The Wicked North (Hearts Touched By Fire Book 1) (16 page)

“Uh huh,” she murmured. “So you came back only to leave her agin?”

“I can’t stay and protect her! She has a husband, for God’s sake.” He ran his fingers through his hair. He had a son he needed to protect. Damn. “Where’s the bastard anyway?”

“Massa Billy? He be off fightin’.”

Hell and damnation! She married Billy? Jealousy enveloped him.

“Sir, we gotta rider lookin’ for us,” the sergeant interjected at the door.

With a snarl, Jack grabbed his hat and headed toward the door, only to stop and look again at the boy. The infant was curled fast asleep on the slave’s shoulder. A son. Christ.

“Tell her, tell her…” he was lost. That he would return? Would he? Could he? “I will be back. I promise.” And he stormed out the door.

#

Emma stood behind the stairs, listening to Jack trying to deny Nathan was his, and her heart twisted for the babe. It skipped a beat when she heard Sally bring up those dark days. She was afraid the slave was right and she’d have no sleep tonight for fear of the screaming.

And when Jack swore before he marched out of her life again that he’d be back, her heart shattered because she knew it was a promise he wouldn’t keep.

It was not war - it was murder

—Confederate General D.H. Hill,
describing their defeat at the Battle of Malvern Hill

Chapter Fifteen

Virginia, July 1862

Damn! They retreated again. Jack spat on the ground as orders came down the line. The hasty defensive maneuver against the onslaught of Robert E. Lee’s army fell apart quickly. Jack inhaled deeply, the gunsmoke-filled air foul but familiar, almost calming, a strange effect and one he’d contemplate later. Turning on his heel, he ordered his troops to cease fire as they retreated further down the peninsula toward York. McClellan was an ass, having left his command to make it to the James River and aboard the
USS
Galena
. It was a horrible example for the men who’d follow him to hell and back, Jack thought.

The ground the Union retreated from was Malvern Hill. Jack knew the area. It was the site of Billy Bealke’s family home. He wondered about Billy’s strong attachment to the Silvers sisters. The man had always been around their home, was always so attentive to them. And he had married Emma.

A bullet whizzed past his ears, snapping Jack back to the present. Since leaving Emma two weeks ago, he’d been plagued by thoughts of her and her son. No, his son. And his dead wife’s. Had he caused her death by sending her home when she was carrying his child? Did he feel remorse for what happened to her? With the roar of gunfire and cannons everywhere, it was difficult to feel much of anything other than numbness.

“Sir.”

Jack looked at the soldier and took the note he held out. More orders, to take position with McCall’s division as Union forces encircled Malvern Hill. He crumpled the paper. The men voiced their concern. Where was their general? What stupidity, to leave his troops as the Confederates advanced. Jack glanced at his timepiece. Three in the afternoon.

Confederate forces had been under attack by Union guns, situated well on the hillside, but now, General Armistead’s forces attacked the Federal line and were soon to be reinforced by Magruder’s men. Excitement raced through his veins. He ordered his men to aim and fire, watching the impact their firepower had on the enemy. Groans and screams competed with the sound of rifles and cannon fire. He witnessed some of his troops fall to the ground, some crying out in pain from their injuries, others silent forever. Once again, Jack didn’t move. He had no concern about his own health. If he was to die there, so be it. He was ready.

He is yours
.

Jack thought he heard Emma’s voice in his ears and shook his head. But he could see her now, in his mind, despite focusing on the fight before him. Issuing orders to reload, he fought the distraction of memories of Emma.

As the sun set, its glorious colors muted by a thick layer of smoke enveloping the land, the secesh troops stopped at about 200 yards before reaching and breaking the Union middle. The wounded force retreated, and Union guns fell silent as night descended on the field. Jack swallowed hard, trying to wet his dry throat. His mouth tasted like it had cotton in it, and his nostrils burned from the gunsmoke hanging in the air. His eyes were dry and gritty. Standing firm on the sodden ground, he struggled to focus and keep his balance. With his ears still plugged from the noise of artillery and rifle fire, he turned to inspect his men.

An hour later, Jack sat at the table near his tent, paper before him. A report on injuries, supplies and performance on the field had to be written, but he just stared at the paper, numbness spreading through him, stealing his ability to think clearly. He heard some men talking quietly around the camp, more of them resting after days of strenuous activity. Tension was thick. They were in Confederate territory, the enemy only yards away. And their commander was…

Thwack
.

