In the Shadow of the Moon

by Karen White

  Pamela seated herself on a red velvet sofa and stared at me with level eyes. Desperate for a mirror, I searched the room for anything reflective. I noticed a mirror at the bottom of the buffet, a petticoat mirror for the ladies to unobtrusively check to see if their underskirts were visible under their dresses. Being unobtrusive wasn’t a current concern, so I knelt on the floor to inspect the damage to my hair and face.

  I licked my fingers and began to remove a dirty smudge from my chin. I was in the midst of scrubbing when I heard a throat being cleared, too deep to be Pamela. I stood, hitting my head on the bottom of the buffet and knocking a dish to the floor, shattering blue and white china into tiny pieces.

  Rubbing my head, I stood and found myself staring into familiar blue eyes. My heart skipped a beat as I looked at his face and saw the beloved similarities. The hair was the same, straight and dark, and parted to the side. The nose a trifle longer, a bit haughtier. The same strong jawline. But there was something else—a fundamental difference. No light shone behind these eyes. I peered into them and saw something cold shivering in the icy blue depths.

  I forced myself to smile at him. “You must be William.”

  He looked at Pamela in confusion. “What is going on here?” He looked back at me and let his gaze travel up my costume—from my mud-encrusted shoes to my dirty face and wayward hair. He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Laura Elliott. Your sister-in-law.” I couldn’t stop myself from staring.

  “My sister-in-law?” Without preamble, he grabbed my left hand to examine my ring. “This was my mother’s.” An angry flush stained his cheeks.

  I could see the effort he made to smile back at me. “Then let me welcome you into our family, sister.” He embraced me, crushing me to his chest. I felt his moist lips linger on my cheek and I resisted the impulse to wipe his kiss off my skin.

  I studied his face again and knew that I could never count on this man to be my ally.

  Our attention was turned by a commotion in the foyer and several loud voices reverberating throughout the hallway. One in particular caught my attention. Deep and clear with staccato accents, it seemed to be a voice of authority. “Tell those busybodies that my trains are for supplies for my army. I have no room, and I repeat, no room, for do-gooders and those damned newspaper people.”

  Footsteps approached the parlor, and I waited expectantly for the owner of the voice to appear. He walked in and stopped abruptly, taking us in with a bold appraisal. The elusive aroma of cigar smoke entered the room with him.

  He was tall and very thin, his weathered face lined with deep crevices. His dark red hair, standing up as if at attention, somehow did not make this man a comical character. The stars on his shoulders belied the stained and sloppy appearance of his dark blue uniform. There was no doubt who this man was. I had heard him referred to by various names—from Nero to Satan to Georgia’s Nemesis. And, recently, as Uncle Billy. This man was without a doubt no other than the man who would coin the phrase “War is hell”: General William Tecumseh Sherman.

  He blinked rapidly at us before turning his attention to William. “Captain Elliott. Who are these women and why are they here?”

  William snapped to attention and began introductions. “General, you have met my wife’s mother, Mrs. Pamela Broderick, at a dinner in Nashville at the home of Andrew Johnson. And this is my brother’s wife, Mrs. Laura Elliott.”

  The general peered at me through narrowed eyes and then turned back to William. “Captain. I believe your brother is with the rebel army.”

  “Yes, sir. As much as it pains me, he is.”

  “I see.” General Sherman scratched his short beard. “And your sister-in-law. Is she a rebel, too?”

  “That would depend,” I interjected, smarting at being treated as if I weren’t in the room.

  The general raised his eyebrow at me. “I see. And what would that depend on?”

  “On who is asking the question.”

  Pamela stepped forward. “I beg your pardon, sir. Mrs. Elliott and I are both staunch supporters of the Union. We are here to pass on information that might be of some use to you.”

  On our long journey she had divulged the information she was speaking of. Direct from Confederate General Joseph E. Johnston’s headquarters in Dalton, she had a list of the full strength of the Southern armies—down to the last mule. She handed the small stack of papers to him without pause, knowing it would be of little use to him or his army once he was dead.

