The Whistle Walk: A Civil War Novel (Ironwood Plantation Family Saga Book 1)

by Stephenia H. McGee

  “What are you doing, Betsy?”

  The woman turned to look at her with despondent eyes. “They’s come. They’s come to take Ironwood from us.”

  “As long as I breathe they shall do no such thing.”

  Betsy blinked at her but said nothing.

  “Gather your things. Tell Lucy to do the same. You, Lucy, and Ruth will be staying in the house with me. I want us close.”

  “Why?”

  “The officers will stay in the house. We will tend to their needs.”

  “What needs?”

  “Make their meals, do their laundry, change their linens. We will serve them to the best of our ability.”

  Betsy gazed at her with those wise eyes, making her have to resist the urge to squirm beneath their intensity. “You is gonna serve them men? It’s not befittin’ your place as lady.”

  Lydia lifted her chin. What did such things matter anymore? “I shall. What Ironwood needs out of its lady now is any protection she can afford them. The captain has given me his word that Ironwood will be spared.”

  “Ah. So we do what we must.”

  “Yes.”

  “I still don’t like it. Strange men in the house.”

  Lydia chewed her lip. “Neither do I. But we shall stick together. You and the girls will sleep in the room Charles’ parent’s intended to be a nursery. There is no upstairs door there. Tommy is having a new lock placed on the bedroom door below it. The two rooms will give enough space for the four of us and provide a manner of protection with only one door to guard.”

  “So you done thought this through.”

  “Yes. We must hurry now. I fear the men will grow impatient. I have Ruth showing them the house, but they will not be stalled with such things for long. I need you to find Lucy. Where has that woman disappeared to? I haven’t seen her all day.”

  Betsy pressed her lips together and looked away.

  Uneasiness swelled again. “What?”

  “I don’t know if I should say.”

  “Why not?”

  She ran a hand over her short-cropped hair, devoid of its usual brightly-colored scarf. “You made so many changes ’round here. They bring us hope.” She paused and studied Lydia, as if at odds with herself. “But even good change can be frightenin’ to some.”

  She grew impatient. “And?”

  “Lucy, she’s pretty set in her ways. She likes to know her place and know things be done properly.” Betsy shrugged. “It’s just her way.”

  “There is little use for what is proper now. We have to do what we must to survive.”

  “As we has always done.”

  The soft words hung on the air, the crackling fire in the hearth the only sound. Would Lydia ever truly know what life was like for them? She felt like a child pretending. Dressing and playing a part she hardly understood.

  “I am sorry. Security and the promise of a new future is all I can offer. I am doing my best.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she hated herself for it. What good would her best do? But she could offer nothing more.

  Betsy crossed the floor and placed her hands on Lydia’s shoulders, a gentle gesture that only months ago would have seemed completely foreign but now felt only natural. “You is strong and kind. I don’t think them men have any idea who they’s dealing with.” A smile tugged at her lips.

  “Perhaps. But what does this have to do with Lucy?”

  Betsy dropped her arms and walked to the fire, staring into the dancing flames that cast scurrying shadows across the floor. “She was afraid of them men. Afraid of what them being here would mean.”

  “We are all afraid of that.”

  “She couldn’t stay.”

  “What do you mean she couldn’t stay?” Frustration boiled out of her. How many more would choose to abandon her? And Lucy! How could she with all her talk of safety with the Union? “I don’t understand.”

  Compassion glistened in Betsy’s eyes. “As soon as them men came to the door she came to me. Said she couldn’t stay here to see what happened. She needed to go.”

  Lydia shook her head hard enough to loosen a pin from her heavy hair and cause a lock to slip free. “No! She told Ruth the people called me a Northern sympathizer. Lucy said we would be safer with the Union troops near in town. Why, then, would she leave when they came? Of all of us, wouldn’t she be glad to see them here?”

  Lydia’s breathing became hard, pent up anger she tried to contain seeping out as sweat from her brow. “Were her words nothing but lies?”

