The Velvet Shadow

by Angela Elwell Hunt

  “Pshaw! Why should I mind having a handsome soldier on my front porch?” The widows blue eyes snapped with mischief. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about me. There’s a lot of life left in these bones, and I’m not as addled as I might seem.”

  “You don’t seem at all addled.” Flanna stared at her hands. Right now she was the one who couldn’t seem to pull her thoughts together.

  “I’ve heard that we should expect a visitor later this afternoon,” the widow said, her heavy teakettle wavering as she lifted it from the stove. “A man from a South Carolina unit. He was one of our patients the other day—do you remember him? You pulled a piece of shell from his leg.”

  Flanna shook her head, her memories obscured by the events of the morning. “I’m sorry.”

  The widow sat a teacup before Flanna and added a pinch of tea leaves, all she could spare since the blockade had dried up supplies. “You talked to him for quite a while. And you mentioned your brother, Wesley”

  Flanna nodded absently. “I remember now. He had shrapnel near the tibia; it just missed the artery.”

  “I received a note from that young man this morning.” The widow patted her bosom, which crackled under her touch. “He’s returning this afternoon to thank you.”

  “No thanks are necessary,” Flanna murmured, lifting her teacup. “He should save his strength for marching.”

  The widow sat down and gently stirred her cup, her eyes abstracted. “I don’t know that the army is going anywhere. Some say they will camp out here until the war is over. Richmond can’t be allowed to fall, you know.”

  She rattled on about Jeff Davis and the Confederate treasury, but Flanna’s thoughts wandered toward Alden and Roger and the place called Libby Prison.

  “Mrs. Corey,” she asked, putting her hand on the woman’s frail wrist, “tell me about Libby Prison. Will Roger and Alden be treated well there?”

  The widow’s silver brows drew together in an agonized expression. “Dearie, you don’t want to know about that place.”

  “Yes, I do.” Flanna’s eyes never left the widow’s face. “Mrs. Corey, I have great respect for Roger Haynes, and I love his brother more than life itself. So you must tell me—what have I done by bringing them here?”

  The lady’s dark eyes flashed a gentle but firm warning. “Libby Prison is not for the faint of heart. I visited there one Saturday with some ladies from my church, but I could never go again. You don’t want to know—”

  “Tell me, please!”

  Mrs. Corey exhaled loudly, then looked away. “The prison is a converted ship’s chandlery.” Her hand toyed with the tatted lace doily in the center of the table. “It’s a dark and cold place, with only six big rooms for over a thousand prisoners. And I’ve heard—though I don’t know if it’s true—that the men are kept barely alive on quarter rations. The Confederacy must feed her own men, you see, before she can feed her prisoners.”

  A cold lump grew in Flanna’s stomach and spread chilly tendrils of apprehension through her body. She couldn’t bear the thought of Alden growing thin and weak. His body needed food and rest to heal itself, and he would be allowed neither in a prison.

  “Dear God,” Flanna dropped her head onto her hand, “show me what to do! There has to be a way!” Forgetting Mrs. Corey, Flanna yielded to the compulsive sobs that shook her and lowered her head to the table, watering the wood with her tears.

  “Flanna?”

  Mrs. Corey’s cackling voice slashed Flanna’s sleep like a knife. She lifted her head from the table, noticing that her arms tingled from poor circulation. She wasn’t sure how long she had slept, but her head felt as though it had filled with cotton.

  “Flanna, dear.” Mrs. Corey’s slippers whispered across the wooden floor as she scooted into the room. “You have a visitor. Sit up, let’s wipe your eyes and smooth that hair of yours.” The lady’s little hands patted Flanna’s cheeks and hair, pulling her into some sort of presentable appearance.

  Flanna blinked, trying to force her confused emotions into order. “What time is it?” she murmured, her voice heavy with exhaustion.

  “About four o’clock, I should think.” The widow took a step back and studied Flanna with a critical eye. “I expect you’ll do,” she said, clasping her hands at her waist. She glanced up and nodded toward someone who stood in the hallway. “You may come in now.”

