Spinning the Moon (38 page)

Stuart moved closer to me. He looked into my eyes, and I met his gaze. “What is he talking about?” His eyes widened as comprehension hit him.

I looked closely at him, at the beloved lines and soft skin of his neck,
wanting to be away from this place with him, and all this behind us. Our gazes clashed and all sounds seemed to disappear; even the small insects in the grass lay still, waiting for my answer.

“Tell me he is lying.”

I looked away, then back at his accusing eyes. “It is true, but nothing happened. I promise you nothing happened.”

He stepped back. “But you would have.”

I squeezed my hands into fists, wanting to strike out at William—at Stuart. “Yes, damnit, I would have. I would have sold my soul to the devil to save your life.”

Shock registered on his face and he shook his head as if trying to erase a thought. “Is this the kind of secret you have been holding back from me all this time?”

“No. No! Of course not. Oh, God, Stuart. I love you. I need to tell you everything so you'll understand.”

He walked up so close to me that I could feel his heat. “Then tell me.”

I wanted to blurt out everything, to erase the look of hurt on Stuart's face, but William's presence stopped me. He couldn't be trusted with the truth. I shook my head.

Stuart turned and began walking back toward Endy. I couldn't let him leave. William held me back by my wounded arm as I tried to go to Stuart.

“Tell him our news, Laura.”

I pushed William away and rushed after Stuart, grabbing hold of his jacket. His eyes were bright with anger as he glared at me.

“I'm going to have a baby.”

His gaze flickered down at me and then over to where William stood. Then he looked me level in the eyes. “And who is the father?”

For a moment I couldn't breathe. And then I slapped him as hard as I could across the face.

He didn't flinch. He simply mounted Endy and rode out to the edge of the field, disappearing into the dim shadows of the woods.

I have been a stranger in a strange land.

—EXODUS 2:22

“I
brought you and your little girl something.”

I sat back in the wagon, feeling the heat of the late-June afternoon press down on me. I smoothed my hand over my dress, feeling the slight swelling of my abdomen. Looking at the private walking toward me, I cocked my head.

The soldier pushed a black-and-white cow forward, its large brown eyes lazily browsing the crowd of men who had gathered near the wagon train after setting up camp.

I recognized the man as one of Sherman's bummers, one of the many swarms of soldiers assigned to forage for food. Generally, these men gleefully stripped the land and its inhabitants of anything valuable and anything edible. But as Sherman drove deeper and deeper into enemy territory, foraging was the only way to supply his army. Still, I felt guilty as I ate three square meals a day, knowing from where the food had come. My pregnancy meant I was hungry constantly, and several of the soldiers, knowing my condition, would always make a point of saving the best pickings for me.

Someone shouted from the crowd, “Hell, O'Rory, if I thought you was that lonesome, I would have loaned you some money to come inta town with me.”

The shouting was met by catcalls and a loud moo from the cow. The soldier faced the growing crowd. “Aw, you all shut up. I thought Mrs. Elliott would like some steak.”

“Yeah, O'Rory. And if she don't, I bet you'll take ole' Daisy May back to your tent.”

More ribald laughter and comments followed this remark, and the young man's face grew stern. He turned back to me.

“Please accept this gift, ma'am.”

I glanced over the cow, noticing the very full udder and the panicked look in the cow's eyes. I looked back at the soldier. “Well, she certainly does have nice calves.”

The group of men exploded in laughter as the man's face turned a deep red. I climbed off the wagon and put my hand on his arm.

“I'm sorry. It's been a while since I've made a joke and I couldn't resist. But I can't accept this cow. This is a milk cow. Where did you get it?”

He looked down at his boots, scuffing the dirt with his toe. “From a farm not two miles from here. Stupid rebs left her all alone in the pasture.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. “This cow is full of milk—somebody's been milking it regularly. Probably a mother with young children. I think she needs it more than we do.”

He stepped between the cow and me, as if to protect his prize. “No, ma'am. They's just rebs. They deserve to starve to death.”

I was a good head taller than he was and I stepped closer to him to take full advantage of the difference in stature. I leaned over him and said, “Women and children are not your enemies. They're just trying to survive. Imagine if it were your wife and children.”

He gave me a defiant look. “I ain't got no wife.”

