The Quaker and the Rebel

by Mary Ellis

  Captain Smith didn’t return his salute like the other soldiers, but at least he mounted up and did as ordered. No one questioned where the colonel was headed or when he would call their regiment together. No one dared.

  Once they had broken camp, Alexander rode off in the early hours of dawn. He’d had enough of this war. After his fistfight with Smith, he no longer recognized the man he’d become. Heading deep into the Shenandoah Mountains, he paused only long enough to rest his horse. He hadn’t slept in two days and wouldn’t until that night. The road he traveled finally thinned to a narrow mountain trace he knew no Union cavalry would find. Only locals knew about and used these paths for hunting or visiting their kin. Every road went nowhere—exactly where the Gray Wraith wanted to be.

  Alexander spotted a low-hanging spruce tree close to a patch of late fall grass. With his horse watered and tethered on a long rope to graze, he wrapped himself in his blanket and immediately fell asleep until the following midday. He dreamed of rangers with wild flashing eyes firing point blank at Union cavalry and of his men dying on Uncle Thaddeus’s blood-stained lawn.

  His dreams were also filled with a red-haired woman whose laughter still echoed in his ears. Emily reached for him in the dream and called his name, her scent of lemon balm soothing like an elixir. With her hair spilling across her shoulders like a lion’s mane, she’d splashed through a shallow stream with bare feet and her skirt clutched in one fist. As she beckoned, the woman seemed a blinding brightness in his dark world of death. He followed her to a secret grotto where only pure light could penetrate. He wanted to cling to her, but she stayed just beyond his grasp. Like a drowning man in a turbulent river, he struggled. Then she vanished with the morning mist.

  Alexander woke tangled in his blanket. Casting off the heavy wool, he scraped his face with his hands to rid himself of the dream. Unfortunately, he couldn’t forget memories of Emily quite so easily. She would haunt his waking thoughts as well. Had she and William safely reached Front Royal? Was that even where they were headed? Or were Smith’s accusations correct—had she led the Yankee cavalry straight to Middleburg? His heart ached from worry and frustration. Struggling to light a fire in the damp woods, Alexander refused to believe Emily would betray his men. He’d watched her catch moths to release outdoors before they died in a candle’s flame. If she had such compassion for the smallest of God’s creatures, could she think so little of His greatest? No, despite her politics and headstrong will, he was certain Emily would never cause the loss of so many lives.

  Alexander had pledged a long time ago to never trust a woman again. His men looked to him for more than orders during a skirmish. They expected their commander not to endanger them unnecessarily in areas where battle lines changed frequently. If his faith in Emily had been misguided, then he was the one responsible for the debacle at Middleburg.

  The following months passed in a blur. Alexander spent his time in the mindless activity of building a shelter—one he knew he would soon abandon—just to keep busy. He worked long days fashioning a lean-to from small trees, weaving pine boughs tightly together for the roof. The matting kept out all but the hardest of rains. He foraged for corn for his horse in a wide circle, returning to his camp each night. The supplies carried in his saddlebags had dwindled quickly, and food for himself was scarce. But it was his empty heart, not his empty stomach, that plagued him. Often when sleep refused to come, he would stare into the campfire remembering something Emily had said, or how she tossed her hair, or the petulant stamp of her foot. And of her words? More to the point, the words she hadn’t spoken at the harvest ball. He had earnestly professed his love, and she had stared at him with her cat-green eyes saying nothing. Despite his good intentions, despite his vow made long ago, he realized he’d fallen in love that night…hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

  Could Emily ever love a Southerner as she had loved her betrothed? One thing about the dead—memories of them improved with the passing of time.

  And what of Smith’s accusations? It just wasn’t possible that she was a spy. She couldn’t manage to remember a sunhat to keep her nose from burning. Emily had risked her own life to save his in Middleburg. She had ridden into a hornet nest of trigger-happy soldiers from both sides. If she’d wished to betray him, she could have given his whereabouts to the Yankees and remained far removed from the consequences. No, he didn’t believe Smith’s loathsome assertion, but he would never learn the truth hiding in the mountains. He could ponder and surmise from sunrise to sunset with none to hear his ramblings but birds and an occasional curious fawn. With the Union cavalry still searching for him, he must bide his time. Then he would face her and listen to her side of what happened in Middleburg that night, besides her two mysterious trips to Berryville.

