The Trouble With Misbehaving

by Victoria Hanlen

  A cold wind whistled through the fragrant pine trees bordering the road. C.C. pulled her coat collar tighter around her neck. Tomorrow would be Christmas. Hopefully, the food and gifts she brought would add a little holiday cheer.

  The desolate country road was in horrible disrepair. Deep ruts and washed-out ditches made some places almost impassable. Robbers or predators could easily ambush them while they wound through thick forests and menacing bogs.

  The captain clicked his tongue at the mule, gave the reins another rap, and turned to her. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere. No one can hear. Will you answer my question this time?”

  Since they’d climbed aboard this wagon in Goldsboro, all formalities had fallen away. Anyone seeing them now would probably think she and the captain were husband and wife.

  Perhaps it was her extreme fatigue, but she suspected she was falling in love with him. Then anxious, sinking sensations would claw at her stomach again. Once he heard what her mother had to say, he’d probably run all the way back to Wilmington.

  She gave him an obstinate stare.

  He met it with an equally steely eye. “What was in that mysterious cargo of yours?”

  After a long moment, she sighed, “If you must know, it was very expensive, hard to come by medical equipment that most hospitals and doctors in the South desperately need. Hopefully, now that it’s delivered, more lives will be saved.”

  He curled a lip. “Why, Miss Collins, that sounds highly…noble. And here you had me thinking we were sitting on armed torpedoes.”

  “The South already has enough guns,” she harrumphed. “They’ve run out of money and can barely help the people they have left.”

  His lips curved even broader. “You are a Confederate sympathizer! So you’ve finally let your true loyalties out of the bag.”

  “I’ve done nothing of the sort. I brought what my conscience would allow in order to circumvent the mandatory fifteen-day quarantine and get us on the train without delay.”

  “True. I’ve never witnessed the medical examiner or the railroad respond with such haste.”

  “You’ve seen how bad the roads are. The train is still the fastest, safest route to my family’s plantation. I’m also still officially a citizen of New York. I made sure the cargo was so attractive the authorities didn’t bother to verify where I was from or what I’m doing here.”

  “So why didn’t they take it off your hands when we reached Wilmington?”

  “A cargo that valuable? Everyone knows the railroads often lose things. My crates would probably grow so many legs they’d look like centipedes. I made sure the authorities understood a special messenger was required and I was it. Goldsboro is a huge military hub and has the large Confederate hospitals most in need of such medical equipment. And, to get to Clarkston we have to go through Goldsboro.”

  Not for the first time did Captain Tollier’s brows furrow and his eyes get that peculiar wary expression as if he’d encountered a strange new species.

  “Why all the secrecy?” he growled.

  “Rose Greenhow died when she tried to bring gold into Wilmington to help the South. The official report said she’d drowned, but her gold was never recovered. My cargo was even more prized. By the time such instruments are purchased and everyone along the way takes their markups, solid gold would be cheaper.”

  “And you thought I might want to steal it?”

  “NO!” C.C. couldn’t keep the affront from her voice. “Of course not. I worried that if someone tried to take it, you might become protective and get hurt, or worse…ki—” She covered her mouth, unable to say the word.

  At that moment the mule stopped again and swished his tail—his sign that he didn’t like something. The contrary animal had taken exception to every rut and bump since Goldsboro. If they came upon a bog that encroached on or covered the road, the captain practically had to drag the ornery animal, while she used a switch to encourage from behind.

  Down a side road, a flock of crows took to the air, cackling. The sight made her shiver. Like so many farms along the way, the one in the distance had the ghostly appearance of neglect and abandonment. Portions of the fence had been burned. The rest had fallen over. No farm animals were about in the weed-infested fields.

  Surely Clarkston was in better shape. The last time she’d seen the place she’d been in her teens. Miss Priddy described it well. The plantation had been grand and gracious, the picture of Southern charm and prosperity. Even if the place wasn’t in top condition, it would be good to rest in her family’s comfortable home.

