“Where are the lading bills for these wagons?”
“Ain’t no bills, sir,” the burly man stated without fanfare. “We just loaded ’em with whatever was handy. The major said it didn’t matter. If we came onto a fight, all the wagons would be grouped up anyway.”
“And how will we find anything without unloading them all? Perhaps you would like that duty, Sergeant.” The sharp tone of Cole’s retort left little doubt in the sergeant’s mind that an error had been committed. “I suggest you break out the men and get these wagons unloaded so we can sort out this mess.”
“But, sir!” The sergeant major subsided into silence under the captain’s chilled glare.
“Sergeant,” Cole began slowly, almost gently. “If a shell hits this wagon, we’ll bandage about four acres of swamp, but not another soldier. The next one contains all the alcohol and laudanum. If that one tips into the bayou, you’ll have the happiest bunch of gators for miles around.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant major was properly chastened. “I’ll round up the men, sir. Right away, sir.”
It was a day to try any man’s soul. Rosters had to be made up detailing five supply wagons and five ambulances to each divisional wagon train, as ordered. Drivers had to be assigned to all vehicles, two stretcherbearers and a medical orderly for every ambulance. A surgeon’s assistant went with the pharmacy vans, and the vans were to accompany the division commander’s staff. Then, all the supplies had to be sorted, apportioned, and reloaded so that the loss of any one wagon would not jeopardize the entire campaign.
By nightfall, a semblance of order had been restored, and the wagons were all reloaded, this time properly. Cole arranged his mosquito bar and was busily assigning random titles to one Major Magruder when a messenger arrived at his tent. The young private saluted smartly and informed the captain that the Headquarters group and the two divisions of the 13th Corps would lead out on the march at sunrise on the ninth. Cole’s division, the first of the 19th Corps, would follow the corps staff as soon as the road was clear past the intersection.
It might have been termed an ominous portent that the sun rose in a blood red sky. The day cleared as the mists disappeared with the first warmth, and dark thoughts were forgotten. The division broke camp and moved out on the road in midafternoon, yet was still in sight of the camp that they had just departed when the corps ahead called a halt for the night bivouac. Cole groaned within himself, wondering ruefully if Magruder was heading this campaign.
The tenth dawned gray and foggy, and before the breakfast fires were doused a light rain began to fall. Cole donned his oilskin slicker and pulled the Hardee hat low as he mounted the roan. Until it was needed elsewhere, he had claimed one of the ambulances as his quarters and left the bulky kit and his saddlebags in that venerable conveyance.
General Franklin’s army, though mostly seasoned men, had not been together long enough to meld as a unit. The columns accordioned as they marched, and halts had to be called more and more often as the once-firm, red clay roadway turned into an insidiously treacherous sea of mud. The Bayou Teche bordered on the right, and the dark, black muck of a swamp lay on the left. To leave the road was to pass from doubtful into hopeless.
The rain quickened from a light misting to a genuine downpour and, having attained that state, held it throughout the remainder of the day. The red mud took on a special quality of its own and tenaciously clung to whatever touched it. Indeed, it seemed to be everywhere. When a halt was called for the night, the wagons stopped where they were, and the men sought out the nearest solid, or at least semisolid ground whereon to rest their weary bodies. Campfires flickered into existence as a few found dry tinder, then, with the darkness, a dense fog crept out of the swamp to muffle the twenty-mile-long column. One of Cole’s last thoughts before he sank into a much-needed slumber was that the forces of nature appeared destined to keep him from reaching Briar Hill while Alaina was still there. And in the next days he had more cause to despair, for the rain continued without ceasing.
That same drizzling moisture fell on the subject of his musings as she stared with brimming eyes down the long avenue of oaks. The windows of the white house were shuttered and boarded, the front door crisscrossed with planks of wood. It was a large, raised cottage of West Indian influence, possessing a long, sloping roof with dormers and pillared porches on three sides. For Alaina, it was home! Briar Hill! It had taken her almost five days, but she was finally, at last, home.
