by Kelli Estes
I still love you,
Sarah
Larkin closed the letter and slipped it back in the envelope, her throat clogged with emotion. She’d never known Sarah yearned for her brother like this. She flipped through the rest of the stack and saw they were all letters to Zach, all unsent.
Zach had seemed like a nice guy on the phone, but why had he never reached out to his little sister? Would it have killed him to pick up the phone and call her once and a while?
Sarah had died with that pain. The knowledge broke Larkin’s heart.
Right on the heels of that hurt came anger. Zach Faber needed to know what he did. He needed to suffer, the same way Sarah did for so many years.
Larkin should send the letters to him and make him see what he’d done to his sister. Better yet, she should take them to him in person and force him to read them as she watched so she could be sure he felt Sarah’s pain.
Yes, that’s what she would do. She’d take these letters down to California, and she would present them to the one person who could have taken away Sarah’s pain but hadn’t. She’d make him say he was sorry. That, like returning the ring and handkerchief to Willie’s family, might make Sarah happy. And then, just maybe, Larkin could stop feeling so damn guilty.
She spent the rest of the day sorting through Sarah’s stuff and putting together a box of things to take to Zach. Some items, such as the letters, were meant to hurt him. Others, like the photos, she would give him if she decided he’d earned them. He’d have to do a lot of groveling to Sarah’s ghost if he expected to get anything more than the letters.
When she was done, Sarah’s service memorabilia and clothes were safely stored in Larkin’s closet. Her stuffed sea turtle and woobie had new homes on Larkin’s bed. A stack of photos that would mean nothing to Zach, but meant everything to Larkin, was tucked safely in Larkin’s drawer where she could look at them when she wanted. The rest were in a single cardboard box waiting to be lugged down to California.
Satisfied she had a plan, Larkin pulled Emily’s diary out again, snuggled under the woobie with Sarah’s turtle, and went back to reading.
April ?, 1862: I don’t care any longer. About anything. Except Ben. I care about Ben. I pray he is alive. I pray he is safe. He’s not here, I looked. This horse barn where we’re locked up reeks. Horse shit, human shit. No room to lie down. I stay in my corner. Should’ve written to Harriet. Should’ve stayed home. Should’ve run when I had the chance. Maybe I’ll die here.
Chapter Twenty-Two
April 12, 1862: Corinth, Mississippi
“Emily jerked awake when someone kicked her boot and snarled, “Get up. They’re moving us.”
She’d fallen asleep wedged into the corner of a horse stall with her knees hugged to her chest. Her muscles refused to cooperate as she tried to stand, and she lost her balance, falling into the man next to her, who shoved her back. She would have fallen if not for the rough planks of the stall, and she came away with several splinters in her arm and palm.
A burning feeling filled her lungs and she coughed into her bent arm, hearing a rattling sound along with it. Phlegm filled her mouth, and she spat it into the soiled hay at her feet. In the middle of the night she’d woken feeling like she was being burned alive. She’d realized quickly that she had a fever, and also that there was nothing she could do about it. They hadn’t had clean water to drink since they’d all been shoved into this barn four days ago and little food beyond the dry bread and half-rotten potatoes served once a day.
With little notice of anything else, Emily shuffled along with the others and allowed herself to be herded out of the barn and onto a waiting railroad car with the other prisoners. As soon as she was on board the filthy cattle car, she found herself another corner and promptly fell back asleep.
She drifted in and out of sleep during the journey. During the two occasions when they were forced to change trains, she found herself being half carried by two other soldiers. She was grateful for their help, although she was so ill she wouldn’t have blamed them if they’d left her to die in the train car.
But then she’d remember Ben, and she’d find a new well of strength that helped her to hold on. She needed to stay alive so she could find him, give him Willie’s ring.
As she was half carried off the train for a third time, she heard someone say they were in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Her head pounded too much for her to care.
The next time she came out of her delirium, she found herself being hoisted out of the back of a wagon and carried into a brick building that echoed inside with all the men’s footsteps and voices. She was blessedly placed on a cot and covered with a scratchy blanket, and she fell again into the relief of sleep.
She did not know how long she slept, but nearly every time she woke, she found the same black-haired man sitting beside her, bathing her hot face with a wet cloth or forcing broth between her cracked lips. Each time she drifted back to sleep, it was with Ben on her mind. She needed to stay alive so she could find him. He must be so worried about her. Did he know about Willie?
Finally, she woke feeling enough like herself that she could think straight. Everything came rushing back, and remembering her diary and Willie’s handkerchief, she weakly lifted a hand to her chest bindings.
Her hand touched the blanket and shirt covering her chest, but instead of finding the tight bindings with the lump of a book under them, she found soft flesh. Her eyes flew open in alarm.
“Now, now, don’t go getting yourself worked up,” a voice said. Emily turned and found the man who’d been nursing her. He was plain-looking with a dark complexion, dark wavy hair, and full lips. For some reason, the man wore his blue forage cap, and on it, she could see the crossed sabers indicating a cavalry unit. His smooth face revealed him to be young, younger than herself. “You’ve nothing to worry about.”
