“I shan’t mind.” Flanna shifted the box to her own hip, then gave Roger a careful smile. “Thank you, Roger. May God go with you until we meet again.”
She couldn’t see his face in the shadows, but she felt his hand on her shoulder. “Be safe, Flanna.” He softened his words by squeezing her arm. “I will join you as soon as I can.”
He released her then and moved away, as silently as a shadow. Flanna waited under the oak until she saw him reenter the circle of his men, then she walked carefully through the sodden leaves toward her own messmates. She had one more task—a letter to place where O’Neil would be certain to find it—and then she would be done with the Army of the Potomac.
She looked up. The sky was thick and black with clouds, weeping steadily enough to cover any trail she might leave behind. God could not have arranged a finer night.
Twenty-Five
Flanna stumbled into the woods, watching the darkness thicken and congeal around her. Above the trees, stark white streaks of lightning cracked through the black sky, lighting her way in random flashes.
Flanna trembled and her teeth chattered, as much from fear as from the freezing rain. When she had walked for ten minutes, she paused in a sheltered copse and opened the sodden dress box. She fumbled among the contents and sighed in relief that Roger had picked up the green plaid dress, not the ridiculous red velvet gown. Under the protective cover of the trees, Flanna shed her wet coat, shirt, trousers, and undergarments, then slipped into the chemise, pantalets, and dress. Thank goodness the hoop skirt was in the other box; she’d never manage one in these woods. The dress itself was heavy and cumbersome around her ankles, and not nearly as warm as the wool coat of her uniform. Reluctantly, Flanna slipped the coat over her dress. She’d get rid of it in the morning, though any Rebel who found it was liable to panic at the thought of Federals in the woods.
After dressing, Flanna tore the dress box into tiny pieces, then scattered them through the woods, knowing the pieces would be lost in the mud. She stuffed her undershirt and drawers into a knothole, then threw her trousers under a bush. She had only brought two things away with her—her journal, which she had always kept buttoned inside her coat, and her medical bag, which she had quietly pulled out of her knapsack when she left Alden’s letter in O’Neil’s tent.
She couldn’t part with the medical bag. Common sense told her that she might need it, and sentiment reminded her that it had been a gift—from Alden.
She hesitated, looking back through the dark shadows through which she’d come. Tattoo would sound at any moment, summoning the men to their quarters, and afterward the pickets would shoot at anything they saw moving in the brush. She had to get away, and quickly.
A sob rose in her throat as she pushed forward, and sudden tears blinded her eyes and mingled with the rain that streamed down her face. Jagged and painful regrets kept her company as she walked. She should have told Paddy good-bye. She should have told Valentine that she’d pray for him. She should have thanked the sergeant for tolerating her weaknesses, and she wanted just once to punch Diltz in the arm and run like mad. She wanted to copy down one of Andrew Green’s poems and assure Freddie Smith that there was more to life than fripperies and foolishness.
Most of all, she wanted to feel Alden’s arms around her once again, feel his head resting against hers like the night when the shells were flying and he’d held her. She had felt so close to him that night, but she would never feel close to him again. When the sun rose on the morrow, she’d be a Rebel, a South Carolina Confederate.
Alden and the others would be her sworn enemies.
She walked for over an hour, then stopped, judging that she’d covered at least two miles. At this point she should be in neutral territory, beyond both the Union and Confederate pickets.
Groping with her hands, she found a hollowed-out spot near the bottom of a slanting pine tree. She curled up at its base, hugging her knees to her chest and using her soldier’s coat as a blanket. She leaned her head back on the scabbed tree trunk and stared at the sky. She would rest here and wait until morning before moving further. The Confederates had undoubtedly posted guards around the roads into Richmond, and she could not travel safely in the dark.
She had thought she’d be too cold and nervous to rest, but a profound, peaceful weariness settled on her like a cloak. After a while her eyelids drifted shut and her body relaxed into the trusting limpness of sleep.
