A Hope Divided

by Alyssa Cole

  “Am I to gather that the discipline offered was not what you imagined?” she asked. The hint of a smile tugged at her mouth; it was the slightest movement, one that telegraphed understanding, empathy, and Ewan felt it as if her lips had grazed him. He generally looked at a person’s mouth when they spoke—he’d been told his gaze was too intense often enough—and never had one been as compelling as Marlie’s. Heat coursed up the back of his neck from that simple millimeter of movement, and he regretted his lack of proper dress. His collar was limp and did nothing to hide his high color.

  He cleared his throat.

  “I enjoyed certain aspects—the physicality, the training, learning tactics and maneuvers. But I thought it would make me a better man, and there I was mistaken. War makes no man better, and most assuredly not me.” He thought of what he’d learned as a counterintelligence interrogator—how to make another man bend to your wishes in the quickest manner possible. As in every other part of life, there was generally one technique that produced the fastest results: pain.

  That was the life that awaited him once his ankle healed and he made his way to Tennessee. When Ewan had first been imprisoned at Libby, he’d subscribed to the widely held belief that the discord would be settled quickly. It hadn’t been hope, but common sense. Fighting to maintain a practice that required the subjugation of one’s fellow man while crying freedom was preposterous. Could a great country really be laid low by such unsophisticated ideas? Ewan had thought that reason would soon prevail, but bloodshed and enmity—and certainty that each battle would be the decisive one—had stretched out day after day. The end of the war had turned into a moving oasis, ever on the horizon and always just out of reach. A crushing victory was needed for the Union to end things, and men like Ewan helped provide tacticians with information that could bring about such a victory. So he’d spend the foreseeable future hurting others and being told to be proud that he could stomach it.

  “Ewan?”

  He looked at her, unsure what was in his eyes, but Marlie’s lips parted.

  “I’m sorry. For whatever you’ve gone through.” She took a step toward him, and then her hand was resting on his shirtsleeve. The feeling that grabbed him fast at her touch was something to marvel at. He imagined that was what peace felt like: a woman like Marlie touching your arm and looking up at you, her eyes full of understanding.

  But Marlie understood nothing of him. If she did, she’d neither touch him nor shelter him. She wouldn’t offer him her pity when he had reserved none for others in carrying out his duties. Ewan did not regret his work, but he couldn’t expect anyone else to accept it.

  “Such is life,” he said. He stepped away toward the entry to his refuge, but the sensation of her touch lingered even then. “All this killing to prove which men can own which other men and in what capacity. If anything I’ve done has helped bring us closer to ending the institution of slavery, then it was worth it.”

  He had to believe this was true.

  “So, you believe the South is wrong on a moral level.”

  “On every level,” he clarified. “Morality being one of the higher tiers.”

  “I’ve wondered . . .” She took a deep breath. “I’ve wondered how you can idolize antiquity, and fight against slavery? Greece was a slave society, was it not?”

  Her gaze met his now and Ewan felt pinned by it. This was a moment when reading others’ emotions was not an asset, because he could see the disappointment in the tightness of her mouth. That was a look he was well acquainted with.

  “Yes,” he said. “But slavery wasn’t race-based there, you see.”

  “But they still owned other humans?”

  “That was one fault of their society, yes,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “One I do not endorse. ‘It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a certain thought without accepting it.’”

  “All right,” was all she replied.

  A flash of irritation at her tepid response set things off kilter in his world; was she judging him, as others had? Then he thought about the books Marlie had brought for him, the great philosophers he revered so much. She had read the books, too, had seen the blithe talk of slaves. She was free, but her people as a whole were not. How had those passages read to her? What must she think of him? He’d met enough Copperheads in the prison, and flat-out racists in the ranks of the Union army, to know that wanting to maintain the Union and wanting to end slavery were not mutually exclusive.

