Return to Shirley Plantation

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  “Matthew, do you have Lt. Carter’s letter?” Lieutenant Filmore pulled back the flap to the tent and peered in.

  “Yes sir.”

  “We’re on his land. Bring it up to the house. We’ll see what these ladies are made of.”

  What did that mean? “Let me wash up and I’ll be right with you.”

  Now, standing at the top of the steps beneath a large overhang, as Sergeant Ross pounded on the door, a weight settled in Matthew’s stomach. Wouldn’t his own mother long to hear from him—to know where he was?

  Lieutenant Filmore stared at Ross. “Treat these women with respect, men, or you’ll answer to me.”

  Sergeant Ross’s mouth twitched beneath his shaggy moustache.

  The door creaked open and a tiny woman with salt and pepper hair cocked her head at them.

  “Madam, we are taking control of your property…”

  A thin hand clutched the chain of a gold cross at her neck. “Come in and tell me what you need.”

  Coming from the river after washing, Matthew had already observed men scooping up eggs into their hats and bringing them to the cook. Hunks of butter had likewise been retrieved. But the men were hungry and with all the food available on this plantation, he knew it would be pilfered if they were not accommodated.

  The matron turned her back to them. The men exchanged glances then followed her into an expansive foyer. The stairs, to the right of the entryway, gave the illusion of hanging in space, for a moment causing Matthew’s vision to blur. The room they stood in was as large as some people’s homes, with a width of about thirty feet. She looked over her shoulder as she walked beneath an archway.

  They followed her to a parlor outfitted with a large fireplace, unlit on this warm June day, the letter in Matthew’s pocket nagging to be read.

  “Ma’am?” Matthew spoke, despite Ross’s glare.

  Mrs. Carter turned. He caught the flicker of fear that danced across her face before she put on her “stage face” of benign hospitality.

  “I have a letter from one of your sons.”

  “Praise God. Is he safe?” The tiny woman waited for Matthew to reach her. “Did you see him? Was it Hilly?” She grasped his hands, hers icy cold, revealing her distress—her attempted performance as a calm Southern woman vanished.

  Chapter 2

  Injured soldiers lay shoulder-to-shoulder as far as Angelina could see, all across the grounds of Shirley Plantation. Someone cooked nearby and she saw a man grinning as he carried a huge shank of bacon to a smoky pit.

  Lord have mercy.

  A Confederate soldier was marched between two bulky men up the stairs of the Great House. What would they do to him? Was it Hilly? Had he been captured?

  Angelina woke Charity. “Honey, you gots to help me dress.” She’d slipped into her South Carolinian slave accent that her benefactress had tried to drum out of her.

  “Huh?” The girl rubbed her eyes.

  “Get up and help me with my corset.” Angelina swept her hair up and pinned it. She’d not wear her hair beneath a cloth. She needed to hurry.

  “Get me the black dress in the armoire.”

  Once attired in mourning wear, hoping to discourage any potential masculine interest, Angeline headed to the house, a black veil draped over her face.

  She hastened up the front steps and onto the portico. Opening the door, she swept in—as if she belonged. The Carter women had rehearsed this scenario with her.

  Mrs. Carter’s dulcet tones and a man’s bass voice echoed in the center room. Angelina strode through her bombazine skirts to the parlor. I am not a slave I am a free woman. A free woman living in the south. The words failed to comfort her.

  Upon entry, only one man stood, a man with braid on his shoulders. The Confederate soldier remained seated, a hand resting beneath his chin as he leaned forward. The dark haired man wasn’t Hilly. Hazel eyes perused her face. Why did he not rise? A good bath would have further improved the handsome man’s looks. But if he got any more good looking…

  Her heart performed a somersault that Julian would have been proud of. What was wrong with her? This was a man fighting to keep people like her enslaved.

  The man’s eyes held intense pain. Why did the Northern officers bring a Confederate soldier into the home?

  A tic in Louisa’s cheek, beneath her eye, betrayed her fear. “Cousin Angie, come join us. I was just reassuring these gentlemen that we will do our utmost to assist their wounded.”

