, and I think there are good men out there who try to do right by the people under them.”

  The stranger’s eyes bore into him, and he felt as if the man could see his very soul. “Things to ponder, eh, Charles?” The man’s gaze swung to the door. “That girl there, she needs to leave this place. She thinks she is safe behind Union lines. But someone from her past will soon come through here. And he does not mean any good for her.”

  Had he told the man his name? The hairs on his arms stood on end, raised by the bumps that covered his flesh.

  The man looked back at him. “Think hard on the man you want to be. What legacy do you want to leave to your son?”

  Charles could only stare at him. Footsteps came from beyond the cracked door, down the hall, and closer to them. The man glanced at the door and then back to Charles, his eyes shining bright with passionate authority.

  “When you run, take her with you. She needs you.”

  Hinges squeaked, and Charles swung his gaze to the door to see the woman returning with a tray of steaming bowls. Charles pushed himself into a sitting position, his stomach responding to the aroma that drifted to his nostrils.

  “All right, y’all. I got you some chicken soup.” She walked gracefully into the room, her walk hindered by a small limp Charles had not noticed before.

  She handed him a bowl of soup and a tarnished spoon. Never had he tasted anything so good. He nodded his thanks as she moved off to serve the next man. He turned to comment on the meal to the strange companion to his left. The cot sat empty.

  Charles looked around the room. “Where did he go?”

  The woman looked at him over her shoulder as she handed a bowl to the one she’d called Bill. “Who?”

  “The man in that cot.” He jutted his chin to indicate the empty bed.

  She handed off the bowl and turned to him. It seemed he and Bill were the only ones awake. Two other men slept in their cots, undisturbed by their conversation.

  “He was talking to himself while you were gone. Might be infection going to his head,” Bill said around a mouthful of food.

  She frowned at Bill, sat her tray on the empty cot in question, and pressed her cool palm against Charles’s head. “Don’t feel like you got fever.”

  He pushed her hand away. “I’m not sick, woman. I tell you there was a man in that cot with a bandage wrapped around his chest.”

  She shook her head. “Ain’t been nobody in that bed since John left to go back to his unit.”

  Charles ground his teeth. Did he have a brain injury?

  “You eat your soup and get some rest.”

  Charles took her advice and tried not to think about the implications of what he’d seen.

  Darkness had settled several hours ago. From what Charles could guess, it had to be near midnight. He’d spied a pair of boots and folded clothes on a chair near the door after the nurse had left for the evening. He didn’t know who they belonged to or how they had gotten there. Someone must have delivered them while he napped.

  He placed his feet on the cool floor and padded to the front of the room. Other than a soft snore from one of the men, all was quiet. He slipped into a pair of trousers and a cotton shirt, then sat in the chair to pull on boots that fit his feet perfectly.

  Whether he put on Union blue or Confederate gray he couldn’t be sure in the dark, but there was no jacket. He’d make do with the blessing that had been handed to him. He slid out the door and down the hallway. Downstairs, he passed the front desk and men sleeping on the floor. Better not try the front door. Surely a guard would be there.

  Charles remembered a door to the rear from his visit here a lifetime ago. He crept slowly past the sleeping men, his boots not giving off any indication of his movement. He placed his hand on the cool of the doorknob, surprised to find it turned easily in his hand. His heart pounded in his chest.

  The door swung on silent hinges. He poked his head outside. No movement. He slipped out the door and down a set of narrow steps. He’d done it! He’d managed to get free of the hospital without waking a soul. Now if only he could get….

  “Where you goin’?” a voice hissed from the shadows.

  Charles’s heart leapt in his chest, feeling as if it would break free of its bony cage. “Who’s there?” he whispered.

  A dark form materialized from the shadows at the rear of the building. The nurse. Without thinking he grabbed her arm, but she didn’t cry out.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  She snatched her arm free. “The same thing as you, I’m guessing. Escaping.”

  He could barely make out her face in the moonlight. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Why would you?”

  An exasperated rumble sounded in his throat. “I don’t have time for this.” He moved to step around her, but her hand shot out and rested on his chest.

  “Look, I don’t know where you got them clothes or how you got past them guards but you must be pretty good. And I’m certain you ain’t no Union soldier.”

  Charles looked down at her, the strange man’s words drifting into his mind. He shook his head to dislodge them. This was mad.

  “You’re right. I put on a dead Fed’s coat to stay alive. Right now all I want to do is get home to my wife so she knows I’m still alive. Then figure out where I’m supposed to be. Can you let me do that? Will you let a man you saved die now?”

  She looked at him as if debating on whether or not to scream for help. “He’s here. The man that took me.” The words tumbled from trembling lips.

  “What man?”

  Her hand flew to her head. “The one that gave me this scar. He’s here. I seen him. He thinks I’m dead. If he sees me… oh Lord.” Her breaths came in rapid spurts.

  Compassion flooded him, brought on by the man that had forced him to look deeper inside himself than he’d wanted. What kind of man did he want to be? He looked at the trembling woman and no longer saw the color of her skin. All he could see was a frightened female in need of protection.

  “Come with me to my plantation. I swear no harm will come to you. I’ll take you home to my wife. I think you’ll like her.”

  “I don’t want to be on no plantation. Not ever again.”

  “Ironwood is not what you think. I’ve plans to make changes there. Regardless of what the outcome of this war is. You will be safe there. And once you are free of this threat, you have my word that you may leave any time you wish. I do not lay any claim over you.”

  Tears slipped down
her cheeks. “I pray you is honest. I don’t see any other choice. I barely survived being on my own once.”

  “Then we better get moving.”

  They slipped quietly along the back of the town and into the woods. Charles could taste the freedom and wondered if the tiny woman at his side felt the same. Where were the patrols? The guards? They saw no one as they slipped into the woods. Charles sent up a prayer of thanks.

  Some time later, he felt it safe enough to speak. “My name is Charles Harper, in case you were wondering. My home is in Oakville. If we keep to the woods and avoid the roads, we should make it to Ironwood safely.”

  He couldn’t tell if she heard him or not. He pushed a limb out of the way and held it for her to grasp. She stayed close behind him. It would be slow going through the darkness, but they must get as far south as they could before anyone noticed them missing.

  They walked in silence for what was probably an hour before she finally spoke. “I thank you, Charles Harper. God’s done sent you. I’m going to believe Him and trust you is a good man.”

  “God told you you’d be safe with me?”

  “That He did.”

  Peace settled on him. “Then are you going to tell me now where you came from?”

  “Natchez.”

  The sadness in that single word pulled at his heart. He wondered what she’d been through to find herself in Corinth. He tried to push lightness into his voice.

  “Well, then I suppose I shall call you Natchez, since you’ve given me nothing better.”

  A small giggle bubbled up behind him, and he smiled.

  “No. I guess since you done gave me your name, I might as well give you mine.”

  “Indeed, it would make it easier.”

  After a long pause she finally said, “My name’s Bridget.”

  Ironwood

  October 9, 1862

  Ironwood struggled to walk down the new path Miss Lydia had set them on. Eight who’d danced on the lawn and vowed to stay broke their word and disappeared into the night. Miss Lydia let them go as she’d promised and said nothing about it. But Ruth knew. She could see it cut deeper than Miss Lydia would ever admit.