Forbidden to Love: An Historical Romance

by Patricia Hagan

  Tobias Radford cried, "Have you been to the levees? Have any of you?" He glanced about wildly in the darkness, straining to see their faces. "It's a howling mob of old men, women, and children, all armed with knives and pistols. They know they haven't got a chance, but it's their way of showing contempt for the goddamned Yankees."

  Seth kicked the side of the concrete vault and grimaced with pain but nonetheless raged, "And it's all because of overconfidence, inept military strategy, cowardice, lack of preparation, and Richmond's bullheaded determination to protect Virginia, goddamn it!"

  "Well, we can't do anything about any of it now, gentlemen," Millard DuBose calmly interjected, "except to remember why this meeting was called and get to the business at hand so we can finish and get back to try and protect our homes and families, shall we?"

  "A hell of a lot of good it's gonna do," Hardy said with a snort. "If we do succeed in setting up communication to get information to the Confederates as to what's going on, what difference will it make?"

  Dr. Duval reminded, "We can't be cut off from the rest of the world, Hardy. We've got to let our forces know what's happening here. And I haven't given up hope of an eventual counterattack.

  "And Millard is right," he added, "We do need to get to the business at hand. It was dangerous for us to come here tonight. I fear there're going to be turncoats seeking favors from the enemy, who'll be eager to tell them they saw a group of prominent businessmen heading into the St. Louis cemetery after dark. It won't take much of an imagination to figure out what we were doing here."

  "Exactly," Seth chimed in to agree, then suddenly remembered, "There was a man slumped against a tombstone as I came in. He appeared to be drunk, passed out, but I find it unusual for a man to come into the cemetery at night to do his drinking. Did anyone else see him?"

  Millard spoke up. "Yes, and he's harmless. That's Leo Cody. Several years ago he worked for Elton as an overseer. They had a falling out over something. Elton never said why."

  "I remember that," Tobias offered. "He came to me looking for work. I checked with Elton, and he said not to hire him, so I didn't. That was awhile back, come to think of it. Since then, I've noticed him from time to time, usually drunk in a gutter. I don't think he's a spy," he added with a chuckle.

  Millard said, "He hates Elton. Remember when I told you-all about following him here to try and get him to come to a meeting? Well, Leo was here that day, too. Elton didn't notice him, but Leo saw him. Cursed him and threw a bottle at him after he'd passed. Maybe it's a good thing Elton didn't come tonight. Leo might have thrown another bottle."

  Finally deciding they were safe, the men settled down to business.

  Outside, several rows away, Leo had succumbed to drunken slumber. No one else was about, for those who had not evacuated New Orleans were either huddled fearfully in their homes, or had joined the motley crowd at the levees in a futile effort to resist the invaders.

  He awoke sometime later with a start. Sitting upright, he glanced about wildly, trying to remember where he was. He ignored the grinding headache as he told himself it had to be a dream—no one had really spoken to him, called him by name. And damn it, he was getting out of here as fast as his trembling legs would carry him.

  "Yes, Leo, I'm talking to you."

  He'd been about to hit the ground running, but froze. The voice was coming from behind the large tombstone directly in front of him. He couldn't see anything except the ghostly white of the marker framed against the glow coming from the flaming waterfront. Choked by the soot-filled air, he coughed, and begged, "Leave me be. I ain't done nothin'...."

  "No one is going to harm you, Leo. Not if you stay where you are and listen. If you run away, I'll find you, and I'll kill you."

  Leo was not a superstitious man. He did not believe in ghosts. Still, he didn't like cemeteries, and he particularly didn't like the sound of a voice coming from behind a tombstone, calling him by his name, damn it, and threatening to kill him. And the voice didn't sound mean, either. The tone, he noted through the sickening haze of wine, was cultured, refined, and very matter-of-fact. Yet, Leo sensed, somehow the man behind the voice was quite capable of making good his promise of death.

  Swallowing hard, gritting his teeth, Leo warily responded to The Voice. "All right, I'm listenin'. Who the hell are you, and what do you want?"

  "It doesn't matter who I am. What does matter is that I've got a job for you."

