“Ain’t dat somp’n? Why, it’s jes’ like dat fancy man knows fer sure he’s gonna be buyin’ dis place, and is already movin’ in.”
Alaina sat back and thoughtfully chewed on the corner of her lip. Her eyes slowly narrowed, and the determined gleam that came in them began to worry Saul. What she was thinking could well mean trouble ahead for them both.
“Miz Alaina—?” he began in an anxious tone, but she stared him down, the gray eyes glowing brightly.
“I’ll tell you, Saul, that if Alaina MacGaren is going to be hanged for stealing, no one else is going to enjoy this money either.”
“Whad we gonna do with it all, Miz Alaina?”
“For the time being, we’ll hide it someplace where we can grab it in a hurry and light out just in case the fancy man comes back.”
Saul snorted. “We gonna be in a fine kettle of fish if’n we’re caught wid dat money. Wid dat box beneath our nose, it’s like havin’ a noose ’round our necks just waitin’ for somebody to come along and give it a tug. And if dat fancy man ketches us, we ain’ gonna be no better off’n dis fella in dis here grave.”
“We’ll just have to take care that we’re not caught—by anyone.”
The dirt was pushed into the grave again, and the spot was carefully disguised as before. For the time being, an old trunk in the stable handily received the payroll chest. The tray of the trunk had collected its own trove of broken harness straps and buckles, and this was carefully replaced over the box. Since neither of the fugitives was of a criminal bent of mind, they did not consider that only a frightfully honest man could pass an unopened lid or door and not yearn to know what it conceals.
The turgid river swirled muddy red beneath the lowering sun on March fourteenth. Above the deep green of the trees, the sky was a blaze of color; vibrant pinks and brilliant golds with a patch of bright blue shining forth here and there. The dusty blue-gray haze on the eastern horizon deepened with each passing moment, and from the same direction came a low rumbling noise, like distant thunder, though no flashes of lightning could be seen. Alaina met Saul’s apprehensive frown.
“Do yo’ hear it?”
She nodded and again scanned the treetops to the east.
“Guns!” Saul stated bluntly. “Big ones! Comin’ from ‘way over the other side of Marksville. Maybe twenty miles or so off yonder.”
“Fort De Russy,” Alaina murmured. “It’s been manned again, and you can bet the Yankees are trying to take it.”
“Dey jes’ might be comin’ dis way, Miz Alaina.” The outsized black twisted his hands in anguished fretting. “Lawsy me, we ain’t got nothin’ mo’ to spare. Dey’ll burn us out fo’ sure, dis time.”
“Nail that Yankee ‘No Trespassing’ sign on the door again.” Alaina launched into the process of decision making with bitter perseverance. “They’ll think twice about burning their own property. We’ll move into one of the dogtrot cabins for a while.” She grinned up at Saul with gleeful malice. “If the bluebellies come riding ’round, I’ll just have to pass off as your kinfolk, or some such.”
The following day the sound of gunfire stopped. The small fort had been reduced, the garrison taken prisoner, and on the sixteenth the flotilla of Yankee warships moved on up the Red River, guarding thirty-odd transport steamers that carried two divisions of seasoned veterans under the command of General A. J. Smith. Another division, under another Smith, this one General T. Kilby, stayed behind to raze the remains of Fort De Russy and, in exuberant largesse, extended their activities to the surrounding countryside.
Fresh from Sherman’s guiding hand, the bluecoats proved expert in their trade of war. Simsport had felt the heat of the Yankee torches, and the lush Avoyelles prairie was not to be spared. Inhabitated by the gentle Acadians who held a rich tradition of freedom and who were generally sympathetic with the Union cause, the area was soon well dedicated with “Sherman’s monuments,” the stark, charred chimneys that stood unsupported where once spacious plantation homes had been.
The rain continued to muddy the fields of the plantations, while the Yankees laid waste to the prairie. In Shreveport, the headquarters of the Confederate Army of the West, Lieutenant General Kirby Smith, the third of that auspicious surname to be involved, worried and fretted, but could not release General Taylor and his thin Louisiana division to the attack until the scattered grayback Army of the West could be collected from its far-flung posts and concentrated against the advancing Union Army. Major General Richard Taylor, son of Zachary and brother-in-law of Jeff Davis, could only fall back, recruiting volunteers as he went, hoping that somewhere he would have a chance to defend the soil of his native state.