  Another patient? Flanna turned at the thump of heavy boots upon the floor. A Confederate soldier came toward her, but his trousers were whole, his gray coat stained only with mud and grass, not blood. At the last moment she looked at his face, expecting to see a bruised eye or bloodied cut that needed her attention, but it was only Wesley.

  Wesley! She stared wordlessly at him, her heart pounding; then she jumped up and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck.

  He lifted her from the floor in his embrace and lightly scolded her for the sobs that broke from her lips. “There now, is that any way to be greeting your long-lost brother?”

  “Wesley, I’m so happy to see you!” He lowered her to the floor and Flanna stepped back, thinking that she might actually burst from the swell of joy in her heart. Wesley was whole, thank God, and well, though his face was ruddier than she had ever seen it. He wore a beard now, which added to the manly aura around him, and the sun had parched the skin around his eyes and forehead. A gold captain’s braid hung from the shoulder of his uniform. So, he was an officer!

  “Welcome to Richmond, little sister.” Wesley tossed his hat on the kitchen table, then winked at the widow. “Mrs. Corey tells me that you’ve gotten yourself into a bit of a scrape.” His mouth opened in mock horror as his hand smoothed her hair. “And what’s this? In faith, I never expected to find you bald!”

  “I’m not bald.” Flanna smacked his hand. “And yes, I’ve really made a mess of things. Not for me, so much, but for two very dear men.”

  Without waiting for permission, Wesley pulled out a chair and sat down, and Flanna took the seat opposite him. From the other side of the kitchen, Mrs. Corey hummed and put another kettle of water on to boil.

  “Would one of them be the Roger Haynes you wrote me of?” Wesley asked, one corner of his mouth turning up in a wry smile. “The charming, successful man you thought you might marry?”

  “Yes—and no.” Flanna sighed and opened her hands. “Yes, it’s Roger, and no, I will not marry him, though we are great friends. It’s his brother, Alden, that I love.” Her smile faded. “He loves someone else, a girl back home. But I’m the one who dragged him behind enemy lines. Now he’s wounded and in prison, and he’ll die there unless I can do something.”

  “You?” His left brow shot up in surprise. “Genteel little Flanna, who would rather sit at home than go riding and soil her brocade slippers?”

  His cynicism grated on her. “I’m not wearing brocade slippers anymore.”

  “So I understand.” Wesley cut a quick look at Mrs. Corey, and Flanna frowned. What had the widow told him while Flanna slept?

  Wesley reached across the table and took her hand in his. “Flanna, you were constantly surprising me when you were a little lass. Once you got a thought into your wee head, nothing could stop you from doing what you set out to do.” He laughed, a deep and rich sound that warmed Flanna’s heart. “You gave me and the cousins quite a bit of competition until you decided you’d rather sip tea and chatter than tangle with us.”

  She shook her head, impatient with his reminiscences. “Wesley—”

  He lifted his hand, cutting her off. “’Tis a bit strange, don’t you think, that you should come full circle? For here you are, full grown into a bonny lass and chasing after the boys again. But this time you’re in over your head, darlin’.”

  She sat silently, a hot tear rolling down her cheek.

  Wesley leaned forward, his eyes suddenly somber. “I trust you heard about the fire? About Papa?”

  She nodded, and some of the stiffness seemed to melt out of Wesley’s shoulders. “I’m g
lad you know, and relieved I am for not having to tell you. Papa died the way he lived, trying to help someone. I know he wouldn’t want us to grieve.”

  “But—” Flanna’s promise weighed upon her, choking her. “I promised to go home and help him, Wes. That’s all I’ve wanted to do for these many months—”

  “Hush, darlin.” He reached out and grabbed her hand. “Papa wouldn’t want you to stake your future upon his past. The world’s a different place, and the Charleston you knew is already changed. If Papa were here, he’d tell you to get on with your life, and since he’s not here, I’ll do the telling for him. You’re a bright girl, Flanna, and God led you away from us. To my way of thinking, he’ll keep on leading you. All you have to do is trust him.”

  Trust God? If Wesley only knew how hard that was! She wanted to trust God’s plan for her life, but he had led her over a path filled with so many obstacles.

