by Gina Danna
The Better Angels
Hearts Touched by Fire, Book 4
Gina Danna
THE BETTER ANGELS
Copyright © 2020 by Gina Danna
978-1-7351306-0-6
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design & Interior Format by The Killion Group, Inc.
Contents
Readers Discretion Advised
THE LIVING HISTORIAN'S CREED
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Author’s Notes
About the Author
Readers Discretion Advised
This book is historical fiction of the American Civil War. It is written to be as historically accurate to the period in description and language. It is a story of the War and of the people who lived it and contains adult content. Readers Discretion is Advised.
THE LIVING HISTORIAN'S CREED
We are the people to whom the past is forever speaking.
We listen to it because we cannot help ourselves, for the past speaks to us with many voices.
Far out of that dark nowhere which is the time before we were born, men who were flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone went through fire and storm to break a path to the future.
We are part of that future they died for.
They are part of the past that brought the future.
What they did—the lives they lived, the sacrifices they made, the stories they told and the songs they sang and, finally, the deaths they died—make up a part of our own experience.
We cannot cut ourselves off from it.
It is as real as something that happened last week.
It is a basic part of our heritage as Americans.
* * *
~ Bruce Catton
Author’s Note
“We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”
— Abraham Lincoln’s 1st Inaugural Address, March 4, 1861.
Before Abraham Lincoln took office in 1861, South Carolina, Mississippi, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Louisiana and Texas had seceded from the Union and formed the Confederate States of America. The world waited for Lincoln’s response. His speech was aimed to reconcile with these seceded states in a desperate attempt to avoid war.
Acknowledgments
The 4th book in this series could only be made possible by the strong support from a team of people. I’d like to thank my editor, Louisa Cornell, who wades through my massive script without killing me. To JJ Jennings, who is my Civil War reference point when I hit a snag. To Bob Peternell who took me to Mines Run Battlefield, which doesn’t appeared to have been traversed since the 19th century. To my co-workers who find me dragging my computer to work, some wanting to be in the story without understanding the dangers that can bring, though some do fine themselves here in the past. To all, I say thank you!
Prologue
“My plans are perfect and when I start to carry them out, may God have mercy on General Lee for I will have none!”
—General Joseph Hooker, The Battle of Chancellorsville, May 1863
Virginia, November 1863
The giggle was faint, very feminine, and without opening his eyes, he grinned. He had always loved her laughter. Light, airy, the sound drifted and he remembered the first time he heard it. He believed he fell in love with her at that moment, not so long ago, when it was summer in Louisiana.
“Francois, Francois,” she coaxed him.
He didn’t want to answer, for that meant he’d have to open his eyes and at the moment, he realized his eyelids were so heavy, he doubted he could. Instead, he’d lounge here on this rattan settee in his mother’s rose garden and wait for her to get closer.
“Francois, darling,” she whispered into his ear. “It’s time to wake up.”
“No, ma chère, non.” He’d snuggle into the cushions more if they weren’t so hard. That confused him. His mother never allowed sturdy furniture frames out on the balcony…Plus the birds were overly chirpy, starting to grate on his nerves. He refocused on her.
“Francois, my love,” she cooed again, singing into his ear. “You’d better wake, darling.”
“Non, ma chère, come back to me,” he begged. He’d put out his arms to take her into his embrace but he discovered he couldn’t. It was like he was far under water, trying to build a house, as sluggish as he was. He frowned.
“Francois….” Her voice faded. No! She couldn’t leave him again! The birds around him seemed to multiple, busily squeaking louder and louder. He tried to get up, to go after her but the world began to swirl and he stopped, still feeling trapped and realized he’d gone no where. In his mind, he searched for her but his vision filled with smoke and the acid taste of gunpowder and sulfur burned his throat and clouded his vision.
“Francois! Wake up!” She screamed with a panic tone.
He twisted. In a split second, a stabbing pain shot into his foot, at his ankle, as if he was on fire. He roared in agony, reluctant eyelids splitting wide open. The shock of what he saw made him want to flee. He was lying with other men moaning and groaning. The men upright walked about at a hurried pace, their white coats stained in red along with more men in blue hauling some in and taking others out. The whole area smelled of blood, urine, sulfur, sweat and vomit, wafts so overwhelming, he held his breath, despite his own agony.