  Fanny, Charles Carter’s wife, pressed her lips into a tight smile.

  “And this young man has a message from one of my sons.” Mary B. smiled benevolently first at Angelina and then at the attractive soldier.

  “Hilly—is he all right?” Angie’s question came out in a rush. The Carter women collectively fixed their eyes on her. She averted her gaze, not wishing to feel Hilly’s wife’s questioning eyes.

  Angelina admired the young man, an ordained minister. He and his mother were two of the reasons she’d decided to remain at Shirley until she could get herself and the children north. Their strong faith had been a constant reassurance. Then the war broke out. And Hilly chose to enlist—surprising her. And truth be told, disappointing her. He was a man of faith, who suffered from epileptic fits, and he’d have been a better source of comfort to his family had he remained home.

  “No, ma’am.” His voice held a twang unfamiliar to her. He struggled to his feet, swayed slightly then reached inside his coat, retrieving a letter. He offered it to Mary B. and Angelina wished it were her hand that brushed against his as he passed the missive.

  Mary B.’s face brightened then fell. “Is he injured?”

  “He was, ma’am, but he’ll be exchanged for one of our officers.”

  Matthew licked his dry lips and tried to disengage his vision from the beautiful widow. Despite the black neck-high dress, Angie shone lovelier than any of the other women present—even than any woman he’d ever seen. He pulled his gaze from her blue-gray eyes. Here was a wealthy plantation owner’s widow and he’d been disrespectful. Not only that but he was a northerner—a Yankee by their description, though he’d not call himself such. That was a term he’d only heard in reference to New Yorkers and others from the Northeast.

  A slender young man entered the room, followed by a distinguished-looking older man, who nodded. “Hill Carter, owner of Shirley Plantation, and this is my son, Dr. Lewis Warrington Carter.”

  “A physician?” Lieutenant Filmore leaned forward.

  “Yes, and I am anxious to help—I see you’ve many wounded men.” Dr. Carter rubbed his chin. “I confess; I awoke to their cries but was unsure if you’d welcome my assistance.”

  Sergeant Ross snorted. “Shirley is now a field hospital. Of course we can use your help.”

  Mrs. Carter, her hands clasped demurely, moved silently closer to her son. “Warrington is our eldest surviving child. He studied medicine in Pennsylvania.”

  “Completed my internship in France.”

  She smiled up approvingly. “He’s our only son at home.”

  The two men exchanged glances. “I see. I’m not a surgeon but I can care for the men. Do you have supplies?”

  “Frankly, we’ve not been prepared for the great number of casualties, Dr. Carter. Mr. Carter, I am familiar with your name—War of 1812 naval hero I believe.”

  Hill Carter’s lips compressed, his eyes darting among the union men.

  “Shame you couldn’t convince your sons to fight for America, too.” Sergeant Ross smirked and Lieutenant Filmore shot him an icy look.

  Mr. Carter remained stock still.

  Matthew’s respect for Mr. Carter grew as he didn’t back down.

  “In any event, Mr. Carter, we are now occupying your plantation.” Lieutenant Filmore glanced around the well-appointed room. “And will requisition anything we need. Your wife and daughters-in-law have graciously offered to assist.”

  The beautiful widow’s eyes widened. She alone of the women lacked a
fan. While the others cooled themselves, she sat upright, still. Why did his eyes continue to be drawn to her? Her hair appeared hastily attended to. Honeyed skin was complemented by rosy cheeks. Or was she blushing? He forced himself to look away.

  If he’d been setting up this scene, he’d have had props for each woman, and all would have assistance with wardrobe and stage makeup and hair. Something was seriously amiss…

  Sergeant Ross kicked Matthew awake.

  “Don’t think you fool me with your story—we haven’t confirmed what you said. Not that I have any sympathy for the son of a…” Ross launched into a slew of profanity. … “Copperhead’s son.”

  Despite his headache, Matthew wouldn’t be cowed. “Sergeant Ross, I am not my father. I’m the owner of a theatrical troupe.”

  The bully spit on the ground near Matthew. “I’m keeping an eye on you—and on that pretty gal from the house. I got a feeling about her, too—something’s not right.”