  And pray his trusting heart hadn’t been fooled again.

  News of the ambush of the Gray Wraith and his rangers spread across western Virginia almost before William and Emily returned from Middleburg. That fateful night, Emily dropped from her horse into Lila’s loving arms, more exhausted than ever before in her life. She couldn’t remember climbing the stairs to her room, or undressing, or slipping between the cool, pressed sheets in her room at Hunt Farms. She remembered nothing until she awoke at midday with Lila looming above her and commotion throughout the household.

  “Wake up,” demanded Lila, pulling back the top sheet. “You must pack your things and then help Mrs. Bennington pack hers. I need to help pack the kitchen and pantry.”

  Emily rubbed sleep from her eyes and struggled upright. “Where are we going?” Gratefully, she reached for the cup of coffee on her bedside table.

  “Both Mr. Hunt and Dr. Bennington are moving their families from Hunt Farms to a safer area. There’s no time to spare.” Lila flew around the room opening drawers and armoire doors. “Because everyone now knows the identity of the Gray Wraith, the Yankees will soon be here searching for him. We aren’t that far from the Federal camp. Dr. Bennington said the Yankees might retaliate if they don’t find Mr. Alexander or his rangers.” Lila dumped a pile of dainties onto the bed.

  Emily staggered to her wardrobe, pressing her fingertips to her temples. “How can we pack up a house this large?”

  Lila pulled Emily’s trunk from the closet. “We can’t. Everyone is to take only their most cherished possessions, plus all the provisions from the cellar that will fit into the wagons. Mr. Hunt has already left with a tether of horses to turn over to the Confederate cavalry. He’s keeping only his prized stock and a few pregnant mares.” Her expression turned sympathetic toward the plantation owner. “He’ll be able to start over someday.”

  Emily washed her face and dressed quickly. “What about the workers, Lila, slave and free? Mr. Lincoln’s edict doesn’t take effect until January.”

  Lila upended a drawer into the trunk. “Mr. Hunt invited his free house staff to move to Richmond. Beatrice, Jack, and a few others accepted. Plus William, of course.” She angled a grin in Emily’s direction. “He’s leaving behind the slaves with food and a small stipend of cash. He gave each of his stable workers a horse to make their way north.”

  Emily yanked dresses from the closet. “Will they go north with a battle raging all around us?”

  “Most of them will. They’ll take their chances. But some have families in the area, so they will probably still be here when the Hunts return, no matter how long it takes.”

  Emily stopped packing to reach for Lila’s hand. “Richmond is the heart of the Confederacy. Why not Martinsburg? And what about your family?”

  She shrugged. “My parents are paid good wages. They will move wherever their jobs are. Dr. Bennington said their house in Martinsburg is probably overrun by soldiers, now that Berkeley County seceded from the state of Virginia and rejoined the United States.”

  “What about Bennington Island? Your mother loved living there.”

  “She would have no job on Bennington Island. Who knows what the new folks are like? Maybe they cook for themselv
es or maybe that house burned to the ground.” Lila shrugged her shoulders. “Mama won’t like living in a noisy, crowded city, but she would like joining former slaves living in tents even less. Everything is changing. Now, please, Emily, we must hurry.”

  Everything changed for Emily too. Within twelve hours they left Front Royal in a slow caravan of buggies, wagons, and tethered horses and journeyed to Richmond along roads ruined by the constant movement of troops and artillery. Hampered by horrible weather, the trip took weeks as they joined hundreds entering a city already filled to capacity with freed blacks and homeless whites whose farms had been destroyed by the advancing Federal Army. Richmond also teemed with invalided soldiers and deserters from the Rebel Army.