  "A job?" Leo snickered. "New Orleans is on fire. By this time tomorrow, Yankees are gonna be crawling all over the place, and my head is bustin' from too much wine. And I'm supposed to believe a voice from behind a tombstone is gonna give me a job?"

  The Voice said, "No harm will come to you if you listen."

  "I tell you, I'm listening." Leo turned his head, not wanting to keep staring at the tombstone. If he did, he would start believing it was doing the talking, not a voice from behind, and then he'd surely go stark raving mad.

  "You know a man named Elton Sinclair." It was a statement, not a question..

  At that, Leo whipped his head about to stare, despite his resolve. "Oh, yes. I sure do. What's that bastard got to do with all this?"

  The Voice chuckled. "Well, what does he have to do with your not being able to find decent work since he ran you off his place?"

  "He said I beat his slaves and he made sure nobody else would hire me. But like I said, what's he got to do with this job you got for me?"

  "I want you to follow him. I want to know every move he makes, but he mustn't know he's being spied on. I want to know everywhere he goes, who he talks to. Day and night."

  "I can do that," Leo said cockily, "But why? What's so important about Sinclair?"

  The Voice suddenly changed from cool arrogance to thick annoyance. "That's not your concern. Your job is to watch him, damn it, and report everything to me here, once a week."

  Leo thought the whole idea of trailing after Sinclair was ridiculous but wanted to see how far The Voice would go. "How much it is worth for me to tell you these things?"

  "Never mind what it's worth to me, you idiot. It can be worth twenty dollars a week to you."

  Leo's head was spinning again, but this time, not from too much wine. "Did you say twenty?"

  "I did. But don't get any ideas about deceiving me, pretending you're following him when you aren't. I'll know if you lie to me, because I'm familiar with his habits. It's a break in his routine I'm looking for. You're to report here every Sunday at midnight. Go to the Tutwiler tomb, three rows inside the east gate. Stand outside and after you've made sure no one is about, start talking. Don't attempt to enter the tomb."

  "Don't worry. That's the last thing I'd ever do... unless I had to go looking for my money," he added pointedly.

  "That won't be necessary. Your money for the previous week will be on the ledge above the door. If I'm satisfied with what you've reported, you'll be paid the next week, and so on.

  "He should be easy to watch," The Voice continued. "Since his wife died, he doesn't go anywhere. Doesn't do anything. You'll be able to spot a break in his routine."

  "Didn't know his wife died," Leo mumbled, not really caring, then ventured to ask, "What do I call you, by the way?"

  "There's no need for you to call me anything. Now get yourself together and get out to BelleClair tonight. I'll want a report Sunday night."

  Leo grinned. He was starting to feel real good. It was going to be nice to have some money, and what could be easier than spying on a man he despised? God, he hoped he caught Sinclair doing something real bad, something that would get him in trouble, maybe even hanged. Excited over the possibility, he wanted a drink to celebrate and was suddenly hungry. Despite the hysteria, there ought to be food available somewhere in the city, for a price. "Hey... how about an advance? I ain't got nothin' right now, and I can't remember when I ate last."

  Only silence came from the tombstone.

  Leo repeated his request.

  No sound.

&
nbsp; Slowly, cautiously, he moved from where he'd been sitting on the vault and tiptoed to peek around the monument opposite.

  No one was there.

  The Voice had quietly left the cemetery.

  They heard the devastating news long before sailing into the Mississippi Sound. Captain Brannigan had wanted to turn back off the coast of Florida, when they'd been flagged by a passing boat that reported the Confederacy had lost eight ships in a futile attempt to stop Farragut's fleet.

  "They're not going to let us through," Captain Brannigan predicted. "If me and my crew weren't too old and grizzled to fight and also flying a white flag of neutrality, we'd have been blown to bits by now, anyway. We've passed three Federal ships so far."

  Not about to be dissuaded, Anjele doggedly said, "You were well paid to try, Captain, and that's all I'm asking you to do—try. But if you're afraid, then put me ashore and I'll make it the rest of the way on my own."