  He took the papers from her and examined them, the crease between his brows deepening. “Where did you get these?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but I must keep my sources secret. Suffice it to say the gentleman in question is a member of General Johnston’s own staff.”

  He nodded and folded the papers in half. His hands were callused and spattered with dark brown freckles. “Very good. I will, of course, verify these figures. But your efforts are greatly appreciated. I hope the two of you will do me the honor of dining with me and my staff this evening.”

  Not pausing to wait for an answer, Sherman faced me, his eyes flickering over my appearance. “Madam, have you traveled far?”

  My knees nearly buckled with fatigue, and my weariness pushed all thoughts of politeness and the purpose of my visit out of my head. “No. I always look like I’ve been in a train wreck.”

  There was a stunned silence to punctuate my remark. I heard the passing of a carriage outside and someone shouting. He raised an eyebrow.

  “I see. And does your husband approve?”

  One knee did buckle, and I tried to estimate how many steps backward I’d have to take to make it to the nearest chair. “I don’t think my appearance is a major concern of his, General.”

  He coughed into his hand, but I could see he was grinning. “Actually, I meant does he approve of your Unionist sympathies.”

  “Uh, not exactly.”

  He rubbed his beard, the rasping sound grating on my nerves. “Are you still on speaking terms?”

  “Yes, you could say that.” I took another step backward and felt the backs of my knees at the edge of a chair. I dropped into the seat without looking. The cushion vibrated in startled movement and erupted with a loud meow.

  I jumped out of the chair. “Shit!” I exclaimed, as the black-and-white feline escaped through the doorway. All eyes were on me as the blood rushed to the tips of my ears and a small gasp came from Pamela.

  Ignoring my outburst, General Sherman said, “You must be tired.” He turned to William. “Captain, please see that these ladies have a room.” He emphasized the word ladies. “Dinner is at eight o’clock.” He bowed sharply and left, but not before I saw the grin through his beard.

  I plopped back down in the empty chair. William came and stood before me, offering his hand. “My, my. Where did my brother find you?”

  Ignoring his hand, I stood. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

  He threw his head back and laughed—Stuart’s laugh. Tears sprang to my eyes. I needed him now. I needed him to tell me I was doing the right thing. I turned my head away.

  “What I need now is a room and a bath. Perhaps after that I will be in the mood to chat about Julia and your family, since I’m sure they’re your primary concern.” It hadn’t escaped my notice that he hadn’t mentioned Julia’s name once.

  “Yes, I would like that.” His face registered annoyance as he picked up our bags and indicated with his hand that we precede him through the door. “Ladies.”

  With a heavy sigh, I followed. Low voices carried toward me from the library, like murmurs of ghosts from the past. I felt eyes on my back and I turned to see General Sherman and another officer watching our progress. I inclined my head slightly, then turned back, my feet tapping against the marble floors. The sound made me think of footprints in history. I wondered if my own would be
indelible, with thick, deep impressions in the soil, or fade with time, like yellowed pages from an old history book.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  They cannot scare me with their empty spaces

  Between stars—on stars where no human race is.

  I have it in me so much nearer home

  To scare myself with my own desert places.

  —ROBERT FROST

  Alarge beetle crawled across the toe of my satin slipper. Hearing my intake of breath, Pamela turned in time to see the insect scurrying under the puddled draperies. She stooped to pick it up, its shell shiny in the thin light from the lamp, then tightened her fingers around it until it crunched. She stepped to the window and discarded the remains into the garden below.

  Wiping her hand on the skirt of her dress, she walked back to me, studying my red velvet dress with a critical eye. She reached up with both hands and tugged at the short sleeves, exposing as much chest and shoulder as the dress would allow without being obscene. My hand twitched, wanting to pull the sleeves up to my neck, but I was resigned to the fact that I would need to do whatever it took to get Sherman’s attention.

