by Gina Danna
If he died, it didn’t matter. That thought stayed with him throughout the day.
The heat and mugginess of late May hung in the air, made worse by a layer of gunsmoke as suffocating as a blanket. His wool uniform weighed heavily, sodden with sweat and water from the Chickahominy River, which they had crossed two days ago. And his skin crawled with lice. The price of being a soldier, he thought.
After spending the winter under McClellan’s command training troops for this elephant of war, Jack began to think what he had witnessed at Rich Mountain was all the war he’d see. Well, perhaps not the only. Battles with his wife had raged as well. Caroline had unleashed her fury at him the few times he stepped inside his own house. Her demands that he stay, to be her real husband, only drove him back to Leslie. He continued to live at the hotel, with Leslie as his mistress. She was the only comfort he had. He couldn’t divorce Caroline. The Army did not approve of officers who couldn’t handle their personal affairs. Dissolving a marriage was not acceptable.
Caroline had given him the out he so desperately wanted. George had remained at the house under Jack’s direct order to make sure she didn’t destroy it. He was also to report on any more male company she might have. Jack couldn’t trust her. She claimed she had been assaulted long ago, but because of the way she had responded to his lovemaking, he concluded she had to have had a lover or two herself. But she would not have one while she shared his last name, by God.
Two weeks after he moved into the hotel, George reported that Caroline was ill. Jack grimaced. Half of Washington was sick. Too many people, too little room. Illness spread through the Army and spilled over to civilians. But when his servant said she wasn’t improving, he grudgingly returned home, made her pack and sent her and Tilly back to Virginia. Everyone knew the sick got better when taken care of by loved ones in a familiar environment. Let her father deal with her.
Unfortunately, that meant Emma would have to deal with her, too.
Caroline climbed aboard the buggy, peaked and nauseous, too sick to complain. Tilly gave him a sorrowful look as she sat across from her mistress. Damn!
A volley came screeching across the field at them. Confederate General James Longstreet’s men held their ground between the Union troops and Richmond. Jack often ruminated on the makeup of commanders in this war. Both sides touted West Point graduates. Men who knew the art of war. The common belief this’d be over by the previous Christmas was, sadly, not the case. Neither side would quit, Jack surmised, until one side’s soldiers were all dead.
His thoughts scattered when he heard cannon fire in their direction.
“Drop!” he ordered down the line. His men scrambled to the ground, some faltering over the shoulder-to-shoulder line. Soldiers to Jack’s right barely had time to react when a mass of metal struck the group. Blood splattered in the air, and one man screamed. His leg was ripped from his body and flung back among the men behind him. Several yelled in pain as cannon ball fragments lodged in them.
Jack stood stunned, absently wiping his face, his hand covered in blood. The dismembered soldier lay dying, blood pumping out of the wound where his leg was once attached.
War is hell.
In the distance, Jack heard the gunfire ceasing, and he prayed silent thanks to God.
“Sir,” the private said, handing Jack a piece of paper. He frowned as he looked at his messenger. When had this soldier arrived? Jack’s ears were ringing—had been from the first firing of the guns—but the soldier’s sudden appearance unnerved him. He shoved the paper at his corporal. “Read it.” His voice sounded angry.
Corporal Rawlings tore open the note. “It’s an order to retreat, Captain.”
The wide field they’d been aiming at had quieted. It was a cease fire of some sort. Jack just nodded and motioned with his head to get the men back.
Jack marched alongside them as they stumbled toward camp, some five miles in the Virginia forest line.
“We’ll take them secesh tomorrow!”
“Bastards! Thinkin’ they’re better ‘en us.”
Jack didn’t hear the voices as numbness enveloped him. His own troops were quiet, only the clanking of metal and leather and the crushing of leaves under boots created any noise. As they walked into the midst of the Union camp, Jack turned down the officer’s lane and barely made it to his tent before collapsing on his cot.
“Jack, what a fight today. Old Mac could’ve had them.” The male voice laughed. “If he’d actually tried harder.”
