When the Splendor Falls (36 page)

“I’ll do my best,” Neil said, his lips twitching slightly.

“Thank you.”

“You can’t shoot him!”

“Leigh,” was all Guy said, shaking his head.

“I wonder. What is your brother’s life worth?” Neil asked, his pistol aimed at Guy’s heart.

Leigh stared at Neil, wondering what kind of man he was to bargain with another man’s life. But Neil had no intention of killing Guy Travers, despite the fact that Guy had not missed his shot. His aim had been almost on target, and a wound now bled in Neal’s shoulder.

“What do you want?”

“Your brother has nothing I want, but you, Miss Travers, do.”

Leigh glanced around, wondering why no one had heard the shot, but as she looked toward the house, she heard the sound of music and voices. No one would have heard anything unusual, and certainly not a gunshot they were not expecting to hear.

“Go on, Braedon! Get it over with!” Guy said, his nerves finally beginning to tighten under the strain. “Pull the trigger!”

“What do you want for my brother’s life?” Leigh asked him.

Neil wanted to hurt her, wanted to take something dear from her. “I’ll take your colt, Miss Travers. Give me the colt, and your brother lives,” he said, hating himself in that instant for what he did, but he had lost her, and he wanted her to suffer some of the pain he was feeling. When he left Virginia, she would not soon forget him. He would take something dear to her heart with him. And she would remember him.

Leigh stared at him in disbelief.

“You claim to love this family of yours so much that you’d even marry to save them, so won’t you give up this prized colt of yours for your brother’s life, Miss Travers? Too great a sacrifice?”

“You can’t be serious?” Guy scoffed, feeling as if he’d already been shot. “Leigh loves that colt,” he said, glancing over at his sister in dismay, and finally feeling some of the guilt for his actions.

“I’m very serious, Mr. Travers. I can use that colt. Far more than I can your death on my conscience. And remember this, when you die, your debts would become your family’s. I would, however, consider your debt paid,
if
I received your sister’s colt as payment. Surely your life is worth that much? I came to Virginia to buy horses. This colt would suit my needs admirably. And since I will, no doubt, not be welcomed tomorrow at the auction, I’ll make my bid now. I want the colt.”

“You bastard!” Guy said, slumping against the tree.

“It’s a deal, Mr. Braedon,” Leigh told him, feeling as if she were truly seeing him for the first time, and he was once again a stranger to her.

Neil lowered the pistol, uncocking it. “Your debt is paid in full, Mr. Travers,” he told Guy.

“Don’t ever show your face on Travers property again,” Guy warned, “or next time, you won’t walk away.”

“You needn’t fear, for I will not be returning.”

“We’ll send Capitaine over to Royal Bay. Don’t bother coming by to collect your winnings,” Guy told him. “I’ll shoot you for trespassing if you show your devil’s face around here again.”

“Believe me, you’ll be in hell when you see my face again,” he told him.

“What’s going on here?” a voice demanded, and recognizing it, Leigh turned to see Matthew coming toward them.

Neil glanced back only once. He saw Leigh running across the garden and into the outstretched arms of Matthew Wycliffe.

Virginia—Winter 1864

In the winter wild.

John Milton

Twelve

’Tis the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone.

Thomas Moore

The dense woodland was quiet. The trees, barren of leaf, stood like sentinels against the gathering dusk, the ashen sky above darkening with clouds that were sullen and heavy with the approaching storm.

A low rumbling of thunder sounded beyond the hills in the distance. Echoing closer was another, far more ominous sound that became discordant as it grew louder. It was the sound of marching feet as foot soldiers trudged along the muddy road, packs weighing them down, their muskets and rifles held at the ready in case of ambush. The sound of horses’ hooves and the creaking of harness and ringing of spurs followed as the cavalry came next, outriders racing ahead to reconnoiter. Then came the artillery, with a rumbling of wheels as cannons and guns were pulled along behind, followed by the cracking of the teamsters’ whips as mules strained against the heavy weight of wagons loaded with supplies and baggage, and ambulances crowded with the wounded and dying. It was an army on the move. But with darkness falling, the commander would soon call a halt to his troops’ march, setting up picket lines as they made camp. The warm glow of fires would appear in the darkness as they settled in for the long night, the lonely outposts keeping guard against surprise attack.

“Who do you think they are?” came a disembodied voice from a tangle of bushes in a thicket nearby.

