Yankee Bride / Rebel Bride

by Jane Peart

  "But there haven't been any Yankees sighted around here since the earliest part of the war," protested Garnet, hating the thought of another parting. "We're so far back from the road, and besides, Mayfield isn't near anything important."

  "Still, it's best we go," Bryce said firmly and Garnet knew there was no use in arguing.

  She went to check on Jonathan then. Standing over him as he lay sleeping, she felt an indefinable sadness. Poor little boy, she thought, mother dead; father—who knew where? But at least Malcolm had gone away knowing he had a son, and Rose lived on in their child.

  Returning to their bedroom, Garnet observed Bryce from the doorway. He was slumped wearily in the wing chair, his long legs stretched out before him, staring thoughtfully into the fire.

  There was something touchingly pensive about his expression, and Garnet longed to comfort him. Tomorrow when he left, Bryce would be riding into certain danger. With a wrenching sensation, Garnet realized that she was the only thing Bryce had left to love. His mother had never made any secret of her preference for Malcolm, and Lee held a special place as her youngest. All Bryce would leave behind, should anything happen to him, was a wife who had never really loved him the way she should have.

  Garnet felt a moment of self-accusation along with the deep, abiding fear that always lurked in her wayward heart that she would someday reap what she had sown. The way she had wooed Bryce by wile, won him by false pretenses, treated his love with a careless indifference, longed for another man's love . . . all these were seeds of her own destruction. Every once in a while Garnet would be frozen with fear of her possible, probable retribution.

  Was it possible at this late hour to make up for all she had withheld from Bryce? All that was rightfully his? Garnet was torn between the risk she might be taking and the fear of eternal punishment. What if she were sending Bryce back to war, back to his death without his ever knowing the fulfillment of being loved for himself? Always in her mind Malcolm had stood between them.

  Now, she saw Bryce for the fine, loving person he was, and she was ashamed. For the first time Garnet thought about the vows she had taken . . . "to love, honor, cherish, obey." She had taken them without real understanding or commitment.

  Drawn by something indefinable, Garnet walked over to Bryce and lay her hand on his shoulder. When he looked up into her face, his clear, blue eyes, as lacking in guile as a child's, sent a sharp thrust of guilt through her.

  He reached up and took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it, then looked at her again and smiled.

  "Come sit down for a while and watch the fire with me," he invited and drew the hassock alongside his chair.

  Garnet sat down, her skirts billowing about her, and held out her hands to the warmth of the blaze. The curtains were drawn against the night and the room had a cozy, intimate atmosphere.

  She felt Bryce's hand upon her hair, stroking it, and she lay her head against his knee. Only the crackling and hissing of the fire broke the stillness of the room.

  Perhaps Bryce remembered, in the tranquility of the quiet fire-lit room, discussions by men gathered around a campfire at night—the poignant dreams of the warm sweetness of domestic bliss he himself had never known. Maybe in this moment he was tasting it for the first time.

  For these two who had always had so much to say, the silence was strange but not threatening. Words uttered merely to fill the silence would be hollow and empty. They who had chatted aimlessly, carried on social banter, argued and exchanged heated words, now rested in the quiet. Now that there were so many important things to say, neither could find the words to say them.

  At the striking of the grandfather clock downstairs, they each thought of the hours flung away carelesslyly in the years past. Now it reminded them that only a few hours remained for them to be together.

  They turned to look at each other reading within the other's eyes a longing, a need for love they had not recognized before.

  Bryce lifted Garnet onto his lap, cradling her head against his shoulder, rocking her gently as he whispered, "Darlin', darlin', I do love you so much. I never knew how much until—"

  "I know, I know," she murmured, tilting her head back to answer him.

  He stopped whatever else she might have said with his lips—a long, infinitely tender kiss to which she responded as she had not done before.

  The room seemed to recede as they clung to each other, murmuring endearments interspersed with kisses—each one deeper, more demanding, possessively passionate.

  Bryce gathered up Garnet and carried her over to the same bed where their married life had begun. But this night the love they shared was far different than either of them could have imagined in another lifetime.

