Ashes in the Wind

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “I told you!” Her voice caught in a ragged cry. “I don’t like to be pawed!”

  Cole dropped his hand and let out a long, steadying breath. “I’ll be back later on this morning and bring some food.”

  “I don’t need your handouts,” Alaina murmured. “I can take care of myself.”

  Cole’s gaze skimmed over her casually. “I made my assessments regarding your success at doing that the first day we met, when you were half starved. I haven’t changed my opinion since.” Returning to the parlor, he removed a slicker from an armoire and moved to the door where he promised, “I’ll be back.”

  He strode out, closing the portal behind him, and Alaina quickly locked it and leaned weakly against it. She could not bear to stay the night in his apartment, to sleep in his bed, to know his possessions surrounded her. He belonged to Roberta, and she could have no part of him.

  Anxiously she set to work. She knew what she must do. Though she was weary, she could not stay longer than the moments it would take to change her disguise. She flung open her valise and, stripping the garments from her body, carefully folded them into the case, then donned in their stead the boy’s clothes. A long shudder of revulsion passed through her as she once more sooted her face and arms from the blackened fireplace and jammed the filthy hat down over her hair.

  As soon as she felt it safe, she left the apartment. This time it was Al who stealthily crept on bare feet down the stairs, but as she rounded the last corner, she found herself face to face with Lieutenant Baxter, bleary eyed and wrapped in a flannel robe and carrying a porcelain pitcher in his hand. Giving not so much as a pause, she spoke his name clearly and accompanied it with a brisk, “Good-morning, suh,” and brushed quickly past him. Before the young man’s muddled brain could sort this out, the lad had ducked down the stairs and was gone from sight.

  Lieutenant Baxter stared dumbly after the boy, considering the dozen or so courses of action open to him, the more rabid of which entailed rousing the whole complex for a search and chase. In his mind he imagined the dour faces of the colonels, majors, and captains as they were rudely roused from their slumber at this ungodly hour. After a moment Baxter shrugged, mumbled a soothing word to himself, and returned quietly to his bed.

  Alaina paused in the shadow of the portico to slip on her woolen socks and outsized boots, then moved away from the Pontalba Apartments as casually as a ragamuffin urchin could without bringing unwanted attention down upon his head. She had left Jackson Square well behind when she espied a heavy dray wagon lumbering northward on some early morning delivery. The driver dozed in his seat and took no notice of the lad who swung himself up on the tailgate nor his descent when they crossed the river road.

  It was Mrs. Hawthorne’s custom to rise early to enjoy the hazy mists of the Deep South’s dawns. She usually greeted the sun with a stroll in her flower garden, but this morning she was surprised when she opened her back door and found the small form of “Al” seated on a wicker suitcase and huddled sound asleep against the railing of her porch. With tender compassion, the old woman knelt and, placing her arm about the other’s shoulders, gently shook Alaina until the gray eyes fluttered open.

  “Come, child,” she urged. Raising her guest to her feet, Mrs. Hawthorne guided Alaina to a settee in the parlor where she gently pressed her down and spread a huge knitted shawl over her. The young face gave a brief smile of thanks, but the exhausted Alaina could muster little else.

  “Sleep, child,” Mrs. Hawthorne commanded softly. “You are safe, and I will wake you when breakfast is ready.”

  Much refreshed after a hearty breakfast, Alaina leaned back to sip the hot, strong but effective coffee the woman had made especially for her and glanced briefly at the clock. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so late, Mrs. Hawthorne. It’s almost ten.”

  “The rest did you good, Alaina.” The woman did not seem in the least bit sorry. “But what’s this you tell me about your captain? You wish to avoid him, too?”

  “Him, most of all!” Alaina snapped vehemently. “I’ve just had enough of that simpering bluebelly lording it over me wherever I go.”

  “I see.” Mrs. Hawthorne considered the suddenly irate and nervous young girl for a long moment. “Well! Have you made any plans?”

  “I’m going home. Before Briar Hill is sold, I’d like to take a last look at it.” It was as much as she would admit, and the thought of some Yankee slouching in her mother’s parlor made her throat tighten to a degree that further words would have been difficult.

  “But, child, how will you travel?” Mrs. Hawthorne insisted.

