The Long Way Home (23 page)

Zachary met her at the front door, their host beside him with a basket over his arm.

‘‘I dislike hurrying you off like this, but we have been informed we must leave this house and find another immediately.’’

Louisa took the basket. Chills raced each other up and down her spine like a hawk after chickens. One look at her brother’s face and the mask covering it, and she knew he was as edgy about the situation as she. Why, then, had they been sent here?

‘‘I’m sorry there was no time to inform you of any changes.’’ The man hustled them out the door and into the buggy. ‘‘If I were you, I would go further north and west before heading south.’’

‘‘Thank you. All is loaded as needed?’’

‘‘Yes, and Godspeed.’’

Louisa climbed into the buggy and waited for Zachary to accomplish the same. But when he clucked the horse into a trot down the street with no difficulty, she let herself rest against the back of the seat.

The odor seemed even more pervasive.

Zachary threaded their way among the wagons, buggies, and riders clogging the streets, making Louisa wonder how he could possibly find their way.

They spent the night at an inn and left again early in the morning. A drizzle grayed the road and set the trees to dripping. At one point they pulled off the road and watched a battalion of Union soldiers pass with fully loaded provision wagons and wagons with red crosses painted on their sideboards. If only they could appropriate the supplies therein, but instead she kept her head down, handkerchief to her nose. Since no one gave them a second glance, they followed some distance behind until they met the Union lines.

‘‘Halt!’’ A young soldier, rifle across his chest, stepped into the roadway.

Zachary dug in his breast coat pocket and held out his papers. ‘‘We are taking our son home to be buried.’’ He enunciated clearly, sounding as Northern as possible.

‘‘And where is that?’’ The man folded the papers and handed them back.

‘‘Not far down the road, at Manassas.’’

‘‘I’ve been instructed to have all civilians vetted by my superior officer. You will have to come with me.’’

Louisa felt her stomach tighten, then loosen, like a snake preparing to strike.
Please, God
. She looked up with tear-filled eyes.

‘‘Please, as you can smell, we must get him home, or we will have to bury him along the road.’’ One sniff of her handkerchief and the tears ran.

‘‘I’m sorry, ma’am, orders is orders.’’ He beckoned to another to take his place at guard and motioned them forward.

They stopped in front of an officer’s tent.

‘‘Please leave your buggy and come inside.’’

‘‘My poor husband has a difficult time getting out of the buggy. Is it possible for us to talk out here?’’

‘‘One moment.’’ He disappeared in the tent.

‘‘Do not say any more than necessary.’’ Zachary spoke without moving his lips.

The young man returned. ‘‘Sorry, ma’am. Follow me, please.’’

Louisa controlled the shaking of her hands with the greatest effort. She stumbled as she stepped down, but the soldier caught her arm before she fell.

‘‘Easy there, ma’am.’’

She recognized the discomfort in his face and voice at forcing them to do this. Knowing how old and frail they appeared, she let herself lean on his arm, then rounded the buggy to assist Zachary.

As they hobbled into the tent, the officer behind a desk looked up and commanded, ‘‘Search their buggy.’’

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

‘‘Sir, the body . . .’’ Louisa dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and the tears rose immediately. ‘‘Our son . . .’’ Her sniff was as genuine as her fear. ‘‘The smell is . . . is bad. Has . . . has he not been through enough?’’

‘‘Ma’am, we’ve seen enough war that the sight of one more decomposing body won’t be a shock.’’

No, but what isn’t in that box may be
. She turned and hid her face on her brother’s shoulder, the sobs real.

‘‘Now, dear, please, don’t carry on so.’’ Zachary patted her back with the stump of his arm. ‘‘Now see what you’ve done.’’

He shook his head sadly. ‘‘Too much. This has all been too much.’’ His voice sounded old and feeble, as if the very life were being drained from him also.

‘‘Here, both of you, have a seat. This won’t take but a few moments, and you can be on your way.’’ The officer, who wore the maple leaf of his rank, motioned to two chairs to the side of his field desk.

Oh, God, please make them blind or willing to accept the coffin for what it is. Please help us
. Louisa could hardly sit for the shaking, her prayers skittering through her mind like desiccated cottonwood leaves before a winter wind.