  “Don’t know, ma’am. I wish I did. All I can tell you is I’m as surprised as you is.”

  “She can’t have gone far. I shall retrieve her.”

  “But you said they was free to choose.”

  Lydia ground her teeth. “Lucy is not like the others with wild fantasies of a glorious freedom on the other side. She is more logical. Practical. She knows the dangers of going out on her own. What would possess her to do such a thing? I can convince her she needs to stay. Surely she was acting out of fear, not reason.”

  Betsy watched her pace the floor, her long gown sweeping around her legs and pooling behind her like a silken waterfall.

  “Ma’am, I don’t think chasing after her would be the best use of your time right now. We needs you. The people needs to see you under control, not chasing after Lucy. We talked. This here ain’t no real surprise. She’s talked ’bout leaving since that first group done gone.”

  “But she’s not the type to run.” Even as the words slipped from her mouth, she wondered at her own audacity. What did she know of the woman? Lucy always answered in the manner expected. She did as she was told. She lived under the strict ideas of propriety and structure. Maybe her heart longed for something different. How could Lydia possibly begin to judge the inner heart of a woman she really had never known?

  Betsy waited as if reading her thoughts.

  Lydia ran her hands over her skirts and took a long breath of the air that always seemed filled with the homey scents of food lovingly prepared. “Then so leaves another from the walk.”

  “Yep. It seems so.”

  “And you? What will you choose?”

  “My path is here, ma’am.”

  Lydia lifted her brow. “And you do not wish to leave the walk as well?”

  “I already did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Betsy opened her arms wide and gestured to the expanse of the kitchen. “I don’t got to step off the walk to whistle a new tune. I love my home and its people. You done brought freedom to us, and I ain’t got to go after it.” She winked at Lydia. “’Sides, I’m too old and too fat to go arunnin’ through the woods.”

  A ridiculous giggle bubbled up out of Lydia’s chest. “Oh, Betsy. I am glad you will stay. The captain would not be pleased with the meals I would make him.”

  Betsy laughed. “No, I reckon not.”

  When their giggles died, seriousness settled once again on Betsy’s features. “You think he’ll keep his word?”

  “It is the only hope I have.”

  “And you think he’ll act with honor?” The tightness in her voice betrayed the very concern Lydia had tried to bury.

  Her hands tightened at her sides. “I shall see to it that he does.”

  Betsy watched her for several moments and then gave a single nod. “Likes I said, they best not underestimate you. But what can a woman do?”

  One man bore scars of Lydia’s fury already, if he even still lived. She would do whatever she must.

  “We will do their washing and mending. I will even polish their boots, if it keeps my Ironwood safe. We’ll be their cooks and their maids. But anything more they try to take from us and, Lord help me, I will poison their food and stab them while they sleep.”

  She spun on her heel and left Betsy staring after her in disbelief.

  October 14, 1862

  The captain eyed Lydia with a cold stare. Five bottles of Charles’s good wine from the cellar already sat emp
ty on the dining room table. She was tired, her back sore from spending the day washing their clothing and mending their socks. She’d cleaned their messes, carried in their meals, and stood by the table to refill their glasses when they ran low. Four days they’d sat in her house doing nothing but smoking cigars and drinking too long into the night.

  Four days of catering to their whims—which grew ever more frivolous. One of the men eyed her with a glimmer in his gaze that made her skin crawl. She’d give them no more fuel for their foul tempers and impure thoughts.

  “As I said, Captain, I am afraid no more wine can be brought up tonight.” She held her ground, forcing herself to hold his stare and keep her face impassive.

  “And I say I shall drink my fill.”

  Lydia glanced to Ruth, who shook her head ever so slightly. She returned her gaze to Captain Thomas. “My husband says a man too many in his cups risks losing himself to dishonor and then finding that upon sobering that he has created regrets that cannot be undone.” Her voice remained soft, but she knew the underlying warning shone in her eyes.