The table wobbled from the weight of saddlebags that had been dropped on it. The rattling broke through Jack’s thoughts, and he looked up at the tall, lanky officer standing before him. Rathborne Sinclair, caked in dirt, sweat rolling off his temples, his blue eyes bloodshot, grinned broadly.

“Done with your report, huh?” The man laughed, yanking his hat off to wipe his forehead.

Rathborne, Captain of Company C, was an old friend from their days in Texas. The Ohioan hadn’t been like many of the other Northerners of the 2
nd
Cavalry who had held his Southern slave-holding family against him. Resentment among the ranks toward Southerners in the Union Army was barely concealed, and Jack was well aware of it. It didn’t help that his southern drawl occasionally seeped into his speech.

“Jack, were you hit or what?”

Jack blinked. He apparently hadn’t been listening to Rathborne’s account of his ventures on the field.

“Sorry, deep in thought, I guess” he replied.

Rathborne leaned across the table, his voice dropped, “Just what did you find on the reconnaissance? You haven’t been the same since you returned.”

“Nothing.” He denied even to himself that things were different. But it hadn’t gone unnoticed by others.

“Bullshit,” Rathborne spat. “Jack, I’ve heard some of the men talk. You’re not sleeping, you ramble to no one, and that drawl of yours has gotten thick at times. Mind you, I know you well enough, but others…” he sighed. “Others could cause you problems.”

Jack closed his eyes, shutting the world out.
Caroline, why? A babe. Why had she never told him? It was a responsibility he didn’t want. Hell, he never even wanted a wife. Never
. Visions of his father loomed large, the reprimanding patriarch of the Fontaine family. The forced lessons of tradition, honor, family name and justification for ignoring the rights of others. Especially the slaves. The tears on his mother’s face. He shuddered again at the memories.

“Jack!” Rathborne’s voice penetrated through the fog inside his head. He opened his eyes, not realizing that his hands had closed into fists.

“I,” he glanced up, his voice gravelly. “I went to see my wife.”

“Good God, man, have you lost your wits?”

“The fighting was close to her family’s home. I couldn’t not go.” He bit his tongue to keep from saying more. Admitting it was his wife’s sister that drew him there would not endear him to his friend.

Rathborne stared at him, silent. Inhaling deeply, he finally said, “I gather it wasn’t an opportune visit.”

“Caroline and I had had an unfriendly discussion before she left. And now, she’s dead.” His breath hitched when saying the words. Once again, a wave of sadness hit him, then relief, the tension dissipating. Guilt quickly followed that. It was wrong not to grieve for your wife–especially when she had died giving birth to a son…his son. Knowing Caroline, however, Jack’s doubts remained. She had manipulated him into marrying her, only to entertain other men when he returned to duty. Despite Sally’s words, he still didn’t believe the child was his, but that didn’t eliminate his obligation to raise the child as though he was.

“Oh, Jack, I’m sorry,” Rathborne’s soft words interrupted Jack’s thoughts again.

Jack snorted. “Yes, and she left me with a brawling brat.” Abruptly, he stood, knocking the table, the inkpot tipping and spilling across the paper.

Rathborne righted the bottle and stared at his friend. Jack paced. He knew his friend’s eyes were on him. He couldn’t tell the Ohioan about his wife’s presumed infidelities. His masculine pride wouldn’t allow it.

“You could ask for leave, Jack. Surely McLaw…”

“To hell with McLaw…” he snarled. “I’m better off here. At least here, I can kill the enemy and not get arrested for murder.” Odd thoughts invaded his mind. Yes, he could vent all his pent-up frustration there, on the battlefield. Escape his own fate, the fate he’d sworn to avoid. And now, the only woman he wanted, once again, he couldn’t have. She had married someone else. He remembered her touch. That memory never left him. Perhaps that’s why his marriage was a disaster and why he could find no release now with Leslie.

Rathborne’s eyes still bore into him. “I suppose that’s true. Look, I’ve a report to write. So do you. Daylight’ll be here sooner than we think. Hear Mac’s taking us north. Word is, he’ll be stripped of commanding the whole army for not pushing Richmond.” The man shrugged. “I be thinkin’ he knows Lee. Scared of him.”

“Naw,” Jack gave his friend a half-hearted grin. “He be thinkin’ Lee’s got more men. Been on his staff in Washington. Always wantin’ more men himself. The President, I think, is tired of waiting.”