My retort was interrupted by the arrival of Captain Audenreid. Since my meeting with Stuart, he had stayed close to my side as much as possible. He never asked about Stuart, and I would not talk about him, but the captain seemed to know that all was not well. I had seen him closely regarding William as Stuart's brother doggedly pursued me, and Captain Audenreid would put himself between my brother-in-law and me when he could.

He took one look at my blanched face and ordered a camp chair for me. “Are you ill, Mrs. Elliott?” His solicitous look was warming.

I shook my head. “No. It's just that, well, I want this soldier to take the cow back from where he stole it.”

The captain was apprised of the situation, and ordered the soldier to return the cow.

With much grumbling, the private retreated, the cow faithfully in tow.

I reached out and squeezed the captain's hand in gratitude. He looked at me, startled. “I'm sorry, Captain. I apologize if I was being forward. But I wanted to thank you for that.”

His face softened as he regarded me in the hot sun. “Remember, I was in that farmhouse, too. I shall never forget it, nor shall I ever forget you.”

I turned away, flustered, not knowing what to say.

“I apologize. I did not mean to cause you discomfort. I just wanted to let you know that I hold you in high regard. And that you can rely on me to get you home safely.”

I looked back at his face, my hand shielding the sun from my eyes. I could see a slight flush under his sunburn. “Thank you, Captain. I shall treasure your friendship.”

Smiling warmly at him, I watched him remount and ride away, his hand raised in farewell.

I had traveled with Sherman's troops through the hot months of May and June as his massive army continually flanked the Confederates and forced them to retreat farther and farther south toward the inevitable confrontation at Atlanta. I kept myself busy in the hospital tents, doling out what little mercy I could. I enjoyed the time I had with Sarah, and we spent it becoming better acquainted. I found that her favorite color was blue and that she loved most vegetables but especially corn. I learned the name of her best friend, and the way she liked her mother to plait her hair. But I didn't know what it had been like when she lost her first tooth, nor what gifts she had received for her last six birthdays. Nor did I know what songs her mother sang for her at bedtime, or the words of comfort she listened for when she had nightmares. She still called me Aunt Laura, for I had not yet told her otherwise.

I refused to think about Stuart. If I did, the tightness around my heart would tear at me, making it almost too hard to breathe. Instead I made plans. I had been alone before, and I knew I could do it again. The next conjunction of a lunar eclipse and a comet would be on
September 1. I would leave the same way I had arrived—borne on the wind of a speeding mass of celestial particles. Stuart would assume whatever he wanted, and I would disappear from his world forever.

By July 3, Sherman had entered Marietta, some fifteen miles west of Roswell. I was summoned to Kennesaw House, the town's most fashionable hotel, where Sherman had set up his headquarters.

I left Sarah on a bench outside the office. As I entered the room, the general stood by the window, caught in a fit of coughing. As soon as he finished, I heard the strident wheezing that reminded me of Michael's asthma. To my astonishment, he picked up a cigar from the desk and began puffing on it.

“General, do you think you should be doing that?”

He frowned at me, his brows knitting together. “Pardon me?”

“Smoking. It won't help your asthma.”

He continued to stare at me and puff on his cigar. “I will take that under advisement. Sit down, please.”

He indicated a seat by the desk, then reached into a drawer and pulled out a letter and handed it to me. “This is a letter from me granting you and your possessions immunity from Federal authorities.” He came around the desk to stand in front of me. “Mrs. Elliott, for your protection, I have sworn to secrecy all who know about what happened to Mrs. Broderick. It might not go well for you if it were known by your fellow Southerners.” He smiled warmly at me. “But please do not think I am not grateful—I am. You did save my life. If there is anything that I can ever do for you, please do not hesitate to call on me.” With a sly grin, he added, “And there will be no payment required.”

I ignored the flush rushing to my face. “I understand, and I thank you for this,” I said, indicating the letter. “I know of your men's propensity for burning houses.” I shuddered, recalling the smoldering ruins we had passed on our way to Atlanta. All that remained of once-beautiful plantation homes were the lone chimneys—Sherman's sentinels, as they were called.

“I am sending you with Brigadier General Kenner Garrard, the commander of the Second Cavalry Division, to Roswell. It has been a real pleasure knowing you, Mrs. Elliott, and I wish you godspeed.”

