by Mary Ellis
“Those boxes contain repeating rifles, Colonel,” shouted Captain Smith as they rode out of town. “Woolen socks, buckskin gloves, leather boots, engraved saddles, halters, bridles—this shipment must have been headed to a cavalry brigade, sir.”
The colonel glanced at Smith with amusement. Seldom had plunder so excited the man. “That’s right, Captain.” He slowed his horse on the narrow path, pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “This bounty will be for Jeb Stuart, not for General Jackson as we had planned. Sheridan’s loss will be Stuart’s gain,” he added, scratching his stubbly chin. He never would get used to the bristly beard he grew prior to a raid. “And Jeff Davis will appreciate that Union payroll, thirty thousand dollars by my estimate.”
“To another successful raid and the diminishing of the Mr. Lincoln’s Treasury, sir.” Smith pulled a silver flask from his pocket and offered a toast to his superior officer.
The colonel stared at the flask momentarily before downing a hearty swig. “I’m just glad we were able to serve our Glorious Cause without killing any of those fool Yankees in the process,” he muttered. “Now let’s organize the men and send this bounty on its way to Richmond before the Yanks figure out that no division of infantry is marching to Winchester this morning.” Both men laughed over their successful deception. Union officers would boil when they discovered they had been tricked. The colonel hoped local citizens wouldn’t suffer because of his activities, but they couldn’t raid anywhere else. Federal provisions, greenbacks, and horseflesh appeared to be limitless in the fertile area between the Shenandoah Valley and Washington. Their storehouses were like sweet cherries—ripe and ready to be picked. And his beloved Confederacy desperately needed all they could provide.
Rendezvoused with his men, the colonel savored some of the commandeered, spit-roasted Yankee beef. Someone passed around an expensive bottle of bourbon and another of brandy. He allowed his men to enjoy this small diversion in camp while he sipped only strong coffee. One man played a harmonica as another danced a jig. Most of his seasoned soldiers retold the day’s adventure over and over until they drifted to their bedrolls. Tomorrow they would return home—to their parents or wives or just to a lonely boarding house in a small town. But tonight they were rangers—brave, accomplished, and famous. And their leader was proud of them all.
Staring into the flames as dampness drew him to the fire, the colonel thought of the winsome, spirited girl he’d met on Bennington Island. Emily Harrison was nothing like the flirtatious women who usually heated his blood and caused his heart to race. He found her peculiarity unnerving, as though she’d ensnared him with a spell. When he wrote to his aunt to inquire about her, he couldn’t keep exuberance from his words. How could he become smitten after so brief an encounter? He was no youth experiencing attraction to a pretty girl for the first time.
But as he stared into the fire, the unbidden memory of a different woman crept to mind, spoiling his sweet reverie. With lustrous ebony hair cascading down her back, a small waist, deep violet eyes, and porcelain skin, Rosalyn was more of a vision than creature of this world. But she had been real the nights she gave herself eagerly to him. She had bewitched him with soft lips and tender words spoken in passion. Never questioning the incongruity of their encounters, nor her curious interest in his comings and goings, he had answered her endless queries, boasting of his troops’ exploits with shameless bravado. Painfully, he remembered supplying her with information that led four of his men to their graves. As they had lain entwined in each other’s arms, warmed by a goose down comforter and expensive wine, she set a trap for his troops—an ambush by Federal cavalry. Because he had foolishly trusted a woman, wives, children, and parents grieved for what could never be replaced. The memory of Rosalyn’s deception and his weakness for a beautiful face would follow him for the rest of his life. Never again would he trust a female’s lilting voice or warm embrace. One could no more trust a woman than a cobra or rattler. They could sense a man’s desire and recognize it for what it was: weakness.
Never again, he whispered into the night, trying once more to forget his shameful past. His parents wished him to marry and provide an heir for Hunt Farms. But what would be left by the end of the war to inherit? He had seen plantations burned to the ground or sold off parcel by parcel to settle debts. What made him think his family would fare any better? War wasn’t the time to think about marriage or children or inheritances. No new life would be waiting for him. The Wraith’s path was forged. The South was dying a slow, agonizing death, and he had no choice but to see it through. He had no business thinking about any woman…least of all, a Yankee.