Jack opened his eyes and sighed. A sting of pain that hadn’t been there minutes ago shot up his right arm. Sitting up, he looked at the man as he stepped into the tent and slumped onto the only chair. Eric looked too neat and clean after a day full of bloodshed.
“So, did you win?”
Eric looked at him, his mouth dropping open until he burst out in laughter. “Yessir, got me a new pony.”
Jack glared at him. “You bastard.”
“Now Jacko, what can I say? You know Mac ain’t going to put it all in. No, gots to save some for when those rebs come out of the woods.” No matter what the reconnaissance report, McClellan remained convinced his fighting force would be overwhelmed by the number of rebels. That had delayed any trip south until the President removed some of the man’s power and gave him only the Army of the Potomac to command.
A move that had placed Jack back in Virginia. And close to Rose Hill.
“Jack,” Eric said, his voice flat. “You better get that looked at.” He pointed at Jack’s left arm.
Jack ignored him. He moved to get up from the cot, but as he pushed off, pain seared his arm. He started to fall when he glanced at his coat. It was covered in blood.
#
May 31, 1862
The skies opened up the following day. Fighting lulled as storms roared through, drenching everything in their path. The next morning, the swollen Chickahominy separated the Army of the Potomac, dividing McClellan’s larger force into smaller contingents. Bugles sounded and drums rolled in Confederate General Joseph Johnston’s camp. They would engage the Yankees at Fair Oaks. A battle that would seriously wound the general.
It was also another defeat for the Union. The troops sat close to Richmond, but McClellan did not complete the sweep. Instead, orders came down the line to retreat to north of the river to join the rest and wait for General McDowell’s reinforcements.
“Can you believe this?” Eric threw the paper down to Jack.
Jack put his pencil down on his report and sat back in his chair.
“Now Eric, why should this surprise you? You were there, back at Yorktown, and saw him fall right into Confederate hands.”
“Are we goin’ to retreat all the way to Washington, Jack?”
Jack blinked and tried to focus. Eric had said something. “What? No, no, I don’t think so.” As his friend continued, Jack’s mind returned to his plan.
They were maybe ten miles from Rose Hill. He felt compelled to go there. After all, his wife was there. And Emma. He’d be a fool not to acknowledge part of him wanted to see her. He figured he’d take a detail, to reconnoiter the area a little east of where the army sat across the Chickahominy. No detail was needed, but it would provide a good ruse for his commanders and for Emma if she was still angry with him.
Still angry…how could she not be?
But fear had seeped into his bones. The fighting was way too close to the Silvers’ property. Perhaps it had even entered their lands. He couldn’t help but worry. Thus, he’d spent all the last evening planning his mission. And given McClellan’s fear of numbers, Jack had a perfect opportunity.
Standing up, he grabbed his coat and hat. He gritted his teeth against the pain as he shrugged on his coat. Regardless of how his arm felt, he was leaving.
“Jack, where you going?”
“Got a detail to do. You know, search out the enemy’s position and numbers.” He dismissed it, as though it was just part of the daily routine. He had done the same thing while in
the cavalry, so why not use the same excuse now?
He had to get to Emma.
#
June 1862
Rose Hill Plantation
Jack’s supposed desire to search the area had worked. McClellan believed Johnston’s men outnumbered his own. He granted Jack a detail of ten soldiers and sent him on his way. At first, Jack took the men into the fields to search, hoping none of them mentioned he was going around in circles. Circles that tightened near the river-edged property of Rose Hill.
It was twilight as Jack marched toward the big white house. It appeared to be in good condition, unlike the rest of the property. The fields had not been destroyed by war activities, but they looked shoddy. The land was obviously untended. Where were the slaves?
Puzzled, he drew closer to the house. When he was within feet of the porch, the front door opened and Emma stepped out, armed with a rifle.
His eyebrows rose as he gestured to his men to stop. They halted. His gaze devoured her like a starving man would consume a meal. She wore a brown work dress, her hair pulled tight off her face. She stood rigid. He watched her eyes, those beautiful brown eyes, blaze.