The commotion drowned out his pain for the second until two rough hands yanked his wounded leg to the side and repositioned it, the movement set off another cycle of pain. Another man walked up, his white coat not as dulled by red splatters as the rest. He wore a pair of spectacles on his nose and a weary look across his face. He yanked out a long metal rod, the end coated in white.
“Let’s see what we got, shall we?” the man said, taking Francois’s foot and twisting it.
Francois couldn’t stop the cry of agony evoked by the manipulation of his foot. The dull hurt of
before turned drastically sharper. Confused, Francois tried to retrace where he was and how he was wounded when another series of lightning bolt pains shot up his legs to his hips, back, shoulders and head, settling into his ears. Unfortunately, the sheering sting didn’t stop the man in the white coat from prodding his ankle.
“Reed! Bring me that bag,” the man called. “Need to amputate this…”
Amputate? Francois blinked hard, the scene around him blurred. They’d take his foot?
“Emma!!!”
Chapter 1
“Bury your poor dead and say nothing more about it.”
—General Robert E. Lee’s response to Lt. Gen. A.P. Hill’s report of the slaughter of his men at Battle at Bristoe Station, VA, October 15, 1863
October 1863
Francois Fontaine tipped the glass up, pouring the whiskey down his throat, the flavor skating over his taste buds to carve a burning path down to his stomach. He closed his eyes, relishing the flavor, hoping it would send him down the road to forgetfulness once more. Swallowing the end of that shot, he refilled the glass.
“My darlin’ Francois, you plannin’ to spend another day downing my liquor, or will you spend time with me?”
Francois smiled slowly. The seductive purr from across the room came from the only woman he knew who could put him in his place, and he’d love every minute. He glanced up and found LaJoyce giving him one of her warm and inviting grins.
“No, ma’am, I hadn’t plan to do so,” he drawled, putting the shot glass aside. He stood, circling around the table to meet her. “That is, if I could get a chance to show you what you’ve been missin’, of late.” He smiled, hoping he wasn’t as tilted as he feared he was getting.
She stared at him, a slight curve to her lips capturing his attention. “Thinkin’ you best sit down before you fall,” she commented, walking away.
LaJoyce was a beautiful negress. No, he corrected himself. She was a freewoman with one of the best reputations in the area. Her house was clean, her clothing exquisite and those lips ruby red and inviting. Short enough, she was easy for him to pick up and carry to bed. High cheekbones on a full face, her dark brown eyes gave a glimmer of her strength and her capacity to love deeply. He respected her, which was a rare emotion to pass through him. LaJoyce had seen him through his younger years, when he was a strapping boy, trying to control feelings and fears that popped up as he grew. She was the first woman who taught him the ways of love and how to bring a woman pleasure with the reciprocal measures. The fact she wasn’t Delilah, the lady of ill repute his father or brother visited, gave him the silent joy that LaJoyce was all his.
“Instead of drinkin’ my cupboards dry, I think you need to go find yourself a pretty little white girl to marry,” LaJoyce continued, closing the bourbon bottle near him.
“Why, when I have such a lovely woman as you?” he countered.
LaJoyce grinned. “I know you favor a darker hue, but a paler version is all your family would approve of. And you ain’t going find that sitting here all day, not even enjoying any of the finery.”
Francois snorted. It was that just that issue that drove him here. He needed to find a way to escape, to forget about the one woman he could never have. After all the bottles he’d consumed and intercourse he’d had, she still haunted his dreams. A flare of frustration raced up his spine and his fingers tightened around the glass. In a flash, he downed the fiery liquor, trying in desperation to drown the vision that hovered in his mind, of a beautiful Southern belle who would never be his…
“Fontaine, been lookin’ high and low for you! Dang-naggit man, you ever not goin’ drink?”
Francois glanced up at the man whose shadow clouded his view. It was Randolph Morris, from the Pear Plantation, just down the river from Bellefountaine, Francois’s family estate.
“Randy, don’t you have something else that’s needs harassing?” Francois snorted, grabbing the wrist of the ebony girl who passed him. He pulled her into his lap, enjoying the lilac scent on her skin and the ivory cotton lace-trimmed chemise that she wore, with the ruffle from her pantalets peaking under the hem. She was bare-armed, no stockings and scrumptious to hold. When she giggled, wiggling in his seat, Francois grinned.