“Where the hell did they come from?”

“Reckon it could be a ghost column? Marchin’ through the night with ol’ Stonewall Jackson himself leadin’ them into battle, chargin’ the front line on that ol’ sorrel of his?” someone asked, his imagination heightened by the surrounding gloom. Another soldier, tired and cold, and scared, glanced around, almost expecting to see a ghost rider in gray, saber drawn, come charging up behind him, his mount snorting fire and damnation.

“That Stonewall Brigade of his sure fought hard when retaking Romney,” another man remembered.

“I was there at the first, at Bull Run, when he stood there like a stone wall orderin’ the charge. Still got a scar on my shoulder from the bayonet wound given me by one of them damned Virginians. Thought a devil was comin’ at me the way that fella was screamin’ fer my blood.”

“Heard tell some of his men called him Old Blue Light, so God-fearin’ and pious was he.”

“Holy as that, eh? Reckon he could still be out there ridin’ right now. Man like that don’t die easy nor rest when he does.”

“And to think he was shot down at Chancellorsville by one of his own men mistakin’ him fer the enemy.”

“Hush!” a throaty whisper cautioned. “You want
him
to hear, and he ain’t dead. Leastways, not yet.”

“Shucks, hear anything over that ruckus? Besides, he disappeared across the meadow. ’Course even o’er there he could hear you break wind. Seems as if he can see in the dark better ’n most can in the daylight, so reckon he can hear better too. Betcha it’s a column of butternuts. Ain’t goin’ to be any bluecoats, ’ceptin’ fer us, this deep behind enemy lines.”

“Unless you want him after you, Bucktail,” someone advised the Pennsylvanian, “I’d be as quiet as a mouse within spittin’ distance of a cat’s whisker.”

“Faith, but ye’d better be listenin’ to him now, don’t want to end up way down in Georgia, stuck in Andersonville like a flea-bitten rat, d’ye? Nothin’ comes out of there alive, even the plague. And I’m thinkin’ I wouldn’t want to be buried in red clay without receivin’ the last rites, some Baptist preacher standin’ over me instead. Aye, me poor soul would be damned then, and me mother, bless her, would turn in her grave to think a Protestant was prayin’ over her only son.”

“If anyone gets us caught, then it’ll be you, you bigmouthed mick, and your mother is still alive. You had a letter from her just last month, read it to you myself.”

“All the way from Ireland? Thought yer mam couldn’t read nor write?”

“Well now, she’d heard about the fightin’ over here, and she got the fine and fancy lady she does washin’ fer to write it down fer her. That worried she was, that she sent me her own cross, and blessed by the same priest who was there fer me christenin’.”

“He’s got a lot to answer for.”

“Well, I’m wearin’ it now, around me neck, and it’s kept me safe, and against me heart I’ve me dear mother’s lovin’ words, and written by a beautiful, kindhearted lady, so ’tis double-blessed, I am. Besides, I fear
him
more than I do a whole regiment of graybacks.”

“Keep rememberin’ that, Hay Foot, and the cap’n’ll get us out of these damned woods alive,” the Bucktail suggested.

“I know me left foot from me right better ’n yerself, Straw Foot.”

“If you both don’t shut up, neither of you’ll have any feet to worry about ’cause they’re goin’ to be shot off,” someone told them, looking over his shoulder, then giving a reassuring pat to the pocket-sized Bible he carried in his jacket. A ragged hole torn through the middle of it from a bullet that had lodged in the New Testament instead of his heart bore silent witness to his continued faith.

“Probably end up gittin’ shot by an ol’ backwoodsman who don’t even know there’s a war goin’ on, jus’ out shootin’ squirrels and drinkin’ corn whiskey, and sees this here feller with the deer tail stuck on his cap, and mistakin’ him fer a buck’s ass ’cause he’s so ugly, or even a scrawny tom turkey if his eyesight wasn’t good, wings him with his fowling piece.”

“Seem to recall you joined up carryin’ an old flintlock musket yourself.”

“Right you are, but got me a Spencer repeatin’ rifle now. Only have to load it once a week, dependin’ that is on how many rebs I bring down.”

“D’ye know,” the Irishman said, pulling the sleeve of his heavy wool overcoat free of a bramble, “I bet these woods are full of blackberries come summertime, sweet and juicy, and this creek here, the trout would be that fat and fine, they would. Used to dream about layin’ meself down in sweet bluegrass and ridin’ easy a soft-skinned saucy lass when I was workin’ the rails.”

