Embers of Anger (Embattled Hearts Book 1)

by Anna St. Claire

  He was there again… wet, cold, in a murky hell. Where were his men? He had expected to see them. Confusion caused him to moan again, answered by the hands, but Nolan slipped back to that day as the darkness claimed him.

  New Bern March 14, 1862

  Smoke rose from all directions. With all the rain of the past days, the air was wet, and the smoke hung like a curtain. The initial advance was easier than they had expected. The Rebs had dug trenches and fortified the area with fallen logs to protect their men, but the Yankees’ initial advance must have surprised them because this battle area was empty.

  He pushed forward with his column, watching. His gun was pointed and primed. He could hear the column ahead of them already engaged in battle. Bullets ricocheted off trees and bayonets clashed. Narrow knolls of land extended like fingers into the swamp. It was hard to see them in the smoky fog.

  He couldn’t see their faces yet, but he knew the enemy surrounded them on three sides. Bullets whizzed by his face. Terrified, he stepped over men in gray uniforms and blue uniforms in front of him, and he kept moving.

  He was with Reno’s column. They broke through at the brick kiln after Foster’s column had softened up the Confederate defenses. He recognized some dead bodies. They were men, friends he camped with just the night before. The situation made him weak in his knees; he used his rifle to support him.

  Keep moving.

  Acrid smoke swirled around him. Straightening, he picked himself up and moved forward once more. His stomach clenched with tension.

  The recent snow and the constant rain made it harder to tell where the swamp ended, and the ground started. His boots sunk into the deep sand and clay, softened by the water. The knolls of ground disappeared without warning. Frigid swamp water seeped through his uniform and caused him to shiver, and he muffled a cry. It came up to his waist. He raised the gun he was holding over his head.

  He inched his way forward in the freezing water towards the Confederate stronghold line. Reno pushed his men onward. The Union commanding officer’s orders reverberated throughout the marsh, along with the sounds of musket balls.

  Men screamed in pain as their bodies hit the freezing water. He saw faces of some dead in front of him, and he recognized friends he had grown up with here in New Bern. His heart twisted as he tried to think.

  Spying could get him killed if they caught on, but it was worth the risk. He needed to see Ella and Aiden.

  And there was Sara. His lovely, kind Sara… she was there, in his mind’s eye. He could almost smell her molasses cookies. Was she still waiting for him to return home—if he got home?

  Nolan knew he was risking his life. People living in New Bern would recognize him.

  A Confederate officer and a spy! That would make a great catch for someone’s career. Even though he grew up here, Nolan knew better than to test loyalties of the locals with the strain of this war. There is no telling what anyone would say if they saw him. He didn’t know how the locals would react if they saw him wearing a Union infantry uniform, knowing he was part of the Confederate army.

  A cannon exploded from behind him, stopping his thoughts. The ball shattered the hill some thirty feet in front of him. Scattered body parts of the enemy littered the area around him. He closed his eyes. Dire screams of agony pierced the already frantic atmosphere. Pungent, black smoke filled his lungs—the time was now.

  Nolan ducked down behind the fallen log and pretended to be dead. His heart pounded so hard and loud in his ears he was sure that anyone passing by would hear it, too.

  Slow breaths. Must… look dead.

  He wasn’t sure how long he would need to lie there, but he knew this would be his death if he didn’t run, and this was the only way he saw out. Hot, sticky, wet, cold.

  I don’t want to die in this hell hole. I don’t want them to find me here in Bullen’s Branch. He squeezed his eyes shut. Dammit, think!

  Less than two years ago, he had been working the plantation, in charge since his father had become unhinged following his mother’s death. He’d had plans. He wanted to help his father, but doctors gave him no hope. Still, he planned to marry and raise a family of his own.

  God, please help me get out of this disaster.

  If he died like this, his family would think he was a traitor.

  His heart was so loud. Someone would hear it.

  The sounds of human suffering and bullets pounded his ears. He moved his arms over his head, to cover them, hoping he wouldn’t draw attention.

