When the Splendor Falls (64 page)

They’d spent several nights on the road, sleeping one night beneath the sheltering arms of a great oak, icy rain tapping against the canvas cover, acrid smoke from their campfire floating eerily through the leafless branches overhead, while another night they’d slept in an abandoned barn, the sounds of scampering mice keeping the hounds growling warningly in the darkness, but it had been a comforting sound, and another two nights had been spent in greater comfort in small inns along the road, where other weary travelers sought shelter and human contact. It was during one of their nights at an inn that they’d heard about the most recent and terrifying escapades of Captain Dagger. He must have had a horse with wings, because he’d been seen all across Virginia, even down into Georgia, some had declared, their voices hushed, their eyes wide, as if expecting the feared raider to show his face any moment.

Leigh could remember hearing a hastily muffled snort from Adam, who’d been sitting by the fire warming his hands around a tankard full of hot buttered rum, a delicacy he’d claimed it had been far too long since he’d enjoyed. After that comment he had been far too quiet, and glancing over at him, Leigh had been reminded of the old irrepressible Adam, the Adam so full of mischief. As she’d watched him, he’d begun to fiddle with a lock of his hair, as if accustomed to it being longer, his lips twitching almost uncontrollably as he’d listened to the far-fetched stories—especially the incredulous incidents that had happened fairly recently when Captain Dagger was seen riding backward on his horse through the streets of Gordonsville, twitching that heathen braid at people, then had awakened the sleepy residents of Yanceyville at dawn when he’d raced through the town with a bloodcurdling howl that would have raised the dead, and then at Thompson’s Cross Roads and Columbia, with a troop of rebels on his heels, the devil rider had actually greeted several of the town’s most upstanding citizens by name, and first name at that, saying he’d see them in Church on Sunday.

Managing to catch Adam’s twinkling eye, Leigh had suddenly realized exactly what he’d been chuckling about with such devilish satisfaction—especially when she remembered the resemblance between the real Captain Dagger and his cousin. She had even made that error, of mistaking one cousin for the other, years before, which had caused her no end of trouble. It had been her first introduction to Neil Braedon.

It had all come back to her; Althea’s shocked discovery that a long golden curl of her hair had been mysteriously cut, and her accusing gaze at an openmouthed, indignant Jolie, who’d denied knowing anything about it and had turned an affronted back to the assembled group for suspecting her of witchcraft—which she’d given up when she’d left Charleston, she’d said huffily. Adam had found the situation extremely amusing, going into a fit of laughter, which had brought on a paroxysm of coughing. Leigh knew now where he’d gone when he’d disappeared from Travers Hill for several days after he’d arranged her hasty marriage to Neil. When he had returned, his horse lathered, his gray eyes had been feverishly bright, and his spirits had been as high as the fever Leigh suspected he was burning up with. He had shrugged off her ministrations, saying all he needed was to rest. But the very next day, he’d disappeared again, but for less than an hour this time, and when he’d returned to the house, he’d been smiling widely, as if at some private jest, which he would not share with them—except to say that Captain Dagger and his men had made their safe escape from Virginia.
And
they could now pack their trunks and be on their way, because they could be assured of safe passage through the North, because Neil Braedon would see that all of the arrangements were made for his wife and family.

They had reached Richmond without anything more troublesome befalling them than a wheel becoming stuck in the mud, the pass Adam carried never questioned, especially with Guy sitting on the seat in his gray cavalry uniform. Unable to find accommodations in the crowded capital, they had immediately boarded Adam’s ship,
The Blithe Spirit
, where they had waited in relative comfort and safety to sail.

Althea, who’d suffered a slight relapse, had spent most of the time in her narrow bunk, Noelle and Steward keeping warm with her as she read to them for hours at a time from the fairy tale books she’d managed to tuck into her trunk, along with a silver-framed daguerreotype of Nathan, and a number of Steward’s toys, including his wooden sword. Althea hadn’t had to find precious space for Noelle’s two dolls, one an old, beloved rag doll, given to her by her Grandmother Braedon, the other a far fancier bisque-headed doll dressed in a satin and lace gown beautifully stitched by her Grandmother Travers. Noelle held the two dolls tightly in her arms at all times, and sometimes was heard talking to them as if they were at a tea party.