Rathborne snorted and pulled a flask from his saddlebag. “I’ll leave this for you. I think you need it more than I do right now.” He placed it on the table as he stood and grabbed his bags. “Write your damn report. And get some rest.”

“Right,” Jack muttered, watching the man amble off. He sat back down, crumpling the top page on the stack of paper and picking up the pen again. With a weary sigh, he pulled the wadded lace handkerchief from the inner pocket of his uniform jacket. Emma’s handkerchief. It was worn and dirty, the lace hanging on by only a few threads. But it gave him solace. Holding it kept his personal demons at bay better than whiskey did. Dipping the quill in the inkwell, he wrote his report, handkerchief wrapped inside his other hand, and tried to forget what he’d lost and lose himself in blood and war.

#

The change in military command of the Union Army kept Jack occupied for several weeks. McClellan’s decision to retreat rather than pursue and take Richmond made Lincoln place Henry Halleck general in chief of the Army and place General John Pope in command of the newly formed Army of Virginia. Both men had served well in the West, and Lincoln’s hopes for continued success brought them back East. Jack, along with many other commanders, bristled under Pope’s arrogant command. A few, like John C. Fremont, actually refused to serve under him, making Pope bring in General Franz Siegel from the West. The German had a grasp of military tactics, but stories abounded of his failure at Wilsons’ Creek in Missouri, of his withdrawal, leaving Union troops vulnerable.

But Pope’s presumed success in the East failed to materialize. Jack, along with the rest of McClellan’s Army of the Potomac, marched north toward Manassas Junction, Virginia to reinforce Pope’s forces. When they arrived, however, Stonewall Jackson’s troops bombarded Pope’s troops, confusing and worrying the general after Jackson’s forces also destroyed the federal supply depot at Manassas. Pope lashed out, hoping to overcome Jackson before General James Longstreet’s troops arrived.

Jack understood the scene evolving before him late on August 28 as he led his men once more into the mouth of hell. His ears fell deaf to anything other than the roar of cannons and rifles, the moaning of the wounded and the sound of bugles and drums signaling down the line. He had his men retreat and then try again. The ground sucked his boots into a mire of blood and water. At times, his men didn’t respond fast enough. They were sluggish in the mud, some having to dig their brogans out of it before they could move at all.

That night, Jack ate with the other officers. Rathborne brought another full flask with him, and they split the contents, absorbing information as it came in. Longstreet’s men, thirty thousand strong, give or take ten thousand depending on the officer who heard it, was spotted only a night’s march away.

Gulping the last of the smooth Kentucky whiskey–where Rathborne got it, Jack didn’t ask–he noticed the tension in Pope’s voice.

“Pack up, Jack,” Rathborne grumbled. “Bet you five, we’ll be gone tomorrow.”

Jack shook his head. “We’ll be here forever. Maybe we should just let them go.”

His friend asked “You’d give up your chance to return home?”

With a loud laugh, one that made half the men around him turn, Jack’s face became hard. “I left home over ten years ago. I will not return. Not under the current circumstances and probably not afterward.” The venom in his voice came from his soul. He caught Rathborne’s look of surprise and saw out of the corner of his eye the men around him speaking in lowered voices. He didn’t care. Jean Baptist Fontaine could rot in hell for all Jack cared. And even that wasn’t enough punishment. Not for the dictating tyrant he had been and still was.

#

September 17, 1862

Sharpsburg, Maryland

Jack looked down his line of infantrymen, all poised and ready to be called on. Tugging his pistol out of its holster, Jack snapped the barrel out, re-loaded and shut it.

He’d been ready for days, perhaps weeks by that time. It all ran together in his head because sleep or any real rest had constantly eluded him. It was either look forward to the fight, for the chance to kill, or succumb to nightmares. Every night, when he lay his head down and closed his eyes, Emma, the child, his father and Caroline spoke. Well, perhaps Emma was silent, but her eyes told him the truth. The child was his. And despite his own denial, he had a responsibility he couldn’t ignore.

McClellan resumed command of the combined northern armies as the Army of the Potomac after Pope’s disaster in August along Bull Run Creek, near Manassas Junction. As Pope retreated to Washington with his troops, Lincoln had switched back to Little Mac, and the men welcomed his return. But it didn’t slow their return to Union lines because scouts informed the general that Lee was heading north, presumably to take Washington. The route took them through occupied Maryland. Regardless of why Lee moved above the Mason Dixon Line, McClellan remained cautious.