The Confederate

by Forrest A. Randolph

  “Why … yes, he is. Is it something…?” Fear chilled Jennifer and she could ask no further.

  “There’s been a great tragedy, ma’am. Mr. Lincoln has been shot. He was at the theater. All officers are being recalled immediately.”

  Damien had dashed into the hallway. “What is this, the President has been shot?”

  “Yes, sir. Good evening, sir. He was at Ford’s, Colonel. The actor, that Wilkes Booth, shot Mr. Lincoln in the back of the head and jumped onto the stage. He made good an escape and is still at large. The secretary of war’s compliments, sir, and all officers are to report immediately to their posts or to Washington City.”

  “This is awful,” Jennifer gusted out in a strangled voice. “It means …” She broke off, suddenly fearful for Griff.

  “Yes, of course, Lieutenant. I will leave at once for Washington. Let me gather my things.”

  “An orderly will be along to handle that, Colonel. My instructions are that it is urgent.”

  “Good-bye, then, dear little sister.” Damien addressed himself to Jennifer. “Take care of yourself and … and Captain Bradford. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “Good-bye, Damien,” Jennifer returned, her inner struggle for composure won.

  Back in the living room a dark gloom had come over the remnants of the party. Dr. Sutherland paced the floor, one hand in his trousers pocket, a long gold chain and watch fob swinging with the energy of his movements.

  “We don’t even know if he is dead. Lincoln assassinated. It can’t be possible. First thing, though” – he turned to Griff – “we will have to get you back upstairs. There’s no telling what reprisals will result from this. The war is over and Confederates paroled to their homes, otherwise I would be compelled to turn you in. It’s obvious you had nothing to do with this. Yet, some people would be only too anxious to use the rope.”

  “I think, sir, that you will find that no Southern gentleman had anything to do with such foul murder. Booth may have acted alone. If not, then the conspirators are bound to be malcontents who gave allegiance to neither side.”

  “I sincerely hope you are right. Now, then, let me lift you up. If you’ll give me a hand, Miss Carmichael.”

  Up in his room, after the doctor had examined his legs and departed, Griff sank into a darker mood than had afflicted him in days. Jennifer cleared up the party leavings and came up. She found him sitting in bed, his chin in his hand. Those dark blue eyes had become pools of midnight.

  “It’s troubling you terribly, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Jenny. Mr. Lincoln may have been misdirected, but he was basically a good person. To have something like this done. Naturally, the firebrands will blame it on the South. The Northern newspapers will leap on the idea and any chance of a just settlement will be forever gone. Only a few days ago, we were celebrating the end of the war. Now I’m not so sure it is really over. What might come next could be even more terrible than all the waste of lives and destruction of property brought about by the fighting. I … I can’t remain here much longer. I have to go to Riversend. It’s the only safe way. Otherwise you all might suffer the fate of a lynching.”

  “No. You are not in any condition to travel far. Where you’re going is Oaklawn. You’ll be safe, hidden and able to walk about freely. Because you are going to walk soon. I know it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  BRIGHT MAY FLOWERS in the window boxes of Oaklawn Plantation rippled in the light breeze. A bright sun projected dancing leaf shadows across the white painted buildings and warmed the backs of the field workers. Jennifer Carmichael walked along the argent pebbled paths of the formal topiary garden toward the gazebo, a sweating pitcher in one hand, two crystal goblets in the other. She smiled happily when she saw Griffin Stark’s handsome profile in the shade of the small pavilion.

  “I brought us some lemonade,” she said cheerily as she negotiated the two steps to the gazebo floor.

  With the aid of crutches, Griff rose to greet her. “That’s a fine idea. After four winters in the field, I’d forgotten how warm and humid it can get close to the Chesapeake.”

  “You’ve been working hard, too. Walking twice around the garden.”

  “And a trip to the house.”

  “Oh?”

  “For this …” Griff extended his hand. On the palm rested a fresh-smelling quirt, braided from fine, dark English saddle leather. “It’s a belated birthday gift I made for you.”

  “Oh, Griff … it’s lovely.” She examined her present with a horsewoman’s appreciation. Then she studied the giver.