She slapped the reins against the horses’ backs, and the decrepit team splashed on through the puddles that marked the lane, pulling the rickety hearse behind them. One look at the black-draped coffin inside the glass-enclosed burial wagon was enough to dampen the curiosity of onlookers, but barely a handful of people had given any notice to the reed-slim mulatto boy who sat high in the driver’s seat, for the yellow banners that waved from the staffs at each corner warned that the hearse bore a yellow fever victim, and most of those she passed had been anxious to keep a respectful distance.
A tall, stovepipe hat came down close over Alaina’s shaggy hair, and a long-tailed coat obscured the feminine shape of her. The dye of the butternuts had been used to darken her fair skin, allowing her to successfully pass as a young servant boy taking his dead master home. The hearse had belonged to Mrs. Hawthorne’s acquaintance who had proven to be an undertaker. Like the old woman, he had taken to the idea with humor, brushing off Alaina’s concern about returning the hearse. “If you’re a friend of Tally’s, my dear,” he had assured her, “I shall count it an honor to be of service. Besides, the wagon is nearly as old as I am, and not worth the bother to bring it back. Don’t trouble yourself.”
Thus, Alaina had made her way home and in a slow, plaintive voice, had warned away any who had witlessly drawn near. “Stay away! De massah done passed on from de fever, an’ de Yankees say he gotta be burned if’n he stays. But de missus jes’ want him buried in de ground near de home where he was born.”
A canopy of moss-bedecked branches arched high above her head, sifting raindrops of moisture down upon her as she passed beneath them. Memories came flitting back of her last days at Briar Hill and of her hardships when the Yankees had occupied Alexandria in the spring of ’63. The enemy had swept away the harvest of the land, confiscating livestock, cotton, and lumber where they could find it and burning homes as it met their moods. Though Briar Hill had escaped the torch, it had not escaped the devastation of its fields and the theft of its livestock and cotton. A few of the planters had managed to hide barges of cotton in the swamps, but Banks had come away well supplied just the same. Still, her own losses had been only superficial when she took into account what she had given up to Captain Latimer. That night had scored its memory on her soul.
The leaves of the trees were new green, their growth no doubt spurred on by the endless spring rains. The azaleas were in bloom and, even in the heavy mists, were still the same rich, vibrant fuchsia of happier days. But then, it was only circumstances and people who changed in times of trouble. Spring still came with its burst of color and fragrance; the trees remained standing staunchly through grief to bring new life beneath a warming sun or pelting rains.
As she neared the house, Alaina’s eyes fastened on the bold red cross that had been painted on the front door of her home, and her spirits struggled beneath the weight of judgment against her. She had been condemned as a traitoress by her own people without benefit of a hearing. The cross bore out their verdict; they would kill her if they could.
On trembling limbs Alaina climbed down from the hearse and mounted the steps. The elusive laughter of her mother drifted through her mind, while the faces of her brothers and father passed wraithlike through her memory. She had been happy living in this house with her family, but nothing was left of the gaiety she had known here. Its charm, like the rest of her loved ones, was gone forever.
Slowly Alaina walked along the gallery to the side of the house, her eyes inspecting every boarded window. Sweet ol
ive shrubs grew thick against the house, and their fragrance wafted up, mingling with the fresh scent of rain. It even smelled like home.
The cookhouse was to the rear of the house, detached from the main structure, and she found only one plank of wood blocking the back entrance to the house. Alaina ducked beneath it, thrusting her shoulder against the portal that had always been hard to open in damp weather. Once inside, she closed the door quickly behind her and blinked at the unfamiliar darkness that enveloped the dining room. Only a ray or two of dreary afternoon light filtered in through the shuttered windows, but an empty, hollow sound echoed with her footsteps as she crossed the room. When her eyes became accustomed to the meager light, she realized that a good many of the furnishings had been removed from the house. She ran to her parents’ bedroom and then the parlor, but both rooms were almost barren, only vacant shadows of her memory. Her eyes could not seek and touch and linger on those familiar bits and pieces of memorabilia that had been as much a part of her life as anything that remained. It was like the death of a loved one, and her throat tightened with contained grief:
She wandered listlessly to her own bedroom where most of the furniture remained much as it had been before her departure. In despair she sagged to the edge of the bed, weary, bone tired, and aching inside. A low sob escaped her, and tears trailed down her darkened cheeks. Her thin hands closed in tight fists, grasping the ticking of the bare mattress, as if by dint of will she could hang on to the remembrances associated with her home. Then, she straightened apprehensively as the floor behind her creaked beneath a heavy foot. In sudden fear she sprang up to face the intruder. But as recognition dawned, she stared agog, her tears forgotten, her eyes wide in disbelief.