When not in his cabin, Guy had stood for hours on the deck. One of the sailors remained close by, lest the blind gentleman lose his balance and fall overboard, but his presence was never intruding as the onetime soldier stood alone, staring out across the gray, choppy water as if steering a course only he could follow.

Jolie had taken over the galley, shoving aside a thin, nervous little man who decided it wiser to let the yellow-eyed mulattress have her own way, for she seemed dangerously short-tempered, but the crew hadn’t complained, and with the first meal served them, they’d started singing sea chanties in honor of copper-skinned Jolie. Stephen’s highly prized dignity, however, hadn’t fared as well when lampooned in verse, especially when his green-clad livery and gentlemanly ways made him such an easy target for uncouth sailors.

They had stayed in port for little over a week, only long enough to properly fit out the schooner and load her with bales of cotton. Adam had been in good spirits, claiming that he was putting to sea with the most valuable cargo
The Blithe Spirit
had ever carried: his family. Laughing, he’d claimed that at the beginning of the war, when he’d set sail with a cargo of cotton filling her hold, all he could contract for and sell when he returned to the South were luxury goods, such as corset stays and Cockle pills. Couldn’t have the ladies dressed improperly, or the gentlemen suffering liver ailments, now could he? But as the days had lengthened into years, he’d found more profit, even if regulated by the government, in shipping munitions, iron, and coal; Cockle pills somehow not quite as important as they once had been.

Leigh had questioned him about their route, and what would happen to both the cargo and the ship when they reached the North? She knew that Confederate blockade runners, when captured by the federal authorities, were thrown into prison, their cargoes confiscated and auctioned, their ships taken into port and sold, the Stars and Bars replaced with the Stars and Stripes on the mainmast.

Adam had just grinned, saying that only happened if a runner got caught. He knew the coast too well, the U.S. Navy was easily duped, their tactics known to every captain who knew North from South on his compass, and who time and time again ran the blockade with no more than a seagull being any the wiser, and besides,
The Blithe Spirit
was too swift a lady to get caught by federal guns.

He was going to put them ashore in New Jersey. He had often made port in a sheltered cove up around Toms River, waiting for either a storm to blow itself out, or a federal frigate or sloop to disappear over the horizon. Where better to hide than in the enemy’s camp? He’d told Neil about the place, and Neil had promised someone would be there to meet them. Then, and only then, would he put them ashore and set sail. He would be in Nassau, selling his cotton, and
The Blithe Spirit
, before they reached New York, he bet Leigh, holding her close for a moment. He had quickly looked away, claiming the salt spray was already beginning to sting his eyes, even if they were still in port.

The money from that sale would, for now at least, pay the taxes on Royal Bay and Travers Hill. He didn’t think Blythe would mind, even if she had loved to sail aboard
The Blithe Spirit
, calling the ship her third sister.

And Adam had been right. He and his captain had known the Atlantic coastline, with its maze of uncharted coves and inlets, and late one moonless night, they had dropped anchor in a secluded cove. Adam hadn’t seemed nervous until then, perhaps fearing that Neil hadn’t gotten in contact with his friends, or that they hadn’t agreed to help his reb cousin and his family. Leigh had watched him pacing back and forth on the deck, then he’d glanced over at her almost assessingly, and Leigh knew that he was counting on the fact that she was now Neil Braedon’s wife—that would assure their safety.

He’d signaled twice, then waited. Then he’d signaled again, but only once, and he had waited again. Then he’d signaled twice again, pausing, then signaling three times. He’d waited for what seemed an eternity, before an answering sequence of lights had flashed from the shore.

Before she could hardly voice her farewells, she, Althea, Guy, and his hounds, Noelle, Steward, Lucinda, Jolie, and Stephen had been lowered into a boat and rowed ashore. Then their menagerie, accompanying the boat when it returned to shore with their trunks, had been lowered rather unceremoniously into the cold waters; but so close to shore had Adam anchored
The Blithe Spirit
that even the short-legged, disgruntled Pumpkin, who had now been nicknamed “poop off” by the crew, which meant “small cannon,” or so they swore, Damascena, her long Thoroughbred legs treading the water easily, and the cow, showing some interest for once, had made it safely to shore.

