Scarlet Leaves

by Sonya Birmingham

  Silky stood frozen, her gaze riveted on his motionless body. Lord in heaven, have I killed him? she wondered, her breath coming in rough gasps. With a churning stomach, she inched closer and dragged her gaze over him, searching for signs of life. Tears stinging her eyes, she finally saw his chest rising and falling and heard him moan softly. Thank God, she hadn't committed murder trying to protect herself, she thought with a relief that left her shaking. Then to her horror she heard Fouche mumbling as he flickered in and out of consciousness: "You little vixen ... I'll get you ... get you for this."

  At that moment she heard the heavy landlady treading up the stairs. "What's goin' on up there? What's all the racket about? I told you I run a decent house!" the irate woman bawled out angrily.

  Silky glanced at Fouche's limp form on the floor, then at the door, which would soon be opened by the landlady. Her mind focusing, she realized she had to get out of the room. She had to discover if Fouche was lying about Taggart's execution as she thought, or if the worst had happened. Frantic with fear, she also knew the Creole might regain full consciousness at any second. The time for thinking and planning was over. She had to act now, and act fast.

  She opened the door and hurled herself past the landlady, who was still struggling up the stairs. The woman held her fist in the air. "Come back here! Come back!" she shouted threateningly.

  With the desperation of a frightened animal, Silky ran from the boardinghouse into the darkness, wondering where she might find a mount. Hastily scanning the dimly lit street, she saw a young man holding the reins of Fouche's horse. Because of the panic taking the city he'd evidentially hired the adolescent to watch the animal so it wouldn't be stolen.

  That mattered little now. The Creole wouldn't be doing any riding for a while, she thought with a rush of hopenot with his head feeling like it had been hit with a cannonball. She only hoped when he did regain consciousness that he had enough sense left to remember he'd been bested by the gift he'd called white trash. She'd leave him in the care of the shrewish landladylike a scorpion and a venomous snake, they'd make a matched pair.

  She gave the surprised lad a coin, then hitched up her skirt and hoisted herself into the saddle. The skittish mare danced about for a minute but, using her mountain skills, Silky managed to turn the horse in the direction she wanted to go. Then, slapping it on the rump, she bolted down the street, dodging some other riders, her only thought to get away from the boardinghouse as fast as possible.

  Silky rode for fifteen minutes, then spotted Burton Harrison's mansion from half a block away. No one could miss it. Illuminated by the passing refugees' torches, a Confederate flag snapped from its big front porch, and every window glowed with light.

  She urged her horse to the side of the house, dismounted, and tied her reins to an overhanging limb hidden in the shadows. All about her everything was in utter chaos. From the neighboring streets she heard the shouts of mobs, sounds of rumbling wagons, and the beating of drums, all mixed up together. With a prickle of fear she hurried up the mansion's steps, thinking Richmond had gone completely mad.

  A soldier carrying a box of documents rushed from the house and passed her on the steps, in such a hurry he didn't even notice her. Like the rest of Richmond, he seemed to have one thought: getting out of the city. The mansion's front door stood wide open, and with a sense of dark wonder she walked into its foyer, noticing there wasn't a servant in sight. In the parlor, papers protruded from half-open drawers, and other documents littered the floor.

  At the end of the wide hall she spotted a packed carpetbag with a light overcoat draped over it. A top hat rested on a nearby console. The sound of shuffling papers reached her ears and, turning right, she spied Burton Harrison hunched over a table in his book-lined library. Papers covered the table, and boxes of documents sat on the floor, their contents spilling onto the scarlet carpet. Flames crackled in a fireplace behind the table, racing over thick stacks of folders and scenting the air with the odor of burning paper.

  Harrison looked up, utter astonishment marking his youthful face. ''Silky," he said, raising his brows in surprise.

  "What in God's name are you doing here? You should be getting out of Richmond. I'm afraid the South is on her knees." Fatigue dulled his soft brown eyes. "There is nothing left ... nothing at all."

  Wordless, Silky neared the overflowing table.