  I need to get out of here, he thought, panic sending bile up into his throat.

  Loud voices penetrated his thoughts.

  “Retreat! Men pull back. Now!” The man bellowed orders in a tone that brokered no tolerance for debate.

  Nolan looked up, hoping he could do so without drawing attention. He had to see what was going on around him. The authoritative voice came from an officer in a gray uniform wearing a slouch hat. The officer moved from behind the cover of trees and spoke to his men. Nolan recognized him.

  General Branch was counting on him to lead his own men to victory. He had to get to his men and his camp first. The Thirty-Fifth was expecting him.

  But wait… Was his regiment retreating? They weren’t putting up a fight. What was going on here? Why wasn’t the commander telling his men to fight? The Union forces were winning.

  Nolan felt the bite on his thigh before he saw it. A few seconds later, a long, dark viper slid past his head and a hot wave of nausea overtook him. Snakebite. He would die if he didn’t get out of there. But how to escape?

  Panic threatened to overtake his body. Taking ragged breaths, he tried to slow his heart down. He knew of little but the noise of his pulse.

  He tasted the metallic taste of his blood. His lip was bleeding. He had been biting it shut to stay quiet. He could no longer hear the cannon or the wails of the dying. All he could hear was his heart hammering in his ears, faster and faster.

  If I go to sleep, I will die. Got to… get… to… help... be… fore...

  Nolan felt his body shutting down. Almost through sheer determination, he counted to himself.

  1... 2… 3… 4... 5… focus on the numbers… 6... 7... 8… 9… must… not… sleep.

  Above him, orders in a familiar voice sounded, and the firing seemed to end. He recognized Colonel Ross. “Line them up, single file men. Take weapons, Smith.” Prisoners were being taken.

  Then he heard footsteps nearby and voices he didn’t recognize. Someone lifted his head and rubbed the hair from the front of his brow. A female voice said his name. Who?

  Arms lifted his body. Carried. The darkness was overwhelming, frightening.

  Where was he?

  Light intruded and heated his face. Sheer pain washed the reality of war back over Nolan. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was no longer on the wet, cold battlefield. He had been dreaming.

  He was in some sort of lean-to, a hut. A small-framed old black woman stooped over a kettle with her back to him. She wore the clothing of a slave and had her hair up in a turban with gray wisps peeking out from the bottom. A vague familiarity struck him, but he couldn’t reason why.

  Without turning, she said, “‘Bout time you wake up. Lucky you be alive.” She twisted around and regarded him a long moment. “Massa Nole, you safe now.”

  “Where am I?” He struggled to place this woman in his mind.

  “Yuz been asleep fer two weeks. I doctored your leg, chile, I did. Right smart bite you got, Massa Nole. I sucked de poison out and put snakeweed poultice on it. Drink des here tea,” she said, shoving a cup of yellow fluid at him. “You member Ol’ Indie, doesn’t you?”

  He blinked hard, then stared a moment, trying to focus. “Ol’ Indie… I remember… but where… how did I get here?”

  A gentle pair of gnarled hands held a chipped cup of tea to his nose. The tea smelled anything but good, and the yellowed cup was dirty. He wanted to turn up his nose and refuse it, but Ol’ Indie was giving him this, a
nd he trusted her.

  Nolan told himself that the dirt couldn’t hurt as much as the poison from the snake as he accepted the cup with shaking hands.

  He lifted it to his mouth, but barely any of the liquid passed his lips. A good amount of the tea trickled down his face. The small amount he had swallowed smelled foul and created a strange sensation going down his throat.

  He tried to remember. The last thing he recalled was being bitten. He needed to check on his sister since getting word that Ella and Aiden were by themselves, except for a few slaves, down from fifty. How would she get through this war on her own? Her last letter told him that Pa had abandoned them and taken all the money. A groan escaped him. Where was he?

  He needed to get home and then back to his men. All he knew was his head hurt. He reached up and felt his face. A beard. How long did she say he had he been here?