  Captain Thomas toyed with the stem of his glass and looked down the table at his men. Lydia tried not to hate the man sitting so self-righteously in her husband’s chair. The captain’s presence only made Charles’s absence sting more.

  Oh, Charles. Where are you?

  Still no word from him. Her only solace was that his name had not appeared on the lists of the dead. Not yet.

  The men’s boisterous laughter died down as they turned to their commander. Ruth glared at her.

  “Do you doubt our honor, then?” he said, still looking at his empty glass.

  “I mean no disrespect, Captain. I merely wish to help you remember that the men under your charge are your responsibility and that even the best men can be turned to scoundrels with too much drink.”

  Lydia held her breath. He pushed back from the table and stood to look down at her, making her tilt her head all the way back to see into the face towering over her. She must not falter now. If she lost ground here, she would never regain it.

  “So now not only am I dishonorable, but I neglect my responsibilities as well?” His hot breath washed over her, threatening to turn her stomach.

  She inclined her head and tried to remember all Mother’s lessons on the guile and charm a lady could use to gain men into her favor. How she wished she’d listened closer. “Forgive me, dear Captain. I am but a simple woman who does not always know the proper way to command words. Such is for men to do.” She smiled sweetly at him and some of the redness from his face drained. He narrowed his eyes but returned to his seat, his gaze not falling from her.

  “I wish only to implore your good kindness to not let drink rob you of the ability to remain the protectors we women need.” She forced the words past the constriction in her throat.

  He let out a low sound in his throat and looked over his men. One had grabbed Ruth’s hand and was attempting to coax her into his lap. Something lit in the captain’s eyes. He slammed his hand down on the table.

  “Lieutenant!”

  The man dropped Ruth’s hand, and she scurried out of his reach, standing with her back pressed against the wall, her chest rising and falling a little too quickly. The candelabra in the center of the table boasted only the nearly-spent candles of a meal lasting long past practicality. The captain glared over it to the younger man three chairs removed from him.

  “You will do well to remember you are on duty, and this is not a brothel. Conduct yourself accordingly.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man lowered his eyes to his plate.

  Captain Thomas turned his focus back to Lydia, his eyes less glazed than they had been only moments ago. She prayed that clarity would work in her favor.

  “Mrs. Harper, sometimes a lady can see what we men often overlook. You have been a most gracious hostess.”

  She let the breath escape her lungs in a rush and forced the best smile she could muster. “I thank you. Now, if you like, I had my cook prepare a cobbler for you for dessert.” Hopefully the thought of a treat would turn his mind from the wine.

  He smiled. “Splendid. Yes, bring it in to us.”

  She glanced to Ruth and motioned for her to follow her out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind them, voices and laughter filled the room. Ruth crossed her arms over her chest.

  “I don’t like that one bit. You almost made that man get ugly. What would we have done then?” Ruth hissed through clenched teeth.

  A year ago, Lydia might have felt ire, or at least disbelief, rise upon hearing a colored woman speak to her that way. But that was a lifetime ago. Now she served as a maid in her own house, working side by side with Betsy and Ruth. The color of her skin made no difference. Strange how she always thought being equal would make them like her. She’d never considered giving up her place to be like them.

  She grabbed Ruth’s arm and led her out of the house. “I couldn’t let them keep drinking. That would only make them bolder and more dangerous.”

  “Maybe you shoulda just told him there ain’t no more wine.”

  “And if he discovers I lied? What do you think would happen then?” Lydia shook her head. “No. Then he would start looking for other things we might be hiding. I can’t have that.”

  “It’s like standing in a mound of dry grass holding a burnin’ match over your head. Sooner or later somethin’s gonna fall and light everything on fire,” Ruth said.

  They descended the steps into the clear night, a chorus of frogs singing their tune, oblivious to the wars waged by men. Lydia rubbed her arms, wishing she’d thought to grab a cloak.

