Secret Lady

by Beth Trissel

  When the burners finally reached the Wenger’s farm, what then? A cold shudder ran through Jack.

  He gritted his teeth, determined to ward the torchers off, though he wasn’t entirely certain how. For the most part, he, Sam, and the other guerillas endeavored to keep the invaders on the move. In their haste to escape possible retaliation from Rebels lurking in the shadows, the soldiers sometimes overlooked a farm, or didn’t burn as thoroughly as they might have if left to act at their leisure. But there were swarms of them in comparison to the furtive few nipping at their heels, and they inflicted a staggering toll.

  Like a writhing multi-headed beast, the orange blazes they kindled devoured barns, mills, crops, and anything else thought to be of value to the Confederates. The problem was, these vital resources also sustained the people, some of whom were Unionist sympathizers. Even the folk not inclined to favor the north didn’t deserve the fury descending on them. They had nothing to do with the war one way or the other.

  If the torchers were extra zealous, they set light to people’s homes. From what Jack could gather, Sheridan hadn’t ordered the torching of residences, and had instructed his men to leave widows’ property alone. But the people were unaware of these stipulations, and hardened men did as they liked, unless an officer intervened and called off the dogs of war.

  Homes sometimes caught fire from nearby structures, and caution wasn’t necessarily taken to prevent these misfortunes. Residents left with a roof over their heads counted themselves lucky. Others fled the burned-out wreckage of their lives. Sheridan allowed Mennonite and Brethren refugees to attach themselves to his wagon train and accompany his troops. Desperate families flocked to him in want of the most basic means of survival.

  The number of wagons in his train swelled like a troubled sea. These refugees would head north with his troops when they left. Each hour his men remained in the land meant more farms and mills set ablaze.

  Jack spotted clumps of people below huddled in yards and fields while bluecoats executed the raging destruction. The cries of mothers and babes carried on the acrid breeze. He knew from experience their pleas would go unheeded. The burners who carried out this vile work had closed their ears.

  He’d heard some of the men had refused to take part in the devastation; there were those who hated such ignoble labor. ‘This is not the work of soldiers,’ they protested. He applauded them, while aware of those willing to take their place.

  Gunshots punctuated the hissing crackle. Pigs in their pen toppled to the ground. Cows and sheep were felled where they stood or herded away, bleating and lowing. Whinnying horses were rounded up. These were too valuable to shoot.

  Squawking chickens flew. Some dodged the bullets intended for them and hid in brush or trees. Barnyard geese flapped at soldiers, pinching and beating their arms and faces. Men staggered back, and escapees winged to safety. Other birds fell in feathered mounds.

  The bloodshed of innocent animals made Jack ill. How silent the valley would be without these familiar companions. He hated their deaths more than the flames, though farmers would be hard pressed to feed any hidden stock with so much fodder destroyed.

  A whistle pierced the acrid air from the officer in charge. The shrill note announced the groups’ imminent departure from one farm and their movement to the next. The hated piping alerted impending victims to the dreaded visitation as neighbors succumbed to the inferno. Some farmers had herded livestock to the woods beforehand, but many had not received the warning, or there was nowhere to hide.

  Jack groaned. “This is a slaughter. We are not doing enough.”

  Sam blew out his breath. “Not a lot we can do. Never was.”

  “But every family we ease the toll on even a little will suffer less.” Jack sipped water from his canteen, still tasting the ashes in his throat. His whiskey was gone. “Got anything stronger?”

  “Here.” Sam offered him a swig from the flask in his coat pocket.

  He swallowed, relishing the applejack brandy. “Thanks. This is more like it.”

  “Uh huh.” Sam scanned the belching fires and surrounding terrain. “There.” He pointed at the clearing near a clump of trees. One of the scouts in their band waved a red kerchief, the signal. “The men are in place. Shall we go and relieve these double-dealers of their coins?”

  They had learned several burning parties were working together to fleece their victims, worsening the blow to a hard-hit family. The first group offered to spare the farm in return for the nest egg a farsighted wife might have tucked away. The relieved inhabitants scarcely had opportunity to draw breath before a second group arrived and burned their farm anyway. The accomplices then split the haul between them.