  Her musings shifted to her Uncle John. When she’d been a child he would travel to New York on business and vacationed with them at Saratoga for the horse races. The first thing he’d say when he saw her was, “Look at you. You’ve grown faster than a beanstalk in July.” Then he’d pick her up, swing her in a circle, and she’d scream with delight.

  She’d loved her handsome uncle and the way his lovely voice could change from joking fun to a kind and caring rumble. Captain Tollier had such facility modulating his voice.

  “This might be it up ahead.” The captain interrupted her thoughts as he turned the mule toward tall brick stanchions. “Does anything look familiar?” Rusted iron gates hung drunkenly off to their sides. High above, a metal arch spanned the entrance. At its center, the Clarkston Plantation sign dangled by one end. A gust of wind whistled through the bullet holes and sent it swinging.

  “I think we’re here,” the captain muttered. He clucked to the mule and rapped the reins. The reluctant animal didn’t seem at all disposed to pass through the entrance.

  C.C. gazed down the long drive. A high humming noise began to trill in her throat. One hand flew to her mouth. Two rows of gracious old oaks bordered the long lane. At its end sat the charred ruin of Clarkston Mansion.

  She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood and turned to the captain.

  His expression twisted to something ugly and fierce. “Heeyah, you miserable old mule.” He gave the reins a vicious rap on the mule’s hindquarters. The startled animal shot through the entrance and galloped down the lane.

  Burned timber put a sharp edge in the air. C.C. pressed her fist into her lips as she gazed about. Weeds and wagon tracks crisscrossed what was left of the immense, manicured lawn. Scattered across it like so many matchsticks were the home’s broken chairs, bureaus, washstands, sofas and bedsteads.

  As they got closer, C.C. could see fire had cut an uneven swath through at least half the structure. All the glass had been smashed from the windows. Two tall, Corinthian columns that once held a large balcony over the front porch now lay on the ground.

  Without the first and second floors on the right side of the house, the English half-basement gaped like a huge maw. On that side, a tall brick chimney stood as the only survivor. A buzzard sat on top gazing down at them like a gargoyle. More buzzards roosted and preened on what was left of the half-moon grand stairway banister.

  “Hellooo!” she cried.

  Silence shivered on a breeze that used to carry the bustling sounds of a busy plantation.

  “Hello, is anyone here?” she tried again.

  A startled rush of sparrows launched from an enormous crepe myrtle and sent the Spanish moss flying.

  “Perhaps they’ve gone elsewhere to take shelter,” the captain said gently.

  C.C.’s fear now bordered on panic. She’d done all she could to get here quickly. Had her family perished anyway?

  The captain set the wagon brake, walked around to C.C.’s side and helped her down before tying up the mule.

  Everything seemed to crash in on her at once. Anger and dread ignited a terrible fury. The buzzards’ presence gave testimony to a tragedy she would not accept. She stumbled around the yard picking up stones, filling her pockets.

  Running toward the house, she screamed at the top of her lungs, “Get out of my uncle’s house you devils!” and hurled rocks at the buzzards. Startled but unconvinced, they dispassionately r
eturned to preening. After a few more throws, the squawk of an injured comrade finally persuaded them to take to the air.

  C.C.’s fear raged like acid boiling in a caldron. She mounted the porch steps and cautiously approached the front entrance. The double doors still hung in the doorjamb but fire had consumed the wall to their right. She gazed at the oddly hanging doors for a moment, puzzled.

  “Probably kicked in,” the captain said from behind her.

  Pushing through a door, she carefully inspected the surviving rooms. Everything had been ransacked. Deep gouges, hoofprints and animal excrement covered the wide pine plank floors in the hall and dining room. Paintings had been sliced, wallpaper stripped. Vandals had used charcoal to scrawl curses and foul language over the remaining walls.

  Gone were the thick Turkish carpets and elegant drapes in the parlor. Nothing remained of the delicate imported French furniture her aunt so adored. The few surviving larger pieces of furniture had been slashed and bayoneted, their stuffing dangling from them like entrails.