A handful of fat raindrops spattered on Flanna’s face. Instantly awake, she opened her eyes in sudden panic, unable to tell the hour. A dull gray light filled the woods in a light fog rising from the luxuriant foliage, cloaking the forest in a steamy carpet.
Daylight. Morning.
Flanna stood, stuffed her soldier’s coat into the hollow of the tree and gripped her medical bag. She stepped out of her hiding place and turned, confused. Though the rain had stopped, she couldn’t see the sun through the morning haze, and the towering trees obliterated any glimpse of the horizon.
She felt an icy finger touch the base of her spine. Had she come this far just to get lost in the woods—alone?
No. She could find her way.
Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding. God had not created her helpless. She had a brain, and a good one, and she knew how to use it.
In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. He would guide her path…if she could only start walking.
She turned again, shielding her eyes from the dripping raindrops, then noticed how the light streamed through the canopy of trees. The diagonal gray bands had to slant toward their source—in the east.
Sighing in gratitude, Flanna turned west. She lifted her heavy skirts and began to move through the thick undergrowth, kicking her way through tangled vines and praying that she wouldn’t encounter any snakes. At least she wore her heavy men’s brogans. Fortunately, Roger hadn’t thought to order her a pair of dainty slippers.
Thunder boomed somewhere to the north, and she lengthened her stride, fearing that the heavens might open in earnest before she reached Richmond. “You had the right idea, Charity,” she murmured, yanking her dress from the branches and briars that tugged at her skirt. “You followed your heart and went with the man you loved. I wish I could do the same…but Alden wouldn’t have me.”
The heaviness in Flanna’s chest felt like a millstone, weighing her down far more than the wet skirts that dragged around her ankles. With every step, her heart pulled her back toward the man who had changed her life, but reason spurred her forward. Alden would always see her as Roger’s sweetheart; his fanatical sense of duty would prod him to provide for his brother as long as he lived. What Roger wanted Roger got, so Alden could stand tall and assure his mother, his dead father, and God above that he had fulfilled his obligation, no matter what the cost.
A tree limb snatched at her, and Flanna tore herself away with a choking cry. How in the world had she come to this place? She ought to be safe in Charleston at her father’s hearth, content in the warmth of his love. She should have been knitting socks for Confederate boys instead of sewing those confounded havelocks. She should have given her heart to some devoted young man from South Carolina, and not to a headstrong, stubborn Yankee officer who would never allow himself to love her.
She balled her free hand into a hard fist, fighting back the emotions she couldn’t allow to distract her. She wouldn’t look back. These thick woods were a curtain, and all she had to do was pass through them and find a northwest road, for it would lead her to Richmond and the Confederacy. These gray and blue shadows would soon yield to sunlight; this ragged carpet would vanish when she reached plowed earth. And she would find her way home to Charleston.
She was finally ready to fulfill the promise she’d made to her father and Mammy. Images of the future crowded her mind, pushing in like unwelcome guests. Once she got home, she’d establish her women’s medical practice and deal with assorted female troubles and predi
ctable complaints. The joy of an occasional obstetric delivery would be offset by the daily grind of dealing with simpering women who fainted to be fashionable or because their corsets were too tight. In a year, maybe two, she would marry a nice Southern gentleman—if she could find a war survivor who wasn’t too intimidated by a woman with a calling. She would respect him, obey him, and be grateful to him for saving her from permanent spinsterhood, but she would never love him. Flanna doubted that she could ever care for anyone the way she cared for Alden Haynes.
The thunder sounded again, echoing through the gray haze, and Flanna halted in midstride, her thoughts sharpening to an ice pick’s point. That wasn’t thunder! That rhythmic, pounding rumble was the sound of artillery fire.
She froze as sheer black fright swept through her. What had happened? Either the Rebels struck unexpectedly, or reveille sounded early in the Union camp and the men learned of the attack at roll call. Another thought whipped into her brain. No wonder Roger had no trouble retrieving her dress last night! Alden had not been in his tent; he had probably been in an officers’ meeting. The Virginia Creeper must have decided to advance.