“I want you off my land.” Her voice was cold.
He took a step, meaning to say something, when she raised the weapon and pointed its muzzle at them. The gun’s length equaled her height.
Click.
The sound of a hammer being cocked reverberated and reminded Jack of another time. God knew, he was familiar with that noise. He took another step. She aimed at him.
“Now, ma’am,” he stated calmly.
Her eyes narrowed. Then, he saw a miniscule drop of the muzzle and barely contained his smile. The weapon was too heavy for her. Behind her, a slave, just a boy, moved into place with his own weapon aimed at them.
Jack gawked. Arming a Negro? His fear escalated. It had become clear the Silvers weren’t safe here. He swallowed the knot in his throat. She had to listen to him. He’d make her believe him when he told her he was there to help.
“Please, Emma,” he said softly.
He saw the flicker in her eye and her arms tense. If she pulled the trigger, the recoil would hurt her severely, sending her backwards several feet, especially at her light weight. He reached for Emma and she squeezed the trigger. He was at point blank range so he dipped his shoulder and raised her arm, pushing up the muzzle. The bullet pierced the porch’s roof as Jack wrapped his arms around her, pushing her down.
He landed on top of her, his hands shielding her back from hitting the wooden floor hard. He felt her heaving body through the metal stays of her corset. Finally, she was in his arms again. Damn, she felt so good! His stared into her eyes and her gaze warmed, but a moment later, it hardened. He didn’t move. Didn’t want to move.
From inside the house, a baby wailed. She stiffened in his grasp. Her face became stony, and hatred flared in her eyes.
“Get off me, Jack.”
By some strange operation of magic I seem to have become the power of the land.
—George McClellan’s self-appraisal shortly after he assumed
command of the Union forces around Washington, 1861
Chapter Fourteen
Rose Hill, 1862
She couldn’t breathe. Yankees at her door. Jack. Everything happened at once, and she ended up in his arms. Wide eyed, she refused to blink, afraid he’d be gone, that it was a dream or maybe a nightmare. No, his emerald green eyes stared into hers, and his mouth was so close. The heat from him warmed her. His arms were so inviting and his fingers squeezed her back, making heat pool in her stomach.
Behind them, she heard the baby cry, and a woman shrieked. Reality slammed into her, almost like Jack had, but, it wasn’t anywhere near as desirable. A crash of furniture finally caught her attention, and she stiffened. Yankees. Yankees had invaded her home while she lay here in Jack’s arms. A glance at his shoulders made anger flare inside her again. He was wearing blue. Yankee blue.
“Get off me, Jack.”
The warmth of his breath brushed across her as he let go of her and moved to get up, but his hand remained on her back. Granted, he had kept her from hitting the floor, but he was too close. She was burning from his embrace. Once he got her back on her feet, she pushed him away. Quickly, she bent to retrieve her rifle, but he beat her to it.
“I don’t think you’ll be needing this right now,” he stated, grabbing the gunstock and moving a step away.
Furious, she stormed into the house. Chaos reigned. Tilly was screaming, her hands over her ears. Jeremiah stood to the side, his weapon also gone from his hands. If those Yankees took another gun, she’d use her father’s sword on them.
“Emma.” Jack called from behind her.
“You’re in charge of these vermin,” she seethed, hearing another door bang up upstairs. “Why are they searching my home, Lieutenant…”
He ignored her.
“Sergeant Foley,” he called, standing at the foot of the grand stairs.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get the men back down here,” he ordered.
Emma cringed. They sounded like a herd of cattle thumping down the stairs. She wanted them out of her house. She fought every bit of desire to have Jack stay. She must be going mad.
“Miss Emma.” It was Sally behind her. Emma turned. The elder slave was holding Caroline’s baby in her arms. The child’s crying had distracted Emma on the porch. Despite the puffy cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, the baby had quieted. Stroking the downy head of the three-month-old calmed her.