  And the parlor’s elegant marble fireplace, oh, that was the worst desecration. Someone had used the carved mantel as a spittoon. Burn marks scarred the white surface where they’d extinguished their cigars. Meat had been roasted inside on a spit. Hot coals and grease had pitted the surrounding custom hardwood floor. As a final insult they’d riddled the exquisite carved mantel with bullets.

  C.C. had suspected her Uncle’s plantation might be in disrepair, but she’d never dreamed of such savage vandalism.

  “Do you have any idea where they could have gone?” the captain quietly asked.

  “It’s a big plantation. They could be anywhere.” She wouldn’t allow herself to imagine the unthinkable: that they might have left for parts unknown, or worse, died.

  They walked around the large porch, searching the surrounding property. Many of the work sheds and cabins had been burned. Only their rock foundations and chimneys remained. The larger buildings—the cotton sheds, stables, barns and overseer’s house had suffered the same fate—their charred skeletons having fallen in on themselves.

  Sick at heart, C.C. approached the old porch swing and slumped onto it. Somehow it had survived unscathed. She’d gone through so much to get here. How could her family have disappeared?

  The captain stood in front of her, his expression full of sympathy.

  Afraid she might start blubbering, she looked off to the side. Words had been scrawled in charcoal across the wall: “No one is safe, princess.”

  She launched to her feet. “No, he couldn’t have done this!”

  The captain followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed. “Hargreaves?”

  She nodded. An icy breeze scraped across her cheeks. She began to tremble and swiped a hand over her face only to realize it was wet with tears.

  “I’m sorry, C.C.,” the captain said, stepping toward her.

  “NO! I’m not going to start crying like some pitiful ninny.” She frantically searched her pockets for a handkerchief.

  Captain Tollier handed her his.

  A sob escaped. She clamped the handkerchief over her mouth to prevent more traitorous sounds from leaking out.

  Without a word, he pulled her into his arms.

  “The p-planning, th-the effort, the hope against hope—” She hiccupped into the shoulder of his coat. “How could Hargreaves have gotten here before us?”

  “Shhh,” he whispered, rubbing her back as he slowly rocked her in his arms.

  It was too much. After all she’d been through, risking her life, the captain’s and the crew’s, spent tens of thousands in gold—and her family had disappeared? There’d not been a living soul for miles. Who could she even ask what happened?

  Leaves crackled at the side of the mansion. They both jerked toward the sound.

  Chapter 20

  A little boy stood next to the trunk of the large magnolia tree, warily gazing up at them.

  “Hello?” C.C. gulped, moving toward him. “I’m Miss Calista Collins. My mother is Delia Collins. My uncle is John Clarkston. Do you know where I can find them?”

  The boy darted behind the tree like a mouse scooting back into its hole.

  “We’ve brought food and medicine,” C.C. called as she ran down the porch steps toward the tree. “My mother’s letter said everyone was sick and in need of food. I’ve brought lots to eat, canned beef and ham, even bread.”

  A little nose, followed by a dirty little face, reappeared from behind the tree. Yes, he was hungry. She could tell by his gaunt features. His expression turned fearful when the captain walked up beside her.

  “This gentleman is Captain Tollier,” C.C. said, trying to ease the boy’s concern. “He brought me, my food and medicine all the way from England. Here, I have some cinnamon drops. Do you like cinnamon drops?” She pulled a small paper sack from her pocket.

  The little boy’s eyes brightened and fixed on the sack. He took a step forward.

  She could now see how filthy and tattered his clothes were. His wavy brown hair needed a good scrub.

  “You’re not to take candy from strangers. You know that, Nate.” An older boy with similar brown eyes and features moved out from behind a nearby hickory tree. “Quiet, Patches,” he scolded the little black and white dog squirming in his arms.

  “Nate, is that your name?” C.C. gazed at the smaller boy and then to the older one. “And you must be Jesse.”

  The older boy scowled.

  “I’m your cousin Calista Collins. Is my mother Delia Collins here? Can you tell me where she is?” Their reluctance to speak gave her a pang of panic. “Where is everyone? Will you please take me to my mother?”