‘‘Sir.’’ One of the men beckoned the major from the tent door. He nodded to the two of them and left.

Louisa closed her eyes. They were discovered. She knew it with every bone in her body.

When the major reentered the tent, the look on his face said it all. No longer a hint of apology, but now the steel of accusation.

‘‘Put these two under arrest for running contraband. And bury that raccoon. He has more than served his purpose.’’

Zachary sat straight in his chair, one arm resting on his crutch.

The major took his seat and leaned slightly forward, his voice soft but laced with steel. ‘‘Now, would you like to tell me who you
really
are?’’ He glanced down at their papers on the desk in front of him. ‘‘I believe Mr. and Mrs. Tyler to be as false as that body out there.’’

‘‘Captain Zachary Highwood, Confederate States of America, discharged due to war injuries. This is my sister, Miss Louisa Highwood. The contraband, as you call it, is quinine and morphine, not for resale, not for pleasure, but to ease the suffering of men who fought nobly.’’

‘‘I see.’’ The major leaned back in his folding chair, one arm cocked over the leather back. ‘‘So after fighting you Southerns for every hill and valley, I should now alleviate your suffering?’’

‘‘Some of them are your men too. Cannonballs show no partiality.’’

‘‘So you can send them to rot in Libby Prison or Andersonville?’’ Narrowed eyes glared across the distance.

Zachary shrugged. ‘‘If we have nothing to care for our own, how can we care for yours? Besides, many prisoners are paroled almost as soon as they arrive.’’

‘‘Take them away.’’ The major waved at the young man standing at attention at the open tent flaps. ‘‘And put them in separate quarters. Manacled wrists.’’

‘‘For both?’’ The rosy-cheeked young man raised an eyebrow.

‘‘Both.’’

He used his rifle to indicate they should precede him.

Louisa went out first, followed by Zachary, the young soldier, and another who fell in beside them. Both soldiers held their rifles at the ready.

What? They think we shall run? Zachary hardly able to walk and me looking like a woman far beyond her prime, older even than Aunt Sylvania?
Louisa tottered some for good effect, not that anything they said or did would make any difference.

Spies were shot. She would argue they weren’t spies, only angels of mercy, but she had a feeling the major would hardly accept that.

Shame such a fine-looking man had been so harsh.

As if it would be easier were he ugly?
The little voice snickered.
What are you doing noticing he is a fine-looking man? He’s the enemy
.

Louisa turned into the tent indicated and sat down on the cot.

‘‘Sorry, ma’am.’’ Another soldier entered. ‘‘Please hold out your hands.’’

Louisa did as requested, a knot forming in her stomach as the iron manacles were snapped about her slender wrists. The sound of it sent waves of horror rolling through her body. She stared up at the blue-clad man in front of her. ‘‘Is this really necessary?’’ Her voice cracked, her throat so dry she couldn’t have spit if ordered.

‘‘Only obeying orders, ma’am.’’ He dipped his head, a mere sketch of good manners, and left, dropping the tent flap behind him.

Any semblance of breeze died with the dimness. And with the heat trapped in the tent, her fear rose from a mewling kitten to a roaring tiger.

Oh, Lord, no matter how much I look forward to heaven, I’m not ready to leave this earth yet. What about those at Aunt Sylvania’s, and Jesselynn? Please, Lord, I want to see her again. I want to see Twin Oaks. I want to be married and have babies. God help me, I don’t want to be shot. I can’t do this, Lord, I can’t
. The manacles weighted her hands like the fear weighted her heart. She curled up on the coarse blanket that covered the cot into a shivering ball in spite of the heat.

What have they done with Zachary?
The thought brought the tears from her heart to her face. He’d already been through so much. Why should he have to face a firing squad?
Why, God, why? He says he is only doing his duty. And Lord, I was trying to follow your precepts, caring for the wounded
. She didn’t need to use her peppered handkerchief; the tears flowed no matter how much she tried to staunch them.

A soldier with brushy whiskers brought her food on a tray but said not a word and refused to look her in the eye. When she held out her hands so he could take off the manacles, he looked the other way and left the tent.