Alaina worried about much the same thing—how to protect her home from the rampaging hordes of blue that came ever nearer. The smell of ash was heavy in the air, and even the rain could not wash the stench away. In her half of the dogtrot cabin, she tried to relax on a hard, lumpy, cotton-filled pallet, but she could only wonder at what new test might beset her now with the Yankees all about them.
When the rain abated, the night grew still. The smell of ashes and smoke became oppressive as an eastern breeze freshened. She pulled the blanket over her head in a vain effort to shut out the hated essence of war. It was a dismal thought that in her attempt to escape Cole she had thrust herself directly in the path of a greater threat. But this time she had her back to the wall, and there was no place else to run.
She waited. The dread was oppressing. Neither she nor Saul dared venture far from the cabin. They lived with the agonizing fear that any moment the enemy would descend on them with flaming torches.
Then, just as it seemed Briar Hill would be next, Kirby Smith’s division tired of their sport. The men reloaded onto their steamers and journeyed northward to join the rest of the river-borne army already in Alexandria. But there was hardly a moment of respite before another swarm of Union blue traversed upon familiar soil.
Urging every bit of speed he could from the wearied nag he rode, Saul came on a frantic race toward the cabin, waving his hat and yelling, “Dey’s coming! Dey’s coming! Far as de eye can see, dey’s coming!”
Alaina pressed a trembling hand over her pounding heart and stared at the gasping man as he threw himself onto the porch.
“Dey’s got wagons and men as far back as yo’ can see, Miz Alaina!” He paused a moment to catch his breath. “Ah seen ’em! A little ways past the creek where ah was huntin’.”
“Are they coming this way?” she questioned in a restricted voice.
“We’re bound to see some of ’em, Miz Alaina. Dey’s sending out patrols right and left.”
“Then we’ll stay close to the cabin until they pass.” Her hands were clenched into fierce, desperate fists. “Pray God they’re not bent on burning.”
It was the twentieth of March before Franklin’s infantry slogged their way as far as Cheneyville and nearly noon before the van of the 19th Corps entered the small hamlet on the northwestern corner of the Avoyelles prairie. Cole arranged to be absent for the afternoon and joined a cavalry patrol that was leaving to scout in the general direction of the Briar Hill plantation. The patrol had gone a little more than two miles when the road bent sharply to the west where it came into conjunction with a creek. A narrow dirt lane led off to the right, and some distance down a crowded group of rather large, sprawling shanties could be seen. All of them bore the appearance of having been assembled of whatever material was at hand and at whatever whim struck the builder. The inhabitants, at least those who were visible, seemed to be white, although the color of the local soil, which was liberally affixed to random portions of unclad anatomy, made that a doubtful observation. As the patrol passed, several naked tots were snatched from the mud of the lane where they had been playing and were quickly taken out of sight. The older children and adults made no effort to approach the road. In fact, they seemed to prefer a goodly distance between themselves and the mounted strangers.
A little farther along t
he bayou road, several well-built cabins stood in a neat row. Most of them appeared deserted and had apparently been ransacked, for shattered pieces of splintered furnishings were strewn about the yards. Weeds sprouted where once small gardens had been tended, and doors hung askew from broken hinges. Cole noted that a cabin at the far end of the row displayed the only sign of habitation. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the brick chimney, and on the front porch a large black man leaned lazily against a post while he watched the approaching Yankee patrol. Beyond the cabins, another lane penetrated a dense, wisteria-tangled hedge of briars, and the steep roof of a sizable house was visible amid the tops of towering live oaks. A broken sign, dangling from a post near the entrance, still bore the faded letters ________ HILL.
Alaina watched through the dirty window as the Yankee patrol splashed along the muddy road. The two officers who led the short column were almost identical with their Hardee hats and the gray-blue slickers that protected them from the misting rain. But the one on the near side rode taller and straighter astride a roan that was just like—
Her eyes lifted to the man’s face, and she used the heel of her hand to clear a spot on the grimy pane. Then she gasped and flattened herself against the wall beside the window.