  Harrison stood to pitch another bundle of documents on the snapping flames. "I'm leaving as well, as soon as I dispose of some personal papers," he confessed, throwing a weary gaze over his shoulder. "I'm escorting Mrs. Davis and her children to Danville where they'll be safe. The president will follow behind us."

  "Where is our army now? Where is Lee?" she whispered, scarcely believing a whole nation could fall as easily as a house of cards.

  A look of sadness passed over Harrison's tired features. "His forces are travelling west, toward Lynchburg, looking for food. The general is trying to join Johnston in the Carolinas for a last effort." His shoulders slumped with fatigue. "But all is lostutterly lost. The move comes too late. Perhaps if Lee had joined Johnston earlier the ploy would have worked, but the powers that be didn't want to give up the capitol. Now we're losing it anyway."

  Silky stared at him, still shaken from her confrontation with Fouche.

  "Why, you're trembling, my dear," Harrison observed, gazing at her kindly. "Don't worry, there is still time to escape. Come with me and Mrs. Jefferson and the children." He reached over the table to cup her chin. "I'll see that you're safethat you get on a southbound train before Grant enters the city."

  "No, I can't go," she answered swiftly, blinking back her tears. She rounded the table and clutched the fine fabric of his sleeve. "I have to see Taggartmake sure he's all right."

  "Taggart?" Harrison echoed, his gentle expression evaporating into a blank stare. "You've come on the eve of Armageddon to talk about a Yankee scoundrel who used you to enter Richmond society and spy upon us?"

  "Y-yes, I suppose I have." She studied his shocked face, wondering if she'd made a mistake in approaching him.

  "Fouche says he's been executed. Is this true? You'll tell me the truth, won't you?" she pleaded, her voice hoarse with tension.

  Harrison appraised her with incredulous eyes. "Why should you care about him? Let the matter be," he advised, disapproval gathering in the shadows of his face. "He deceived you along with the rest of us, but you're now free of him. Count your lucky stars and forget he ever existed."

  "But that's just it," Silky confessed, feeling a little ridiculous at the admission. "I can't." She let her hand fall from his arm. "Haven't you ever loved someone no matter what they've done? Loved them with all your heart and soul, no matter what you had to forgive them?" She pulled in a deep breath. "Haven't you ever loved someone like that?" She noticed shock glinting in his eyes as he struggled to camouflage his emotions.

  "No, thank God, I have not," he answered with disbelief. His gaze crept to a large register bound in red leather, then slowly moved back to her. "But, for your friendship, for the time we enjoyed together in this once great city," he stated, his voice now tinged with compassion, "I'll give you the information you want."

  Picking up the book, he opened it and traced his finger over Taggart's name, which in her state of unease blurred before her eyes. "There have been a few executions during the last week, but Taggart was not one of them. This register was brought to me from Libby Prison only a few hours ago, so I can vouch for the veracity of its contents."

  Silky's heart leaped with hope. Fouche had lied, just as she'd expected. She felt as if she herself had been reprieved from the gallows. Exhilaration lifting her spirits, she observed Harrison's frowning face. "But where is he?" she queried in a rush of relief. "What part of the prison is he in?"

  The secretary ran his eyes over the book once more, then swung his attention back to her. "He's in a special security cell, but I have no idea where it's located." He laid the register aside, concern darkening his expression
. "Surely you aren't thinking of going to Libby? The government ordered several tobacco warehouses torched to delay the Yankees' progress in the eastern part of the city, and the fire is spreading. I suspect that whole quarter will soon be aflame," he warned, his voice scarcely more than a stunned whisper.

  "Yes ... I am," she answered, fresh determination reviving her.

  He clasped her shoulders, and gazed at her as if she'd lost her mind. "No one can help you get there, and it would be folly to try," he advised her. "Come to Danville with me."

  "No ... I'm going to Libby," she asserted, her voice reflecting a calmness she didn't feel. She realized that although the brick prison itself wouldn't burn, its shake roof would catch fire and collapse, pouring flames and smoke into the interior of the building. She had to get started and she didn't have a moment to spare. Energized by her fear she suddenly pulled away from Harrison's grip and ran from the library before he could stop her. Ignoring his cry for her to return she raced from the mansion, her footsteps ringing over the parquet floor.