  He wasn't about to abandon her, and she knew it. Stiffly he promised, "I'll go as far as I can, but when they turn me back, it's over, missy, and if you want to jump overboard then and swim ashore, that's your privilege."

  Anjele knew if it came to that, she probably would but didn't say so.

  Finally, the sky ahead became thick with smoke, and they began to smell the acrid odor from the still smoldering fires along the levee. Around them were moored other boats which had dropped anchor, not knowing what to do since they weren't allowed to go any farther. Like Captain Brannigan, the captains were fishermen, not soldiers, wanting no part of the war.

  Anjele stood at the helm, her long red hair flowing around her shoulders. Cheeks flushed by the wind, clothes damp from the salt spray, she wasn't thinking of anything except how desperate she was to get home. After all these years, to think of New Orleans falling to the enemy was more than she could bear. And now, more than ever, she wanted, needed, to be with her father.

  She jumped at the sound of Captain Brannigan's curses and asked, "What is it? What's wrong?" Following his gaze she muttered an oath of her own. A Federal gunboat was coming toward them.

  The wooden paddle steamer had been adapted for war, outfitted against shellfire with a girdle of thick planking.

  "Those are Parrott guns," Brannigan observed, "and they can blow this boat right out of the water.

  "Drop anchor!" He yelled over his shoulder to no one in particular. "Now!"

  Anjele watched as the gunboat drew alongside. When it was close enough for a boarding plank to be placed between the two vessels, an officer and two sailors carrying rifles came aboard.

  The officer brusquely introduced himself as Captain Durham and wanted to know what the fishing boat was doing in the waters. "In case you haven't noticed, there's a war going on," he sarcastically addressed Brannigan.

  "He's working for me," Anjele stepped forward to give him her name and quickly explain the situation. "So you see," she finished, "we're no threat to anyone, and you have to let us through the blockade, so I can get home."

  Captain Durham smiled at such a ludicrous request and with exaggerated patience informed her, "Yesterday our navy either blew up or sank the last defense of New Orleans. Captain Farragut has sent a flagship to the city with a summons to surrender. We've heard the mayor has refused, and we're waiting now to see what will happen next. I'm not about to let this boat go through."

  Brannigan spoke up. "I can understand your position, sir, and hearing all this, I don't want to head in there, anyway. But what's going to happen? You aren't going to bombard the city, are you?"

  Captain Durham gloated, "It won't be necessary. We hear when Farragut asked for women and children to be evacuated so they won't be harmed in the fighting, the mayor sent word back he didn't want any shooting, because there wasn't anybody left in the city to fight except those women and children.

  "But," he added, "Captain Farragut also sent a message he's getting ready to go in, and if one shot is fired, he will level New Orleans to the ground."

  Anjele bristled to think of her beloved city being destroyed. "Damn you!" She ground out the words between clenched teeth, green eyes flashing fire. "Damn every single one of you murdering Yankees!"

  Brannigan groaned under his breath and turned away. He had witnessed Anjele Sinclair's temper before, when a crewman was foolish enough to be familiar, and he didn't want the officer thinking he condoned her behavior.

  Irately, Captain Durham reminded, "We've lost many good men, Miss Sinclair. Both sides are suffering."

  "Then go home!" she raged. "Get the hell out of the South and go back up North and mind your own business. We can solve our problems without your interference. Given enough time, states will vote to do away with slavery. There's no need for this. Oh, what's the use?" She threw up her hands, knew she was only wasting her breath.

  With the careful self-control which qualified him to be an officer, Captain Durham addressed Captain Brannigan, coolly ordering, "You will have to turn back. Get out of these waters, sir. You are forbidden to tarry. If this boat is still here by morning, I cannot guarantee your safety."

  When they were gone, Captain Brannigan walked over to where Anjele was standing at the railing, glaring at the Yankees watching from the gunboat. He tried to lighten the tension by saying, "Well, I guess this is where you'll have to jump overboard and swim, if you want to go ashore. Better wait till dark, though. You made some enemies, I'm afraid, and they might just use you for target practice while you're swimming in."

  "We aren't beaten yet."

