A Thousand Shall Fall

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “Likewise, you won’t be far from my thoughts.” Reaching up, he gently squeezed her gloved hand. “I’ll be in touch.” He gave the horse’s rump a firm pat and Carrie rode over to the men filing into line ahead of Joshua.

  This night’s journey to Winchester had begun.

  “I hope you’ll be comfortable, Eli.” Ruth placed the pitcher of water beside the basin. “Is there anything else I can get for you before I turn in for the night?”

  “No, nothing.” The lieutenant colonel produced a little laugh as he removed his gray jacket. “I feel like I’m home again.”

  Ruth smiled, pleased that she could put him up in her home. Hosting Eli ensured a measure of protection while the Confederates occupied Winchester. “You’re always welcome here.”

  He arched a brow and ran his hand down the length of his rather hedge-like beard. “Even though I’m a Confederate officer?”

  “Even though.” Ruth sighed. Some men looked better with a beard than others. She’d see that he got a sharp razor. “I’ll have you know that you’re about the only Confederate officer I can tolerate these days.” She paused to mull over her suspicions. “You are a Confederate, aren’t you?”

  He gave her a quizzical glance. “Aunt Ruth, are you reading those detective novels again?”

  “Alas, I must confess to reading Bleak House by Mr. Charles Dickens for the umpteenth time. It does make one question system norms.” But how interesting that Eli didn’t take offense, although he knew her well enough not to.

  “It’s been a long, nasty war, hasn’t it?”

  “Indeed.” Ruth ambled to the doorway. “At least we agree on that much.”

  Smiling, Eli sat in the side chair near the window and stretched out his booted legs. “What’s Peyt up to these days?”

  Ruth turned from the doorway. “Are you asking as a friend or a Confederate officer?”

  Eli took a moment to think it over. “Does it matter?”

  “Ah … well, Peyton is fine. He’s a colonel in the United States Army.”

  “He outranks me, that rascal.”

  “And he’s a Christian man now.” A fact Ruth was most proud of. “He turned his life around after Gettysburg.”

  “No fooling?” Eli’s brows went up in surprise and perhaps awe. “Peyt’s a Christian? My, but that is a turnaround … no offense intended.”

  “None taken. Peyton’s checkered past is no secret, I’m afraid, although he’s doing what he can to make up for it.”

  “Is that why he reenlisted after recovering from his wounds?” Eli gave a wag of his head and several locks of his dark brown hair fell onto his tanned forehead. “For myself I think I would have taken my retirement and settled in upstate New York as our home and property in Richmond are gone now that my father is dead. My mother and sisters moved to a small house in town.” He turned momentarily pensive, but then smiled. “Or maybe I’d attempt more filibustering in Cuba.”

  “Oh, good gracious! It’s much too hot in Cuba.”

  Eli chuckled softly.

  Ruth steered the subject back to her beloved nephew. “Peyton is determined to finish what he started, fighting for freedom for all men, women, and children, as well as the integrity of the Union.”

  “What about state sovereignty? Are you forgetting how our forefathers included states’ rights in the American Constitution?”

  “I’m not a forgetful woman, Eli. But you and I both know that states’ rights is the argument slaveholding Southerners hide behind so they can keep other human beings in bondage. Why? Because the Southern economy demands it. The entire matter all boils down to one word: money.”

  “I’m glad you have it all figured out, Aunt Ruth.” Amusement twitched his whiskers. “Although President Jefferson Davis might disagree with you.”

  “I’m sure he does, but I don’t see Jeff Davis picking cotton in the hot sun. Do you?”

  Again Eli ran his hand down his beard before yawning. “Good night, Aunt Ruth.”

  “Good night, Eli.” She smiled, pleased that he’d allow an old woman to win the debate … for now, anyway. However, on occasion, Ruth sensed Eli wished he’d signed with the other side—the right side.

  Leaving the bedroom, Ruth closed the door softly behind her.

  “Carrie Ann, you’d better have a good explanation for being at that Yankee camp.”