“I sees Massa Jack returned,” the slave murmured. “I’s done tole you he’d be back.”
Sally was the only one there who remembered those dark days a year ago. Emma’s world had been turned upside down to find the man she loved marrying her sister because he had compromised her. The slave had held her many nights when she couldn’t sleep without waking, screaming until her lungs hurt. And despite the glimmer of hope in Sally’s eyes, Emma refused to fall under his deceitful spell again.
Emma watched the soldiers march out her door, only to find Jack standing next to her. She searched his face as he watched her, taking little notice of the child. Her eyebrows creased. Like everyone else along the James River, she’d heard the fighting, constantly fretting over whether they should board up the house or hide in the smokehouse. The slaves, the handful she had left after the long winter, had hidden the remaining horses, chickens and grain from raiding armies’ quartermasters. Both sides had appeared at her door, Confederates last fall and Yankees two weeks ago, looking for supplies. Paid in Confederate and Union dollars, Emma knew she’d never get back the value of what they stole. And now Jack was there. She’d yank that gun from his grasp and hit him with it if he tried to take anything more.
“Massa Jack,” Sally said. Her voice broke the eye contact between Emma and Jack.
He gazed in her direction, a crooked smile coming to his lips. “Sally, with a baby,” he said, the smile faltering as he glanced at Emma.
She waved the slave away and then walked to the parlor. Outside the window, dark had descended. Federal men stood on guard. Her blood boiled.
“Is that necessary?”
He leaned against the doorframe. “There’re fields full of soldiers not far from here. Fight hasn’t gone out of their blood. It’s safer if you have some practiced men handling the weapons.”
“I know how to shoot,” she stated flatly. “Billy…”
Jack was next to her now. “Billy? Frankly, I’m a bit surprised he isn’t here.”
She scoffed. “He’s off killing Yankees.”
His head cocked. “How Christian of you.”
She turned her head away, but her heart fluttered at the sound of his voice. “What do you want, Jack?”
#
Silence hung between them, thick as wool. Jack felt her hostility rising—hate and fear mixed.
Where was her father? Where was Caroline? Hiding? And a baby. Emma had a baby. His gut twisted. Thinking
of her being held by another man ripped through him, his mind going black at the thought. Yet he had no right to feel that way. He was married to another.
Something was amiss. He swallowed the knot of apprehension in his throat. She looked too thin to have had a baby that young. In fact, her dress, a simple frock of faded calico, hung from her frame. She didn’t have the cage crinoline on, and from what he could tell, not many petticoats, as the skirt lay flat over her hips and buttocks. He glanced at her left hand and saw the narrow silver metal on her ring finger, what looked like a wedding band. He wasn’t totally sure as she noticed his gaze and hid her hand in the folds of her apron.
“Emma, Emma, why is Nathan crying? Oh, Jack,” John Henry started, as he walked into the entry way from the library. The worried look evaporated from his eyes and he smiled. “Jack, what do you think of your son?”
Jack’s brows furrowed. His son?
“Daddy, please,” Emma said, sweeping past Jack to take her father’s arm. “Why don’t you go back and lay down.” As she turned her father, she looked over her shoulder at Jack, shaking her head tightly.
“Not until you tell me why the boy is so upset. I heard him crying.”
“He’s just hungry. Sally’s feeding him now.” She prodded him along.
Jack stood still, trying to figure things out. John Henry had aged considerably since he’d seen him only a year ago. The man’s hair was tousled, as if he hadn’t combed it in days. His chin was whiskered from lack of shaving, his shirt slightly askew. And he had appeared in only his shirtsleeves, a rare occurrence for the master of the house. What had happened to him? Had he seen a scar on the man’s temple? Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t thrown Jack out. His animosity could not have ended so soon, especially if Caroline had told him that Jack had virtually abandoned her, threatening divorce.
Where was Caroline?
He started for the stairs as Emma came back, her face drawn. He reached out and took her hands, pulling her close to him.