  Pamela had done a decent job on my hair and I thought, as I fastened the jet earrings in my ears, that I was more than passable. The smell of cooking drifted up the stairs, making my stomach rumble. Pamela crooked an eyebrow at me. “Perhaps we should go down for a drink before dinner, hmm?”

  I turned to face her, my fingers clutching at the fabric of my dress. “I need to see proof that Sarah is . . . alive.” I had promised Julia that I would send her word. Even if I couldn’t, I owed it to her to find out.

  She gave me a condescending smile. “I am sorry, dear. But that is not possible.”

  “What if I refuse to . . . to cooperate unless I know she’s all right?”

  Her smile evaporated. “Then she will be killed. Any more questions?”

  I stood, frozen, then shook my head and walked toward the door.

  She stopped me with a hand on my elbow. “One last thing. When this is all over, you will not implicate me or anybody else. You are acting of your own accord, because of your hatred for the Yankees. This is part of the bargain, Laura. Follow it through, and there will be enough people to risk their lives to save you. And then you will be reunited with your daughter.”

  I swallowed heavily. “How do we know this will all turn out as you plan? This is all very risky, isn’t it?”

  “No different from life, Laura. We can only do what we can. Now go downstairs. I will follow you shortly.”

  Pamela closed the door behind me. The stilted strains of a Beethoven sonata drifted toward me. I followed the music to a room across from the parlor I had been in earlier. I remembered floor-to-ceiling books from my brief glance inside—books left behind by the previous tenants. I stood tentatively on the threshold, one hand pressed to my collarbone where the blood pounded under my fingertips.

  My eyes were immediately drawn to the grand piano in the corner, the highly polished mahogany lustrous in the yellow light. A bone-thin woman sat on the bench, her jawbones working as she plunked on the keys in an attempt to re-create Beethoven. I gravitated toward the instrument before I realized there were other people in the room and all were watching me. The music stopped abruptly as the woman looked at me, pale gray eyes staring coolly out from under ash-blond hair.

  “I do not believe we have been introduced.” Her voice was flat and nasal, straight out of a New England town.

  William emerged from a cushioned sofa and came to stand beside me, his long fingers, so much like Stuart’s, holding on to a short glass filled with amber liquid.

  “Please, allow me. Mrs. Mary Audenreid, my sister-in-law, Mrs. Laura Elliott.” I inclined my head slightly in acknowledgment while she sat motionless, her expression cold. She was several years younger than me but her bearing was much older than she looked.

  I saw three other gentlemen by the bookcase on the far wall, and each was introduced in turn. One was Mrs. Audenreid’s husband, Captain Joseph Audenreid, the officer I had seen General Sherman speaking with earlier. He was tall and fair, like his wife, but his eyes were warm as they appraised me. The other man on the general’s staff was Captain James McCoy, a man whose girth pressed his uniform taut, threatening to send the brass buttons into orbit. He bowed slightly, his graying hair falling forward over his forehead. His physical likeness to St. Nick belied the grimness of his eyes as he contemplated me.

  William continued. “And you have already met General Sherman.” I gave him a warm smile, and wished fervently for a drink.

  “Are you a rebel, Mrs. Elliott?”

  I looked at Mrs. Audenreid, surprised to hear such a direct question.

  Before I could respond, General Sherman stepped forward. “That would depend—would it not, Mrs. Elliott?” The creases in his face deepened as he regarded me, amusement apparent on his face.

  I smiled back tentatively. “Yes. And since it is a Union captain’s wife who is asking the question, I would have to say no.”

  The woman sniffed in response, holding a hanky to her nose. “Honestly, I do not see why we are fighting them. Let them have their miserable climate and torturous springs.” She sneezed loudly into her hanky.

  I loved spring in the South, and I figured something had to be wrong with somebody who thought otherwise. “Oh yes. Cold and damp springs are much preferable to warm ones full of abundant blooms with a few sneezes. Perhaps you should speak to a few more generals, Mrs. Audenreid. To think that you have had the answer to ending the war all this time and have been keeping it to yourself.”