“Where…” Emily had to pause to sort her jumbled thoughts. So many questions battled inside her mind that she was impatient to give voice to all of them, but she settled on the most important. “Where are my things?”
“Your diary? It’s right here.” The man lifted it from the floor and tucked it into Emily’s hand. “The guards read it but must not have found anything of interest in there. We weren’t too sure you were going to make it. The prison commander even called the town doctor to come see you and a few of the others.”
A doctor had examined her? Had he stripped off her chest bindings? They must know the truth of her gender. But that didn’t make sense. She turned her head and found herself in a large open warehouse full of other Union soldiers. Confederate guards holding muskets were stationed at various points around the cavernous room. The corner where she lay in her cot must have been designated the infirmary because it held the only beds in sight. A dozen other ill or injured men lay beside her, being tended by Union soldiers still covered in battlefield muck and dried blood. The nurses were, apparently, fellow prisoners.
Through Emily’s muddled mind, one question became clear: If her secret had been detected, why was she still imprisoned with the men?
And they’d read her diary. She closed her eyes and searched her memory for anything she might have written that would incriminate her. All she could think of was the entry when she’d written about Willie’s death. She’d used the pronoun she for the first time, but she’d also said Willie had died. Surely nothing she’d written would reveal her own true sex?
“I’ll be frank with you,” the man nursing her went on in a whisper, his eyes keenly watching her. “I know your secret.”
Emily’s breath caught and sent her into a fit of coughing. Her nurse helped her drink from a water glass and then lie back again. When she could breathe again, Emily watched him warily, knowing full well that her fate rested in his hands. She was prepared to give him anything, anything at all, in exchange for his silence. “What do you want?”
The man’s
expression did not change, and he stared at her for a long moment. “You’ve been here three days. I’m the only one who has tended to you.”
Emily figured that was probably good news, unless the man intended to abuse his power. “Where are my…” She searched for a way to ask her question without revealing her secret to those nearby. “Where are the rest of my clothes?”
“Your clothes had to be removed to allow you to breathe and cough enough to clear your lungs. I removed them myself before anyone saw and covered you back up with your Army blouse. You’ll find them under your mattress. When you’re recovered, I’ll help you put them back on when the others are sleeping.”
The promise both comforted her and terrified her. What else did he intend to do to her when the others were sleeping? “Why are you helping me?”
“George,” a man several beds over called out, and Emily’s nurse turned his head. “Can you bring me some water?”
“I’ll be right there, Harry,” George answered before turning back to Emily. He seemed to be considering his answer for a silent moment, and then, with a quick nod of his head, he whispered, “Because I understand secrets.”
Emily watched George walk away. Whatever his secrets might be, she was going to have to be very careful around him.
* * *
Through several long days and nights, Emily slowly recovered from her illness until she was left with only a lingering cough and general weakness in her limbs. Being cooped up like this was wearing on her as much as it was on the other men. Fistfights broke out daily, as did verbal arguments and petty bickering, though Emily stayed out of it.
When Emily was declared fit enough to move to the other end of the warehouse where the men slept in rows on the floor, wrapped in thin blankets, she was relieved to finally put some distance between her and George. That relief, however, ended almost immediately when she realized George had arranged a space for her to sleep next to him. Where, he said, he could keep her safe.
Safe? Emily wondered. Or in his control? She still had no idea why the man was helping her, and she feared what sort of payment he’d ask of her in return.
Prison life felt much like Army life in that she was always too cold or too hot. There weren’t enough blankets to go around, nor enough food to satisfy anyone. Emily’s belly ached constantly, and she didn’t know if it was a lingering effect of her illness or simply hunger. Her clothes were still stained with dirt, gunpowder, and sweat from the battle but even worse, the front of her blouse was stiff with Willie’s dried blood. Between nightmares of the battle, Willie’s death, and Ben’s voice calling to her, she often dreamt of a hot bath like the one she’d taken in Nashville before their dress parade.
With little to do to fill their time, the prisoners had taken to singing songs, playing what games they could in the confined space, and talking for hours on a variety of topics.
“I thought I’d be home by now,” a grizzled middle-aged man from New York told them as he scratched his belly and considered the cards in his hand. “Hell, I’d promised my grandson I’d be home for Christmas, but that was nearly four months ago and I’m still here.” He slapped a card on the overturned crate they were using as a table.
“I never thought it would be like this,” another man said, his hands hanging between his knees as he leaned against a brick wall and watched the poker game in progress. “What we saw back there at Pittsburg Landing…” He shook his head, and several men around him did the same.
“They kept saying we just needed one big win in battle, and the Rebels would give up their fight.” The bald man, also playing poker, twisted his head from one side to the other as though seeing beyond the walls of the prison warehouse. “It don’t look to me like anyone is going home.”
“Remind me, would you?” asked a soldier who was lying on the bare cement a few feet away from those gathered around the card game. “Why are we fighting this war? I thought it was to preserve the Union of our states, but it looks to me like all it’s doing is tearing us apart.”