Two days later, a tired and dirty Alexander rode the back roads to his home. Having not slept or bathed since before he left and having eaten only what had been packed in his saddlebags days ago, he wasn’t in the best of moods. He barely resembled the dashing colonel who had materialized in the mist and then vanished just as quickly. His uniform with the striking red-lined cape had been packed away. It wouldn’t help him cross enemy lines to deliver the precious booty—gold, greenbacks, and medicine—to Confederate command posts. The homespun garb of a farmer with a tattered straw hat better served his purpose. No one had stopped his rickety wagon as he made his way along, selling tallow candles and sharpening knives with his grinding wheel. The colonel appeared to be a simple man trying to earn a living instead of the infamous Gray Wraith transferring a fortune to the Cause.
But what troubled Alexander during the waning miles to his tub of hot water and soft bed wasn’t his scratchy garments or ill-fitting shoes. Once again, a heated argument had ensued when he had denied his men spoils from their foray. A small amount of plunder always slipped past him. He wouldn’t fight Dawson over a few bolts of calico for his wife. And certainly no ranger who needed a fresh horse or additional equipment would be denied. But he couldn’t abide with personal gain by his soldiers while the rest of the Confederate Army suffered. They were not thieves. They were not mercenaries. But sometimes convincing his men of that proved impossible.
Lost in thought, he almost rode past the oak-canopied lane to his home. However his horse, tired and hungry like his master, knew the way. Phantom pricked up his ears and quickened his pace, knowing oats and a good rubdown awaited at journey’s end. As they broke into a canter, he pulled on the reins and patted Phantom’s flank.
“Whoa, boy. Let’s not wake everyone.” Halfway up the lane, he slipped silently from the horse to walk the remaining distance. As he passed, he checked the bedroom window where his parents slept for signs of movement.
“They’re not up yet, sir.” A voice emanated from the inky shadows. A very dark and sinewy young man stepped into a shaft of moonlight.
“William, my man, it’s good to see you.” Alexander slapped his lifelong friend on the shoulder as they entered the cavernous barn. Handing William the reins, he pulled the saddle from Phantom’s back.
William carried the plain saddle to the table, placing it next to those embossed with the sterling silver crest of Hunt Farms. “I’ll bet it is. I had a feeling you would be back this morn. Beatrice is already up and fixing breakfast. She’ll have it ready soon.”
“I’m not sure I can stay awake to lift my fork.” Alexander cross-tied his horse inside a stall and began currying him.
“See to your own comfort. I’ll take care of Phantom.” William picked up a second brush.
“Where do my parents think I’ve been these past two days?” The light from the solitary lantern provided little illumination, but Alexander spotted a smile on his friend’s face and a definite glimmer in his eye.
“Well, sir, let’s just say I alluded to your getting a bit luckier with the ladies of Chantilly than with cards the night before last.”
“What?” The colonel’s tired face pinched into a scowl.
“To your father, of course,” added William hastily. “I spoke of this matter only to him.”
Alexander wasn’t pacified. “Little is
kept from my mother’s ears. I believe she has more spies than the Union Army. Now she will lecture me about my sinful ways of card-playing and carousing for some time to come. Was there no other explanation you could have come up with?”
“None that I thought sounded believable.” William ducked his head in time to miss a flying brush.
“I’ll remember this, William. Someday when you have a fine young wife, I’ll find an opportunity to land you in the doghouse.”
“Me with a wife, sir? Highly unlikely.” The two men laughed. They had grown up on this farm and reached manhood together. They were friends, even if one was the son of a planter and the other, a free black employee. “I’ll finish Phantom,” William said, keeping the large stallion between them. “Your breakfast is probably ready by now.”
With a grateful nod, Alexander picked up the brush and tossed it into the basket. “While you work, why not think up possible excuses that don’t involve drinking, card-playing, or carousing in cathouses? My mother is peeved with me enough.”