  As heinous as this thievery was, Jack wasn’t thrilled with Sam’s scheme. “I’m not eager for an attack on these parties, unless it’s to stop them from continuing their despicable practice. If we are successful, we should return the money to the rightful owners.”

  “The men won’t agree to that,” Sam scoffed. “And how are we to know who it belongs to? A lot of folk have been swindled.”

  Jack frowned, and restrained Buck, growing restless from the smoke and confusion. “I’m here to help people, not ride with a pack of outlaws.”

  His affronted cousin straightened in the saddle. “Who are you calling outlaws? If we hinder the bluecoats who are no better than thieves, then so much the better. We have to eat, too, need I remind you? A tidy sum will keep us going for a while.”

  “Be that as it may, this proposal doesn’t sound very high-minded,” Jack argued.

  Sam waved at the scorching mayhem stretching before them. “Time to live in the real world. You’re not off shepherding your flock anymore. Look around you.”

  “I am,” Jack flung back. “What say we send some of these burners on their way?”

  “We can do both,” his hotheaded relation insisted.

  He grunted a reluctant ascent. How had he gotten mixed up with this lawless bunch?

  Sam’s face hardened. “You know Twin Oaks has been sacked?”

  His disclosure caught Jack off guard. Reeling from the news, he eyed his kin closely. “Who said?”

  “Dunham.” Sam named the guerilla waving the kerchief. “He heard from his brother who said Twin Oaks is down to the house, alone. Mama sent a team of horses with a wagonload of supplies and several cows to the woods before bluecoats were muddying her floor. She and my sisters hid their jewelry and the silver under the boards, and hams in the attic, but men found plenty to take. And burn. The barn, stable, smokehouse, and every other outbuilding are gone.”

  “Damn.” Jack loved the gracious brick home, shaded by the majestic oaks that gave the house its name. He and Sam had often visited each other while growing up, and Twin Oaks was a gem. “I’m sorry. At least the house is standing. There will be a lot of rebuilding after the war.”

  Sam spat his contempt. “Not without the money to pay for it. As you know dern well.”

  “I make no argument with that.” Confederate notes were worthless and gold dollars coveted. Doubtless, this was what his cousin hoped the soldiers had collected from gullible residents. “I wonder how my father will fare in the coming days? I wish we had parted on better terms.”

  Sam snorted. “Don’t trouble yourself over that conniving Unionist. He will do okay. He’s not leaving anything to you, anyway. And my inheritance went up in smoke, so don’t scold me for making a dollar here and there.”

  “Oh, hell. Who am I to judge?” Jack allowed. “But I want to do right by these poor people where we can.”

  “Yes, Saint Jack.”

  He gave his cousin a look. A hand raised for emphasis, he continued. “And I haven’t seen Evie in days.”

  “Ah.” A knowing glance from Sam firmed their understanding. “Better go after dark if you are paying your bonnie wife a visit.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  His cousin waved at the garish scene lighting the sky like a furnace. “I still
can’t believe she wed you in the middle of this insane war.”

  “Neither can I.” Jack wasn’t about to tell him she hadn’t. “And it’s our honeymoon or would be.”

  Sam gazed darkly at the fiery desolation below them. “Hell’s not a choice destination for wedded bliss.”

  “And this truly is Hades,” Jack lamented. “Our lush land used to be closer to heaven.” Wisdom from the great General Stonewall Jackson returned to him. “Jackson said, ‘If the valley is lost, Virginia is lost.’”

  “When?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t know. Before he died. A corporal from the Stonewall Brigade told me after Gettysburg.”

  Sam gave his shoulder a brotherly pat. “Sounds like something Jackson would say.”

  “And he would be sick at the sight of the valley sinking beneath a mound of ash.” Jack could hardly bear it. He gestured at the farm nearest the hill, swarming with bluecoats. “Let’s get closer.”