  A cold rain was falling on the slick, cobbled streets of Richmond where they finally arrived that dreary December day. James Hunt’s widowed Aunt Harriet graciously took them in, opening her faded mansion to both families along with their staffs. Harriet Cabot had little to share with her guests, however. The Federal blockade of the port effectively halted all shipments into the city. And what little still grew on the surrounding farms had to feed a lot of hungry mouths. Food was scarce in Richmond, and what could be found cost dearly. Long lines formed each morning in front of the bakery and green grocers. Matilde joined the queue each day to barter with something they had brought from Hunt Farms.

  SPRING 1863

  Emily looked out from the parlor window on a bleak city of privation. Spring seemed to have bypassed this part of the world, despite what the calendar indicated. Yet the Benningtons and Hunts went about their business with the same rectitude that had always graced their lives. Dr. Bennington arrived at the sprawling Chimborazo Hospital on the outskirts of Richmond before dawn each day. A larger hospital had never existed in the world, yet it proved inadequate for the constant flow of sick and wounded, both Confederate and Yankee. Mr. Hunt moved his valuable horse stock to a rented stable on the James River, where he continued to buy and sell on a limited basis. Dignified Mrs. Hunt and quiet-mannered Mrs. Bennnington set about turning the run-down residence into a comfortable home for the two transplanted families. With plenty of room in her three-story mansion on Franklin Street, Mrs. Cabot appreciated the attention she received more than the physical help with chores. All but one of her slaves left following the effective date of the Emancipation Proclamation. The loyal maid who had remained wasn’t able to do more than cook simple meals for two old ladies and wash their frayed dresses in a tub on the porch. They acted more like sisters than employer and servant, fretting about each other’s aches and aliments.

  Emily was troubled by more than adjustments to a city in turmoil. Recriminating memories of past actions followed her around the house like Mrs. Cabot’s tabby cat. She wasn’t the same fiery abolitionist who had left Ohio two years ago. Her conviction that slavery was an evil that never should have come to the New World remained the same, but now that it had been abolished, she saw that the newly freed had few choices open to them. Many joined the tent camps of burned-out refugees from the surrounding farms. The first step had been taken, but a permanent solution in the ravished South was obviously years away.

  No, what changed for Emily had been brewing for a long while. She was in love with Alexander. Of that she was certain. No one had ever touched her heart as he had, not even Matthew. She had judged him to be a shallow, vapid aristocrat and overlooked his kindness and integrity. Alexander and his family weren’t like others in the privileged class of inherited money, land, and power, yet she had judged the Hunts with her preconceived biases. Shame over her past deception filled her with sorrow. Had she shared even one honest conversation with Alexander? Perhaps a woman lacking honor could not recognize it in others.

  The lesson had cost her the only man she had ever loved. How stupid she had been. He might have overlooked her lack of sophistication, but who could overlook manipulation and trickery? Telling herself the end justified the means, Emily had borne false witness many times. She had stolen from him and from his family. Alexander would have freed his slaves if they had been his to free. He would have given her what she wanted if she’d asked. But she never gave him the chance. Now it was too late. The look he gave her inside the stable of Marshall House said it all. I do not trust you. And I can never love a woman I cannot trust.

  EIGHTEEN

  SUMMER 1863

  The rain had dwindled to a drizzle when Alexander, tired beyond measure and sporting a heavy beard, rode into the Hunt Farms stable yard. Traveling by night with only moonlight to guide him, he had circled around Front Royal to the east in case cavalry patrols still watched the roads from the mountains. Not having seen a newspaper or heard military reports in several months, he didn’t know if Union troops had found more important matters to occupy themselves. But he couldn’t stay away from home a moment longer even if Yankee cavalry camped in the orchards and Union officers dined at his mother’s Hepplewhite table. He also couldn’t stay away from Emily any longer. He needed to talk to her, to hear what she had to say. He owed her that much. Even if he left his beloved Shenandoah Valley for the remainder of the war, he had to gaze on her sweet face one last time. He owed himself that.

