When the Splendor Falls (42 page)

Justin Braedon
. It hadn’t been long after that, just after Christmas, in the first month of a new year, that they’d heard from Nathan that Justin had been killed in a skirmish in the Shenandoah Valley. It was during the Romney Campaign, and his troop had been trying to destroy the tracks of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. He’d still been with Stonewall Jackson, riding proudly into battle to the stirring music from the Stonewall Brigade Band, the brass band of the Fifth Virginia Infantry. Palmer William had written to her about them, claiming he had taught his horse, Bourbon, to prance in time to “The Bonnie Blue Flag,” but he’d charge whenever he heard the first notes of “The Star Spangled Banner,” sensing there were Yankees around.

Leigh reached deeper into the trunk, lifting out a large leather-bound book that had been placed against the side. Carefully, she opened it, staring curiously at the watercolor scenes of Confederate troops camped in the woods, of a young, unidentified cavalry officer, of gunboats patrolling a peaceful stretch of the James River, and various landscapes she’d never seen before.

Stuart James
. He had left his artist’s portfolio with her the last time he had visited, before he had been wounded at Gettysburg last summer. Somehow it seemed almost appropriate now that Stuart James had been wounded while attacking a place called Cemetery Hill. He’d lingered for six months. He was buried now next to other members of the Travers family who’d died before him, but most of them peacefully, and not before their time.

Thisbe Anne
. A bitter smile curved Leigh’s lips as she thought of her former sister-in-law. Thisbe Anne had spent most of the war in Philadelphia. She’d run back up to the North as soon as she’d discovered all the fighting was in Virginia and the rest of the South. The only time they’d heard from her was six months after Stuart James had died. She wanted information about Willow Creek Landing, as well as Travers Hill, for as the widow of Stuart James, the eldest son, she wanted to know if she now owned the Travers house and land. She was also now Mrs. Stanway Billingsley. She had married a prosperous Philadelphia businessman. With pleasure, Leigh had written to her informing her that Guy Travers was still alive, and as the only surviving son, was heir to Travers Hill. To assure his wishes were followed, when his eldest son had inherited Willow Creek from the Palmer estate, Stuart Travers had made a will naming Guy as sole beneficiary of Travers Hill, and had he died without issue, then Palmer William inherited. Stuart James’s widow had no claim to Travers Hill. They would hear no more from Thisbe Anne. Leigh’s only regret was that they’d never see Stuart James’s children. And if they heard again from Thisbe, then Nathan would know how to deal with her.

Nathan
. They’d received word from him in the fall that he was in Tennessee. He’d gone with General Longstreet to reinforce the Confederate troops fighting at Chattanooga. They’d joined the battle at a place called Chickamauga Creek. Jolie had told them that Chickamauga was a Cherokee word. It meant “River of Death.” None of them had slept easy after that, and when word had come that Nathan was missing in action, Jolie hadn’t seemed surprised.

He’d know what to do about this too, Leigh thought, taking the piece of stiff paper from her skirt pocket, where she’d been hiding it from the others. She stared down in dismay at the tax assessment she’d received, wondering how they could possibly pay it. They didn’t have any hogs to slaughter, or horses to sell, or fattened cattle to send to market, the government taking the share it believed it was entitled to in bacon, cavalry horses, or beef to feed its troops, courtesy of a generous tax assessor. They certainly weren’t fools, Leigh mused, since they wouldn’t accept the inflated Confederate currency, which bought so little, as payment of taxes.

What was she going to do? Angrily, she wadded up the offending piece of paper, stuffing it deep into the trunk. Then she smiled, pulling out the thick packet of letters she had received from Blythe.

Opening a couple she scanned them quickly. Remembering, without even seeing the words in the dim light from the candle, Blythe’s descriptions of Richmond, written with such incredulity and humor.

…April 17, Leigh, we’ve just about, or so Adam tells me, seceded from the Union. By May we will have. You wouldn’t believe the excitement. They pulled down the old flag, the Stars and Stripes. I have to admit, Leigh, it made me feel odd, sad even, because that is our flag, but they pulled it down. Bells rang, cannons fired, and the cheering was deafening. All week long, the celebrations continued. There were torchlight processions through the streets of Richmond. Rockets! Roman candles! Music from countless bands. Down Main Street, past Church Hills, past the State Court House, beyond even the Exchange Hotel, speeches and cheering, all the way down Franklin Street. The speakers say we’ll capture Washington within days.

