Touching the Sky (2 page)

C
aptain Brandon Reid was only a month away from mustering out of the Union Army, and yet the future eluded him. He felt directionless . . . uncertain. He could return home to Indiana, where his preacher-father owned a small but well-managed horse farm; he knew his mother would be delighted with that choice. Brandon, however, wasn’t sure that God would be.

The heaviness of the Texas air felt like nothing compared to the weight of indecision perched upon his shoulders. When war had been declared, Brandon knew without a doubt it was his duty to enlist and come to the aid of his country. His family had long been abolitionists, and freeing slaves was a cause he believed in—as well as keeping all states united as one. But now that his soldiering days were coming to an end, Brandon couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with the choices before him.

He made his way down Water Street, past John Dix’s house. Rumors ran amuck about the owner. The man was said to be an avid Union supporter and had offered invaluable help during the war. Or so Brandon had been told. As a sea captain it was rumored that he signaled Federal ships in the harbor by hanging lanterns from his house. Brandon had also heard it said that Dix’s son had served in the Second Texas Cavalry under Colonel “Rip” Ford and completely disagreed with his father’s stand. Sadly, such was often the case with the War Between the States. How many families had been forever divided because of politics?

He continued his walk a block to Taylor Street, where his destination was the same house that had once been assigned as a commissary for Zachary Taylor’s troops during the war with Mexico. And, even though the house had been built by a man named R. C. Russell, the place was now known simply as the Ironclad House. The strange title was due to the ironclad oath that every Texan who had not borne arms against the North was required to take. The oath required men to swear they had never given service to the Confederacy and that they were loyal to the Union. This was required if a man were to vote or hold office. In fact, given the demands placed by the North, this oath was necessary for most anything a man wanted to do. Some said it would have been impossible to buy so much as a bag of flour on credit without having taken the ironclad, but Brandon knew this was stretching things a bit.

He paused a moment. Despite its years and neglect due to the war, the architecture of the Ironclad House spoke of money and charm. On the porch were a couple of rocking chairs and a wicker settee. The pieces seemed to suggest a quiet evening spent with friends, but Brandon knew better. Inside, General Charles S. Russell, no relation to the original builder, oversaw the grave duty of restoring order to this part of the South.

Charles was a good friend from before the war, but now he was Brandon’s superior, overseeing the Second U.S. Colored Cavalry, as well as the Tenth and Twenty-eighth Regiments of the U.S. Colored Troop Infantries. Brandon served as a captain for the latter.

They had seen many battles together over the years. Both Brandon and Charles had left family in Indiana to serve with the colored troops, enduring insult and slander for their positions. While the Northerners were all for freeing the blacks, few wanted to associate or work with them. Brandon was frustrated by the hypocrisy.

Neither the North or South had won this war, as far as he was concerned. He’d lost good friends on both sides, and though Brandon and his family had strongly supported the abolitionist movement, he wasn’t convinced that the Emancipation Proclamation had done for the slaves all that Lincoln had intended. Already, Brandon had heard from his superiors that many of the slaveholders were ignoring the law. The most cunning found ways around the demands of the deceased president they had abhorred. It was said that in some places the Negroes were forced to leave all of their possessions—including clothing—if they were to be freed. The former owners defended this, saying that while Mr. Lincoln might have freed the slaves, clothing would come at a price.

Of course, none of the former slaves had money. In order to pay for their clothing, the Negroes were required to stay on and work for an allotted time—time that inevitably grew with additional charges for food, housing, work tools, and other supplies the white masters forced their laborers to pay. It didn’t take a mathematical genius to see that it would soon be impossible for a former slave to work himself out of debt.

Freedom for the blacks had, in many ways, only served to cause them more pain and suffering. It grieved Brandon in a way he couldn’t express. Having grown up in Indiana, not far from the Ohio River, Brandon’s family had been active in helping runaway slaves. He knew the horrible conditions many had endured. He’d helped to bury more than one slave who had taken ill or received fatal injuries during his escape. Even so, it was often said by those who survived that it was better to die in freedom than live in bondage.

Brandon entered the house and was immediately greeted by a uniformed soldier jumping to attention. “Sir, General Russell is awaiting you.” The man simultaneously saluted and Brandon returned in kind.

“Thank you, Corporal.”

He made his way past the man and into the small room where a tired-looking man sat deep in thought. He glanced up and motioned Brandon to his desk.

“Come in, Brandon. How goes it for you here in Corpus Christi?”

“Better than we fared in Antietam,” Brandon countered.

The man gave a hint of a smile. “As I recall, we won that one.”

“Strategically, yes, but you and I both know the price it cost. I fear we are up against much the same here. Perhaps not in blood, but in hearts.”

General Russell sobered. “Sadly, I agree. May we never see such a war again.” He drew a long breath, then leaned back against his leather chair. “Still, you look fit. I believe the town must be agreeing with you.”

Brandon nodded. “For the most part. I just had an encounter with a simpering Southern miss who didn’t appreciate my men detaining her. She had a sharp tongue, but nothing more dangerous than that. And you, General?”

“Now, Brandon, we’ve been friends much too long to resort to formalities in private.”

Brandon took a seat opposite the man who was only some six years his senior, but looked at least a score.

“I had a letter from my mother, Charles,” Brandon said. “She told me to give you her best and to tell you that she’s given Annie that recipe for chocolate cake you like so much.”

“That woman has been a godsend to my wife,” the general replied. He glanced down at the papers on his desk and frowned. “Seems like forever since I’ve seen Annie and my girls.” He paused and sighed. “But this isn’t why I sent for you. We must discuss the looting and vandalizing that has been reported around the town. There have been increasing complaints, and some of them from Union supporters.”