  Alaina chewed her lip in consternation. “If I told you, the Yankees could make you tell or put you in jail. I just can’t place you in that kind of trouble.”

  Her hostess burst out into carefree laughter, and when the woman leaned forward, the brown eyes were bright with anticipation. “Listen to me, young lady. I haven’t had so much fun and excitement in years. Why, since you came, my blood has started flowing again. I was afraid I was doomed to a dreary, fading end, but now I can hardly wait to see what happens next. In my day I handled better men than any I’ve seen lately, with the possible exception of your Yankee captain. Do you honestly think I’d let you wander off without helping you? Anyway”—the old woman made an imperious gesture to Alaina’s garb—“Doctor Latimer knows about your disguise now.”

  Alaina chafed at the reminder. “And he knows about the widow, too. That mangy critter will probably track me down just for the meanness of it.”

  “You’ve been a boy too long, Alaina,” Mrs. Hawthorne observed. “A young lady watches her language more carefully.”

  Alaina lowered her gaze, remembering Cole’s objection to her less than ladylike ways. She had gotten too far into the habit of Al to shake it quickly.

  The older woman consulted the clock. “I daresay, your captain will be here before dark. We’ll have to move with some speed to see you gone from here before he arrives.”

  “We?” Alaina’s eyebrows rose sharply, but Mrs. Hawthorne had already bustled off into the kitchen. She came back after a moment bearing a small crock filled with a dark brown, ichorous fluid which she placed ceremoniously in the middle of the table.

  “This is butternut stain,” she explained. “It’s used to color wool and other fabrics but few realize it can stain the skin, too. It’s quite durable and lasts perhaps as much as a week or two.” She paused and her eyes gleamed again with excitement. “If you mixed it with cottonseed oil and applied it right, you could pass as a mulatto.”

  “But that would be even more dangerous. I could get waylaid or caught as a runaway slave.” Alaina had a right to be apprehensive.

  Mrs. Hawthorne could hardly contain her bubbling spirit. She leaned closer. “I have a friend across the river in Gretna. He’s wealthy and quite independent. He thinks all Yankees are fools and all rebels misguided. I know he will help.”

  Cole had caught a few hours of sleep in the dayroom at the hospital, then had been tied up setting his various affairs in order for the coming campaign. As soon as he was free, however, he returned to his apartment with a bundle of food and a large clothier’s box beneath his arm. To purchase a gown and suitable accessories on Sunday had been difficult, but he had managed to bribe a couturiere to open her shop.

  His first light rap on the door brought no response, and though he knocked louder, no sound of movement could be detected in the apartment. It suddenly dawned on him that Alaina might be gone. Dragging forth a key, he opened the door and entered, setting his purchases aside on the table as he called out.

  “Alaina? Alaina!” His voice sharpened as he strode rapidly through the rooms. In another moment he found that his first assumption had been correct. She had gone with her meager possessions, not even staying long enough to rest, for the bed was only rumpled slightly where he had left her case.

  “Damn!” He was angry with himself for having trusted her, for allowing her to slip through his fingers so ea
sily. He could only surmise that she was well on her way to her destination, wherever that happened to be.

  Seeking out Lieutenant Baxter, Cole was told that no one had been seen leaving around the hour he indicated except a tattered little beggar boy. Cole didn’t wait to answer the man’s inquiries about the youth, but left in a rush. He ran back to his buggy, this time wheeling it about and heading toward Doctor Brooks’s. But at the older man’s door, the black housekeeper only shrugged at the question put to her.

  “No, suh. De doctah ain’t here, and no one’s been calling terday.”

  Cole’s scowl deepened as he retreated from the house. There was one other place he knew of where Alaina might be, and that was Mrs. Hawthorne’s. Anxious to catch the girl before she extended the distance between them to parts unknown to him, he grew increasingly frustrated at the delays and the slow pace of the buggy. He chided himself for having been so misguided as to believe Alaina would actually stay where he had bade her. The little vixen was bound to drive him ragged before the day was out.

  When he arrived at Mrs. Hawthorne’s, his long strides carried him quickly across the porch where he pounded a fist upon the door until he heard sounds of movement from within. He waited, slapping his gauntlets irritably against a lean thigh, and was soon met with a bright, welcoming smile.