  “I suppose I always just . . . looked past it.” He unfolded his arms. “I’ve had the privilege to pick and choose what spoke to me from those passages. To me, it is history. I was mistaken about that, though. It is not history when we fight this war. It’s just . . . I very much needed something to believe in. The Bible made me feel like a sinner, but The Enchiridion made me feel like someone, though separated by time and country and mother tongue, had understood me.”

  The words surprised Ewan; he’d never had to justify himself. His behavior had always been accepted as strange, but no one had ever cared why he read and thought as he did. When people had asked before, it hadn’t really been a question, more a statement of how bizarre they found his interests.

  Marlie looked at him and slowly nodded. “I suppose people find what they need where they can. I certainly feel the same way about my Illustrated American Botany. And not everything in the pages of the Bible is kind and just, either. Thank you for explaining.”

  He felt peculiar, knowing he had brushed aside an element as large as slavery. It was logical: The society was long dead, living on in the words of its philosophers. But he knew American slavery to be a horrible stain upon the world. Would it be brushed away so cavalierly when people read of America in some distant future? Would it be a footnote, an aside? That thought troubled Ewan.

  Something occurred to him then. “One constant throughout history is this: Every society built on slavery has fallen. I suppose that should give us hope that the Union will prevail.”

  “I’ve never believed otherwise,” Marlie said. Her voice was guileless, her eyes wide and hopeful.

  He looked at her a long moment and wondered if she would feel the same if she’d been in the trenches with soldiers pissing their pants, men who barely knew how to use a gun or follow a direct command. Then he remembered how each time she walked into the prison, her smile had been a beacon amidst the misery. Yes, she would feel the same, for Marlie possessed an ineffable quality that shone through even in dire situations. Ewan wondered what it felt like to give oneself over to hope, logic be damned.

  Her gaze dropped to the ground and he understood he should stop staring at her and return to his hiding space. He slipped into the darkness and pushed the door closed, leaving his hand pressed against it until he felt the decisive bump of her desk meeting the wall.

  CHAPTER 8

  Everything in the receiving parlor was as it had always been—it was one of the few rooms that Melody had not left her imprint on by rearranging it to be more to her taste. Marlie found that although the glossy piano and the suite of dainty rosewood furniture had not changed, except for a bit of fraying on the raspberry silk upholstery, the room felt different. The gilt pier mirror across the room reflected her sitting serenely on the chaise lounge, book in hand, but the tension that filled the room had no reflection, surrounding her like a malevolent being.

  Perhaps it was the sound of the Home Guard milling about outside the window, the raised voices of the men going through their afternoon drills piercing through any illusion that their home was still theirs. It was strange that sharing her small space with Ewan gave her a sense of freedom, while sharing the whole of Lynchwood with the militia made her feel caged in.

  A tingle of panic swept down her back at the thought of Ewan, as if Melody might overhear her most private contemplations and soil those, too.

  “How was your visit to the Sloanes’ plantation?” Marlie inquired, taking a sip of the nerve-soothing tea she had brewed. She
savored notes of blackberry, chamomile, and beneath it all, valerian root, one of the more dangerous plants in her arsenal. She tried to repress the ugly thought that followed—how easy it would be for her to get rid of Melody, who sat across the room playing euchre at the card table with Sarah.

  She’d been unable to stop thinking of things like that since she’d made her gris-gris. Lessons from her past, learned or warned against at her mother’s hip, had begun coming back to her, as if tying off the little red sachet had unlocked something that Marlie had hidden away beneath the science. She’d felt a sense of control that had nothing to do with the Lynches’ money or name in undertaking that small act. More importantly, she’d felt hope. The night she’d made the gris-gris she’d startled awake, not from a dream but from what might have been the start of one. She’d smelled rosemary in her room though she hadn’t used it for days.

  Maman.

  It had likely been her imagination, but sometimes imagination was the most effective tool a woman could wield.

  Stephen sat in a chair in the corner of the room, out of sight of his wife but able to listen in on the conversation. He didn’t do much talking; he was reading a newspaper, glancing up at Marlie every few moments. She had already offered him two benign smiles, and now she pretended that she couldn’t feel it when he looked over at her.