  Other than her being a Confederate soldier’s widow? That alone should have been enough to irritate Ross.

  “McClellan is at Harrison’s Landing.” He squinted at Matthew. “If anyone was going to be sympathetic to your story it would be him. But don’t count on it. In the meanwhile get your sorry self up and help those women.”

  Matthew spied the Carter women rolling bandages beneath the rear portico. The back of the house faced the river and boat traffic. Including McClellan’s gun boats. What did those ladies think as they toiled there in full view of those guns?

  “I’m a strong man.” Other than these dizzy spells he now suffered. “I think I can be put to better use.”

  Now, hours later, Mathew regretted his comment. The Carter women had served the men soup, bread, and weak lemonade as well as performing nursing duties. Meanwhile he’d slapped together ten raised wooden platforms on which the men could be placed and examined.

  Movement nearby caught his eye. Angie Carter’s competent beauty as she meandered through the field of sick men, stopping to pour water, caused his breath to catch in his chest.

  Many of these men wouldn’t live past sunset. But at least they’d have some kindness shown them. He swiped a hand at the sweat below his eyes.

  One of the soldiers asked her a question. She hesitated and her full pink lips pulled into a narrow line.

  Sergeant Ross turned from screaming at a private serving as an orderly and grabbed Angie’s upper arm. Matthew stiffened then moved toward the widow.

  “Whatever these suffering men require—you’re to provide it, do you understand me, Mrs. Carter?” Ross’s loud voice carried across the distance as Matthew strode forward.

  At first Angelina kept her eyes downcast but when Ross yanked on her arm, she glared up at him.

  “Take your hand off me. Now.”

  Ross averted his gaze to Matthew. His face reddened but he released her arm. He leaned over and whispered something in her ear and the young widow backed away from him, fear flickering over her pretty features.

  As Matthew reached her, the sergeant stomped off.

  Longing to pull the shaking woman into his arms, Matthew refrained and twisted his cap in his hands. “Mrs. Carter, are you all right?”

  Angelina pressed a hand to her chest and strode as quickly as she could, through her heavy false widow’s weeds, toward the slave quarters. She stopped at door of the oldest slave on the plantation and tapped gently. Charity and Julian were told to go here if they had any trouble. But now faced with difficulties of her own, Angelina needed comfort. And reassurance that she hadn’t made a fool choice by not only staying when she could have gone, but trying to pass as a member of the family.

  The door creaked open and the tiny woman opened her arms. “I knew you was comin’, Angel.”

  Unbidden tears flowed down her cheeks as Granny embraced her.

  “I gots hominy and some butter that them soldiers didn’t swipe. You sit down now.” The elderly woman pulled Angelina toward a plain but serviceable table and chairs.

  “It’s been a long day, Granny.”

  “Um hum, sure be that. But you young.” Halfway through dipping white-gold hominy from the pot and into a small crock for Angelina to eat from, the slave raised her head.

  Angelina tipped her head, hearing the faint strains of a trumpet. Some kind of brass instrument, such as she’d heard in orchestras in Richmond. One of the military men she’d nursed had called himself a bugler. He’d praised God that only his left arm was damaged. But would he even live? A tear trailed down her cheek and she brushed it away.

  Granny placed the dish atop a strip of cloth that served as a place mat then took Angelina’s hand again and led her to the door and outside.

  The music floated up from nearby Harrison’s Landing.

  “That be different music tonight, Angel girl.” Tears slid down the woman’s face and Angelina’s eyes followed suit.

  The strain of the bugle call, so poignant, tugged at her heart and the wetness of her cheeks soon matched Granny’s.

  “They be sad—that why that boy play so forlorn a song.” Granny shook her head.

  “They lost so many men, Granny.” Angelina wrapped an arm around the woman’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, Jesus, for those boys who died to free us.” Her lower lip trembling, the elderly slave tipped her head back, looking up at the darkening sky.

  So many dead. So many wounded. So many would yet die.

  When the military music ceased sounding from Berkeley Plantation they both returned to the cabin and blotted their faces.