Leigh still shook her head in amazement at what had followed next. A very soft-spoken, elderly gentleman had introduced himself to her as a friend of Neil Braedon’s, then he had made his introductions to the rest of her family, remaining in conversation with Adam Braedon for some minutes, then he’d quickly escorted them into several carriages. They had waited for a few moments while Adam had remained by one of the carriages, holding his daughter close for one last time before handing her through the window of the carriage. Leigh had touched his hand briefly, meeting his eyes, then he had smiled and waved the coachman on. Leigh had glanced back once, but Adam had already disappeared from sight.

After that, it had all seemed like a dream. Through the night they had journeyed, until eventually they’d arrived in New York. Their trip across the North had been as smoothly run as any military campaign, for not once had they been harassed, hindered, or detained in their journey to Kansas, where they would begin the last part of their trip to New Mexico following the Sante Fe Trail.

She’d always thought Virginia had too many railroads, but she’d been amazed at the countless and seemingly endless lines of track crisscrossing Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Traveling on railroads with names like Pennsylvania Central, Cincinnati & Zanesville, and Ohio and Mississippi until finally reaching St. Louis and the Pacific railroad that carried them into Missouri.

Throughout their exodus, they had been met with civility, and kindness; by the men who’d seen them, including their menagerie, aboard each train as they’d made their way across the states of the Union; and by the families who had taken them into their homes and offered them hospitality, and friendship, when the trains had been delayed, or they’d been kept from boarding because of a troop train commandeering the rails as they sped toward yet another battle, or they’d been sidetracked because of a train bringing the wounded and dying home.

Leigh had felt some of the pain and anger draining out of her. She had come to accept these people as being no different than her own. They were families who had suffered painful losses of loved ones, whose sons, husbands, brothers, and friends had died. Their lives had been altered forever, the same as hers, yet they could open their homes and hearts to her and her family, who were Southerners.

Leigh rested her head on her bent knees, staring out on the sunny slopes, the wildflowers a rainbow of color that dazzled the eye, and suddenly the horrors of the war seemed far away, like a fading memory.

“Miss Leigh! What’re you doin’ up so early? You been sittin’ there long, honey? Why, you must be half-frozen. You haven’t even got your slippers on an’ that girl hasn’t lit the fire in here yet, an’ I thought that Jassy was slow-footed. What’re you doin’ up before the sun? Now you get back in bed an’ drink some of this sweet chocolate I brought you,” Jolie said, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

“Just remembering, Jolie, and dreaming a little. That’s all,” Leigh told her, turning away from the bright sunshine beyond the windows.

Twenty

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!

Percy Bysshe Shelley

“Never knew this world could be so big,” Jolie said, shaking her neatly braided head in disbelief as she plumped up the pillows on the bed. “I don’t like them mountains none. Feel like I’m bein’ watched all the time,” she added. “It’s not natural, honey. There’s strong spirits ’round here. An’ they’ve been ’round a long time. I’m not sayin’ they be good, not sayin’ they be bad, but they be mighty powerful. Most people don’t know ’bout them, but I’ve got this feelin’.”

“Your big toe hurting you again? Sit down and have a cup of chocolate with me,” Leigh said, patting the bed invitingly, for Jolie’s big toe had been hurting her more and more of late.

“Been talkin’ to that woman out back, always shuckin’ corn. Never seen anybody as old as her. One of the
Ancient Ones
,” Jolie said reverently. “She’s got the feelin’. Says the harmony’s gone. A wicked magician’s disturbed the balance. Points that gnarled finger of hers to the sun, then to the mountains, the sacred ground, then makes these strange drawings in the sand. Like stars that’s been scattered into the dust and broken apart. It’s a bad omen. The stars, where they’re the milkiest in the night sky, they’re the backbone of the world. She knows, missy. An’ the maize harvest wasn’t good this year, she said. When you haven’t corn fer the table, it’s a bad day.”