Trembling at the sounds of battle, Flanna stared through the woods in hypnotized horror. She stood in the no-man’s land between two armies; she had to move. She lowered her head and hurried forward as her heart pounded, each separate thump like a heavy blow to her chest. The blurred images of matted vines and thick foliage faded as her eyes colored with the memory of Alden’s face as he had looked on the night they were shelled outside Yorktown. She recalled the concern in his eyes, the determination in his jaw, the strength in his face. The Twenty-fifth Massachusetts had marched at the rear of the fighting at Williamsburg, so they would likely be at the front of the fighting now. And Alden would be on the front line with his men, his sword drawn and pointed toward the enemy as he urged them forward. And while the enlisted men knelt or sprawled on their bellies and aimed their rifles over fallen logs and muddy earthen mounds, Alden would stand upright to shout encouragement, his noble head exposed to shell and shot.
She halted as a scream clawed in her throat. How could she leave now? The life she had imagined in Charleston paled in comparison to the life she was leaving behind. Her men needed her. There’d be a gap in the line next to Paddy O’Neil, for wee Franklin O’Connor wouldn’t be there to fill it. And if something happened to Paddy, Alden would never receive her letter; he’d never know how much he’d done for her. And if something happened to Alden—
She trembled as she imagined Alden on Dr. Gulick’s table.
Abandoning her plans, Flanna turned sharply toward the sound of fighting. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing but Alden. And she would find him or die trying.
Distracted by movement in a stand of scrub oaks, Alden tilted his head and stared as a flock of sparrows rose from the greenery, fluttering and circling above the field in a state of utter bewilderment. Beyond the line of embankments, the artillery had been blasting canisters loaded with grapeshot into the Confederates for nearly an hour. Those Rebel lines ought to be weaker now.
“Major,” a man called from the line, a look of pained concentration on his face, “can I be excused? Nature’s calling real insistently.”
“Stay in your place, soldier.” Alden shook his head and pressed his heel to his horse’s ribs, urging the skittish mare forward. Amazing how many men marched to the front line and suddenly remembered that they’d forgotten to visit the latrine or repair their rifles.
Alden rode parallel to the line, using the flat side of his saber to prod the stragglers forward. “The artillery’s been softening them up for some time now, boys,” he called, reining in his horse. “We’re moving out soon, for God and the Union. Let’s show them what Massachusetts men are made of!”
The men cheered and the drummers began to play. The line filled in and undulated softly as men scrambled over the trenches and the mounded earthworks, then stepped onto the open field. There had been no artillery fire from the Rebs, so they were safe to wait outside the embankments.
Alden kicked the mare and trotted down the line, mentally checking off the companies in his command. Company L marched in this part of the line, supported by Company K. He caught a glimpse of Roger’s profile and saw that his brother wore a cold, hard-pinched expression on his face. Alden nodded grimly and moved down the line, then slowed as he recognized the men of Company M.
His eyes studied every form in the line, searching for Flanna. He didn’t see her.
“Major!” A ruddy-faced soldier looked back over his shoulder and jerked his chin toward Alden. “I got a message for you—a letter.”
“Let it wait, Private.” Alden’s gaze moved on down the line, relieved that Flanna had listened to him and stayed behind. He didn’t care whether she was playing sick or working in the medical tent, at least she had sense enough to realize that she couldn’t very well tramp into battle with these men.
Alden turned his mount and retraced his path, automatically soothing the mare as she snorted and danced beneath the saddle. A smudge of sun dappled through the heavy cloud cover, and though the prospect of sunlight should have cheered him, Alden felt a distant anxiety.
They had been expecting the Rebs to attack. Colonel Farnham had told his officers to move at morning’s first light, and yet the rains had upset McClellan’s master plan. Last night’s rain had brought the Chickahominy, a trickling river in the midst of this peninsula, to flood stage, effectively cutting the general’s grand army in two. Rather than face the entire Union force, the Rebs had wisely directed all their efforts against the Federal troops on the southern side of the swollen river.
