“Are you loyal to the cause?”
Annabelle’s heart rate accelerated. She’d done everything to conceal her true feelings, hadn’t she? “Of course I am. Why would you even ask such a thing of a lady?”
He frowned. “I’ve seen many a lady with a notion that she can conduct her own thinking, even when it goes against the men of her country.”
Annabelle bristled. Why, of all the…. She ground her teeth. She wouldn’t learn anything if she snapped at him. “My father died resisting the Northern Aggression, sir. You would do well not to accuse me of disrespecting his memory.” She looked down at his hand still holding fast to her dress. “Unhand me, Lieutenant Monroe.”
He released her, slumping back onto his pallet. “It must get to him. I fear it is our only hope now.”
“Must get to whom?”
His eyelids fell. “Not for you to know,” he mumbled.
Annabelle leaned forward, but he had slipped into a fitful sleep, his eyes darting around behind their lids. She slipped out of the room and down the hall, not daring to breathe until she reached the safety of the rear porch. Once the door latched behind her, she let herself fall into the only remaining chair.
With trembling fingers, she slid her hand into her skirt pocket and touched the folded paper she had removed from the jacket of the man she’d buried only a short time earlier. Thinking it would be a message to a loved one, she’d planned on trying to find to whom it needed to be sent when she found a spare moment to do so. Now, she feared what she held was something of far more importance.
She pulled the slip of paper free and carefully exposed the message to the dying flame that could no longer hold the shadows at bay.
“War is indeed cruel. But the South will hold while there is a man left.”
The tree just two inches from Matthew’s head suddenly exploded. Bits of bark rained down on his hair and sent him ducking for cover. He rolled across the soaked ground, adding more mud to his already caked uniform, and crouched behind the oak that had saved his skull. Blood pounded in his ears, his racing heart thrumming to the familiar tune of battle. Matthew leveled his rifle at the unseen enemy as the ragged remainder of his company scrambled for cover, and disjointed orders fell on men too disoriented after being roused from their sleep to comprehend them.
“Blasted Yanks! They’ve found us again,” George shouted in Matthew’s ear.
Matthew didn’t glance back at his older brother. That Yank Grierson had spent all winter raiding from Memphis to Vicksburg, and it was no surprise he’d found their floundering company here in Jefferson County. General Forrest had ordered a few of his men farther south, but still the Yanks followed on their heels.
A flash of blue darted through trees just touched with the clean light of early dawn, and Matthew followed it for only a few seconds before pulling the trigger. The rifle gave its familiar jolt and shoved his shoulder back. An instant later, the man fell to the ground. Once, such a thing had churned his gut. Now, he knew better than to think of the enemy as a man. He swung around to look at George through the lingering smoke. “Got one.”
George grinned. “Who would have thought my carefree little brother would have become such a marksman?” He pulled his pistol up and fired across Matthew’s shoulder, sending Matthew’s ears to ringing and muffling his brother’s voice. “I just saved you a bullet in the back of the head. You can thank me later.”
Matthew dropped the rifle’s stock on the ground, pulled a cartridge from his satchel, ripped it open with his teeth, and dumped the black powder down the upturned barrel. “Then we are halfway to even, since I saved your hide twice in Tupelo.” He dropped the Miniè ball down into the barrel. The smoke of a hundred guns drifted on the air, burning his lungs and giving the barely birthed morning an unnatural fog.
With practiced ease, Matthew dropped the ramrod down the barrel and had it back in place before George could respond to his prodding. He cocked the hammer back just in time to see a half-dozen men in blue charge through the woods and into the center of their camp. Where were the perimeter guards? A blast of lead volleyed toward them, and he heard George let out a cry of rage.
Matthew fired his rifle into the belly of a man with a bayonet just as the Yank appeared to his right and had thrust the shiny blade wildly at Matthew’s face. He jumped to his feet and swung his head around to find George. Where had he gone?