The exhausted colonel went to his much-needed food and rest. After breakfast and a bath, he slept like the dead for ten hours—his sleep blissfully void of dreams.
AUTUMN 1861
Never let it be said that the heart is not a peculiar thing. As quickly as hers had swelled with the promise of new love and the anticipation of marriage, Emily’s heart contracted until there was neither pain nor any emotion left. After receiving the letter which ended her newfound status as fiancée, she slogged through her days methodically, as though nothing had happened. Her dear beau, Matthew, was dead, his vitality destroyed in the blink of an eye on the bank of a creek called Bull Run. Yet because he had been little more than a stranger, she possessed few comforting memories. One day she would take up Matthew’s sword, but for now she licked her wounds and taught her lessons. Her two students were both well behaved and eager to learn. Though still young, Margaret sensed Emily’s profound loss and didn’t press for details or offer unsolicited advice. She tried to distract her teacher from melancholia with a warm smile or an interesting piece of poetry. Even little Annie behaved with restraint during the ensuing weeks.
Emily performed her duties as governess with dignity and grace. Yet, when she finally stopped crying herself to sleep at night, numbness washed over her like a fog. While Margaret and Anne rested, she spent her afternoons walking along the river or hiking through the orchard until her legs grew rubbery. She never felt afraid no matter how far she wandered. Nothing could hurt her now. She filled each hour of the day with activity so exhaustion would carry her to sleep at night. She ate her meals in the kitchen with the girls. Or, if they were to dine with their parents, Emily invented excuses to eat with the staff, thus avoiding the Benningtons whenever possible. Though they weren’t personally responsible for Matthew’s death, she couldn’t look on their wealth and not be reminded of a war fought to preserve the institution that created it. Emily ignored the largesse Dr. Bennington extended in his medical practice to both black and white patients. She refused to acknowledge the kindness Mrs. Bennington lavished on everyone she encountered. Like a wounded animal caught in a trap, she longed to hold someone responsible for her pain and misery.
Emily saw only one enemy—the South—with its decadent, privileged society. She read newspaper accounts of battles, privately hoping for Union victories. She followed the bizarre exploits of a partisan band of rangers with interest. Who was this man who made fools of the Union cavalry? Responsible for tremendous financial loss to the Federal war effort, he was nothing more than a bandit. How dare he steal with such impunity? Eventually, this latter-day Robin Hood roused her anger, pulling her from her paralysis as nothing had been able to do.
The Gray Wraith…her hatred of the South’s Glorious Cause now had a name.
THREE
Adam, life is very different there—in ways you can’t see from across the river even on the clearest of days.” Emily straightened her back defiantly but kept her voice low.
“Yes, ma’am. I know there’s no slavery in Ohio. I think about it all the time.” Adam wouldn’t look at the schoolmarm who had stopped her horse and then approached him like a swarm of hornets. He continued to mend the fence rails and replace the rotted slats along the north pasture.
“The Ordinance of 1787 established the Northwest Territory as the first government born free in all the world. ‘Here no witch was ever burned; nor heretic molested; here no slave was ever born or dwelt.’ ” Emily recited the litany taught to her by her parents with pride and conviction.
Adam, a man not yet thirty, set down his tools and faced Emily. “Yes, ma’am. I know all about that proclamation, but I also know ’bout the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850. That means I ain’t no freer in Ohio than I am here, not as long as slave-catchers with guns and dogs can track me like an animal. I’m no animal here, miss. I may be a slave, but I can work in the dairy when my chores are done. When I save enough money, I’ll buy my freedom and my wife’s. With signed manumission papers, no slave hunter and his dogs can come after me.” He looked her straight in the eye and held her gaze.
“I understand, Adam.”
“No, ma’am, you don’t. You may mean well, but you don’t understand a’tall.” Selecting the next slat of wood to nail in place, Adam turned away from her, not rudely but with the concerted effort of a man with a job to do.