  “It was quite pleasant,” Sarah said. “They had very strong coffee, which must have cost them a fortune. They mentioned that several of their slaves had run off to the contraband camps, which was quite a nuisance to them.”

  Sarah took a sip of her tea, and Marlie knew it was to hide her smile.

  “They received a letter from their son that presented in rousing detail how his regiment repelled Grant and the Yanks from taking Vicksburg,” Melody added. “Grant and Sherman have been trying to scratch their way in like possums ready to spawn, but our brave boys won’t let them gain entry.”

  “Perhaps they’ll give up entirely and you and Stephen can return home soon,” Sarah said cheerily as she picked up the cards to shuffle them.

  “Oh, I don’t think that will happen,” Melody said. “We’ve received a letter saying our home is being used as a center of defense, damaged though it was, providing shelter for several officers and their men while they strategize. Even if I wanted to go back, we couldn’t impose on men undertaking such an important task. We’ll be at Lynchwood for a while yet, right, Stephen?”

  He puffed on his pipe. “Perhaps. We could always find a way to get to Mother in Philadelphia—”

  “Enough, Stephen!” Melody’s voice burst forth with passion, a sudden change from the mask of sweet refinement she had been wearing. “I’ve told you that I refuse to indulge this silly plan, and I will not discuss it any further! There are no amusements for me in Philadelphia, and I refuse to be surrounded by cowardly, darkie-loving Yankees.”

  “I understand, darling, but if you gave it some thought—”

  Melody shot a dark look across the room. “It’s bad enough that you haven’t the fortitude to fight, or the wiles to support the South in some other way. This talk of heading North only further disgraces you, which I must say I didn’t think was possible.”

  The tension in the room was suffocating, and the sound of heavy, dragging footsteps on the carpet that lined the hallway sent a spike of agitation through Marlie. She wished she were back upstairs, that she had never ventured down to begin with. Then she glanced at Sarah, saw how her face had gone pallid. She caught her gaze and smiled, lifted the teacup to her lips, silently encouraging Sarah to drink, too. She didn’t regret being there for Sarah, though her reserve faltered when Cahill walked into the room.

  He removed his hat and bowed toward Melody and Sarah, gave the pretense of an acknowledgment to Stephen, and then walked over and sat decisively in front of Marlie. He did not acknowledge her cordially, but glared at her. She didn’t know why he acknowledged her at all, if her presence bothered him so, but he sought her out at every opportunity.

  “I hadn’t seen you about, Fancy. I thought perhaps they’d come to their senses and sent you out to the fields, where you belong,” he said. His voice was calm and low, but his expression frightened her. He had the look of a man who would enjoy nothing so much as to crush her beneath his heel, like an insect. A keen affront at such a look from such a man rose up in Marlie, pushing out a tart response.

  “I could say the same for you. Alas, it appears we are both to be disappointed,” she said, then sipped her tea, trying to look unaffected despite the way her stomach twisted and plunged.

  You are not brave enough to issue such challenges, some desperate segment of her consciousness reminded her. Perhaps it was right. She should be quiet and unassuming, given the secret she held two flights of stairs away, but apparently her rebellious side had begun to bloom, like a nightshade that unfurls when shrouded in darkness.

  “I’ve spent much time in the fields, actually,” he said, leaning forward a bit and regarding her with that cold gaze. “I was an overseer for a plantation in Charlotte. Spent my days keeping lazy darkies like you in line. You may think yourself high and mighty in this parlor, but you wouldn’t have lasted five minutes under me.”

  Marlie’s body went taut with anger at the derision, and implication, in his tone. His gaze wandered over her body then back to her face, and though it was still cold, there was a new threat there, a gloating reminder that men like him could do anything to women like her and this society would laugh and clap him on the back.

  “The man is dangerous,” Ewan had written, and Ewan was not the type who was prone to exaggeration.

  Her bravado faltered, and she blinked back tears.

  Maman, why did you leave me to these people?