  “I got arrested for impersonating an officer.” She tethered her sorrel, grateful the men chose to stop for the remainder of the night—make that wee hours of the morning. Confederate pickets surrounded the town of Winchester, and any attempt to enter at this hour would certainly arouse suspicion. “You know I was looking for my sister, Joshua.”

  “Major John Brown.”

  “You couldn’t think up a more original name than John Brown?” A pity he couldn’t see her roll her eyes at his lack of imagination.

  “Carrie Ann, this ain’t games we’re playing.” Joshua’s voice was barely audible, but he may as well have been shouting. “This is war and you’ve gone and got yourself in the middle of it.”

  “Well, it’s your fault,” she hissed, removing her cap and dropping down on to a grassy spot near her mount. She reclined, stretching out her back. Oh, how it ached. It’d been a while since she’d ridden that long astride a horse. Her legs felt like overcooked green beans.

  “My fault?” Joshua planted himself beside her while Rodingham bivouacked a short distance farther up the road. “How do you figure?”

  “You refused to help me find Sarah Jane and then allowed me to leave Woodstock looking like a Yankee sergeant. I never bothered to look at the shoulder stripes.”

  “I didn’t know you’d gone.” A weary-sounding sigh. “I left Woodstock after dinner and you … you took off after Sarah Jane even after I told you not to, huh?”

  “You gave me the boots.”

  “I didn’t think you’d really wear them.”

  “I had to find my baby sister.”

  “And? Did you?”

  “No.” A fact that continually troubled her. “But Pey—” She dared not call him by his first name in front of Joshua. “Colonel Collier came up with a plan that will help me locate Sarah Jane and provide for Mama and Margaret too. He hired me to be a companion to his aunt who lives in Winchester. The colonel said he’ll pay me seven dollars a month.”

  “Yankee money?”

  “Uh-huh.” Carrie smiled, sensing Joshua might even be impressed. “What’s more, the colonel promised I’ll have my own bedroom and a full belly at the end of the day. That’s more than I ever got working for Mr. Veyschmidt.”

  “Seven dollars a month, Yankee money?” Joshua let out a soft, slow whistle. “I might even have taken that job.”

  “I thought you might see it my way.” Money very often said more than words ever could.

  “What about kissing that colonel good-bye? You didn’t imagine I’d see you, but I did.”

  Carrie had a reply all prepared. “It was a very pristine kiss—and the colonel deserved it. He was exceptionally good to me. In fact, Peyton treated me better than my own family and Mr. Veyschmidt combined.”

  “Peyton, is it?” There was an edge to his voice. “You’re on a first-name basis with a Yankee colonel?”

  Carrie hadn’t rehearsed a response for that slipup. “We’re friends.”

  “Sure you are.”

  Carrie rolled onto her right side, her back to Joshua.

  “But I can understand you getting confused by the first man who comes along and treats you nice. Most of us men in Woodstock think you’re just plain crazy.”

  “That’s because most of you are fools. You don’t appreciate my intellect. Peyton said I’m brave and tenacious.”

  “I think a woman ought to be soft and sweet.”

  “Who said I’m not soft and sweet?” She huffed. “But you’ll never find out.”

  Joshua grunted. “You got it all figured out, don’t you, Carrie Ann?”

  “As usual.” She wished
he’d shut his mouth. She wasn’t confused at all. However, her punishment would likely be worse if she didn’t allow Joshua his say.

  “Well, to set matters straight”—his voice lost its mocking tone—“my folks would have helped you after the fire if it weren’t for your mama, dare I even call her that. She’s truly touched in the head. Truth is my mama and Mathilda Bell have been at daggers drawn since before you and me was born.”

  “You and I.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  A rueful sigh escaped her. He’d never learn gentlemen’s English.

  “And I’m sorry I wasn’t around to help out after the fire.”

  “I’m sorry too.” She swallowed hard and blinked away the sudden tears. She’d needed him—she’d needed someone, but no one came to her rescue. It was as if God Himself had turned His back on her—

  But she knew that wasn’t so. The Bible said that God would never forsake her, and she wouldn’t dare call God a liar.