  On the porch she paused to catch her breath and saw that the clamoring parade of westbound civilian refugees had thickened. A babble of wild, excited voices reached her ears, and the scent of smoking torches touched her nostrils. Wagons and buggies creaked and groaned, heavily loaded with men and boys clinging on where they might. The more fortunate rode double on horses and mules, while the dispossessed plodded along on foot, bedrolls strapped to their backs.

  She hurried to the side of the mansion to get her mount, and with a dart of alarm noticed a man yanking at the mare's reins. Frantically she ran to the bounder and beat at his back with her balled fists. "No, get away! That horse is mine!" she cried, trying to pull his foot from the stirrup.

  With a mighty grunt, the no-account turned and cuffed Silky on the ear, knocking her to the ground. He swung into the saddle, galloped across the shadowy yard, and rode away. Dazed by the blow, she watched him melt into the crowd through a sheen of tears. She felt as if she might break down right then and there, but bit back her tears. She was now on foot with the whole city to cross.

  Spurred by fierce determination, she slowly rose, her face stinging from the sharp blow. Still a bit dizzy, she crossed the yard, then started walking eastward, jostled about in the flow of traffic moving against her. Lord above, she thought, a strangling sob almost choking her. How would she ever get to Libby Prison in time to save Taggart without a horse?

  Silky walked eastward toward the prison, smoke burning her eyes. From the tobacco warehouse fires, others had started, and a lurid glow hovered above the city's spires and towers, painting the streets with a nightmarish light. The last of the troops and ambulances and artillery wagons rumbled past with a semblance of orderbut the civilians were another story. All about her there was a frantic trampling of feet, and furniture and household goods lay in the streets to be pawed over by a populace gone mad with fear and avarice.

  The frightened cries of women and children rent the smoky air as everyone pushed against her on their westward exit, and she felt like a fish swimming upstream. She would have given anything for a hackney, but that was impossible, for those that were not engaged had been commandeered by the army. Like herself, here in the heart of Richmond, nearly everyone was on foot. When she did see a carriage, it was so loaded with people and goods the horses could scarcely pull it.

  Out of breath, she leaned against a shop, her heart hammering against her ribs like a bird in a trap. For a moment she recalled Fouche's sick, crazed eyes. Had he recovered enough to track her down? Was he searching for her this very minute? Then, shivering at the possibility, she shoved it aside, knowing she had to save her dwindling emotional strength to get through the night. At least Daniel was safe, she thought, giving a silent prayer of thanks he was on the fringe of Richmond with Abby's family, out of the range of the fires.

  But here things were different, and the scenes she saw could have come from hell itself. With a long, quavering sigh, she surveyed the destruction about her. Stores had been broken into, ransacked, and looted. The frenzied crowds had snatched merchandise from burning factories and places of business and were toting it off in sheets and shawls. With some amazement she noticed the looting was not confined to the lower classes, as gently reared ladies pushed past each other carrying boxes of food. People were white faced with fear and dread, and those who were not hurrying westward milled about like lost souls with hollow, vacant looks in their eyes.

  A brick whizzed by Silky's head and crashed into a nearby window, filling her ears with the sound of tinkling glass. She merely trudged ahead, locks of damp hair falling before her eyes. The last Confederate pickets now came through, their ranks broken and mixed. Apparently an officer had given them an order to destroy all liquor supplies to keep it away from the rabble, for the soldiers noisily rolled whiskey barrels into the streets and pried off their lids.

  With loud thumps, the men turned over the barrels, and gallon upon gallon of whiskey poured into the gutters, its strong scent permeating the air. Other soldiers threw cases of bottled wine and brandy from third-story windows to destroy it, and the sound of crashing glass grated against her ears.

  The purpose of the order was soon defeated, for riffraff scooped up the whiskey in cups and pans and anything that would hold liquid and started guzzling it down. Wild-eyed men and painted women tried to drag away the half-filled whiskey barrels with their own hands. A large portion of the crowd became drank and staggered off, laughing hysterically.