…such incredible people you see on the street, now, Leigh. No one can be certain if one is talking to a spy, a pickpocket, a counterfeiter, a lady of ill-repute, or a government worker. Adam says there is little difference between the latter two.

…Leigh, I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but Julia has done something quite scandalous. She has run off with a married man. He is a gentleman, or so they say, and an Englishman with a title. Adam is outraged, since he introduced Julia to the man. He was in America, supposedly on behalf of the British government, to buy cotton. I fear, Julia is ruined. Adam received a letter from her from Paris, and she says she has never been happier. She hasn’t heard about her mother. I don’t think Adam is going to tell her. I would.

…there was a riot today. Aunt Maribel Lu and I were out trying to find lamb chops, when, suddenly, all of these angry women swarmed onto the street, led by this woman brandishing a pistol, a six-shooter, Leigh, and marching on Capitol Square. It was frightening! Aunt Maribel Lu and I got caught up in the crowd, and I thought I had lost her, until I caught sight of the Stars and Bars and recognized her bonnet. We managed to escape, but we never got our lamb chops.

…$9 a pound, Leigh, for bacon! $275 for a barrel of flour! Potatoes, $25 a bushel. Everyone barters now. Two bushels of salt for a pair of shoes. Five scrawny turkeys for a bonnet. Fortunately, we had five of Aunt Maribel Lu’s bonnets to trade for one fat turkey.

…and tell Papa that the cavalry has been quartered at the racecourse, and, for once, appropriate quarters for them and their horses. The federal prisoners have been quartered in a smelly tobacco warehouse on the James River. Papa would be quite pleased with the arrangements.

Blythe Lucinda.
Little Lucy. It had been Blythe who had married her beloved Adam that following summer when she had turned seventeen. They had honeymooned in New Orleans, sailing there aboard Adam’s ship,
The Blithe Spirit
, a coincidence of names which he very seriously believed, almost superstitiously, was a good omen for the future. They’d stayed at Royal Bay until the war had started, then moved to Richmond, living with Nathan and Althea, Blythe helping Althea with her newborn son and Noelle. And, later, they’d comforted each other when their husbands left to fight.

Leigh thought about her own wedding. It should have been in April of 1861, but had been postponed because of the death of Matthew Wycliffe’s mother. She and Matthew had waited, watching the events unfolding around them. South Carolina had long since seceded, along with state after state across the rebellious South. A Confederacy, made up of states that had seceded from the Union, had been proudly established. Matthew had visited them very little that winter after the announcement of their engagement. He’d hardly stayed more than a day or two at Travers Hill during his many trips between Charleston and Montgomery, Alabama, where a Confederate cabinet had been formed, with secretaries of state, the treasury, and war, meeting to discuss strategy.

But she had never been forgotten by him, and had always been in his thoughts. Even in this time of emergency, she’d received letters and gifts—special little reminders of his love—from Matthew almost every day.

That April, when she and Matthew were to have been wed, the Virginia State Convention passed an ordinance of secession, and Richmond was offered as the new capital of the Confederacy. Fort Sumter was fired upon by Confederate forces demanding the removal of federal troops from Confederate soil. And Matthew returned to Charleston immediately, fearing that, finally, the secession of the united states of the South from the Union had finally led to armed conflict.

Matthew had been right, and by fall they were at war with the North.

Matthew
. Dear Matthew. He’d died somewhere in North Carolina, before he could return to Virginia, before they could marry. She’d never seen him again, and she had loved him. His aunt had written a very formal letter to her informing her of Matthew’s death. She had addressed her letter from Wycliffe Hall, where she and her son now lived. But it had been from the Benjamin Leighs that they’d learned how Matthew had died. Such a tragic waste, they had written. He’d been killed by a sharpshooter lying in wait as the column of rebel troops had passed along the road. He had never even seen the man in hiding who had cold-bloodedly taken aim on him and shot him.