  Gaunt and pale, Griff no longer radiated the strapping, athletic vitality and youthfulness she had first known and fallen in love with. Only twenty-eight in this spring of 1865, he looked vastly older. Small wisps of gray showed at his temples and deep, permanent creases lined his face. His voice had lost that confident ring which had long ago thrilled her girlish heart and sent chills along her spine. Nonetheless, the flame of her deep, abiding love warmed her breast. The moment passed and she sensed something more should be said.

  “I can’t wait for Damien to return. Then I can give it a real workout. With this, I just know I can beat him in a race.”

  “It’s been a long two weeks,” Griff agreed. “I had in mind touching up that little dapple-gray stallion when I made this. I hope you will keep working with him and not waste so much of your time nursemaiding me.” His tone was light and the words held no rebuke.

  “I like caring for you, Griff. Look at the progress you have made. Why, goodness sakes, in another two weeks you can be walking without crutches if we keep it up.”

  “Everything in its own time. This is … something we can’t rush.” He looked away, as though reluctant to let her see the haunted shadows in his eyes. The numbness remained, a crushing fact that Griff lived with in secret torment. Unless the nerves regenerated, he would be forever confined to these wooden props that hunched his back and dragged his useless limbs behind, like a shameful tail. Abruptly he bit the inside of his lower lip, willing the pain to drive off his self-pity. He mustered a smile for Jennifer.

  “That’s not to say we won’t have a surprise for Damien when he gets back. I can wiggle my right ankle now and the last time you massaged the limb, we got my heel to touch the back of my trousers. That one is coming along fine. It’s why I say ‘in its own time.’”

  “I … I think I will work with Satan a little this afternoon. This quirt should take some of the fire out of him.” She rose to depart, then stopped with a small hand to her throat. “Oh! Who is this?”

  A dark-complected man in stained travel clothes approached the gazebo. He removed his hat and held it before him in one hand. “Mistress Carmichael? Major Stark?”

  “Yes. What is it?” Griff answered him, some of his old fire returning to his voice.

  “I have a message from Colonel Carmichael.” With his free hand he withdrew a crumpled yellow envelope and extended it. Jennifer took it, noted that it was addressed to Griff, and passed it on.

  With shaking fingers, Griff tore open the missive and extracted a folded piece of paper. He recognized Damien’s precise, bold script. Carefully he read the words, his heart swelling with each phrase.

  “Dear Griff,” the letter began. “I regret to be the bearer of ill tidings. Some of my associates have contacted me now with information about Riversend. Like so many plantations in the area, it has been sacked and burned to the ground. I can be no more gentle than that. The main house, along with all outbuildings and the slave quarters were put to the torch by persons unknown. Your darkies were run off and there is no one around the place. The new tax assessors—the term ‘carpetbaggers’ is becoming popular around that area—declared the land forfeit for unpaid taxes and held a foreclosure sale, so Riversend is no longer yours. Sorry, there is nothing known about your wife and child. Inquiries were met with suspicion, because of the blue uniforms, no doubt, and the neighbors—having suffered the same fate—are few and far betwee
n. Further interrogations along this line will continue. Sincerely, your old friend, Damien.”

  Griff read it again and passed it on to Jennifer. She quickly scanned it and turned a strained, sorrowful face toward him. “Oh, Griff, what can we do?”

  “Not a lot from here. First, though …” He fished in his trousers pocket and withdrew a five-dollar gold piece, which he extended to the messenger.

  “No, thank you all the same, sir. The colonel done compensated me for the chore.”

  “Take this anyway. The news you brought was worth a thousand times this. At least now I know what happened to my property.”

  “That’s kind of you, Major,” the man replied. He pocketed the coin. “I’ll take my leave now. I … I’m on my way home at last.”

  “Where’s that?” Griff inquired, suddenly curious.

  “Winston, No’ Ca’lina, sir. On the Nottoway River. I’ve been in a Yankee prisoner camp since the winter of sixty-three.”

  “God go with you then, soldier.”