  It was still dark when Garnet was startled awake by the sound of screaming coming from downstairs—high-pitched, terror-stricken. Without losing a minute, she threw back the quilt and ran out to the hall without slippers or robe. Leaning over the balcony, she saw the front hall swarming with blue uniforms.

  She turned and ran back to the bedroom where Bryce was flinging on his clothes.

  "Yankees!" she gasped, slamming the door behind her and trying to move the heavy chest in front of it."

  "Look, darlin', I'll try to make a break for it out the window!" he told her. "If I don't make it—" He grabbed her by her shoulders and spoke low and intensely, "Open that mattress! Do what you can!" Then he kissed her, a quick, hard, ardent kiss, and dashed to the window, throwing one leg over the sill and disappearing from sight.

  There was no time to do anything. The sound of stomping boots just outside the bedroom door signaled imminent danger. In another minute the door was crashed open, shoving the bureau out of the way, and the room was full of Yankees.

  "Out the window!" shouted one.

  "He won't get far! We posted men below!" another yelled back and, after taking a hurried look around, taking special note of Garnet who had pressed herself against the wall, they dashed out.

  As soon as they had left, she ran to the window and looked out. Her heart sank as she spotted a circle of Yankee soldiers right under the window. Bryce was surrounded, his hands tied behind him. A moment later she saw the other three men coming out of the house between armed guards.

  She watched, stricken, as the Yankees hoisted Bryce and his friends onto horses. Then they all galloped down the drive and out of sight.

  Garnet stood rooted to the spot where she had last seen Bryce, until her common sense returned. She must rally her strength. The others would be depending on her—as always.

  The whole household was awake by now—the servants, frightened; the children, crying. She dressed hurriedly. Then, composing herself, she descended the stairs to the kitchen to help with the children's breakfasts.

  "What will happen to Bryce and the others?" wailed Harmony.

  "They'll probably be taken to prison," Garnet answered flatly.

  It wasn't until she had gone back upstairs that she remembered Bryce's strange last words. "If I don't make it, open the mattress." What in the world had he meant? But she knew it must be important somehow. At such times people don't use unnecessary words.

  Curious, Garnet looked at the bed, still rumpled from her hasty departure. With both hands, she felt along the mattress under the feather puff. As she searched, she felt a ridge at the very end of the mattress, near the headboard. Taking out her sewing scissors from the basket on her bureau, she ripped at the heavy ticking material, struggling to penetrate it. When at last her scissors punctured the fabric, she tore it open to find a package of papers tied with string.

  How clever of Bryce, she thought, wondering when he had concealed them there. Picking up the packet, she saw written on the top:

  REPORT TO GENERAL R. E. LEE. EXPEDITE. URGENT!

  Hands shaking, knees suddenly weak, Garnet sank down on the bed. Did Bryce really expect her to deliver these papers to General Lee? Her heart began to race. How could she possibly manage that? Expedite. Urgent!
/>   However she managed to do it, it had to be done at once!

  chapter

  28

  IT WAS SOON apparent why the Yankee patrol had been scouting in the vicinity of Montclair. A sneak attack on Christmas Day had placed the town of Mayfield in Union hands. Mayfield, the "unimportant" place Garnet had imagined would have no possible interest for the Yankees, was a part of a strategic plan to control all the railroad stations on the route to Richmond. With spies in the area, Montclair had been watched for weeks, along with other homes along the road.

  This, of course, complicated Garnet's plan to deliver the packet of information addressed to General Lee. It must contain vital information, Garnet thought, or certainly Bryce would never have sent her on such a perilous mission.

  She would need a pass to Richmond now that Mayfield was in the hands of the Yankees, Garnet knew. And to obtain one, she would have to go to City Hall, which they had commandeered for headquarters.