“Miz Alaina?” the familiar voice questioned uncertainly as the giant black man stepped hesitantly closer. “Is dat you, chile?”
“Saul!” Her shriek of joy pierced the stillness of the house, and in the next instant, she had thrown herself into his bearlike embrace. She wept now with happiness and relief as he clumsily patted her back. “Oh, Saul, I thought you were dead!”
“No,’m,” he grinned as she stood back. “Dem Yankees hung onto my tail for the better part of a week, but ah finally threw ’em. Ah didn’t dare lead ’em back to you, Miz Alaina.”
“I thought you had been taken, so I went to Uncle Angus’s,” she sniffed.
“Ah been keeping an eye out for you ’round here all along. Ah figgered yo’d come back sooner or later. All dem rumors ah’s been hearing, ah knowed yo’ was in a heap o’ trouble. It jes’ seems, Miz Alaina, de lies keep gettin’ worse and worse.” He tilted his head and chuckled as he surveyed her. “Nobody’d know ya though. Yo’ look almost like me.”
Laughing and brushing away her tears, Alaina gestured to a bare corner in the room where once an armoire had stood. “But where has everything gone, Saul? It doesn’t look much like home anymore.”
Saul snorted in disgust. “Dat pack o’ jackals down the road loaded up dere wagons and when ah comed back, dey had already taken dere pick o’ everything. Ah sneaked over to the Gilletts to have me a look-see, and sho’ ‘nuff, they got a good parcel of what’s missing. When Mistah Jason comes home from de war, we’ll go have a gun-to-gun talk wid dem white trash folks. That young whelp, Emmett, he been laudin’ it ’round dese parts dat he’s de one what run yo’ off. He won’t be talkin’ so fine and mighty when Mistah Jason comes back.”
Alaina heaved a tremulous sigh. “I’m afraid Jason won’t be coming back, Saul.”
“Ah, nooo,” he moaned sorrowfully. Tears gathering in his eyes, the black man hung his head and slowly shook it.
“How have you been managing?” Alaina questioned in a quavery voice.
Saul wiped his face on his sleeve and swallowed his tears. “Oh, ah ain’ had no trouble gettin’ along, Miz Alaina. Ah been living downstairs mostly, and when somebody comes pokin’ ’bout, ah hides up in de attic. Dem Gilletts got to nosin’ ’round here one night, and ah took some chains and rattled dem all through the house and made spirit noises. Dey hightailed it off to home right quick. And dey ain’ been back since.”
“Serves ’em right,” Alaina muttered. “They’re nothing but a passel o’ chicken hearts.”
“Yas’m, dat dey is,” Saul agreed. “Den a while back a fancy fella come riding up on horseback wid some other men, one of ’em was dat Yankee who said we was spies. Well, dat fancy man said he was gonna buy Briar Hill when it comes up for auction. Him an’ the other two men an’ a woman wearing britches went off in de woods. Ah followed ’em an’ got as close as ah could. Dey buried something out dere, an’ ah guess it was one of the men ’cause only three of ’em come back, de fancy man, de lieutenant, and de girl. Ah ain’ found nerve enuff to go diggin’ up any grave to make sho’ what dey buried.”
The idea that a murderer would own Briar Hill was bitter gall for Alaina to swallow. Somehow she would have to prevent it. With grim determination, she gritted, “We’ll just have to find out what it was they buried.”
The black man looked at her dubiously. “Yo’ gonna dig up a dead man, Miz Alaina? He’s been in de ground fo’ some time now.”