  He and Sam urged the horses down the track between the trees running along the steep rise. Leaves turning red and gold were interspersed with the green boughs, and the pleasant scent of cedars offset the smoke. They paused in the thicket at its base and peered at the soldiers.

  “Look.” His animated cousin pointed at the uniformed man in the yard brandishing a flaming stick of kindling he’d snatched from the kitchen hearth. He planned to use this to ignite the barn. “Think I can make the shot?”

  Jack weighed the distance with a practiced eye. “Probably. Bet I could.”

  “Wait your turn.” With a wicked grin sparking in his greenish gaze, Sam shouldered the Sharps carbine he’d lifted from a dead Yankee. The red horse remained steady under him as he took aim.

  A report rang out, and the stick flew from the offender’s grip. The startled man didn’t even howl. Sam hadn’t left a nick.

  Don’t kill the burners—unless cornered—was Jack’s policy. He preferred intimidation, and Sam usually obliged him. Bluecoats would be furious if they left bodies behind, although resentful Rebels did. As it was, the soldiers scrambled in alarm, scanning in the direction of the shot. Their keen eyes sought the source.

  Sam whooped under his breath. “We best head out of here.”

  “Not quite yet.” Jack had his carbine in his grasp.

  The rifle rarely let him down. He’d mostly used it for hunting game these past months and hid it in the woods above the Wenger’s house when he visited. A second bluecoat gaped in their direction while raising an orange torch. Taking careful aim, he clipped the fiery stick in the man’s hand and sent it flying. It was a great shot. One in a thousand, and he silently crowed.

  Fearing they were under attack by a sizable force, the soldiers made a mad dash for their horses. That was one farm spared. There would be rejoicing in this home tonight.

  “Now, I’m ready to go.” He nudged Buck into action.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunset. The last muted rays dipped behind the clouds enfolding the hills. Mist shrouded the dusky meadow, and cold rain pattered Evie’s head in the stiff green bonnet Grandma G. had brought her the first night of her journey back in time.

  Murkiness surrounded her and Hettie as they picked their way through the slick grass toward the wooded hills. This wasn’t a trek anyone wanted to make alone. The sole light came from the lantern in Hettie’s hand. The eldest Wenger sister was the same age as Evie and the two had become good friends. It was a relief to have someone to talk to, even though there was much she could not share with the gentle Mennonite girl.

  The downfall increased, drumming above their swishing skirts and the soft tread of their laced shoes. The seeping wet penetrated everything. More than a nip of fall chilled the air, and Evie shivered in her green wool cloak.

  A soft brown bonnet, like the kind the women wore on Little House in the Prairie, covered Hettie’s white-capped head and she hugged a homespun nut-brown cloak. Doubtless, she was also cold, but used to discomfort. Nineteenth century farm life was never easy, and the war had made it that much more difficult. Sadly, harsher trials lay ahead.

  How indulged Evie had been in comparison, and she was no slacker. She’d soon harden up. Had to. “Has it been less than two weeks since my arrival?” That hardly seemed possible.

  “Ya,” Hettie affirmed.

  “Feels like a life time.” Keeping her next query to herself, she pondered what Grandma G. was telling friends and family about her sudden disappearance.

  The inventive woman probably spun a plausible tale, without divulging the truth. Maybe she simply said Evie was off riding, posing for pictures, leading garden tours, or helping in the shop as she usually did, and ‘unavailable for comment’ or some excuse such as a press secretary might give.

  What about her cell phone? Normally, she answered text messages as soon as she could. Not now. And she’d vanished from social media. That might not be such a bad thing, but it wasn’t like her.

  Perhaps Grandma G. said she’d lost her phone. That wouldn’t fly. Everyone knew she’d soon have another.

  She hoped no one was frantic about her welfare and had no idea how long she would remain in this era. Memories of the home and life she’d known ran through her consciousness in an ever-present stream. She missed her family. Most of all, she missed Jack. His absence was an aching void, and her thoughts of him formed a constant prayer, like a bridge to heaven.