  "Oh, yes ma'am, we are." He gave the order to haul anchor.

  Anjele clutched his arm as she whispered desperately, "They won't see us at night."

  Wearily, he touched his fingers to his brow and absently began to rub. With the patience one uses to address a child, he asked, "And where would you have us go, Miss Anjele?"

  Excitedly, she cried, "We don't have to go in by way of New Orleans. You can take me all the way home on the river. It flows right in front of my house, and—"

  "No ma'am!" Captain Brannigan vigorously shook his head. "I'm not going up that river. No telling how many federal boats there are up and down there, anticipating folks trying to get in and out that way."

  "Then we'll cross the river at Main Pass and go up through Barataría Bay. I know that passageway. Poppa used to pay the riverboats to take us that way sometimes. I'll know exactly where you can drop me off so I'll be just a few miles from where our land borders Bayou Perot, and I can go the rest of the way on foot. Oh, please, Captain Brannigan," she implored, "Don't you see? It's my only chance."

  "All right," he gave in, angry with himself for his weakness. "And if they catch us and take away my boat, or blow us up, it'll be my own fault for being such a damned fool."

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss his whiskered cheek, and offered a silent prayer for safe passage for all of them.

  And soon, she sang to herself over and over, she'd be home.

  Chapter 15

  It had been two days, and Claudia was still shaken by the experience of standing on the riverbank watching the Federal fleet heading for New Orleans. To actually see the invading enemy had been terrifying. For weeks, the waterway had been a churning mass of all kinds of crafts carrying away people who had chosen to abandon their homes. Now, with Raymond having just come from the city to report the crushing news of official surrender, hysteria was a choking knot in her throat as she worried over what the future held for BelleClair.

  Raymond said she needed to look at the bright side. "Maybe it won't be so bad. Financially, your father is better off than a lot of other planters, because he was smart enough to think about what might happen if the war wasn't over as quick as most folks thought. He started growing more corn for food and thinking about how he'd get his crops out when the blockade tightened. Taking them to Texas proved a lifesaver. He's set now. He can keep his slaves fed and clothed, and because he's always treated them decent, he doesn't have to worry about a rebellion, like so many other slave ow
ners.

  "Yes," he lifted his glass of whiskey in salute, "I'd say Elton Sinclair can be proud. All he's got to do is sign an oath of allegiance to the Union, and BelleClair is spared."

  Claudia turned on him in disgust. "It's a good thing he did plan ahead, because he's certainly useless now, the way he wallows in self-pity over Twyla dying. And you're no help, either. Look at you. All you do is drink. What's going to happen if the Yankees attack here? What's going to keep me from being ravished?"

  "Your mouth." He grinned and hiccupped. "Just nag at them, like you do at me, and they'll run the other way."

  "Damn you!" she shrieked, whirling away in a swish of petticoats and silk. "You're nothing but a lazy drunkard, and a coward as well."

  He drained his glass before responding, "Lazy, only because there's nothing to do. Drunk, because it's the only way I can stand being around you. As for being a coward..." He laughed harshly as he stretched out his leg, wounded in battle at Bull Run the previous summer, leaving him with an awkward limp and unfit for battle. "I didn't get this running away from the fighting, my dear. I was headed straight into it. I can hardly be called a coward."

  "You're a coward not to be in New Orleans right now," she lashed out, "trying to hold off the Yankees, like your father is doing, instead of hiding here and drinking yourself into a stupor."

  He reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink. "New Orleans is lost. Only a fool would stand and fight now. That's why only women and children are left. The men have taken off to regroup or fight elsewhere. As for my father, he's staying because he declared neutrality a long time ago.

  "But you can be sure," he added with a snicker, "He'll be among the first to sign a loyalty oath. Father always thinks of money, first, and he'll want to establish himself as a trust worthy physician for the Union forces and their families, so he won't be relegated to prison duty."

  "Well, it's time you started thinking about money, too," Claudia snapped. "The white overseers went off to war, and the Negroes taking their places aren't competent. Elton won't come out of his grief long enough to do anything about it, and I need some help running things."