Cole Latimer! The name flared blindingly bright in her mind. How could he have known where she was? How?
Cole lifted a hand to his companions to signal his departure from the patrol and reined the roan into the front yard of the dogtrot cabin, stopping near the porch where the black stood.
“You belong to this farm?”
“Ah did, but ah is free now,” Saul stated. “An’ dere ain’ nobody ’round here to say any different.”
“Have you seen anything of the girl who used to live here? The one they call Alaina?”
The black scratched his head. “Lawsy, Mistah Yankee, it was a while back when she left. All dem white folk what lived in the big house is either dead or skedaddled. Ain’ been a white soul ’round here in a long time. Jes’ dem Gilletts down de road apiece. But dey’s mean folk, an’ gen’rally it’s trouble when dey comes a-callin’. Massah MacGaren didn’t cott’n to dose people ‘tall.”
“Are you sure you haven’t seen anything of the girl?” Cole pressed.
Saul chuckled and shrugged his massive shoulders. “Mos’ everybody what stops here asks de same question, Mistah Yankee, and ah tell ’em de same thing.”
Cole glanced about in frustration. The black would have no reason to trust one garbed in Yankee blue, and Alaina was too stubborn to come out of her own accord. Yet Cole had hoped for the improbable.
“If you do happen to see the girl, will you tell her that Cole Latimer was here asking about her? Tell her—I’m not going to give up so easily.”
The black peered at him closely. “You lookin’ to fetch up dat reward for yerself, mistah?”
“Just tell her. She’ll know what I mean.”
Wheeling his horse about, Cole guided the roan into the overgrown drive and rode toward the house. Beyond the tall hedge, it was like entering a different world. He sat the back of his mount, thoughtfully surveying the house and grounds. He could understand Alaina’s hatred of the people who had snatched away her world and reduced her to the level of poverty. Indeed, he was considerably amazed that she had controlled herself well enough to masquerade in the midst of her enemies for better than six months.
The huge, moss-draped oaks rose high above a wide, thickly grassed lawn that almost echoed with the laughter of children at play. For a moment he could imagine a slim, tomboyish girl playing tag with her brothers. The vision faded to be replaced with one of tear-filled gray eyes and the remembrance of a lithe, young form in his arms, then of another time when an all-too-feminine shape flitted past a moonlit window. It seemed he would never be free of those ghosts; they haunted him wherever he went.
Drawing closer to the house, Cole saw that the lower windows and doors were boarded up. A handbill fluttered on the front door over a boldly painted red cross. It was this that roused a feeling of anger in him. Good lord, the girl could hardly bear the sight of blood! How could they condemn her as a murderess?
He urged the roan on into the back yard, bringing a muttered curse from Alaina. She flew to the back door of the dogtrot cabin and carefully slipped out, clutching the wool coat close about her neck. She ran along the line of cabins until she came to the row of magnolias that bordered the yard. At the back of the house, she crouched behind some shrubs where she could watch him as he looked about. She was not about to trust a Yankee, no matter how intimately she had known him.
Cole’s eyes flitted over the stable and carriage house. As warranted, they were still intact, though both stood open with sagging doors. Behind these buildings, at the edge of a wide field, more sheds and barns stood, some of them in a sad state of repair. He halted his mount at the gate that opened on to the field and gazed about him, suddenly plagued by a feeling of sadness that he had missed meeting the MacGarens as a family. To have nurtured such an interesting individual as Alaina, he could only consider that they had been well worth knowing.
As he turned his mount away from the gate, his eye caught an odd shape in one of the sheds. Curious, he drew rein and dismounted to inspect the tarpaulin-draped conveyance. It proved to be a glass-sided hearse complete with coffin inside and well splattered with dry, red mud, the same with which he had lately become overly familiar. Yellow flags hung from the staffs at each corner, and Cole knew the portent that they carried. Reaching a gloved hand in, he lifted the lid of the coffin. Much to his relief, the thing was empty. He grimaced and dropped the dusty canvas back into place. At least he wasn’t ready to ride in one of these contraptions yet, or, he hoped, anytime soon.