  Her less formal yellow-checked gown had seen a lot of work since his departure and was her only suitable dress for labor. She smoothed the rosy gold brooch closing the high neckline. The jewelry came from her great-great-great grandmother, who, strangely enough, was alive in the southern end of the valley right now. If a bluecoat demanded the brooch from Evie, as had happened to her spunky ancestor during The Burning, she would also stab him in the thumb with the pin and preserve it.

  Weird, to think of the jewelry being in two places at once. Everything about time travel was bizarre.

  She dropped her gaze to the brave little light guiding them across the field. Hettie held the black painted tin lamp by its narrow semicircular handle. The glass front emitted the glow from the candle secured within, one of Paul’s handicrafts. Without the wavering beam, they couldn’t see to make these late evening excursions to feed and water the horses in the woods behind the house. They also scattered grain for the chickens and hogs loosed among the trees to keep the animals fed and returning to a given spot. Thick grass disguised the uneven ground, and Evie cautiously placed each step. “Too bad we don’t have an oil lamp. It would better light our way.”

  The wide brim of Hettie’s bonnet bobbed in a nod. “There is little oil to be had since the Union blockade.”

  “Right. Of course.” Evie kept forgetting the dratted blockade. Unless something was grown or fashioned by hand, it was in short supply, and substitutes made. She bet no one else forgot this grinding fact. Hettie must think she’d lost it.

  She took the conversation in a different track. “I wish we could come up here during the day.”

  Hettie loosed a small sigh. “Someday, soon, we hope.”

  Because foraging soldiers might spot and follow them in daylight, and steal the horses, they waited until evening to venture forth. Bluecoats didn’t stray far from camp after dark, with good reason. Stealthy guerillas dogged their every step. Or might. They never knew.

  Evie remembered her father telling her Sheridan lost patience with the Rebels shadowing his troops and sniping at the burners.

  Seriously? Did the arrogant general really think valley men would welcome his army with open arms when they came to wreak destruction?

  Jeeze. If Evie invaded another land, she would anticipate considerable resistance. Men were crazy, and war was hideous, this one especially so. She felt as if it would never end, and she’d only experienced it for a week.

  She tucked chilled fingers inside her cloak. “Maybe Jack will come tonight.”

  “That would gladden your heart,” Hettie said softly.

  “I li
ve for his visits.” She hadn’t seen him in what seemed like ages. She ducked her head in the bonnet. “I’m sure he would come if he could.”

  “The valley burns.” Hettie’s quiet tone was grave.

  “I can smell it.” Even in the cold rain, the tinge of smoke reached them, and not only from the kitchen hearth.

  Mary couldn’t cook during the day as the savory aroma drew hungry soldiers. The annoyed woman cooked and baked at night, and that’s when the family ate. They snuck snacks of cold food in the day. Evie hid her private stash in the attic along with her spare clothes and the carpet bag. She’d removed and burned the food wrappers, so no one would wonder at the plastic or the dates stamped on the labels. She reserved most of her supplies for Jack, but also shared some with the Wengers.

  “The smoke is always with us.” Hettie’s hand shook from cold, or apprehension. Consequently, the candle in her lantern wobbled, and the little light wavered. “The stench will only worsen as the burners draw near. I dread to see the flames.”

  Trepidation washed over Evie. “As do I. Jack may have word of their movements.”

  For a long moment, Hettie did not reply. “He is not only following the soldiers, is he?”

  Evie hesitated, then decided to reveal part of the truth. “He urges them along, so they do not linger at their evil work. Please do not confide this to your parents, or anyone.”

  “I will not speak of it. He is a good friend to us. Sie Batt nemme duhn ich gern, I will willingly take his part,” she translated.

  “Thank you.” With the secret tucked between them, they walked on toward the inky trees. “I worry about him,” Evie further confided. “I shudder to think of him getting shot. Worse—hung. He might recover from a gunshot.”

  “Ya. I have helped nurse wounded men. But there is much loss of limbs with these injuries and risk of infection. Soldiers must not catch him here.”