Blasted man. Matthew had to keep George alive to give Father someone other than himself to pass Westerly on to. Lord knew Father would be loath to leave it to his youngest son, who’d done nothing to prepare for running 4,000 acres of cotton and tobacco. If any of it survived, anyway.
There!
Matthew slid down beside George, who grinned as if he didn’t know anything of Matthew’s struggle to keep his only remaining brother alive, and once more threw himself into the fray. The hum of bullets continued, hurtling fragments that made them shrink and cower in a way that ground against Matthew’s nature. Having always been the largest man in any crowd, he was not accustomed to cowering before anyone. A bullet wound had since peppered his pride, and he now shrank away from whizzing bees of death.
He and George dove behind a prostrate tree about fifteen inches in diameter, finding scant security from the hail of iron, and drew long breaths. Despite the cold of early February, he had already begun to sweat in his wool uniform. Matthew cast a worried glance at George and saw his own fear reflected in his brother’s eyes.
The balls beat a merciless rhythm into the outer surface of the felled log, thudding viciously as they sank in. A few flew off and rammed into a variety of other objects, thankfully none of which were their skin. Yet. Matthew clenched his rifle.
“Looks pretty bad this time, brother.”
George nodded. “If I don’t make it, don’t forget your promise.”
Matthew gripped his arm. “Don’t go saying things like that. We’ll get out of this the same as we have the rest of these scraps.”
George grinned. “Yeah, sure we will.”
Voices cried out among them as other soldiers dove to the Daniels brothers’ scanty sanctuary. Someone yelled between a string of curses that the fire was getting too heavy. Next to Matthew, a boy peeked his head just above the log, and before Matthew could pull the lad down, a bullet lodged in the center of his forehead. He fell limp in Matthew’s arms, his blood spilling down his face and onto Matthew’s uniform.
The familiar metallic smell was something he would never get used to. Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, but the boy’s bloody face remained.
He gently released the body to the ground and hoped that the boy had enjoyed a decent life somewhere before the inferno of war had added his soul to the ranks of youth too tender to be exposed to such horrors. Matthew let out a bellow of rage against another young life lost and turned his fury on the devils in blue who had robbed him of nearly everything he held dear.
Somewhere to the rear, an officer ordered the charge, and despite what was certain death, they responded to the cries that demanded them forward. Matthew sprang to his feet, his war cry still on his lips, and allowed the surge of battle fever to spread like warm liquid through his veins.
He held on to it, needing it to push him to do what must be done. He would pray for the stains it left behind later. For now, he would need that fever to make him forget the peril thundering toward him. George at his side, they dashed forward, vigorously plying their weapons and stopping only to prime the pan and ram the load down. With practiced precision Matthew loaded, fired, and loaded again, stepping forward to dole out death as if he were the reaper. The Blues filled his vision, gathering in numbers and sending a feeling of dread snaking down his spine.
Behind him, someone raised the yell, and they pushed harder into the onslaught. Men grunted, and he knew many fell, but he no longer paused to look down on them. Matthew had long since learned there was nothing he could do to help them, and the time for mourning had to come after the battle, were he to live thro
ugh it.
“Run them plumb-center!” George yelled as he unsheathed his salvaged cavalry sword and sent it slicing through blue fabric and flesh and bringing a man to ground.
They threw themselves behind whatever trees were near, darting in and out from behind their cover and moving ever forward. Time lost its meaning, and Matthew did not know how long his men held against the never-ceasing tide of blue uniforms.
“Watch out!” George screamed and slammed into Matthew, sending them both tumbling toward the sodden earth. They hit the ground, and the breath left Matthew’s lungs.
They’d pushed the Yanks back and had now reached a clearing. But then, the fleeing men stopped and began to sweep around. George cursed. No longer in the relative safety of trees, and finding that they would not live long in their current position, the brothers made a dash to a low hollow some twenty paces ahead rather than turn their backs to the Yanks forming up to meet them on open ground.