  Maybe it was God who’d sent Peyton to rescue her from the Wayfarers Inn and Mr. Veyschmidt’s hamlike fist.

  “Would have been nice if your papa wasn’t off chasing rainbows somewhere when it happened.”

  Carrie rolled onto her back again. The sky was dark, the air still. Only an occasional rustling of treetops whispered overhead. “Papa is documenting the war. He’ll be a famous journalist someday. I know it.”

  “The way I was raised, supportin’ his family comes first in a man’s life. Your papa left without giving you a way to reach him so you could tell him about the farm. Worse, he hasn’t sent you or your family a nickel.”

  “I’m sure he’d send money if he could. Maybe he even tried but it was stolen before it reached Woodstock. You know how robberies frequently occur with the mail.”

  “Did his last letter contain money? Was the seal unbroken when the letter arrived?”

  “No and no,” Carrie admitted.

  “Well, there then. I say shame on him for leaving behind an unbalanced wife and three daughters. He should have stayed home like my pa had the good sense to do.”

  Carrie’s fists clenched by her side. “Mama wasn’t unbalanced until the fire.”

  “She’s always been unbalanced. You just got accustomed to the craziness ’cause that’s all you knew since you were four months old.”

  “Since I was four months old?” Her head lolled toward the sound of Joshua’s hushed voice. “Is that when Mama first appeared unstable?”

  “Carrie Ann.” His voice had turned gentle. “That woman ain’t your real mama, and I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that.” Her breath caught. “Your birth mother, well, she took sick and died while your papa was traveling with her down the pike. He should have told you this.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re lying! You’re angry because I accepted Peyton’s bargain to work for his aunt.”

  “Think whatever you like, Carrie Ann. You always do. Except, when it comes to you, I ain’t no liar. We made a pact, remember?”

  She remembered. She was about ten years old when she and Joshua pledged never to lie to each other, no matter what the consequences. “But if what you say is true, then why didn’t I suspect it all these years?”

  “Because you always had your nose in some newspaper or book, that’s why. Mostly everyone in Woodstock knows the truth.”

  She thought over his words. Her stomach cramped like she’d swallowed a plum pit. “And you never told me—my best friend?” She wanted to slug him. She felt like the brunt of a terrible joke. “All this time folks were laughing at me.”

  “No one was laughing, Carrie Ann. Wasn’t your fault—it was your folks’ doing.”

  “Who’s my mother?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask your papa—or my parents.”

  The young lady Carrie believed herself to be exploded like a fully loaded Napoleon cannon. She wasn’t the wild-haired daughter of Charles Andrew and Mathilda Mae Bell. No wonder she never fit into the family. No wonder her mama—make that her stepmother—treated her disdainfully. And her grandfather—step-grandfather—was a crotchety old soul. When he was alive, he’d behaved like Carrie was some unwanted guest on the farm they shared with him. Now she understood why: she wasn’t his kin.

  “Do both Margaret and Sarah Jane know the truth?” Even after the question passed her lips, Carrie doubted her sisters knew. They would have leaked the information over the years, and Carrie would have learned of it.

  “Not sure.”

  Carrie allowed the information to sink in further. Questions swirled in her mind, but several pieces of her life now made sense. “So that’s why my mother—stepmother—was more than happy to send me after Sarah Jane. She probably hoped I’d get myself shot.”

  Joshua released a long sigh. “I know you’re upset—”

  “Upset?” Everything she knew and believed about her family was fiction.

  “But if it’s any consolation, my folks never had a grievance with you. Just Mathilda Mae.”

  Carrie battled one eddy of bitterness after another.

  “My folks were miffed at your papa for marrying her. See, your stepmother was a saloon girl. My mama knew her from grade school, and then saw her around town. Never approved of her working in the saloon.”

  “So Margaret isn’t my sister?”

  “Stepsister.”

  “Sarah Jane?”

  “Half sister.” Joshua fired off a string of profanity.

  “Watch your mouth!”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have to be the one to say all this. Now you’re gonna hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you—or anyone else. I only wish you’d have said something sooner.”

  “Like I said, your folks should have been the ones to tell you.”