“Don’t fool yourselves, gentlemen,” George drawled. “This war has never been about states’ rights or Federal control or economic differences. We’re fighting against the institution of slavery. Period. The Southern states want to preserve it because it’s the only way they get rich, and they want to spread slavery across the country so their side of the argument is strengthened. The Northern states want to abolish it and keep it from spreading. That’s all there is to it.”
“You’re wrong,” protested an Irish boy. “I don’t care one ewe’s teat about slavery. I do care about preserving the strength of my new nation so that it can withstand threats from other nations.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, boys,” George told him in a placating tone. “I’m not saying all that isn’t important and an aspect of the conflict. What I’m saying is that when it’s all boiled down, it’s about Southern landowners needing slave labor to run their plantations so they get rich. And before you tell me again that I’m wrong because not all Southerners own slaves, know that those who don’t are still fighting for slavery because it keeps them above a whole lotta folks on the social hierarchy. They’d die before finding themselves at the bottom.”
“I’m not putting myself in front of a bullet for no nigger,” a man across the room called over, though Emily could not see who he was. Others voiced agreement.
“If the negroes don’t want to be slaves, why aren’t they fightin’ on our side?” the card player from New York asked George pointedly.
George appeared relaxed, but Emily could feel the tension pouring from his body. “They aren’t allowed to. The Union Army has turned away hundreds.”
That was news to Emily.
“Why, I heard the negro brain is smaller than ours,” offered the bald man. “They simply aren’t as smart as a white person.”
“I’ve heard others say that,” Emily said, thinking back to MacGregor and to all the evenings when Uncle Samuel had a bit too much whiskey and got to talking. “But I don’t think it’s true.”
George grunted in disgust and got to his feet. “Just because someone looks different from you does not mean he is any less intelligent.” As though he could not stand another moment of the conversation, George walked away, shaking his head.
Emily was relieved to finally get a break from him, but something about him was nagging at her. He had already admitted to having secrets, and now, after seeing him get so worked up about slavery and colored people in general, she could not help but wonder if he was connected to the community in some way. He felt strongly on the matter, which could mean he might be an abolitionist, or he might even have some African blood in him.
As the other men went on discussing the differences between whites and blacks, Emily watched George walk away. Sure, his complexion was dark, but so were many of the men’s here in the prison.
Still, Emily felt almost certain she’d discovered George’s secret. If he was truly part African, then being discovered serving in the Army as a white man must assuredly be as dangerous as being discovered to be a woman. Maybe even more so.
Finally, Emily had some leverage over George in the event that he tried to hurt her. She did not plan to use the knowledge unless he forced her to, but now she didn’t feel quite so vulnerable around him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Present day: Walnut Creek, California
Zach Faber lived on the side of a hill in a house that looked new and big enough to sleep a handful of families. The sight of it pissed Larkin off more than she already was. She’d spent the entire flight to California steaming over how Sarah’s family had treated her so poorly.
She parked her rental car and stalked to the huge front door, ready to put this arrogant prick in his place. Since he was the only member of Sarah’s family still alive, he would represent all of them. She jabbed at the doorbell and waited, her arms folded across h
er chest.
A dog barked, and she heard a male voice talking to it, though she couldn’t make out the words. The door opened and there stood Zach Faber, looking lean and tanned—in January—and healthy. He shared the same coloring as Sarah, all dark Italian or Eastern European. He was dressed in golf attire, and a large Doberman stood regally at his side. The sight of Sarah’s brother made Larkin want to punch him in the face. His sister was dead, and here he was living this life of luxury.
“Can I help you?” His smile showed perfect white teeth. Of course.
“I’m Larkin Bennett,” she announced, sure he would recognize her name. “And I have Sarah in the car.”
Zach’s entire body jerked as though he’d been shocked with electricity. He craned his neck to look behind Larkin to her rental car, his eyes wide.
“Her ashes, I mean,” Larkin clarified, feeling warm satisfaction as he deflated. “I have some things I’d like to talk with you about. Can I come in?”
Zach nodded and a lock of black hair fell into his eyes. He absently shook it back with a toss of his head. “Yes, please. Come in. Don’t mind Stormageddon. He’s friendly.”
Larkin didn’t try to pet the Doberman, even with Zach’s reassurances. He looked intimidating.
Zach led her to a sunroom off the kitchen, overlooking an infinity pool with a view across the entire valley. “Can I get you a drink? I have iced tea, coffee. It’s probably too early for wine.”
“Water is fine.” Larkin sat on an overstuffed armchair. The dog jumped onto the couch opposite her and lay down, leaving a space for Zach to sit when he returned. A laptop waited on the coffee table, as though he’d been working before she arrived.
“Here you are.” Zach handed her a tall glass of ice water with a slice of lime floating in it and sat on the couch. His free hand rested on the dog’s neck. “So, Larkin. What brings you here today?”
Larkin looked at him for a moment without responding. He really did bear a strong resemblance to Sarah. Something around the eyes and lips. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Zach’s eyes sparkled like Sarah’s always did, as though life was a huge adventure and they couldn’t wait to see what came next.