  The bedraggled former Confederate drew himself upright and rendered Griff a solemn and sincere salute. Then he turned and shuffled off on aching feet.

  “I have to go there!” Griff exploded a moment later. “I have to find out for myself.”

  “But, you can’t travel.”

  “I soon can. We have to work extra hard to make sure I can handle myself. Don’t you see? I have to find out, know for certain. And do something about recovering my land.”

  “No!” Albert Treadwell shouted. He leaped up from the leather-upholstered, horsehair-stuffed chair and began to pace the floor. “That’s not possible. All the reports, the Confederates, the Union Army papers—all agree that Griffin Stark died at the battle of Leesburg.”

  Dark wooden paneling in the study at Front Park gave the room a somber atmosphere. Even the harsh sunlight of mid-May that poured through the windows failed to dispel the gloom. The thick velvet drapes and leaded glass panes would have appeared more at home in the refectory of some Middle Ages monastery. Albert ignored his surroundings, save for a large globe in a swivel stand. This he slapped violently and watched it spin.

  “He is dead, I tell you, not here in Maryland somewhere.”

  “Did you note who signed the certification?” The speaker had a nervous tic in the corner of his left eye. It intensified now when he was about to spring his most telling point. “Major Damien Carmichael.”

  Albert paled with anger. Damn them. They must have contrived this together. Stark should have had no idea that he had been marked for death. Somehow … something must have leaked. “Then it logically follows that Stark is in hiding at Oaklawn. In my own back yard, practically.” He gave a short bark of laughter. “Our overstuffed Colonel Braithwaite has no idea how much of a bonus he received. He didn’t even accomplish the job he was paid for.” Then he returned to the original subject.

  “No mistakes. I want them killed for this. Stark … Damien Carmichael… and the girl, Jennifer.”

  ‘‘It will be accomplished before the end of the month.”

  “This is the finest welcome I could receive,” Damien Carmichael announced when he dismounted from his lathered horse under the portico at the side entrance to Oaklawn. He slapped at the accumulated film of road dust and mud splattered on his white linen duster and strode over to shake Griffin Stark’s hand.

  Griff rested easily on one crutch, under his left arm, and extended his right hand to be shaken. His other held a silver mounted walking stick. “I’m glad you are back. Otherwise, you might have missed us.”

  “Missed you? What do you mean?”

  “Your letter arrived two weeks ago. I’ve been on a crash program to regain the use of my legs. I have to go to Georgia. The Yankees have stolen my land, Damien. I want it back. And I have to know what happened to Bobbie Jean and Jeremy.”

  “Isn’t this a little premature? You have to rebuild your strength, flesh out some. Not to mention how difficult it will be for you until you are walking again. It takes time to mend.”

  “I know. Only I can spend it equally well in Augusta and Atlanta, checking records, tracking down names and falsified papers. Then I’ll go to Riversend and reclaim what’s mine. There’s nothing wrong with my jaw. I can ask lots of questions about my wife and son.”

  “You said, ‘we.’ Who’s going with you?”

  “Jenny, of course. She’s my nurse and physical conditioner.”

  Ruffled, suddenly thrust into the role of protective older brother, Damien queried his friend in a cool tone. “Isn’t that somewhat irregular?”

  “Come now, Damien. I’m obviously in no condition to place Jenny in a compromising position.”

  “I thought it was only your legs that were impaired.”

  Griff frowned. He’d never before encountered this side of his longtime companion. “That’s a suspicious, unfair observation at the least. But I’ll let it pass as coming from an overprotective big brother. Come on inside. Jenny doesn’t know you are here yet.” With the aid of cane and crutch, Griff led the way.

  In the hallway, he called out in a cheerful tone. “Jenny! Come on down, Damien is here.”

  An excited yelp came from the second floor of Oaklawn, then the patter of running footsteps. Jenny appeared at the top of the curving staircase and ran lightly down, arms extended to embrace her brother. He lifted her off her feet in his long, powerful arms. Their two dark heads pressed close together.

  “Now, what’s this about you two running off to Georgia?” Damien asked sternly.