  Carrie stared up at the inky sky wondering what other truths lay hidden beneath the folds of the universe. Maybe Papa never planned to return to Woodstock.

  “So Margaret takes after her mama, huh?” Although whispered, the sarcasm in Carrie’s tone came through like a shout.

  “Don’t be too hard on her, Carrie Ann. Maybe Margaret will run away like Sarah Jane and be all right in the end.”

  “Well, one thing’s for sure: I’ll find Sarah Jane, but I’ll be hanged if I return her to the Wayfarers Inn. Sarah can attend school in Winchester while I work for Peyton’s aunt.”

  When Joshua didn’t reply, Carrie looked in his direction. Had he fallen asleep? “Joshua?”

  “It’s Major Brown, Miss Bell.” His voice suddenly sounded as hard as iron. “Now, it’s our turn to bargain.”

  Carrie grew wary. “What sort of bargain? I mean, if you think I’ll marry you, you’re as touched as my stepmother.” She’d love Peyton Collier till the day she died. She knew it deep down in her soul.

  “I don’t want to marry you!” He groaned. “That’d be like marrying my own sister.”

  “Good. At least we agree on that much.”

  “Listen, I’ll keep my eyes open for Sarah Jane if you’ll keep my identity a secret.”

  “I’ve kept all your secrets.”

  “Well, this one is more important than all my youthful confidences combined. I’m Major John Brown and you gotta remember that.”

  “Are you a deserter,” she whispered, “or a Confederate spy?”

  “I can’t tell you that, else I’d have to kill you.”

  Carrie found the remark amusing. “You’d never kill me.”

  “I’d have to, Carrie Ann. No matter what. It’d be my sworn duty.”

  His knife-edged tone sent a shiver up her spine.

  “Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes.” She figured he was a bushwhacker to have sworn such a vow. No matter, he chanced execution, whether bushwhacker, deserter, or spy—or all three, depending on the situation and who apprehended him. “The last thing I want is to see you swing from a rope. Lord knows I’ve seen enough death in the last couple of weeks, both Yankee and Rebel blood.”

&
nbsp; “Anyone we know?”

  “No … but all human beings just the same.”

  Joshua snorted. “Typical female sensibilities.”

  “And thank God for us women or there wouldn’t be anyone to nurse you men back to health after you attempt to kill off the human race!”

  “Quiet over there!” A reprimand from Rodingham. “You havin’ problems with that girl, Brown?”

  “No. No problems.”

  “I’d be happy to take her off your hands.”

  “Nah, we don’t want Collier after us. She’s not worth the trouble.” Joshua jabbed his elbow into her ribs.

  Despicable louts! Definitely bushwhackers.

  Carrie stretched and returned to lying on her side. Sleep beckoned, and her eyes grew heavy.

  “Promise me, Carrie Ann,” Joshua whispered, leaning over her. “You’ll keep my secret.”

  “I promise. I already told you that.”

  “Good. Even so, I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

  His voice came close to her ear and she shivered. Old friend or no, Joshua kept bad company. Rodingham was a scoundrel. But for now she had no alternative except to trust Joshua.

  However, she vowed never to be at his mercy again.

  CHAPTER 14

  “It’s awfully quiet without Miss Bell around.”

  “It’s just before dawn, Peyt. She’s only been gone a few hours.”

  “I realize that, but …” He glanced at Vern as they prepared for a typical early morning drill. Breakfast would follow it and, by then, details would have taken down tents and packed supply wagons. “… it’s still awfully quiet without her.”

  “Rest assured, my friend; the quiet won’t last. At any moment we might hear an ear-splitting Rebel yell, and then you’ll wish for the quiet again.”

  “Good point.”

  Peyton stared at the brightening sky. It was shaping up to be a nice day.

  “Although, if you ask me—”

  “I didn’t.”

  “—I think you miss her.”

  “Perhaps I do.” He’d admit that much at least. “Her chattering got my mind off the war for a spell. It’s just as well she’s gone, though. I’d never forgive myself if she got hurt or killed during an attack. Besides, I can’t afford any distractions.”