  “Why, Captain! What brings you out here?”

  “Has Alaina MacGaren been here?” he asked as the woman led him into the parlor.

  Mrs. Hawthorne turned wonderingly. “My goodness, Captain, what could you be wanting with her?”

  His frown grew ominous, and she saw his eyes flit toward the ragged case which stood where Alaina had left it. He faced her, and the question blazed in his countenance.

  “The girl is gone, Captain. There’s no need for you to search here for her. She left the baggage behind.”

  “Where?” he roared. “Where did she go?”

  Mrs. Hawthorne shrugged, smiling sweetly, “Texas maybe. She had some friends over there. Or maybe it was Mississippi. Seems like I heard her say her father’s people came from there. Or maybe—”

  Cole growled, raising the woman’s eyebrows, and strode angrily to the wicker case. Squatting down, he flung it open and searched through the widow’s weeds, petticoats, pantaloons, threadbare robe, and lastly, the ragged garments of the boy. He came to his feet with a curse. Who the hell was she now? He whirled and found the woman watching him calmly.

  “How did she go?” he demanded. “What did she look like? Is she garbed as a boy or girl?”

  “So many angry questions, Captain. Tsk! Tsk! No wonder the girl ran away from you,” she chided.

  “Did you give her a horse?” he inquired sharply.

  “Will you have some tea, Captain?” she inquired, pouring a cup.

  Cole waved it away impatiently. “Has she horse or buggy?”

  “A horse, I think.” Mrs. Hawthorne nodded. “But then, it might have been a buggy. She rides very well, did you know that?”

  “I don’t doubt that in the least,” he retorted. “But what disguise is she wearing?”

  “ Now, Captain.” The elder smiled benevolently. “The girl made me promise not to tell you. And I am a woman of my word.”

  “And you won’t tell me where she’s gone?”

  “Alaina didn’t want me confiding in you at all, Captain.” Mrs. Hawthorne spread her wrinkled hands in apology. “I’m sorry. I can see that you are distressed. Do you fear for her safety?”

  “Of course,” he snapped. “She has no money, no food—”

  “I did pack a basket for her, so she won’t starve for three or four days at least, but she refused to take coin. She assured me that she could take care of herself.”

  Cole snorted derisively.

  “Captain?” Mrs. Hawthorne looked at him closely. “You seem overly concerned about the girl. Is she kin to you?”

  “Only distantly by marriage,” he replied absently as he began to pace restlessly about the room.

  “A special person then? Perhaps your mistress?”

  Cole whirled to face the woman at her bold suggestion. “Hardly!” He hurled the blunt denial. “I thought she was a boy until yesterday.”

  “Well, that leaves only one thing.” Mrs. Hawthorne seemed to settle the fact in her mind and folded her hands together as she made the firm accusation. “You’re in love with her.”

  Cole folded his own hands behind him and struggled to contain his laughter at the ridiculous idea. He leaned forward and began as if to lecture a wayward orderly. “Madame Hawthorne—”

  “You needn’t be so formal, Captain. I give you permission to use my given name, if you so desire. Tally is what most everybody calls me.” She seated herself primly to await his continuance.

  “Tally.” Cole paused to re-form his thoughts and tried again. “I am a married man of only a few months, and I knew Alaina only as ‘Al’ before that. I simply feel responsible for the girl. She—uh—has a way of getting herself into the thickest fray and has too much temper to avoid trouble. I only wish to offer her my continued protection.”

  “Of course, Captain.” Her voice and smile were sublimely innocent. “And you’ve done such a wonderful job, at that.”

  As he stared down into those warm, shining brown eyes, Cole had the distinct impression that Tally Hawthorne was both for him and yet against him. From that confusion, he could draw no further argument. He retrieved his hat and gauntlets, then paused beside the door. “Good-night, Tally.”

  “I really do wish you good fortune in your endeavor to find your girl, Captain. Now good-night.”

  Cole opened his mouth to reply, but Mrs. Hawthorne was already picking up the tea service as if she had already dismissed him. He left.