‘‘At least they gave me a fork.’’ Louisa eyed the bowl, then the distance between her hands. No room for manners here, no napkin, nothing to drink.
So I won’t eat
, she thought, then canceled that immediately. If there was to be any chance of escaping, she would need every bit of strength she could summon.

Escape, what a silly thought.
Zachary cannot escape, and I surely won’t go without him
. But the stew caught in her throat, making her gag and wish for a drink.

By dark, her stomach growled and twisted. The smell of cooking fires and food teased her nostrils.
If you want something, get off this bed and go ask for it, you ninny
. Food she could do without but not water.

She tried arranging her hair, but the chain caught in a wayward tress, and she flinched. She finally pulled her hands free, stifling a yelp in the process. Instead of neatening her hair, she brushed off the front of her black skirt and aged yellowing waist and forced herself to not lie back down and hide.

When she opened the tent flap, the length of a rifle stopped her from moving farther. ‘‘Excuse me, but would it be possible for me to have a drink of water, please?’’ She almost neglected the please but reminded herself that she was a lady, no matter the treatment she received. Her mother’s voice had comforted her in the long hours of her confinement. She could hear her quoting Scripture clear as if she were right here in the tent with her.
‘‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’’

In her case, righteousness was a matter of point of view.

‘‘Let me ask the major.’’

‘‘For water?’’ Her voice squeaked. She heard him move off, but the clearing of a throat made her aware someone else had taken his place.

A few minutes later a water jug was slipped through the tent flaps.

‘‘Thank you. You are most kind.’’ Ah, how sweet she could speak, honey more sweet than sugar in her tone.

No answer.

Had they been ordered not to talk with her, or was this normal for captives?

After drinking, another need became obvious.

‘‘I’m sorry to bother you again.’’ She almost choked on the words. Anger was fast replacing fear. If she was condemned after all, what was the need for civility? ‘‘But the afternoon has been long, and I sincerely need to use the . . . the facilities.’’ How more specific could she be?

‘‘I’ll ask the major.’’ A different voice, more gruff.

A few minutes later a chamber pot appeared at the tent door.

‘‘Thank you.’’

No response.

The next day passed much the same. By the time the sun hit the zenith, her temper had reached the boiling point.

‘‘Excuse me, but I demand to see the major or whoever is in charge.’’

A mumbled discussion followed, and again she could hear someone walk away.

Oh, Mama, my mouth has gotten me in trouble again. You would not be proud of me now
. She looked down at her clothing, wanting nothing more than a cloth and water to wash with, a brush for her hair, and a breeze.
Oh, dear Lord, what I would give for a bit of breeze
.

The tent opened, and a hand beckoned her out. Feeling all eyes were on her, she followed the pole-straight back to the major’s tent.

‘‘Good afternoon, Miss Highwood.’’ The major pointed to a chair.

Louisa elected to stand. Knowing how shabby she appeared, she straightened her spine and raised her chin. ‘‘Major . . .’’ She paused, hoping he would fill in his name. Referring to him as ‘‘Major’’ seemed in her mind to give him more importance than she desired he be given.

He cocked an eyebrow, waited, then finally supplied his name. ‘‘Major James Dorsey.’’

Insolent, bluebellied . . .
She cut off the string of names, fearing she may say more than she should.

‘‘Major Dorsey, is there some reason you are treating me with such contempt? Surely there are rules for dealing with prisoners.’’

‘‘Yes, there are. Spies may be shot at will.’’

She tried to breathe around the punch to her stomach and sought the chair instead.

‘‘Then I believe we are having a problem with semantics. I am not a spy. My brother is not a spy. We are not carrying messages of any sort, only succor for injured men.’’

‘‘Miss Highwood, did you or did you not pick up your contraband at . . .’’ He named the address of the house they’d been to.

‘‘Why, yes, but only morphine and quinine.’’ She kept her head high.

‘‘You are certain no messages were passed on to your brother?’’

Louisa thought to the time she’d spent lying down. Zachary had not been with her.

He fingered a piece of paper on the desk before him. An envelope lay beside it. ‘‘Does this look at all familiar?’’ He held it up.

Louisa shook her head. ‘‘No, not at all.’’

‘‘This is not a letter from your sister?’’

Louisa knew she’d been trapped. ‘‘How can I tell? I have not read the letter.’’