He passed his hand reflectively over the mud-crusted wheel, then slowly returned to his mount. An image taunted his thoughts and began to jell into a firm belief. He could almost see the yellow-bannered hearse emerging from the mists of his mind with its small, slim driver. Disguised as a boy, came the answer that settled his long-unsatisfied question; she was wearing britches again.
He swung onto the roan’s back. The patrol was far ahead by now, and he would have to hurry to catch them. Lone Union officers were not particularly popular in these parts, and Briar Hill roused memories that were best put aside for the time being.
Alaina held her breath as he rode leisurely past her hiding place. He seemed in no rush to call back the patrol, and it was only after he had gained the main road that he kicked his horse into a gallop.
She could not resist going back to check on the hearse, and on the way passed the shed where she had stabled the horses before Saul had moved them to a hidden copse in the swamp beyond the fields. A small flutter of white high on one of the doors caught her eye, and when she drew near, she saw it to be a folded piece of paper wedged into a sheltered crack. Unfolding it, she stared at a handbill that announced the pending sale of Briar Hill and which gave her name in bold print as a renegade. Turning it over, she found a penned message.
“Al: You should cover the fresh manure in here. It’s a dead giveaway. Wish to see you in N.O. when I return. We have matters of importance to discuss.
C.L.”
“What was dat Yankee pokin’ ’round here for, Miz Alaina?” Saul questioned as he hurried toward her.
She refolded the note and tucked it within her bodice. “I guess he was just curious about Alaina MacGaren like everyone else is.”
“He sounds a mite more determined ‘an mos’,” the black grunted.
Alaina nodded in silent agreement. This was one Yankee she had the feeling she wasn’t going to shake so easily.
Chapter 19
THE war ground inexorably on. The armies in the east still faced each other across the Rapidan and prepared for the spring offensives. The same Butler of New Orleans fame, led an army up the James to threaten Richmond. In the central theater, Sherman refined his tactics on a march through northern Mississippi to Meridian and back, whil
e Steel set out from Little Rock toward Shreveport to divert some of Kirby Smith’s forces away from Banks’s thrust up the Red River.
For the South, there was little to cheer about. General Forrest led his small band of cavalry on a raid northward through western Tennessee and Kentucky. Bragg, having been driven back across the Chickamauga, was relieved of his command and replaced by General Joe Johnson, who proceeded to fight a flawless retreat to Atlanta. In Louisiana General Dick Taylor reluctantly fell back ahead of Banks and bided his time waiting for reinforcements.
General Banks, on the other hand, proceeded quite leisurely in the execution of his campaign. After he dallied in New Orleans to attend the inauguration festivities, he joined his troops in Alexandria, arriving by steamer, and ordered them to march on the twenty-ninth, while he himself, an ex-politician, stayed to witness the April first election. He chose the easier form of travel once again and joined his men the evening of the second. Finally, on the sixth, General Banks and his troops marched out of Natchitoches on what was designed to be the last leg of their journey. Their aim was to take Shreveport and it was obvious to Banks, and he said as much, that the Confederacy could field no army capable of defeating his thirty thousand-plus, tried and true, brave and blue.
But Dick Taylor had reached the end of his tether and refused to leave his state without a battle. The place was Sabine Crossroads, and many a Union soldier would remember the name henceforth with a shudder. It was here that Banks allowed his lengthy column, the units separated by two- and three-mile-long wagon trains, to be attacked by a determined force of some nine thousand Confederates. The gray army executed well, rolling the long blue lines back upon themselves until the battle became a rout. Darkness gave Banks a breather, and he collected his dispirited force at the small village of Pleasant Hill where he braced himself in readiness. The next afternoon before dusk Taylor launched another attack on the Union’s left flank in a left-wheeling movement. On the verge of another rout, the Confederates were caught on their own right flank by A. J. Smith’s veterans and were themselves set to flight. It was a repeat of the day before, but in reverse, and as on the prior day, darkness put an end to the conflict.
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