  Granny sat in her rocker instead of at the table. “My days comin’ to an end soon.”

  “Don’t say that.” Angelina’s words came out hoarse, hushed.

  She laughed gently. “Don’t you worry none about me—I knows where I goin’ and the angels comin’ regular-like to visit me now. Purty near every night.”

  Dipping a spoon into her hominy, Angelina stirred the mounds round and round in the tiny bowl. “I’m not ready for you to go. You’ve been so good to me and the children.” And to Lorena before she’d died. Angelina blinked back more tears.

  “God do everything in His own sweet time. When He say wait—He got a reason. When He say go, He gots His reason then, too.”

  The creak of the rocking chair, and Granny’s words, were enough reassurance for Angelina. She took a bite of the hominy, savoring its buttery taste and rough texture. It tasted of home. What would it be like up north?

  Mary B. closed and locked the dining room door. Angelina told her what the vile Sergeant Ross had threatened the previous day. This morning, they’d finished a quick breakfast of ham, biscuits and tea, the same the soldiers would shortly receive—those well enough to eat.

  “Not one word today—do you understand me?” The tiny woman shook a finger at them, eying Angelina especially. “Not if you want to keep yourself from harm.”

  Seated on the floor, the twins hugged closer to Angelina’s knees.

  “Mama?” Louisa fanned herself vigorously. “I’ve tried so very hard to hold my tongue.”

  “Don’t you utter one word against the Union men, Lou. I won’t tolerate it.” Mary B.’s tone was razor sharp.

  Fanny’s face flushed. “Why not?”

  “Hasn’t my son told you what one of the Yankee general’s has ordered?”

  Blinking, Fanny replied, “Charles says political discussions are not for women.”

  If the topic wasn’t so serious, Angelina would have snorted. Numerous times she’d caught Charles’s wife hovering near the second floor portico while the men smoked and talked politics. Angelina would clean around her, her feather duster whisking over the furniture as Fanny strained to hear.

  Louisa arched her eyebrows. “I’ve no intention of criticizing these wounded men nor the Union and being labeled a…”

  Mrs. Carter’s hand shot out to stop the woman. Her soft gaze settled on the children, who gazed up at her. “Well, I’m sure you all understand the peril we’re
in. But we’re Christian, don’t forget and we have our duty to God. Let’s bow our heads and pray.”

  As she prayed for them, the groans and shouts of the men carried through the open windows. Unbidden tears rose in Angelina’s eyes. How would she make it through another day? She felt in her pocket for the lavender sachet she kept there—a reminder of her sister. She’d need several pomanders today and wished she could make a mask of them. Mary B’s fervent prayer lifted Angelina’s spirit.

  “Amen. All right, I’ll organize the slaves—assuming the military hasn’t already…”

  But Angelina followed Mary B’s gaze, swiveling toward the windows.

  Sergeant Ross yelled at the field hands and lined them up as though they were his recruits. He was deliberately parading them near the Carter home. They’d already lost a half dozen field hands who’d swam out into the James River and been taken aboard the gunboats. Not that Angelina blamed them.

  She’d had a choice. Yet she’d not taken the opportunity and gone. She’d suffered mockery from both the house and kitchen slaves. But old Granny Scott had understood. She’d stroked Angelina’s back and told her, “You waitin’ on the Lord, Angie; you a good girl to watch over these children.”

  Mary B., her face more lined today than usual, patted at her plain day dress. “Lou and Fanny, change into something serviceable—then let’s be about our mission.”

  Was this an assignment from God? Perhaps if she served faithfully, there might be some way to go north and take her niece and nephew away to freedom with this army. Angelina stroked their silky hair then patted their shoulders. They’d need to prove useful.

  “Come on Charity, you too Julian—we’ll not polish anything today but you can let God’s love shine through you.”

  Dimples formed in each child’s cheeks.

  Julian squared his shoulders. “We’ll feed them thirsty and ahungred like it said in the Bible.”

  Her heart swelled with love. She’d done the right thing in not leaving them. God convicted her of His will. Now would He give her the means to free them?