  Chapter 18

  CAPTAIN Cole Latimer rose early in the morning on Monday, the seventh day of the windy month. With a last glance about his apartment, he hefted his saddlebags and departed, relieved that the night of dissatisfied, restless pacing was at an end and that he hard some purposeful activity to set his mind to. At the hospital he picked up the orders assigning him as physician to the First Division of the 19th Corps under General William H. Emory and accepted the issue of a surgeon’s field kit, a heavy, bulky, leather case curved on the bottom to fit behind the cantle of a saddle. He paused briefly in the doorway of the officer’s dayroom to look in, just in case “Al” might have decided to return. His doubts were magnified into disappointment, no less bitter for the fact that he had expected as much.

  Passing the posting board, he plucked a handbill he had only casually noted before, but it was not until he had secured passage on the Gretna ferry and found a private moment to himself that he withdrew the parchment from his blouse and read it with more care.

  BRIAR HILL

  LEGALLY CONFISCATED

  estate of the renegade

  ALAINA MACGAREN

  1500 acres, approximately

  600 tillable (appraised)

  House, stable, carriage house

  intact. Other outbuildings in

  need of repair.

  Minimum acceptable bid:

  $5,000 U.S. Currency

  Sealed bids only.

  Auction: 12 April, 1864

  Cole leaned against the railing of the small steam packet and stared into the roiling river that flowed beneath his feet. He was as sure now as this grunting little boat made noise that Alaina was headed back to her home, if only for a last look. The route of the march would take the army through Cheneyville, from whence, he had been assured, it was only a few miles to Briar Hill. Just maybe, in the passing, he would be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of a familiar slim form.

  At Gretna, Cole led the roan into a stockcar of the train bound for Brashear City and the waiting army, then settled himself in a seat in the passenger car in hopes of reclaiming some of the sleep he had lost during the night. But failing to find succor for his tired mind, he was a victim of the sluggard, time. It dragged on interminably.r />
  Major Magruder was anxiously awaiting his arrival at the Brashear City station. The man had stridently protested the orders assigning him to the campaign, but now with Cole as a willing volunteer, he was impatient for his comfortable quarters in New Orleans. As soon as the younger man stepped down from the car, he was at the captain’s elbow and bypassed all usual forms of greeting.

  “You’ll find the medical camp about three miles west on the lakeshore. It’s a choice spot, but I must warn you about the mosquitoes. They’ve grown quite barbarous with so much Yankee blood to feed on.” His voice droned on in a rapid-fire summation of orders, directives, and the general state of readiness of the medical cadre, which, he assured Cole, were ready to move on a moment’s notice. It was several moments before he paused and cleared his throat. “Any questions, Captain?” At Cole’s negative reply, Magruder cheered up a bit. “Good! Then you won’t need me, and I’ll see to my horse.” He took a few steps, then turned back with a languid smile. “I’d wish you good luck, Captain Latimer, but I think your first real campaign will prove to be devoid of any such frivolities.”

  Most of the units Cole passed on his way to the medical encampment appeared to be in a state of permanent repose rather than readiness for an impending march. Those who had avoided the labor parties lazed about and indulged in pastime inactivities. The medical camp was no exception. In fact, there was even more of a flavor of a Sunday outing that existed in the hospital corps.

  The sun was just touching the treetops when the charge of quarters directed Cole to Major Magruder’s recently evacuated tent, and the brief southern twilight had flown by the time he returned from the officer’s mess. A single oil lantern provided him light as he entered his name in the unit’s log and settled himself in.

  The eighth of March dawned bright and clear, bearing the promise of continued fair weather. Captain Latimer had risen before the sun and, after a hearty breakfast, returned to the cantonment area to inspect the small detachment that would form his command. He could find no rosters of assignment, and a corporal in the administration tent informed him that no such thing existed and that Major Magruder had been responsible for the organizational matters of the medical unit. With a sense of hovering doom, Cole sought out the sergeant major and together they went out to the vehicle park. There were twenty-five supply wagons and as many ambulances of the sturdy “rucker” type, along with five medicine vans. Cole satisfied himself that these last were well provisioned. The ambulances were new and in good condition. But when he lowered the tailgate of a supply wagon and peered inside, Cole immediately hoped that Magruder had finally fallen into that privy Alaina had mentioned. He turned curtly to the sergeant major, and his first question was as cool as a leftover breath of winter wind.