Alden reached into his pocket and pulled out a map he’d hastily drawn the night before. One penciled line indicated the Nine-mile Road; two dots marked its intersections with the Williamsburg Old Stage Road and the Richmond and York River Railroad. The locals called the Old Stage intersection Seven Pines, and the depot at the railroad intersection was named Fair Oaks. Alden and his regiment stood less than a mile from Fair Oaks.
After memorizing the locations, Alden folded the map and thrust it back into his coat. Like a wolf seeking out its enemy’s weakness, the Confederates had surmised that this half of the Union army was the less prepared, and so the attack had come.
Alden’s orders were specific. His troops were to support the picket line and prepare to move forward at the colonel’s command. Two regiments of the brigade had already been detached, and skirmishers had been sent to detect the extent of the Confederate lines. The enemy no doubt believed that an energetic morning attack would defeat the Federal regiments on the southern side of the river before the other portion of the army could cross. The Rebs would be fighting on boggy, swampy fields and woods, but they were defending their capital and their cause.
This would not be an easy battle.
God, help the right. And help me do my duty.
A sharp burst of signal fire sounded behind the trees, and Alden barked the order to move out. The mare back-stepped, eyeing the trench and embankment with suspicion, but Alden touched his boot to her ribs. The horse cleared trench and mound in one graceful leap, then moved contentedly behind the men, the grass making wet slicking sounds against her legs. As he rode, Alden stared at the ground in grim curiosity. A mass shedding was taking place, the men dropping anything and everything that might be a hindrance in battle. Overcoats, blankets, and canteens littered the earth, and Alden felt the corner of his mouth lift in a wry smile when he saw a blizzard of playing cards whirling in the wind. Someone, no doubt, had just forsworn gambling in a last-minute attempt to enjoin God’s protection.
“’Tis a messy day, Major!” the regimental standard-bearer called over his shoulder as the blue and white flag flapped over his head.
The men were wading through a virtual swamp; some of them splashed through puddles and found themselves in knee-deep water. This would be a difficult fight, for powder cartridges would not fire if wet, and most of the men w
ere accustomed to kneeling or lying on the ground to load and fire.
“Keep it up,” Alden called, strengthening his voice. “We’ll take this land inch by inch if we have to!” He heard the sound of gunshots, dry and thin as snapping twigs, then a shrill, exultant, savage cry from the woods.
“Listen to the Rebs screaming,” one man yelled. “They can’t wait for us to come.”
“Yell back at them,” Alden called. “Center up, close up those gaps, keep the line tight. If the man next to you falls, keep going!”
Alden tensed as the noise of battle intensified. The sound of the bullets varied from a sharp crack to a hum, then a whistle. One blew by his ear with a strange meowing sound, as if a Rebel had thrown a kitten at him. The line buckled as his men stopped to aim and fire, though clouds of smoke from the Confederates’ rifle pits made it difficult to aim at anything.
“Keep it up, boys, keep going,” Alden yelled, resisting his own urge to duck as bullets whizzed past him. “Fire at will! Show them that Massachusetts men aren’t afraid to fight for freedom!”
The standard-bearer fell, hitting the damp ground with a wet smack as the regimental colors fluttered down over him. Alden immediately kicked his horse into a canter and moved into the man’s empty position. He reached out for the flagpole, which another soldier placed in his hand.
“Onward!” He braced the flagpole in his stirrup and held the banner high for the others to see. “Our colors are still flying!”
As the line of attack closed in on the Confederates, the hail of lead thickened. The mare snorted and shook her head, unnerved by the hum of bullets and the crackle of musketry. Clods of earth flew up in front of the line, turning what had been an emerald field into a muddy mess. Unavoidably, one by one, the men in Alden’s line fell. He ordered his men into new positions, frantically trying to keep the line closed, but the time of organized warfare had ended. From this point each man would fight on his own.
The Velvet Shadow Page 31