“I can help you and your wife reach Cleveland or Fairport Harbor.” Emily glanced around before stepping closer. “From there, Friends will put you on a boat to Canada. That’s what the Quakers are called—Friends,” she added earnestly. “You’ll be safe in Canada.” Why is this man behaving like this? So aloof and disinterested. Doesn’t he trust me? “Take the freedom train, Adam. You won’t regret it.”
“No one can say what we will or won’t regret during our lifetime, but I’ll think about it. I’ll think on it plenty, you can be sure ’bout that. You go on now. I’m grateful for the offer, but you must leave me. This ain’t something a man decides on the spur of the moment.” With the discussion over on his part, Adam picked up his tools and walked away without a backward glance.
Alone, Emily stood watching him lumber down the dusty road. Was it her? Was there something in her that didn’t inspire trust? Adam was the third slave on Bennington Plantation who hadn’t jumped at the opportunity of the freedom she was offering. True, after observing island life for the past several months she had to admit slaves weren’t abused here. But there was no freedom either for more than half the workers. Dead leaves swirled around her feet, and a cool breeze lifted the hem of her skirt, sending a shiver up her spine. With fall rapidly approaching and her sorrow pushed to the back corner of her mind, she was eager to find a purpose. Yet she’d found no takers for her offer to assist slaves across the river to Ohio. And the reason continued to elude her.
Emily often read aloud to Mrs. Bennington during the afternoon when neither felt like napping. Emily enjoyed the recitations of Pickwick Papers and David Copperfield as much as her employer. An incongruous bond formed between the two women as they discussed Charles Dickens’s bleak outlook on society. Emily offered forthright opinions with growing confidence, while Mrs. Bennington loved to impart Quaker principles into every debate. Although members of the same Christian sect, their backgrounds and experiences had created rather divergent ideas. But both women had abandoned the somber gray dresses and wide-brimmed, face-obscuring bonnets worn by Quakers—Mrs. Bennington because her husband insisted she dress like the fashionable women of her class, and Emily because, after her brief period of mourning, she rebelled against the constant reminder of her loss.
Mrs. Bennington’s kindness finally wore down Emily’s resolve not to socialize with the family. An additional incentive to accepting the invitation to dine in the grand salon that evening was because her services as chaperone had been requested. Margaret would be attending her first adult affair, while Anne would serve as punch bowl monitor until her bedtime. Guests from Louisvill
e were already arriving and would stay at the mansion for several days. Their neighbors in Parkersburg would float downriver on flatboats to participate in the evening festivities. Lila explained that local dinner guests would also spend the night and return home after breakfast.
“Why are they making such a to-do over an evening meal?” asked Emily as she and Lila laid out the clothes Margaret and Anne would wear. “How can people linger five or six hours over dinner? What can they find to talk about for so long?” She shook her head. “My family always ate supper and returned to whatever they still needed to do that day.”
“I suppose it’s something you get used to.” Lila set out dainty slippers for both girls. “And once you see the number of courses, you’ll understand why dinner takes so long. Just don’t eat much of any one food.” She held up Emily’s new yellow silk dress. “Will you wear this one? I can lace you into your corset while the girls are bathing.”
Emily blanched. “I don’t own such an undergarment, only plain chemises.”
Lila stared in disbelief. “Good thing you’re as skinny as a bean stalk. Stay here. I’ll be right back.” She bolted out the door before Emily could object.
She stared at the yellow gown and three daytime dresses, all gifts from Mrs. Bennington. Her employers were pleased with their daughters’ progress. Margaret’s deportment had improved, and her French was practically fluent. Little Annie no longer stampeded through the upper halls and had stopped sliding down the bannister on her belly. Emily had originally declined the offer of new frocks, but she relented after viewing her meager wardrobe hanging on the clothesline. Due to frequent launderings, sunlight streamed through the faded fabric, rendering the material nearly transparent.
Emily fingered the gown, having never owned anything like it. It was tightly fitted from the bodice down to her hips, where billows of tiered lace cascaded to the floor. Delicate white cuffs set off the pale shade of buttercup, and lace edging accented the deep neckline.