  Extremely conscious of the papers she had sewn into the shirred satin lining of her bonnet, Garnet walked up the steps of the Mayfield City Hall, inwardly enraged to see the building guarded by blue-uniformed soldiers. As requested, she gave the guard at the door her name and the nature of her errand. Explaining that she must see the officer in charge, he opened the door for her courteously. But Garnet lifted her head high and swept past him, indignant at the thought of engaging in more than the necessary conversation with anyone wearing that hated uniform.

  As Garnet entered, she saw another soldier seated at a table just inside. At her approach he looked up, giving her a swift, appraising glance. Something curious flickered in his eyes, and she could not be sure whether it was scorn or admiration. She had dressed very carefully in a green plaid traveling suit, trimmed with narrow velvet cording, and wore her most becoming bonnet. She stated her request once again. This time the soldier was less polite and brusquely motioned her to a seat where she must wait to be questioned by the commanding officer.

  Garnet seated herself warily on the edge of a straight-backed chair and looked around her speculatively. She had never been in the Mayfield City Hall before, and she had certainly never expected to be here under these strange circumstances.

  At that moment a tall, smartly uniformed Union officer, bearing a lieutenant's stripes, entered and glanced in her direction.

  As he did so, Garnet's hand went to her mouth in a quickly suppressed gasp of surprise. In the look that passed between them, there was a flash of recognition then a warning, indicated by the merest drop of his eyelids and swiftly averted head. He seated himself at a corner desk.

  Francis Maynard! Garnet's mind struggled to grasp the fact that he was wearing a Yankee uniform! Francis a spy for the Confederates? That was the only possible explanation.

  Composing her face and consciously erasing any telltale expression, Garnet concentrated on her gloved hands folded tightly in her lap, tense with anxiety that she might by some inadvertent gesture give him away. If only she could get Bryce's message to him, it would probably reach its destination much faster than by the circuitous route she was still devising, Garnet thought.

  But there was not a chance of the slightest sign of communication. The soldier who had gone to check on the availability of his commander returned, and politely asked her to follow him into an inner office.

  It took all Garnet's willpower not to look at Francis again as she passed him.

  Inside she waited impatiently to be acknowledged by the Union officer behind a massive desk. She recognized the insignia of a colonel. He was quite distinguished looking, with sandy-gray hair, and a well-trimmed mustache. Lifting her eyes to a spot above his head, she saw to her horror, the United States flag. She had not seen one flying hereabouts for nearly three years. The colonel looked up with a brief, indifferent glance before bending his head once again over the papers on his desk.

  "What is the purpose of your trip to Richmond?" he barked gruffly.

  "To see relatives, one who has been ill," she replied, her voice sounding whispery to her ears. She cleared her throat, hoping to make her next answer firmer.

  The colonel looked up again, gave her a penetrating stare.

  "How long do you intend to remain in Richmond?"

  "Only a few days. Long enough to satisfy myself that my relative is recovering."

  "With whom will you be staying?"

  "My cousin, Mrs. Nell Perry."

  "You are carrying no contraband?"

  Garner's throat constricted; her heart thundered. What should she say now? She was not quite sure what constituted contraband, but she felt sure Bryce's notes would be considered hostile to the enemy.

  Noting her hesitance, the colonel glowered at her under his bushy eyebrows.

  If they suspected her of lying, the colonel might order her searched. Reports of such things were numerous. The Yankees were on the alert for any rebellious activities among civilians, she knew. She drew a long shaky breath, but before she could answer, a knock came at the door.

  "Come in!" the colonel called, and Francis Maynard entered.

  Salutes were exchanged, then he placed a sheaf of papers before the colonel. "These require your signature at once, sir."

  The colonel accepted them and began riffling through them. Then, as if remembering Garnet's presence, quickly took an ink stamp, pounded a slip of paper authoritatively, and handed it to her.

  "Madam, your pass."

  Weak with relief, and not daring to meet Francis's eyes again, Garnet quickly took the paper. Holding herself stiffly, she left the room and found her way out of the building. Yet she could not truly relax for the danger had not passed—not until she was safely behind Confederate lines once more.

  Settled on the train bound for Richmond at last, Garnet thought about Francis Maynard, whom she had rejected as a beau because he had no spirit, no daring! Now he was playing a dangerous game indeed. The penalty for losing—a firing squad! How wrong she had been about him—about so many things.