  Flanna knew that tears were flowing down her face, but she was not truly crying. The tears came from a simple overflow of regret, hurt, loss, and love.

  Wesley’s eyes darkened with emotion. “Aw, don’t cry, lass! Your brother’s here. And since your life seems now entwined with two other men, I’m going to help you free those fine lads, Yankees though they may be.”

  A hot and awful joy swept through her, then despair reared its ugly head. “I can’t do anything, Wesley! I’m under arrest and there’s a guard outside. Mrs. Corey is under strict orders not to allow me out of the house.”

  “Ah, lass.” His white teeth flashed amid his red beard. “Mrs. Corey is your friend; how can you be forgetting that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Wesley did not answer, but pointed behind Flanna. As her thoughts swirled in confusion, Flanna turned and saw the widow standing behind her. Mrs. Corey’s arms were filled with folded clothing. “This was to be Willie’s new uniform,” the lady said, gently fingering the soft gray coat on the top of the stack. “I meant to give it to him at Christmas. But Christmas never came last year.”

  The widow offered the clothing to Flanna with a small smile. “Willie would be pleased to help you, Miss Flanna. I’ve watched how you treated these boys, and I know your heart is in the right place.” She placed the garments on the table, then stepped back. “But you’d better hurry. They transport the prisoners every afternoon near sunset. If you’re going to reach those men before they reach the prison, you’d best go now.”

  Flanna choked back a sob of gratitude as Wesley’s smile widened in approval. “Think you can manage putting on a man’s uniform, sister?”

  Flanna met his grin with a larger smile of her own. “Brother, you’d be surprised how well I can manage.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Ten minutes later, Flanna finished slicking her hair back with Macassar oil, then stepped out of the pantry wearing the light blue trousers and gray coat of a Confederate infantryman. Wesley whistled in appreciation as she twirled for his inspection.

  “Add this,” Mrs. Corey said, taking a cap from a pile of discarded clothing she’d collected from the wounded. She tossed it to Flanna, then moved to the stack of weapons and closed her hand around a rifle barrel. “You should take this too.”

  Flanna slipped the cap over her hair and stared at the rifle musket in Mrs. Corey’s grasp. “Are you certain you want to give me that?” Her eyes met the widow’s. “When they find out I’ve escaped, they won’t appreciate the fact that you gave me a rifle.”

  “It’s not loaded.” The widow pushed the gun toward Flanna, then took a hasty half-step back as if glad to be rid of it. “I don’t have any bullets or powder, so the gun will be useless to you if you get into trouble. But how are they to know?”

  “How indeed?” Wesley asked, picking up his own knapsack and rifle.

  Overwhelmed by gratitude, Flanna propped the rifle against the table, then clasped the older woman in a brief embrace. “I wish I had known Willie,” she whispered in Mrs. Corey’s ear. “With a mother like you, he must have been a very special young man.”

  Tears trembled on the widow’s sparse lashes as she patted Flanna’s shoulder. “I packed your green dress in your knapsack. Promise me you’ll change as soon as you can. You’ll be safer traveling as a woman.”

  “Yes ma’am, I promise.”

  The widow patted the tiny curls at her ears in a distracted gesture. “I also put some cornbread in the knapsack, as well as your medical bag and your book.”

  Her journal. In the horrors of the last few days, Flanna had nearly forgotten about it. “Thank you.”

  She gave the widow a kiss on the cheek, then picked up the rifle and knapsack. As the widow sighed loudly and sank into a chair, Flanna and Wesley walked toward the front of the house. A thrill of frightened anticipation touched Flanna’s spine as she paused by the door.

  “Just act like you know what you’re doing,” Wesley said, reading her face. “Salute the officers, ignore the others. The guard saw me come in, and he’ll assume you were with me.”

  “And if he questions me?” Flanna quailed at the thought of being arrested again. The colonel would not be as merciful a second time, particularly if she was apprehended while trying to free two Union officers. And what might happen to Wesley if she failed?

  Wesley cocked his head at a jaunty angle. “If he questions you, just turn around and march back inside the house. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  Flanna swallowed hard, then slung her rifle over her shoulder, and reminded herself that she’d been marching and drilling for months. If any woman on earth knew how to walk like a soldier, she did.