“Why don’t you fill me in,” Brandon suggested.

The general picked up a piece of paper. “This one reports damage done to a cemetery.” He picked up another sheet. “This one is in regard to our men vandalizing a known Confederate’s home.” He glanced upward. “There are numerous reports of harassment and so-called indecencies with women.”

“You say ‘so-called.’ Do you think the reports are false?”

“Who can tell? This town is a powder keg waiting to explode. I had hoped we’d find it easier as time went on. After all, there are large numbers of Union supporters in this city. Not only that, but I’d like to believe my men are honorable. They may be colored troops, but you and I both know the quality of men we’ve had under us.”

“Yes, I agree.”

The general got to his feet and paced. He wasn’t all that big of a man—certainly nowhere near as tall as Brandon’s six-foot-three frame. Putting his hands behind his back, he reminded Brandon of a banty rooster strutting to and fro in the barnyard.

“There are bad apples in every bushel basket, however. I’m not without the ability to acknowledge that my men are capable of such deeds—but I will have proof before meting out punishment. That’s why I called you here. I know you’re mustering out at the end of July, but I want you to keep your eyes and ears open. I want to be on top of this. If we fail to keep the men in line, we will lose the support of those who remained loyal during the war.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Brandon agreed.

“I knew you would,” the general replied and stopped pacing. “I’ve already discussed this with Major Armstrong. He agrees you will be beneficial to this task. I only ask that you monitor the situation and gather information as you receive it. Should you find men in possession of anything other than army regulated goods, I want you to confiscate them and document the items.”

Brandon got to his feet and nodded. “Anything else?”

The general smiled. Shuffling through the papers once more, he pulled a white card from the pile. “As a matter of fact, there is. Tonight, there is a party and I wish for you to attend in my place. It’s to be quite a grand affair and only Union supporters will be in attendance. Wealthy Union supporters.”

“Me? Why me? Wouldn’t Major Armstrong be better at such a thing?” Brandon had no desire to go and make small talk with the socialites of Corpus Christi.

“The major is busy elsewhere. Besides, he’s married and our host has two very pretty daughters.” Charles grinned. “Annie has been after you to settle down for a long while now. Who knows? You might find a lovely young woman here in Corpus.”

“That’s highly doubtful,” Brandon replied. “Not that there aren’t some very beautiful women in this town,” he said, remembering the young woman he’d encountered earlier that day. “Still, I will most likely return to Indiana. I doubt these warm-blooded beauties would have an appreciation for the colder climes.”

The general laughed and shook his head. “Please don’t make me issue this as an order.”

“I’ll attend, but it’s under protest, General Russell.”

This made his superior laugh. “Duly noted, Captain. Duly noted.” He handed him the invitation. “Make the army proud, Brandon. We need all the positive attention we can get.”

Brandon looked at the card and frowned. “Very well.”

“Oh, and Brandon, there is an ulterior motive behind this, as well.”

Now Brandon was intrigued. He raised a brow in question. “You mean besides finding me a wife?”

“Indeed. We have a man we’re watching. He should be in attendance at this party, and I thought perhaps you could observe him and even befriend him. It might help to speed our investigation along if we can get someone close to him.”

Brandon sat back down. “Tell me more.”

Brandon entered Stanley Marquardt’s house a little later than he’d planned. He handed his card, gloves, and hat to the butler and was then shown to the entrance of a large music room, where the rest of the party was listening to a dark-haired woman play the piano. When she lifted her face to sing, he was startled to see it was the same young woman he’d encountered earlier in the alleyway.

“If you will wait here, sir,” the butler instructed, “I will announce you in a moment.”

Brandon nodded, his gaze never leaving the woman. Who was she? She played exquisitely and her voice was beautiful in its clarity and range. Brandon stood back in the shadows, hoping she wouldn’t see him. He wanted to study her better. He’d already relived their earlier moments together, wondering if he could have been gentler or less caustic. Now seeing her here—at a party for Union supporters—Brandon couldn’t help but wonder about the woman.

Her brown hair had a rich sheen that seemed to glisten in the lamplight. He recalled that her eyes were a light, buttery brown. Not quite amber, but far from the dark brown-black of the local residents who were of Mexican descent.

When the song concluded, she stood and gave a brief curtsy while the others clapped. Brandon would have joined in with his approval, but the servant drew his attention.

“Sir, I will announce you now.” The butler stepped into the room as the clapping faded. “Captain Reid,” the man said as if they had all been expecting him.

The audience, who only moments earlier had been enraptured by the performance, now turned their attention to him. He gave a slight bow as an older gentleman stepped forward.

“Captain Reid,” the man said, extending his hand. “We were sorry to hear that the general couldn’t attend tonight but were so delighted that you could come in his stead. I am Stanley Marquardt, and this is my wife.”

Brandon looked to the small woman who had swept up alongside the man. Her wheat-colored hair was sprinkled with gray, and a few wrinkles around her eyes and mouth suggested she had reached middle age and then some.

“Mrs. Marquardt. Mr. Marquardt. Thank you for allowing me to attend on behalf of General Russell.” He gave a bow.

“It is we who are thankful. Your presence is most welcome. Come and let me introduce you to some of the others,” Marquardt declared. He turned almost immediately to his right. “This is James Sonderson and his wife.”

Brandon went through another dozen such introductions, knowing he would never manage to keep all of the names straight. He wondered what had become of the young woman who’d played and sung in such an accomplished manner. He didn’t have to wonder for long.