He moved back behind the desk and I knew I was being dismissed.
I began walking toward the door but hung back, wishing to say one more thing. “General, I have a strong feeling you will be giving Savannah to President Lincoln as a Christmas present.”

He leaned forward with both hands on the desk. “Really? Well, I certainly appreciate your vote of confidence.” He began shuffling papers on his desk, and I knew he had lost interest in the topic.

“Goodbye, General. And thank you again.” I turned and shut the door behind me.

I almost ran into Captain Audenreid as Sarah and I hurried down the stairway. He was coming up, his hat in his hand, and a small hatbox in his other. “Mrs. Elliott. I am glad to see you. I hope you do not mind, but I have brought something for Sarah. I thought she could use a bonnet to protect her skin in this hot Georgia sun. I love her freckles, but her mother might not.”

Sarah squealed and took the box from the captain with a shouted thanks and immediately opened it. She slipped a straw bonnet on her head and asked me to tie the lilac ribbon under her chin.

I smiled at the effect. “Captain, thank you so much—you shouldn't have. But I'm glad I ran into you. I'm afraid this is goodbye. I'm returning to Roswell today in the company of General Garrard.”

He looked genuinely sad as he reached for my hand and bent to kiss it, his mustache tickling my skin. “It has been an immense pleasure, Mrs. Elliott. I shall not easily forget you.”

Despite his words, I did not feel uneasy. “Thank you, Captain. Thank you for everything.”

He looked at me intensely. “Mrs. Elliott, please be careful. There are those whose intentions toward you aren't completely honorable.”

I knew to whom he was referring. “I will. I promise. And you continue to dodge bullets, okay?”

He sent me a sad grin as I reached out and squeezed his hand. “Goodbye,” he said softly. He chucked Sarah under the chin. “And you take good care of your aunt, you hear?”

Sarah nodded and gave him a hug.

We turned and walked across the street toward Marietta Square, amid the hustle and bustle of civilians and soldiers.

On Tuesday, July 5, General Garrard and his forces arrived in an
almost-deserted Roswell. The Confederates had abandoned the little mill town, burning the bridge across the Chattahoochee as they left. Crossing the river would bring the troops closer to the prize of Atlanta, and I knew the burning of the bridge would be a sore point with General Sherman.

So many of Garrard's men suffered from heatstroke in the broiling Georgia sun, they were falling out of their saddles by the handful. One of the first things General Garrard did was set up hospitals for them on the front lawns of the Dunwody and Pratt houses, and also the Presbyterian church where I had been married. Anger rose in me as I saw the ripped-out pews tossed on the front lawn of the church, to be used as firewood, but I was helpless to stop them.

I yearned to see my house again. I didn't know what shape Phoenix Hall would be in, but I knew without a doubt it would still be standing. I was eagerly waiting to be told I was free to go home and to be offered an escort there, but they seemed to have forgotten us.

While the impromptu hospitals were being set up, Sarah and I took the opportunity to join several of the soldiers in picking our fill of blackberries. We seemed to have been forgotten, and easily settled ourselves on the side of the road in the middle of town while the soldiers went about the business of setting up camp. I laughed at Sarah with the blackberry juice dripping down her chin. I was busily popping berries into my own mouth when I saw the flames. From the direction they were coming, I realized it was the cotton mill, burned under General Sherman's orders. I knew the Elliotts' main source of income was as stockholders of the Roswell Manufacturing Company, and this would make them destitute.

The flames licked at the sky, large particles exploding into the air. I thought of Phoenix Hall and how a deserted house would lure looters, and I itched to get there as soon as possible. I assumed Zeke had long since joined Julia in Valdosta, but a part of me wished he were still there to greet us when we returned home.

I stood and glanced around me to be sure no one watched. I took my carpetbag from the back of the wagon, as well as Sarah's hand, then began walking the three miles to the house. I had barely crossed the town square when I heard my name being shouted. I turned to face William Elliott.

I hadn't seen him in the trek from Marietta, and I had assumed he had stayed with Sherman. Knowing his deviousness, however, I was sure he had managed to come here, where he knew I would be. I knew without a doubt that his being in Roswell had nothing to do with him wanting to see his home and family.

I continued walking, barely pausing long enough to shout over my shoulder, “I'm free to go, William. And we really need to get home.” I patted the pocket in my dress to reassure myself that General Sherman's letter was still there, then turned back and resumed walking.