Leigh replaced the packet of letters, feeling the coldness of Blythe’s fan, the one of ivory
brisé
that had been Palmer William’s gift to her on her sixteenth birthday. Next to it Leigh felt the softness of the muslin shawl, Guy’s gift. Disturbing it slightly, a sweet fragrance with just a touch of something spicy drifted to Leigh. Her hand touched the dark green perfume bottle with its etched stars so like her own. Blythe had found her own special perfume, not jessamine like hers, or violet like Althea’s, or lavender and roses like their mother’s. Blythe’s scent was of orange blossoms, with just a hint of cinnamon.

Leigh closed the chest, still unable to accept that Blythe was gone. Weakened from complications that had followed a difficult childbirth, she hadn’t been able to fight the typhoid fever that had infected her, and a month later she had died. Walking over to the cradle, she stared down at Blythe’s daughter, Lucinda. Adam had insisted they call her that in memory of her. So young, both mother and daughter.

Leigh touched the baby, sleeping so quietly, then turned and walked back to the window. Staring out at the night, she remembered all of the other times, especially when troubled, she’d stood at this window.

The last time had been when the Yankees had bivouacked at Travers Hill. She’d stood alone, looking out at the campfires glowing in the darkness as the soldiers began to cook their evening meal. She’d continued to stand before the window, until twilight had fallen. Suddenly, she’d heard the melancholy notes of a bugler, and the campfires and candles had slowly been extinguished. Never had she heard such a mournful sound, as if it were a cry from the heart.

Fourteen

Even in laughter the heart is sorrowful.

Proverbs 14:13

The first light of day revealed the storm clouds that had threatened the night before still hanging heavy and low on the eastern horizon, blocking out the pale light of the winter sun. Too cowardly to show its face for long, the sun disappeared behind a blanket of clouds, hoarding its warmth to itself as the day dawned cold and bleak.

But it wasn’t thunder that rumbled in the distance. A roiling black cloud of smoke climbed high into the gray sky and fiery comets spewed forth from its glowing underbelly, where tongues of flames licked hungrily around the charred and broken skeleton of the railroad trestle that had just been blown sky-high.

The siege gun, with its long, rifled barrel that resembled a vicious snout and wreaked such devastating destruction with its thirty-two-pound shells, would roar no more. But the man-made beast was not silenced yet. The flatbed railroad car it had been mounted on, protected by iron plate shielding, hung precariously for an instant over the edge of the collapsing bridge and bellowed its rage. A hideous screeching and groaning, as metal was rent apart, filled the air like a death cry. Then the flatbed car, dragging the black engine still coupled to it, fell into the inferno, the artillery shells shooting like rockets into the sky as crates of ammunition continued to feed the voracious flames.

In a thicket below the crest of the ridge, and just downstream of the destroyed trestle bridge that had stretched across the ravine, a group of men huddled, their faces glowing like brass masks in the light of the flames.

“Damn!” someone muttered, wiping the back of his hand across his cheek and licking it curiously. “Whiskey!” he crowed, the whites of his eyes looking startling against his soot-smudged face as he stared up at the barrel that had just blown past his head. “Must’ve had a whole flatbed full of whiskey barrels on that train too!” he muttered in disbelief. “Should’ve joined up with the artillery, ’stead of the cavalry. They know how to travel. ’Specially them gentlemen rebs!”

“
Now
ye tell me,” McGuire said, watching sadly as the exploding whiskey barrel disappeared over the top of the ridge in a shower of corn liquor.

“Would’ve tasted mighty fine right now,” the Bucktail said, licking his dry, cracked lips. “Got one hell of a thirst.”

“Well, at least that fire-breather won’t be eatin’ up any more bluebellies for breakfast.”

“Killed the steely beast, we have,” someone said with satisfaction as he mounted his horse, pulling sharply on the reins as the horse shied nervously when a thunderous roar sounded as another flatbed car loaded with shells and supplies fell into the ravine below.

“Come on, McGuire. Better ride as fast as you talk, now, ’cause the cap’n has already cleared the ridge. Know how he don’t like to dally none,” someone warned, seeing the reddish-brown rump of the captain’s big bay disappearing through the trees.

“Ain’t the time to be sittin’ here enjoyin’ yer handiwork, boyo,” someone else advised, glancing around to see a troop of soldiers making their way along the ridgeline, ducking automatically when he saw a flash of gunfire, then heard the thud of impact as a bullet hit and embedded itself in the bark of a tree trunk beside his head, flying splinters of oak scratching his cheek.