  Reining Phantom to a halt outside their largest horse barn, Alexander felt an uneasiness hanging in the air like a mist. Nothing seemed as it should. The stable doors swung back and forth in the breeze, banging each time upon a rusted hasp. Dead leaves swirled across a barnyard no one had swept in weeks. Wiping rain from his eyes, he stared in the direction of the house that had been his home since birth. He’d heard tales of Yankee vindictiveness, of burning the homes and businesses of people suspected of aiding rangers. What price had his parents paid for having sired the Wraith? But when the moon broke through the cloud cover, the outline of the house appeared before him unscathed.

  Alexander dismounted to inspect the stable and barns first. Every single horse, mule, cow, and laying hen was gone. The Union Army had confiscated every piece of tack and equipment they could carry—his father’s lifetime of hard work. On his way to the house, he noticed that the flower garden had been trampled and the vegetable plots picked clean. Not a cabbage, squash, or carrot remained. But the absence of any human life felt the most ominous. No one seemed to live or work at Hunt Farms anymore. Alexander entered the house through the front door, removed his hat ridiculously from habit, and then walked through one dusty room after another. Most of the massive, heavy furniture remained, but the chairs, paintings, silver, crystal—anything valuable and easily carried off to be resold—were gone.

  Where were his parents and the Benningtons? And where was Emily? He prayed she had returned with William from Middleburg and was with his family.

  Alexander opened the door at the far end of the center hall to gaze over his father’s abandoned pastures and fields. In every direction, the once-fertile land had been stripped clean and beaten down. Not even a crow perched on forlorn branches in between meals of fallen corn kernels.

  Suddenly, the distinctive sound of a chair scraping across wood lifted the hairs on the back of his neck. Someone was in the house, directly below him in the winter kitchen. Drawing a long-barreled Colt from his belt, he silently made his way down the narrow interior steps. Carrying no firearm on his ranger forays was one thing—he endangered no one but himself. But returning to Hunt Farms without a weapon, the infamous home of the Gray Wraith, was unthinkable. He would have no way to protect his parents…or Emily.

  At the bottom of the dark steps, his boot caught on a broken tread and sent him flying. Someone jumped up from a pallet close to the dying fire. Others stirred and fought to extract themselves from their blankets. Were deserters living in the cellar of his home? “Identify yourself and state your business!” he shouted. Then he leveled his gun at the man moving toward him.

  “Mr. Hunt?” said a tenuous voice in the dark.

  Alexander struck a match to put a face to the familiar voice. Someone close to the hearth lit a tallow candle. The flick
ering light revealed the weathered face of their best horse trainer.

  “Ephraim?” he asked, jamming his gun back into his belt.

  “Yes, sir, it’s me. We’re livin’ down here to look after things the best we can.” The face of Ephraim’s wife, his mother’s seamstress, stepped into the yellow pool. One by one, four children rose from the floor to join her side.

  “Hello, Mr. Alex,” said Fanny. She hefted the smallest child to her hip.

  He stared at one and then the other. “Where is everyone? Where’s my family?”

  “They’re gone, sir, gone to Richmond to your Aunt Harriet’s. Your pa said I should tell you that, but nobody else. So far, you’re the first who asked. We hid when those soldiers came. They made an awful racket.”

  “And made a mess too,” added Fanny. “I cleaned up best I could, but I can’t fix what’s broken.” The woman whom he’d known most of his life smiled at him shyly.

  “Thank you. I’ll see that you’re paid for your work. I’m just not sure when that will be.” Unsure what to do, Alexander awkwardly extended his hand to Ephraim.

  The former slave shook it heartily. “Sit by the fire, sir, while my wife fixes you somethin’ to eat. It ain’t much, but whatever we got we’ll share.”

  “Much obliged,” Alexander said, feeling like a guest in his own home. “Tell me everything you know, Ephraim. Leave nothing out.” He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair.

  “Not much to tell, sir. Mr. Hunt and Dr. Bennington packed up whatever they could carry in the wagons. Then Mr. Hunt roped most of his best horses together and gave the rest away. He gave me that paint Morgan, but the soldiers took her.” His mouth pulled into a frown. “Mr. Hunt told us they were going to Richmond, where it would be safer for the womenfolk.” Ephraim waited for this to be absorbed.