  “We will just have to step carefully and try to keep peace for as long as we can. It is our only option.”

  They hurried into the kitchen and retrieved a large pan of cobbler from Betsy.

  “Them is the last of my peaches,” Betsy said.

  Lydia looked at the tray in her hands. “How are we on supplies?”

  Betsy wagged her head. “We is a lot lower than we ever been, and it’s only October. I don’t know how we gonna make it through the winter.”

  Ruth huffed. “Especially not with them men eatin’ like they do.”

  “She’s right. Betsy, start stretching our food as much as you can. I won’t see our people starve while those brutes feast.”

  Lydia turned on her heel and strode from the warmth of the kitchen out into the chill of the night, warm cobbler she wouldn’t get to eat balanced on one arm and her feet once again traveling the whistle walk. Ruth opened the door for her, and she placed the tray in the middle of the table of boisterous men.

  Lydia’s skin crawled with the sounds of their raucous laughter. Grinding her teeth together to keep honest words from reaching insulted ears, she cut each man a portion of the dessert and handed it to Ruth to pass out among them.

  “We need some entertainment don’t we, fellows?” one of the men, whose name Lydia didn’t care to remember, said as he raised his arm in the air and gathered the others’ attention.

  “Here! Here!” cried the youngest-looking of the bunch. He couldn’t be much older than Lydia, if that. He might have been considered handsome if not for the dark circles under his gleaming eyes.

  Lydia shot a glance at Ruth. Her jaw worked, but she kept at her task placing the last piece of cobbler in front of a dark-haired man who kept his gaze on the table.

  The captain pushed back from the table and rose to his feet. “Yes! Some entertainment.”

  The men cheered. Lydia removed the pan from the table and set it on the sideboard, her eyes communicating to Ruth to slip out the door. Ruth skirted around the room and came to her side. Lydia’s fingers brushed the doorknob.

  “Mrs. Harper!”

  She turned slowly and kept her face impassive. “Yes, Captain Thomas?”

  “My men call for entertainment.”

  She inclined her head. “As I have heard, sir. But such things were not part of our agreement.”

 
His face darkened.

  Lydia held his gaze. She could not show weakness. But neither must she show defiance. A delicate balance, that if tipped, could prove disastrous for all of them.

  “She could leave the pretty maid. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind keeping us company,” one of the men called out. The others laughed.

  Lydia’s fists clenched at her sides, but she kept her focus on the captain. How much these men tried would depend on him. She batted her eyes. “Ruth does not know how to play the pianoforte and neither does she have a good singing voice. I am afraid she would do little good as entertainment.”

  The men burst into more laughter, the darkness in it raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

  The captain put up a hand and the men quieted. “Perhaps you could play for us, then?”

  “Forgive me, but I am tired. Perhaps another night.”

  She turned and grasped the door again, pulling it free.

  “Wait.”

  She lifted her chin and focused on her breathing. Ruth crossed her arms over her chest. Lydia prayed she wouldn’t open her mouth. “Yes?”

  “I will have my men and myself well cared for. Remember what’s at stake.” The low threat in his voice turned her fear into seething anger.

  Ruth’s cold fingers clamped down on her arm, and Lydia realized she’d taken a step closer to the leering captain. Composure. She must remain calm.

  She kept her words even. “And well cared for they are, served by my own hand in every area we agreed upon. As I said, I shall hold you to your word.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. Silence hung on the room. Before he could say anything more, Lydia dropped into a curtsey. “Good evening, gentlemen. I trust you can see yourselves to your beds.”

  The women ducked out of the room and across the hall to the bedroom Charles’s parents had built for themselves on the lower floor so as not to tax the elder Mr. Harper’s failing knees with too many trips up the stairs. Lydia slid the two bolts on the door closed with trembling fingers.

  “Let’s pray that keeps ’em out,” Ruth said. She hugged her arms around herself. “They getting restless. I don’t know how much longer until one of ’em forgets to act like a gentleman.”