LaJoyce swaggered over to him, the curve in her hips and the sway of her silk dress beyond enticing. She hadn’t looked interested before, the reason he grabbed Lucy but the shooting glare from the woman towering over him told him that was the wrong decision.
“Lucy, I believe Mr. Fontaine has company,” LaJoyce stated firmly. “And I do believe, Mr. Cartier has just arrived. I think you remember him well, as it were.”
Lucy scrambled out of Francois’s embrace. “Yessum, ma’am.” And she darted for the hall in the front of the house.
Francois gave his mistress another glance. “You appeared busy, ma’am.”
LaJoyce shook her head in apparent disbelief. “Gentlemen, I fear running a business like a bordello requires a great deal more attention than you might conceive.”
Francois chuckled. “Well, my dear, yours is one of the best.”
“Merci. ‘Tis truly amazing, considering the Yankee presence.” She shook her head and leaned closer. “Monsieur, I believe you better pay your rather long tab and find another place to hide. Those bluebellies been ramblin’ to the girls about another round of arrests for any secesh.”
Randolph snorted. “They done gone through here a parcel ago, ma chère. We all lay low.”
“It was just a warning, sir.” She winked at Francois, the hint deep. He dug into his waistcoat pocket and took her hand, pressing the gold coin into her palm.
“I think that’ll cover anything you deem I owe.”
LaJoyce smiled broadly, tucking the coin into her bosom. “I ain’t joking about the blue coats.” She caressed his cheek with her fingers. “Prison wouldn’t sit well with you. So go.”
He finished his drink and put the glass down, swooping his hat up. “You heard her Randolph. Let’s be on our way.” His friend hollered but Francois only pasted a smile on his face as he kissed LaJoyce good-bye.
She was right. Louisiana was suffocating in blue. He needed to find the war. Alcohol hadn’t deadened the pain in his chest so the next solution was to fight. God help him….
Virginia, October 1863
* * *
For October, the temperature was way too warm and inside the tent, the temperature continued to climb. No memories of Pennsylvania or New York were ever this hot in the fall. Ada Lorrance swallowed, stiffening as another drop of perspiration dripped down her back in a river that had dampened her chemise and her corset and dress since the morning parted to noontime. Not only was she perspiring under the heat, she was thirsty to the point of anger and refused to give in to snapping at the next orderly for doing a job they didn’t want to do nor were trained to do while suffering the same as she. Blinking and hoping the droplet on her brow didn’t fall into her eyes, she took note that her charge was finally resting on his cot. She prayed gratitude to God for the man’s slumber and the escape of his pain and took the damp rag in her fist, to stand up. Despite the corset stays, her back was tight and the change in her position from sit to stand caused a chain reaction of cracks down her vertebrae, the pressure released in a combination of pain and relief. She was convinced that stool she sat on would break her back one day.
Her thoughts were interrupted when a cool tin cup was shoved into her grasp.
“Here, drink this.”
She frowned but the whisper of cold from the metal gave her a respite from the heat and gladly she held it. The liquid inside was marred in color by the dark shade of the inside of the tin.
“Its not poison,” the man hissed. “Though God knows, it’d be a blessin’.”
She laughed but took a sip. It was tepid water with raspberry vinegar and honey laced through it. It was the perfect blend for a hot and humid Virginia day.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t be,” the man guffawed. �
�When Major Winslow finds his favorite refresher is low, there’ll be someone’s butt to pay.”
“And I’d bet Doctor Leonard will be no where to be found when that man throws another tantrum.” Ada laughed. She’d known Will Leonard for years, growing up with him in Philadelphia and schooling later. Will had a penchant for deviousness to make one’s skin itch but it was never spiteful, and besides, Winslow’s short temper and foul language made him one of the most disliked officer in the Union army despite his wealth that brought commodities to camp, like the supplies to make an elixir like this.
Will shrugged but a grin tugged at his lips, making her laugh harder.
“I think I’ll take a walk,” she stated, trying to calm the inner voice that screamed for her to run, but the issue was, run from what? The wounded or Will? She didn’t wait but caught his nod as she sneaked out of the tent.