They dove into the hollow, narrowly escaping the volley of bullets that passed over their heads. Breathing hard, Matthew gripped George’s sleeve and prayed that the tiny hill would give him cover just long enough to break a hole through the oncoming line. He looked behind them to see the rest of their brothers in arms coming to a halt and delivering an answering volley. He and George were now caught in the crossfire.
George pulled on his sleeve. “Come on, we’ve got to retreat!”
No sooner had he said the words than the bugle blast sounded, signaling their company to fall back. Scrambling backward, they had no choice but to give their back to their enemy and run for the cover they had abandoned. Men shouted, volleys blasted, and Matthew wondered if they would survive the impossible journey. He leapt over fallen bodies, their blood painting the dead grass in strokes of crimson.
He’d often wondered how he’d stayed alive this long, given how they’d been on the run from Federals since their latest failure in Tupelo back in July. Matthew had begun to feel both relief and dread that the war would soon find its end. Now, as he heaved in a lungful of smoke-filled air heavy with the scents of the dying, he knew today they would likely find their deaths. George stumbled, and Matthew grabbed him, keeping him on his feet as they desperately ran for the trees.
Suddenly an eruption of pain seared through his calf, and Matthew’s leg dropped out from under him. He crashed to the ground, his hands instinctively grasping at the spurting blood that covered his fingers. George dropped down next to him. “Go! Crawl on to the trees. I’ll hold these Yanks off!”
Without waiting for a reply, George rose and plowed into the soldiers closing in on them. Matthew gave a grunt and hefted himself forward on one knee and his forearms, each movement bringing searing pain that threatened to blacken his vision. Forcing himself to stay focused, he turned, propped himself up, and began to level his rifle. He searched the fray for his brother, but George was nowhere to be seen. Panic gripped his chest. Matthew swung the rifle back and forth, not wanting to release his bullet until he could find his brother.
Matthew screamed, using the stock of the rifle to push himself to his feet. His knee buckled.
“George!” Matthew bellowed, forcing his leg to hold his weight. A hand grasped his shoulder. “Got to make it out, Daniels! Come on, or you’ll be dead!”
Matthew swung his gaze into the green eyes of David O’Malley, a man with whom he’d often shared stories of card games and beautiful women over a fire and army slop. He shook his head and wrenched his shoulder free. “George is still out there!”
His vision began to swim, and he cursed himself for his weakness. He would not surrender to the darkness tugging at him and leave his brother to his death! Matthew shook his head, trying to force the blackness from the edges of his eyes.
“No!” he screamed, leveling his rifle and firing it into a Yank not fifty paces away. “Where is my brother!”
He swayed again, his single leg not obeying his commands to hold his body upright. A hand once more gripped him, holding him up as his body sagged.
“You’re losing too much blood, Daniels!”
Matthew tried to pull free but could not. The Yanks were nearly on them now. Where was George?
O’Malley screamed in his ear. “He surrendered!”
Matthew allowed himself to be tugged away and stumbled into the cover of the trees.
What was O’Malley saying? It made no sense. The rain of bullets slowed, only a few pocking the trees.
The men in the field began to whoop. Matthew ground his teeth.
“Come on, Daniels! We’ve lost. Your brother surrendered, and they already captured him! Be glad he’s alive.”
Matthew swayed. Captured? No! He had to save him, bring him back. Matthew pushed off a tree and took a step toward the clearing, but his leg buckled with a searing pain that dropped him to the ground and threatened to plunge him into darkness.
O’Malley’s voice was near, though his face swam somewhere too far away. “Daniels! They pulled him back through the line. There’s no way you’re going to make it to him, especially with the way that leg is bleeding.”
Matthew ground his teeth. “I have to try!”
O’Malley looped his arm around Matthew and pulled him to his feet. “Too late. He’s their prisoner now.”
Matthew struggled forward, despair nearly robbing him of breath. The Union had long since quit the prisoner exchange, and there was little hope his brother would make it out of a prison camp alive. Prisoner was the same as dead. He dropped to his knees. Why move forward now?