  Everything possible was being done to keep anything of value from the Yankees, and other soldiers burst open barrels of molasses, which spilled out and ran into the gutters, mingling with the whiskey.

  The stockpiled warehouses that Delcie had mentioned so long ago had been opened, and the food was carried off by rich and poor alike, some people getting into scuffles over barrels of flour that were now worth five hundred Confederate dollars each. Why hadn't these supplies been issued to the hungry soldiers before men like Fouche could get at them? Silky wondered angrily. Why had they been hoarded away by greedy speculators when the boys in gray were starving?

  Her strength almost gone, she plodded on, often dodging aside to escape being run down by some desperate teamster cracking a whip above his horses' backs. Longingly she gazed at the overloaded wagons, but there was no chance of getting a ride, for they were all going in the wrong direction. How many miles had she come? she wondered, looking around for some landmark that she recognized from her earlier trip across Richmond to the provost marshal's office. She paused to wipe her wet brow, then limped ahead, sweat trickling between her breasts and her gown sticking to her back.

  Later, a sharp pain in her side forced her to stop, and for a moment she almost yielded to a powerful urge to sink to the pavement and just give up. The Lord knew her throat was dry and parched and her feet were so tender she could scarcely put them against the paving stones. Who would know? Who would care? she thought, her head swimming with fatigue. Libby Prison might already be aflame. Taggart might already be dead. If he was, she didn't care to live anyway.

  In this dark hour all the demons of doubt and fear she'd ever known assailed her, telling her it was no use. Give up, give up, they ordered. It's useless to go on. Foolish to go on. You can't stop a building from burning. Listen to your better judgment. There is nothing you can do. Nothing.

  Then from deep inside her she felt a spurt of anger. Anger such as she'd known when Sergeant Holt came to her cabin to confront Taggart. Anger such as she'd experienced when Fouche had called her white trash. Now she knew this raging anger because she'd come this far and was ready to give up. She'd thought that discovering Taggart was a Yankee was the worst thing that had ever happened to her, but nothing could be worse than him dying without knowing that she'd forgiven him. Giving up now would be like giving up on her dreamsgiving up on love itself.

  She realized her whole life had come down to this test of strength and will. What she needed now was that flinty
will that had brought her ancestors from Ireland and across Virginia to the Blue Ridge. The same will that Daniel had used to determine that he would walk again. He'd laid it out in his mind, and she could do the same thing. Somewhere within her she caught on to a slender cord of courage, and in the midst of her pain and despair it glimmered like gold. Hold on. Hold on, she ordered herself, mentally grasping the cord.

  She'd guided Taggart to Charlottesville through a blizzard. Made it to Richmond to see Daniel in the midst of a war. And dammit to hell, she could keep on walking, putting one foot in front of the other until she reached Libby Prison. Somehow she would make her strength last. If it ran out she'd just will herself some more. Her body might be exhausted but her mind wasn't. As long as she could keep on thinking, keep on believing in herself, she could keep on manufacturing courage.

  Taking a deep breath, she started walking eastward once more.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Later that night, Silky peered through the predawn darkness, dazed and confused. A man had given her wrong directions to Libby, costing her much valuable time, and at this point she feared she'd lost her bearings. Guided by raw instinct, she walked for another twenty minutes, then rounded a corner. What she saw made her heart pump with joy. Through the acrid smoke she caught her first glimpse of the prison and its fenced yards.

  Behind the dark mass, huge orange clouds speckled with fiery sparks boiled into the inky sky, and she saw the edge of the prison roof was on fire. She noticed Dribrell's Warehouse and Mayo's Warehouse, both on Cary Street, were also aflame, and with amazement she watched men throwing sacks from one side of the Gallego Flour Mill, even as fire licked up its other side.

  A fresh breeze whipped from the south, and all about her one incandescent glare spiraled up after the other. Flames leaped across the shake roofs, sparkling like long, greedy fingers against the darkness, setting whole blocks afire. And on the James, the high-arched bridges were in flames, the rushing water beneath them sparkling with reflected light. How ill advised the order had been to fire the tobacco warehouses, she thought with mounting alarm. The Yankees wouldn't need to burn Richmond, for it would be destroyed before they got here!