  Marlie was Daniel in the lion’s den, but she was by no means sure that she’d make her way out. And the lions at least had a reason to eat Daniel; it was their nature. Melody and Cahill regarded Marlie with a hatred and disgust that chilled her to the bone, just because she was a Negro. Was that simply their nature, too? Cruel subjugation of their fellow man?

  “Commander Cahill,” Stephen called out. His voice was overly loud, and when Marlie glanced at him, his color was high. Still, his words were civil when he had the man’s attention. “What is the latest news? Have you had much luck routing out the deserters?”

  Marlie put down her teacup and clasped her shaking hands together. She had never heard Stephen speak of the war so directly, and she had to wonder if he wasn’t purposely drawing Cahill’s attention away from her. A tiny ember of gratitude warmed her; she’d often wished that he would be less remiss in his brotherly duties. If he had chosen now to finally act on them, she could not help but feel some gratitude, tempered by the fact that his wife was the one who had created this situation.

  She was also grateful that she might learn something to report to LaValle, which she’d been unable to do.

  Cahill rose and walked toward Stephen, stopping to look down at him. “They grow bolder every day. Just this morning we got word from a metalsmith that a group had held him hostage these last two days, tying him up while they used his tools to repair their weaponry. He said there were whites mixed with darkies and savages; they count in their ranks those from the most deplorable sectors of society.”

  He looked over at Marlie. She sipped her tea.

  “I heard that they’ve had some recent successes,” Sarah said, turning over a card daintily. “They’ve elected leaders, begun holding drills, and despite the lawlessness of some, are shaping themselves into a formidable militia.”

  Stephen ran a hand over his whiskers. “I must admit, they’re rather more organized than I had assumed from previous reports.”

  “Well, reports are all you would know of, as you lift nary a finger to help the Cause in this war,” Cahill snapped. “All men are welcome to join the Home Guard, but you have not. Why is that?”

  “Sir,” Sarah said, smacking a card down on the table. “If you consider feeding and housing
you and your men as lifting nary a finger, you are welcome to take your leave.”

  “Now, now, Sarah,” Melody chided. Just three words, but they may as well have been a backhand across her husband’s face. Stephen looked down at his hands.

  Cahill looked at Sarah a long while, then stood, straightening his uniform, before limping back toward the door. “I’ve got men to lead,” was all he offered in response. “Governor Vance has said that these Lincoln-loving Tories must be routed out and destroyed posthaste, and I’m not a man who shirks his duty.”

  A chill crept over Marlie’s skin. Even bloodier times lay ahead for the region, and Cahill seemed happy to do his part in the carnage that would ensue.

  “Oh, do wait a moment, Commander, there are some things I must discuss with you.” Melody pushed up out of her chair and sped across the room in a rustle of hoops and swinging skirts. She took Cahill’s arm as they left the room, sparing not even a glance at Stephen.

  “Not all men gain their power by crushing those less fortunate than them,” Stephen said, finding his voice too late. “The people in this region resist the Confederacy because they own no slaves or they detest the institution. Killing the poorest of your people to bring them to heel shows how inadequate a government this is.”

  “Quite,” Sarah said. “And that the strength of the men laying out has increased with the formation of the Home Guard, not diminished, gives me hope that this war will end in the manner we have been hoping for.”

  She looked about, as if Melody were hiding around the corner waiting to pounce on any pro-Northern sentiment.

  “Yes, this war is changing many ideas of who is capable of fighting, and how. I’ve read about the colored regiments fighting for the Union now,” Stephen said, speaking directly to Marlie for the first time in recent memory. “The papers here revile them, but by all other accounts they have acquitted themselves honorably.”

  Marlie didn’t know how to respond. Was this some attempt at kinship? As if she should be happy that her people were now seen as worthy enough to be cannon fodder, after everything else they’d been through? She felt thoroughly annoyed by something she’d never considered: Why should Negroes have to fight at all? She thought of the parts of her mother’s memoir she had translated, the tales of men and women working themselves into an early grave or being beaten if they resisted. Whites had created this problem, why shouldn’t they resolve it themselves?