  There was no one to meet Garnet at the station. Cousin Nell's carriage and horses had long since been contributed to the war effort. Since there were also no hacks for hire, she picked up her valise. With Bessie, who had accompanied her mistress, carrying the other bundles, Garnet started out on foot in the direction of Franklin Street.

  She was acutely and distressingly aware that Richmond had changed drastically since her last visit. The sidewalks were crowded with people, some of a type she had never before seen in the charming town she had once known.

  Suddenly their progress was halted and Garnet felt her heart wrung with sadness as she heard the familiar sound of the funeral dirge played by a military band coming down the street. She edged to the curb and watched as the sorrowful pageant passed—the coffin, draped with black crepe and crowned with cap, sword, gloves; the riderless horse following, with empty boots fixed in the stirrups of an army saddle; the honor guard marching behind with arms reversed and folded banners.

  This, then, was how some of the young men she had flirted with and kissed good-bye came home, Garnet thought, her throat raw with anguish. Here at last the war was seen in all its stark reality, and no one watching the grim procession could miss its fatal message.

  She was greeted with loving cries of welcome by Cousin Nell. "Oh, my dear, I'm just now on my way to hospital duty. All Richmond ladies are needed to nurse the wounded." Her eyes moistened and she gave her head a sorrowful shake. "So many, so young. But I shall be home this evening." She hugged Garnet warmly. "I am so very happy to see you, child. How you will brighten the place. Some young people are coming tonight and your cousin Jessie is here from Savannah. Perhaps you won't mind sharing your room with her. It's the one you and Bryce had. And how is the dear boy? Oh, dear, I do believe I'm late!" and without waiting for a reply, she bustled off.

  When Garnet was at last safe behind the closed bedroom door upstairs, she carefully ripped out the tiny stitches along the inner edge of her bonnet. When the slit was wide enou
gh, she drew out the small flattened sheets of paper, trying not to tear them. Glancing at the jumbled series of words and figures written hastily with the stub of a pencil, she assumed this was information about the enemy, written in code, they were some kind of code, probably gleaned in an intelligence-seeking mission.

  Smoothing them out, she then slipped them into an envelope. As soon as possible she must get them to President Davis's office. Surely someone there would know how to get them to General Lee. Pray God, it was not too late!

  Suddenly feeling the exhaustion of her recent ordeal, Garnet stretched out across the bed, reliving her part of Bryce's dangerous assignment. It seemed abundantly clear that she had been divinely protected. Certainly it had not been by chance that she had been interrupted at the precise moment the colonel was interrogating her about contraband. That she had received a pass so quickly, so easily was surely a miracle. She knew of others who had waited for weeks for such clearance.

  She had heard of other incidents where women had been searched. The Yankees knew there were too many information leaks, too many maneuvers precipitated, too many battles lost due to skillful, surreptitious spying. It was a miracle she had not been even requested to drop her hoop from under her starched petticoats, an experience reported by a Mayfield lady only recendy. It seems there had been a document discovered, sewed into the circling bands, on its way to the Confederate capital.

  Garnet closed her eyes and whispered a prayer of gratitude. Angels must have gone before her to make a way, just as as she had read recently in Scripture: "If ye have faith—even faith as small as a grain of mustard seed, nothing shall be impossible." She had found it in Matthew 17:20. That passage Garnet had tried to memorize, convinced that her own faith was very small, but trusting His promise: "If thou canst believe . . . all things are possible." Even the impossible! Her eyes grew heavy and she felt herself drifting into an exhausted sleep. As she did so, she murmured, "Lord, I believe. Help Thou mine unbelief."

  That evening it was like old times in Cousin Nellie's parlor, although there were many new faces and everyone seemed so much younger. Among the guests were quite a few refugees, people who had fled Yankee occupation of their homes. But tonight discussion of the War was curiously absent. It seemed that all wanted to forget for at least a few fleeting hours the reality of the Confederate plight.