  The tomblike silence was broken by Pamela’s entrance. She was dressed all in black, like a crow, and greeted everyone stiffly as introductions were made.

  Mrs. Audenreid resumed her playing, this time a barely recognizable Chopin scherzo. A black manservant appeared with sherry for the ladies. I gulped mine quickly to still my nerves.

  Mary Audenreid stopped playing. There was a small smattering of applause as she stood to take her glass of sherry. She came to stand next to me, a slight frown on her face. “That was Chopin, Mrs. Elliott. I am not sure if civilized music has made its way south yet. I am trying to educate these poor unfortunates with every bit of culture that I can.” She took a sip of her sherry, a pink tongue darting out to lick her lips. “It is to be expected, though, from a people who subjugate others and whip them to within an inch of their lives each and every day.”

  I glanced over at William, who wore a tight smile on his face. “How very kind of you. Let me speak for all my unwashed brothers and sisters of the South and give you a heartfelt thank-you for all your selfless efforts. It is a wonder, isn’t it, that the North would want our participation in this country at all, with us being so backward and evil and all.” I let my accent slip into a redneck impersonation, eliciting a laugh from a male voice behind me.

  I welcomed the anger that flushed through me, settling my nerves. And I had never been known to back down from an argument. I set my glass on a table and walked slowly over to the piano. “My. So many keys. Would you mind if I tried?”

  With a condescending glance, she fluttered a pale hand at me. “Of course. But not too loudly, please.”

  Pulling out the bench, I sat down and did a few short finger exercises to warm up my hands. Next came a few arpeggios, my hands racing up and down the length of the keyboard. Mary Audenreid’s mouth pursed itself into a perfect O. The color red appeared high on her cheekbones, then spread over her entire face. Enjoying the effect, I continued with the floor show.

  “This is Debussy. He’s from France. That’s a big country across the Atlantic where they speak French. Have you heard of it?” I asked as I played a few bars of “Clair de Lune.”

  “This is Mozart. He was from Salzburg—a beautiful city if you don’t go during the winter. He died tragically young but what a gift of m
usic he has given to the world. Not that uneducated people like myself would ever realize.” I played a page of a Mozart sonata, my fingers frantic on the keys. Mary Audenreid sat as still as a piece of furniture, her cheeks and nose a bright pink.

  “Have you ever heard of Beethoven? His ‘Für Elise’ is a bit overdone, as is his ‘Pathétique,’ but they are some of my favorites,” I said as I quickly ran through a sample of each.

  I felt all eyes on me, but I was on a roll and couldn’t stop. I quickly broke into Scott Joplin’s “Heliotrope Bouquet” and pounded out the entire thing in record time. My spontaneous recital ended without applause.

  Mary stood and walked slowly over to me and stated simply, “You, madam, are common and not fit to be in this room with us.”

  I stood, careful not to knock over the bench with my skirts.

  “And you, madam, are an insufferable boor. You prance around with your high ideals about Southern women and their atrocities to their slaves. But I’ll have you know that I speak to the slaves with a great deal more respect and kindness than you have just shown me.” I said this with great control, enunciating every word.

  Her jaw was shaking as she regarded me, but she said nothing and turned and left the room. My corset stopped me from taking a much-needed deep breath, so I found myself gasping in tiny puffs of air. “I’m sorry,” I said, to no one in particular. “I usually have better manners.”

  Her husband stepped forward, coughing into his hand. “No, she provoked you. Perhaps you would better understand it if I told you that her brother was killed at Gettysburg by a Confederate bullet.”

  I studied his face and noticed a scar that started at the left jaw and neatly bisected his cheek. “It explains it, but it certainly doesn’t excuse it. My husband was shot with a Yankee bullet in his leg. But I can’t seem to hate all Yankees because of it.”