O’Malley sank down next to him and put his face close to Matthew’s ear. “I’ll pull you out of here alive, big fellow. And if you are willing, I will let you in on a little secret that just might get your brother back.”
Matthew’s vision clouded. “Whatever it takes,” were the last words he spoke before the dreaded darkness robbed him of consciousness.
“Watch and wait must be our motto for the present.”
Annabelle watched Peggy stir the pot on the stove and tried to remember what it’d been like to have sweet pastries and biscuits in the morning instead of stew, which they now ate at fairly every meal. Not that she would complain. At least they had food. Peggy had an uncanny way of bringing forth vegetation from the earth, no matter nature’s resistance.
“What you thinkin’ ’bout so hard over there?” Peggy asked, dropping another slice of sweet potato into the pot from the end of her knife.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Hmm. I figured you was worryin’ you self silly over that letter what came in yesterday.”
Annabelle had, in fact, been curious when Grandfather had snatched it from her fingers before she could open it. She shrugged. “Just a letter from Andrew. Nothing to be too worried about.”
“Right odd he was wantin’ to try and read it hisself, without askin’ you to do it. He know his eyes ain’t what they used to be.”
Annabelle peeled the dry skin from an onion. “I suppose he was just excited.”
“Hmm. I ain’t seen that old man get excited ’bout nothin’ unless it suits his own purpose.”
Annabelle laughed. “What purpose could he possibly have?”
Peggy lifted her shoulders and stirred her pot, disinclined to speak further.
“Besides,” Anabelle said, “I have other things to worry about.” Thinking now would be a good time to mention the strange scrap of paper, she pulled it from her pocket. “I found this on that soldier we buried yesterday.”
Peggy took her time wiping her hands on her apron before turning around to look at the paper Annabelle held outstretched. “What you showin’ that to me for? You knows I can’t read.”
Annabelle lifted a brow and gave the message a shake. “Well, I can’t read it, either. Here, look at it.”
Peggy took the paper and held it close to her face, studying it. “Don’t know what all these here things mean, but they sure don’t look like no words.”
“Exactly. I think it’s some kind of
code.” She lowered her voice, though there was no one around to overhear. “What if it’s one of those spy notes?”
Peggy put her hand to her hip. “Now, don’t you go lettin’ that mind of your’n run wild again. It probably ain’t nothin’.”
“But, what else could it be?”
“Probably just somebody scribblin’ when he ain’t got nothin’ else to do whilst he’s holed up here.”
“I don’t give anyone paper and ink. I write all their letters for them.”
“Maybe your grandfather done give it to him.”
She gave Peggy an incredulous look. Peggy waved her arms around. “All right, that probably ain’t it. I just don’t think it be nothin’ to worry over. You’s got enough to handle without worryin’ ’bout some scrap of paper.”
“Perhaps. But, Lieutenant Monroe said….” She let her voice trail off.
Peggy crossed her arms over her chest. “You done been talkin’ to that man again? I told you he ain’t quite right. I don’t like him.”
“He’s just been run down with the fever.”
Peggy placed her hands on Annabelle’s shoulders and leaned close. “You leave that poor man be, and don’t go listenin’ to any of that fool stuff what comes out of his mouth.”
Annabelle sighed. There would be no point arguing. “Very well. But I do think it is strange.”
“Men do plenty strange things. Why fret over it?”
“I suppose you are right.” She brushed her skirts and crossed to the cupboard to fetch Grandfather’s bowl. “I better hurry on and get him breakfast, before he gets sore again.”
Peggy nodded and ladled two hefty scoops into the bowl. Annabelle glanced in the pot and saw it was already half-gone. She could make do with yesterday’s bread. Peggy had lost too much weight lately because she’d tried to give Annabelle the best portions.
The Liberator Series Box Set: Christian Historical Civil War Novels Page 2