“The only thing risin’ is goin’ to be flowers over yer bleached bones come spring, navvy, and the only grinnin’ will be on your skeleton head, all the fat rotted away, if you don’t hold your tongue.”

“Better that than goin’ back to the coalfields like you, boyo. Ye Welshmen never learn, not like the Irish, now. Hear tell there ain’t no place on a coal miner’s body that damned soot don’t get in.”

“Hey, an eight hooter, listen to that,” the Bucktail said, stilling as the
whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo—whoo, whoo, whoo, whoo-ah
sounded from the branches of a big sycamore overhead.

“Better be careful, lad, ’cause that means he might be out huntin’ skunk this time of year. This is when skunks come out to mate.”

“Lucky devils!”

“Hell, from the smell of ye, bet the skunk comes courtin’, and he won’t have any trouble findin’ ye,” someone said with a low hoot of laughter.

“Well, pardon me, but I didn’t have time for my ablutions this mornin’, seein’ how my valet let me oversleep and I hardly had time for more than a bite or two of my apple dumplings and sausages, and the fool didn’t press my trousers worth a damn.”

“Just as well he didn’t, I think we’re squattin’ beneath where that owl’s been roostin’ anyways,” someone murmured with distaste, wiping his hand on the side of his muddy trousers.

“Reckon there’s one thing these Virginians know how to do, and that’s smoke ham. Best I’ve ever eaten. ’Twas especially sweet when we stole it right out from under the nose of Jeb Stuart himself. Remember that day with all of us sneakin’ ’round Fredricksburg, didn’t know who was wearin’ blue and who was wearin’ gray? In one of the first skirmishes I was in, up ’round Falling Waters, before I joined up with you lads, nearly rode back into Richmond with Stuart himself. He was still wearin’ his ol’ blue army uniform. Hell, I thought he was one of us, after all, they say he was a West Point man same as half the reb officers. Heard later he captured fifty or more prisoners when they threw down their weapons ’cause he rode right up to them without them firin’ a shot, thinkin’ he was their commander. Heard tell now he’s taken to wearin’ a tasseled yellow sash and a foot-long ostrich feather stuck in his hat, and when he rides into battle his scarlet-lined cape billows out behind him and makes the enemy madder ’n bulls bein’ baited. Makes a fine target. Should’ve kept wearin’ his ol’ blue and kept everyone more confused than they already are.”

“That’s one way of smokin’ out the enemy. Oughta try that kind of switch more often.”

“McGuire here, now he knows how to smoke a ham. Blew up a depot full of salt beef and pork barrels last week.”

“How was I to know that’s what was in them. Faith, I only wish you hadn’t run away so fast like you was buckshot. We could’ve had quite a feast that mornin’.”

“Yeah, ham stuck full of rusty nails instead of clove buds.”

“I took some hardtack off a dead reb. Foulest tastin’ stuff I ever ate. A piece of sheet iron would’ve had more taste. Figured he died from eatin’ it and not from my bullet.”

“Speakin’ of sweet things to be dreamin’ about. I’d turn traitor for some roast goose with apple stuffin’, plump noodles, and sauerbraten.”

“You ain’t Dutch, thought you’d want stew,” someone reminded the Irishman.

“No, but the widow who used to cook me supper was. Never quite got to finish me sauerbraten, but she always gave me some of them tasty crullers to take with me when I left the next mornin’. Called them tangled britches, she did, laughin’ as she tried to straighten mine out of knots, but then she was an eager wench. A fine, lusty woman, she was. Buried two husbands in three years.”

“Lucky you volunteered. You’ve a better chance of survivin’ facin’ a twelve-pounder, McGuire.”

“Well, I’d turn the whole lot of you in just for some griddle cakes,” said one of the younger soldiers with a sigh, the memory of his mother’s griddle cakes still strong in his mind, not having met anyone like the Dutch woman.

“Wonder where the cap’n is. It’s startin’ to drizzle. Might even snow before dawn. It’s goin’ to be a cold night. Reckon this creek will ice up,” one of the men grumbled, rubbing his stiff hands together.

Hunkered down on the bottom of a creek bed, the men waited, listening nervously to the rumble in the distance, the cloud of vaporized breath from their mounts creating an eerie fog around them.

“How you reckon the cap’n knows this land so good?”