  Jesse didn’t say a word, set the little dog down and began walking toward a grove of tall pines behind the mansion.

  Patches trotted up to them for a nervous sniff. Then raced to catch up with Jesse. Nate scampered after them.

  C.C. and the captain followed down a foot trail winding through a thick undergrowth of bushes, vines and saplings.

  One minute Nate was in front of them, the next he’d disappeared. Jesse motioned to them and pulled back the branches of a large Hawthorne bush. C.C. stepped through to find an old sharecropper’s cabin with a sagging roof.

  A gaunt old woman sat on the porch step. On seeing them, she struggled to push herself up with her cane. Her patched, filthy gown sagged around her emaciated form. Coarse, dingy white hair hung about her head like the scraggly Spanish moss.

  Her efforts seemed to exhaust her. Grappling with her cane, she wavered and started to fall. Captain Tollier ran to her side and caught her.

  “Mama?” C.C. cried, shocked. This frail, stooped old crone couldn’t be her mother. Deep lines carved what had once been a beautiful face. Her graceful hands had turned to calloused claws and trembled against her cane. And her color, the most chilling of all, was the awful gray-green hue of eminent death.

  “Let me help you,” the captain said in the same compassionate tone C.C. had found so comforting when she’d been ill. He set her mother back on the porch step and sat beside her.

  “I’m all right. I’m all right. Nothing to bother over.” She pulled at her skirts and squirmed away from him.

  The captain didn’t argue and stepped back to C.C.’s side.

  “Calista Caroline?” She squinted. “You’re finally here?” Dragging in a rattling breath, she grimaced. “I hardly recognized you.” She looked her up and down. “You don’t look much better than the rest of us. Did you manage to lose everything?”

  C.C. knew her dress was a fright, little more than a patched sack with casings. When she’d left Miss Priddy’s, at least it had been clean. Now she’d worn it for over a day and a half. Splotches of mud and dirt clung to it. She stepped forward and knelt in front of her mother. “I’m sorry I’m not presentable, Mama. These clothes aren’t mine. I only—”

  “Well whose are they? You can’t even afford decent clothes? Did you pick them off a dead woman?”

  Her mothe
r’s rheumy glare shifted to the captain. One side of her lips curled down, unimpressed. “You’re forgetting your manners, Calista Caroline. Who is this?”

  “Let me introduce you, Mama. Mrs. Delia Collins, this is Captain Beauford Tollier. He commanded the ship that brought me to Wilmington and then was kind enough to see that I made it here safely.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.” The captain swept his wide-brimmed planter’s hat from his head and made a gallant bow.

  Her mother screwed up her eyes for another thorough examination. “You’ve a British accent. Tollier, you say?” She cut a glance to C.C. and then back to the captain. “Any relation to Amelia’s family?”

  “Indeed,” he said.

  “Indeed.” Delia mimicked, wrinkling her lips sourly, and she shot C.C. a disapproving look. “And how are you related?”

  “Lady Grancliffe is my eldest brother’s wife, ma’am.”

  “The earl.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And what number are you?” her mother asked.

  “Number?”

  “Are you the second in line to the earldom or the third?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I am the third son of the previous earl.”

  Delia tsked and slowly shook her head. Her expression went from silent censure to surly disdain. “Third in line,” she muttered, leveling a cold eye on C.C. “Still just eighty percent. Too lazy to put in that extra bit of effort to get yourself a titled lord.” A racking cough seized her. They waited in silence until she finally wiped her mouth with a dirty rag.

  “Mama, I brought food and medicine for you. I’m sorry it took so long. The Union blockade has made travel extremely difficult.”

  ***

  Beau watched mother and daughter interact. He knew C.C. well enough by now to realize how relieved and grateful she was for having arrived in time. Never had he seen her so sweetly docile or submissive.

  Could this truly be C.C? Until now he didn’t know she had docile and submissive in her.

  Her mother, on the other hand, acted as cold and hard as any woman of his acquaintance.