  “You is in the swamp with me, Massa Nole. At my place. And you know where dat is. No one will find you until you ready to be found.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “You been here a while now, Massa Nole. Right poorly you were. When I found you, you were laying wit’ de dead men, but I checked and knew you was still alive. I seen you move. Ol’ Indie was watching de big man with the Union Army pick up the dead men. Dey almost got you ’fore ah sees you move and check on you.” She took the cup from Nolan. “Drink more of this. You been in and out of sleep for goin’ on two weeks. This will help you can get better.” Grinning, she filled up the cup and handed it to Nolan.

  Nolan grimaced but accepted the cup, his hands still showing a slight tremor. He set the cup down but held on to it. “I need to find out what happened to my men. I saw them retreating. Were they defeated?”

  Not getting an answer, he continued, his voice rocky. “And I need to check on my house, my family. I have to warn my sister and little brother.” His voice wavered from exhaustion. He felt weak.

  “Well, here now, you need to take things slow, Massa Nole. You look like a Union boy and I know dat your sista gonna near faint when she sees you in dat uniform.” Ol’ Indie sat back down in a heap in her old cane rocker and picked up her pipe. Placing it in her mouth, she stared at Nolan. “What you got to warn Miss Ella ‘bout?” Nolan could tell that Ol’ Indie worried about Ella. Her hands shook when she mentioned their safety. “What you figger’n to do when you feel better, boy? And drink up that potion for Ol’ Indie. It’ll make you strong.”

  Nolan drew the drink to his lips. He knew he needed it. He took a swig, trying to swallow. The foul taste was still hard to swallow, and he sprayed it from his mouth.

  “What is this?” Spitting out the residue, he looked up at the woman.

  “Drink up. Dis is my marshmallow root tea. It is good to keep de fever and de infection in your blood down.”

  He tried to clear his throat. “My sister needs to know there are dangers. There are runaways and deserters who could threaten her.”

  Nolan was grateful for her rescue, but Ol’ Indie’s presence and lack of information added to his confusion and frustration. He needed to get to his men.

  What a fine kettle of fish he was in now. His orders were to move to the other side, not get bitten by a damn snake! He could hang for desertion from the Union Army. If captured and found to be a Confederate officer, he faced prison.

  He needed to stay hidden until he could make it back to his men once he could figure out where they had gone. He had expected to see them when he first got to the battlefield. It shocked him to see so much battlefield unmanned. The Yanks advanced easily.

  Something had gone wrong, and he wanted to know why they abandoned his carefully-laid plans and the battle lost.

  Chapter 5

  Colonel Jackson Ross had rounded up as many of the Confederates as his men could find. The prisoners who weren’t injured were moved to a prison camp. The battle had been costly despite the Rebel surrender and early retreat.

  The outcome pleased General Burnsides. Federal forces had taken control of the major port city of New Bern and the train that ran from Wilmington to Goldsboro. His job would be to serve as a provost marshall and restore order to the area. It would not be easy.

  In the past six weeks, his men had gone to great lengths to account for all of the Union soldiers. So far, they could only find one person unaccounted for, dead or alive. Private White was the only man missing.

  A small posse of men was scouring the area looking for him. Jackson didn’t want to think of the man wandering around in need of medical help.

  Oddly, Jackson recalled White. He had struck him as alert bright, and not the type to bolt. He was nowhere to be found. It seemed the lad was a runner. They would find him.

  The military established several hospitals because there had been so many wounded on both sides of the battle. The thought occurred that he should check them, in case the young man had been improperly identified. He realized it wouldn’t be easy. General Burnsides was already talking about making New Bern a regional hospital site for the wounded, and he was bringing in more doctors.

  Jackson recalled previous medical facilities he had assembled. The government wanted more money and attention going into this area— and it made a big a difference. These hospitals used the latest methods and medicines. They had buildings to work with, including the two-story New Bern Academy, and the Dixon House. Still, with so many sick men. he needed more nurses. But how could he accomplish that?