  “H-he … told you already? I thought we should wait, let you get used to being home first.”

  “Then you actually plan on this? You are taking off on some wild adventure to find the missing family and restore the purloined lands?” The whimsy of the situation had at last reached Damien and his offbeat sense of humor manifested itself.

  “This is serious, brother dear,” Jenny snapped, small hands on hips, gray eyes flashing with pique.

  “Oh, I am sure it is. So serious I intend to talk the both of you out of it. At least until Griff can walk unassisted and handle himself in the presence of some rather rough characters. You’ll find Georgia greatly changed,” he addressed to Griff.

  “With what the Radicals got rammed through Congress in the new Reconstruction Act, the life of a white person in the South isn’t worth a plugged two-cent piece. Union soldiers and former slaves constitute the police force and Judge Lynch sits on the bench. It is against the law—Federal Reconstruction law—for a white person to raise a hand in resistance to the most outlandish oppression or in self-defense. There are roving bands of brigands—Union, Confederate, and former slaves who prey off the helpless, disarmed civilians. I’m afraid, old friend, you are going to need a lot more than determination and a well-functioning jaw.”

  “Let me get some sherry flip to refresh you, Damien,” Jennifer offered to divert him from this course.

  “Yes. A good idea.” Damien removed his duster and hung it on a tall, wooden hall tree, placed his wide-brimmed Union officer’s campaign hat on a brass arm, and strode down the hall to the library. “Come on, Griff. I’ll fill you in on what more I have learned.”

  Four armed, silent men rode to Oaklawn on a moonless night in late May. Their faces wore grim expressions and they shunned conversation as they turned up the graveled drive. At the main house, they brushed aside a stable hand and forced their way in through the tall double doors. They spread out and made a hurried, though thorough search. Their efforts produced nothing and at last they came together in the upper hallway.

  “Who are you men? What’s the meaning of this?” the senior Carmichael demanded in a voice shaking with indignation. He stood in a loose robe, that covered his ankle-length nightshirt.

  “Where are they?” the leader of the hard-faced crew demanded.

  “Who are they?”

  “Your son and daughter and Griffin Stark. Where are they?”

  “You’ll learn nothing from me u
nless you identify yourselves.”

  A cocked Remington army revolver served as the only identification offered. The interrogator stuck the muzzle up under Morton Carmichael’s chin and shoved hard. “Answer my questions, old man, or I’ll blow the top of your head up on the ceiling.”

  “Scoundrels! Scallywags!” Carmichael bellowed in impotent fury. His wife began to scream.

  “Shoot the old woman if she doesn’t shut up. Maybe that will get this old bastard’s attention.”

  “No, don’t!” The screaming stopped and Morton Carmichael went on. “They are not here. You can see for yourself.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Washington City.”

  “When will they be back?”

  “I … I don’t …” Again the Remington jabbed his throat. “They won’t be. At least not Griffin Stark and my daughter.”

  “Why not?”

  Morton Carmichael mustered the frayed edges of his courage, a valor that had seen him honorably decorated in the Mexican War. “I don’t think I’m going to tell you that.”

  Even muffled by his flesh, the Remington’s single shot sounded loud in the confines of the hall. Bits of bone, brain tissue and a great gout of Morton Carmichael’s blood splashed on the ceiling. Mrs. Carmichael fainted.

  Disgusted, the four men turned away. Their boss would not be happy with this night’s work.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THICK CLOUDS OF red-brown dust clogged the air. The oppressive heat of early August bludgeoned southeast Georgia with a cudgel of blazing iron. Only a few vehicles ventured onto the narrow dirt road; an occasional horseman went by and the more numerous pedestrians walked with bowed heads and bent backs, hammered down by the grinding weather. Hardly a one took notice of the small black trap, pulled by a drooping bay, that rattled along toward Stockton.

  Griffin Stark sat on the right, reins held lightly in his left hand. Beside him, Jennifer Carmichael mopped ineffectually at the streams of perspiration that ran on her brow, cheeks, and neck. She turned to him, her mouth dry and caked with dust, eyes red-rimmed, lips showing the first signs of chapping.