“If I ever clear my name, I might have to prove those people are murderers in order to get Briar Hill back. It’s my home, and I’m not giving it up without a fight!”
“Yas’m,” Saul mumbled uncertainly.
“We’ll hide the hearse and horses in a shed, then come night, we’ll take a lantern out to the woods and see if we can find what that fancy man has hidden.”
That evening the pair of vagabonds dined on palatable fare. A few dozen ears of corn were discovered in the barn, and the old gristmill soon reduced the hard kernels to a coarse meal. Several nests remained in the old hen house, and some of the chickens had found their way back after being scattered by the Yankees. From these Alaina purloined a half dozen eggs, and in the cookhouse pantry, she found salt and leavening which, blended with eggs and cornmeal, produced a rich golden cake of delectable flavor. Dried beans were cooked with a thin strip of bacon cut from a slab Saul produced from his knapsack, and to top the meal several large bass that Saul had caught were dipped into the cornmeal and fried. For a few moments at least, the two were able to forget the hardships the war had inflicted upon them as they enjoyed the repast.
The moon climbed on its laborious path into the night sky and gave silvery halos to the low-hanging clouds that flitted across its face. Alaina gathered the wooden bowls and washed them in a bucket of water, then taking up a lantern, she faced the black man expectantly.
Saul heaved a sigh and rose to his feet, displaying no spirit for the task at hand. But obligingly he nodded, “Ah’ll get a shovel.”
The strange pair began to beat the woods in hopes of finding some trace of what they sought, yet they were almost surprised when Saul came upon a soft spot of ground between two blaze-marked oak saplings. Someone clearly had planned to return to the place.
Most reluctantly Saul set about his labors while Alaina held the lantern high. The rain had lightened to a fine, sporadic mist, but the soil was soggy and weighty to lift. Almost three quarters of an hour had passed before Saul’s shovel struck something—something very hard. For all of his misgivings about the deed, new interest took hold of the black. This was no body the miscreants had buried.
“Miz Alaina, hold the lantern closer,” he urged. “Dere is somep’n else here.”
He scooped away a spadeful of mud and immediately lost some of his enthusiasm as he uncovered the remains of a hand. It was still loosely attached to an arm that was flung over a large metal-bound strongbox. Alaina recoiled and stumbled back, holding a hand clutched over her mouth. To this point, her bravado had been based on an unwillingness to believe that murder had been committed on the lands of Briar Hill and that Saul had somehow been mistaken. Now, it all came upon her with a crushing truth that made her weak and sick.
“Oh, lawsy, Miz Alaina. Ah was right. Dey kilt him.”
Shu
ddering, Alaina remained mute as the black worked at loosening the heavy chest from the grave. When finally he set it before her, she brushed away the damp soil that clung to the top and held the lantern close. The letters “U.S.A.” were stenciled across the face of the box and identified the piece as the Union’s property. Curiosity whet her impatience and she twisted at the piece of heavy wire that held the cask shut. The way the hasp was bent suggested that a padlock had once secured it but had been forcibly torn away.
“Stand back, Miz Alaina,” Saul directed and, when she complied, swung the heavy shovel against the knot of wire. It broke away after a second blow, and the black threw back the lid. Alaina gasped in surprise and knelt beside Saul. Within the chest were paper-bound packets of Yankee bank notes, several layers deep, which covered a bottom tier of neatly bagged twenty-dollar gold pieces.
“Lawsy me!” Saul whispered in awe.
“It’s Yankee money!” Alaina stated the obvious in as much amazement. From between the pouches she drew a sheaf of papers and scanned them briefly. “It’s a payroll. Ordered to be shipped out of Washington to New Orleans and from there to the troops under Brigadier General T. Kilby Smith. There’s more than a hundred thousand dollars here!” She paused as it suddenly came to her. “Why, this must be it!” She waved the papers at Saul excitedly and hastened to explain as he stared at her in bewilderment. “This is the payroll that was stolen in New Orleans and blamed on me!”
Ashes in the Wind Page 26