  Perhaps he could speak with Sara Larson at The Griddle. She may have some helpful thoughts on the matter.

  Heavy rain soaked the town for days. The morning the skies cleared, Jackson did something he’d been thinking about doing since meeting Ella Whitford. He headed across the street to The Mercantile. He had a niggling feeling and hoped he could solve it with this visit.

  Opening the door to the store, he stepped in and the bell chimed behind him. “Morning, Mrs. Smyth.”

  Startled by the slam of the door, the short, plump woman stopped talking to her husband. “Oh, good morning, Colonel Ross. What can we do for you today?”

  Mr. Smyth scurried to the backroom, leaving his wife at the front counter, not waiting to hear a response.

  Mrs. Smyth smiled at Jackson. Her hands twisted a rolled-up dust cloth tightly.

  She was nervous. But why?

  He grinned and moved in her direction, trying to put her at ease. “I wonder if you could help me.” He lowered his voice, watching her face as he continued. “This is important. What can you tell me about a family living on a plantation called Silver Moon?”

  “You are referring to the Whitfords?” she asked haltingly.

  “Actually, yes.” He drew up to the counter, leaning against it in a conspiratorial manner. “I met one of the members of the family. I believe she may be the lady of the house, a Miss Ella Whitford.”

  “Colonel, yes, yes. We know Ella very well. A loyal and hard-working young woman.” Visibly relaxed, Mrs. Smyth leaned forward, keeping her voice low in case someone walked into the store. “Very nice family—well, what is left of the family. She has been running things since her father up and left her and her little brother a while back. Took all of their money, I heard. Had a strange notion about finding his son—who isn’t lost. He’s a soldier fighting... ah… fighting for the South.” Mrs. Smyth flashed an apologetic look as she rushed on. “She depends on a handful of house slaves.”

  He stood there for a moment, silent, knowing that the woman he met this week was living in isolation and with no protection. He felt a strange sense of concern. She relied on the money from the eggs and vegetables. Jackson was glad he insisted she take money.

  “Is her husband serving in the war?”

  “Oh, no. No husband.”

  He tried to quell the strange feeling of pleasure sweeping over him. He hadn’t noticed a ring, but he also knew many Southern women gave up their jewelry to help fund the Confederacy’s strapped coffers. He wanted to smile, but paused for a long moment, thinking.

/>   Mrs. Smyth gave him a look. “She was mighty popular growing up and would have been the belle of the ball here.” She sniffed and blew into a handkerchief. “What with the war, well, things have changed. She is now a mother to her brother. She teaches him how to read and cipher and keeps food on the table. She is very devoted to little Aiden.”

  “Yes, and from what you’ve told me, she seems to have taken on quite a few things to keep her home intact.”

  Mrs. Smyth fidgeted with the pad and pencil she had laid on her counter. “Her mother was a close friend of mine, God rest her soul. Eleanor died giving birth to that little boy.” Looking away, she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She was quiet for a long moment. “Mr. Whitford loved his wife and his family very much. But when Eleanor died…he never was himself again. He up and left a year ago. Ella takes care of everything herself, and she’s doing a real fine job.”

  The thought of Miss Whitford’s vulnerability kept turning over in his mind as he listened.

  She hesitated, suddenly nervous. “Is there something wrong out at Silver Moon?”

  Jackson lifted his hat and stepped back from the counter. “No, no. No trouble out there that I know of. I, well, I ran into her a little earlier this week. I was unaware that there was a young woman heading up the family occupying the plantation. It’s my responsibility to know this area and protect the citizens. It’s one I take seriously. These are dangerous times with runaways and deserters. I appreciate the information. I do. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Smyth beamed. “I’m pleased I could be of help, Colonel.”

  He started to leave, but recalling the cigars on display, he returned to the counter. “Mrs. Smyth, I’ll take two packs of those nice cherry-blend cheroots.” He pointed to the cigars on the shelf behind her. “And how about another bar of that soap you sold me last week? Sandalwood, I believe it was.”