  “Let’s go.”

  Wesley swung the door wide. Flanna blinked in the bright flood of sunlight, then followed her brother down the stairs.

  An hour later Flanna and Wesley stood outside the same majestic white building where she had been taken the day before. There were no crowds this time, just a handful of soldiers loitering in the shade of the columns. A cool breeze was sweeping away the heat of the day, and the western sky had begun to glow with crimson and gold.

  Flanna felt her hands go slick with sweat as an entire regiment of Confederate soldiers came around a street corner, marching in straight lines as the drums and fifes played a sprightly version of “Dixie.” Flanna turned slightly and thrust her hands in her pockets as they passed.

  “Nice job, Private,” Wesley joked, puffing on the end of a cigar he’d fished from his pocket. “Remember—wait patiently, stay calm. You know what you are doing.”

  The hands on the city clock moved slowly, marking the time. Six o’clock, and yet no sign of prisoners.

  “Are you sure this is the right door?” Flanna glanced up at Wesley. “What if they’ve taken them out another way?”

  “Hold your horses, lass.” Wesley’s eyes scanned the street as he lifted the cigar to his lips. He drew heavily on it, making the tip glow bright, then held it out and stared at it. “Nasty habit,” he said, a thin plume of smoke drifting from his pursed lips. “But it’s all I have to keep me warm most nights.”

  Flanna leaned back against a pillar, wishing she had something to do with her hands. The swollen sun hung low in the west, so if the guards waited much longer they’d be transporting prisoners in the dark. What had delayed them? Had Alden taken a turn for the worse? Or were they merely delayed by some other trial?

  “Look sharp, Private.” Wesley’s voice brought her out of her reverie. Flanna glanced up to see the double doors opening. Two Confederate guards appeared, followed by Alden and Roger. Both were bound at the wrists, and both walked with their heads bowed. Someone had draped a dark blanket over Alden’s shoulders, but the sight of his pale profile made Flanna’s heart twist in misery.

  “You there, Sergeant,” Wesley called out, lifting his cigar in the guard’s direction. “We have orders to relieve you.”

  “Orders?” The sergeant came forward, frowning. “I know nothing of any orders.”

  Wesley jerked his chin toward the prisoners. �
�These are the men bound for Libby Prison?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then.” Wesley pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and made a great fuss of unfolding it with one hand while he held his cigar with the other. “I’ve got these orders commanding me and the wee one to escort these men to Libby Prison by six o’clock.” The line of his mouth curved, a mere twitch in his bearded face. “Seein’ as how these men are already late, it’ll be my tail that ends up bein’ catawampusly chawed up by the colonel. Unless you insist on taking them in.”

  “I didn’t know anything about six o’clock.” The muscles of the sergeant’s throat moved in a convulsive swallow. “And it weren’t my fault that they’re just now bein’ released. The colonel said to hold ’em until he was good and ready to let ’em go.”

  Wesley suddenly whirled toward Flanna. “You there! Hold that rifle on those prisoners, you fool!”

  Flanna jumped in honest surprise, then swung her rifle off her back and pointed it toward Alden and Roger. Roger’s brows lifted when their eyes met, but for once he said nothing.

  “Well.” The sergeant hesitated, not bothering to look at the paper fluttering in Wesley’s hand. “If you’ve got orders.”

  “My good man.” Wesley laughed and slipped his arm around the sergeant’s shoulders. “If I were you, I’d thank my lucky stars that someone else will take the browbeating. Take advantage, boy! I hear Miss Rose has opened her tavern for business. Instead of arguing with me, you could be down there debating the weather with a right fair-looking wench.”

  The captain’s nose quivered like a leaf in the wind. “Miss Rose is back? I thought she’d left the city.”

  “She did leave.” Wesley turned and pointed down the street. “But when our boys held the Federals, she came back, bringing all her girls with her.”

  “Well then.” The sergeant thrust his hands in his pockets and broke into a leisurely smile. “I suppose I could use an hour or two of feminine companionship.”