Return to Shirley Plantation

by Carrie Fancett Pagels

  Sergeant Ross, a scowl on his pock-marked face, marched the field slaves down the rows as though he had new enlistees. What had Matthew done that had merited Ross’s unbridled scorn? Perhaps nothing—and the man was simply a tyrant.

  Ebony skinned men followed other slaves with complexions more the hue of tanned leather. Women, their heads wrapped in colorful cotton, carried buckets from the well. He drew in a breath when one turned, her appearance and coloration no different than any of the white women walking the streets of his hometown in Ohio. Yet she was a slave. As was the coffee and cream colored woman behind her. Several of the other men nearby also stared.

  “I’ve heard such things but didn’t believe it,” a private lying nearby muttered. “That’s a white woman—pretty as punch, too.”

  “Keep your eyes in your head, soldier,” an orderly advised as he raised the younger man to his feet.

  Matthew had seen pictures passed around by Abolitionists, too. And he’d not wanted to consider how such things happened, having been raised to keep his mind focused on what was good, pure, and right. Some surely were born of a loving union. But he was not so naïve as to believe the greater proportion were not.

  His attention was drawn away as the beautiful Carter widow joined them in the field. Why had she affected him so profoundly? Most men had the good manners to avert their gaze from her widow’s weeds—possibly from respect or considering their own wives in such attire. Why couldn’t he control his reaction to her?

  As a thespian, he urged his troupe to practice and capture facial expressions of the characters they portrayed. This beauty’s features, so mobile, spoke of heartache so deep that only a miracle would crack through her defenses to reach and heal her heart. She must have loved her husband deeply. A Confederate soldier. A Southern gentleman. Something Matthew would never be. He wasn’t even like his father—someone who was more avoidant than a sympathizer. Or was he?

  Angelina grimaced as Sergeant Ross aimed his boot at a soldier with septic wounds, one too near death to even groan.

  “Turn him over!” he barked at Phil, one of the field hands.

  “Yassah.”

  “And don’t be yassahing me! Refer to me as Sergeant Ross.”

  “Yassah, Sergeant Ross.”

  Angelina closed her eyes and bowed her head as Isaiah gently rolled the dying Union soldier over. The inhumanity made her ill. She raised her pomander to her nose and inhaled the fragrance to block the stench, recalling Lorena’s death and her sister’s plea to not blame the children’s father.

  He’d left to join the Confederate army instead of running off to the north with her, like he’d promised. As far as Angie was concerned, Lori died of a broken heart.

  Lord, accept this man into your hands, and let him die quickly and mercifully, amen.

  A hand brushed into her side. She jerked away, thinking it was Ross trying to paw her again. But she looked up into large hazel eyes full of compassion.

  “You all right, Mrs. Carter?” His twang, unfamiliar, didn’t mark him as a southerner. Perhaps a sympathizer from Kentucky.

  The true Mrs. Carter had schooled her in her diction, as had her benefactress, Mrs. Roat, who allowed her to address her as “Aunt Wilda.” Angelina now appreciated her stern reminders.

  “I was just praying, Private…”

  He chewed on his lower lip. “Scott.”

  “We’ve a Scott family just one plantation over—Scott’s Hundred.” And a sweet old slave in the closest cabin, sold off from that plantation long ago.

  “Do they send mail from here?” His wide brow furrowed beneath wavy dark hair.

  “Why yes, we have the closest dock and mail comes downriver on a steamer for us and several of our neighbors.”

  “And this address, is it…” A twitch started near his well-formed nose.

  “Shirley, Virginia.” Why did he ask?

  How did Hilly Carter fare? Angelina pressed a hand to Private Scott’s arm as she’d observed the Southern belles do when they wanted a favor from a man. “Did you by any chance come across Lt. Hilly Carter in your service?”

  “No, ma’am, I did not.” A flicker of annoyance crossed his even features but then his eyes slowly scanned her face, lingering on her lips.

  She released her hand—suddenly flushed with something not caused by the summer’s heat.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Carter. Was your cousin very close to you?”

  If she didn’t know better, she’d think the handsome soldier sounded jealous. And what was she thinking—practically flirting with the man? Fire—she was playing a dangerous game chatting with this fellow. But she couldn’t resist.

  Chapter 3

  Thank God he’d not consumed more of the biscuits the kitchen slaves served as lunch. Matthew reclined on his pallet, and closed his eyes, his head threatening to explode. He’d been fine until he’d encountered the young widow, trailed in her duties by her two sweet children. After their departure, his dizziness increased. Why Lord, why me? How could you take me from my home, put me in a hostile territory, and allow an injury to my head?

  Someone laid a damp cloth over his forehead and hummed. Matthew drifted into a fitful sleep accompanied by groans and cries. He’d gone to hell, just like he feared he would. A Negro spiritual, one he recognized from childhood, drifted into the cacophony of terror.

  “You looks like him, boy.” A hand, dry as pork cracklins, brushed his cheek. The humming resumed, soothing.

  Sometime later, the air around him seemed to have cooled. Was night already arriving or was he dying? The buzzing inside his head quieted.

  “You recollect young Theodocius Scott to me.” The voice was aged and low but he was sure he’d heard the slave woman correctly.

  How would she know his grandfather’s name? Father’s, too. And his own middle name?

  “Eulalie love that boy somethin’ fierce. And he love her too. ‘Nuff to take her away from me.” The voice recalled the rustling of grass in a gentle breeze.

  Eulalie and Theodocius Scott. Matthew tried to shake himself awake. To no avail. He’d seen those names once on a sketch in one of his father’s drawers. A man and woman surrounded by a boy and a half dozen girls were drawn seated on a bench in front of a log cabin.

  “Granny Scott, what you doin’?” The young widow’s voice took on a different cadence.

  “I tendin’ this boy—he remind me of my Eula’s husband.” Despite the odor of death, her scent bore traces of cornmeal, ham, and age.

  “Granny, he wearin’ Confederate clothes.” Why did her diction alter?

  “I knows, Angel girl, but…”

  Matthew opened his eyes and locked on a pair of blue-gray eyes fringed with heavy black lashes.

  Mrs. Carter covered her mouth.

  He turned his head toward the elderly slave. Her wizened face, the color of chocolate, displayed a serene expression.

  “Um hum—he gots them big hazel eyes, too, like I knew he would.”

  “Granny.” Angelina Carter’s voice pleaded with the woman.

  “President Lincoln come to Berkeley this summer, like the Lord tell me he would. Now this boy here, too.” Her smile grew.

  Mrs. Carter placed a hand under the slave’s arm and pulled her up. “Time for you to get to your cabin—get some rest.”

  “Yes’m.” The woman’s large features tightened, then relaxed. “I be back tomorrow.”

  Sergeant Ross lumbered toward them. “Is that no good Reb still lying around?” He aimed a kick at Matthew but the slave woman stepped between them.

  Although Ross slowed the kick, his boot still connected with the stooped woman and she would have fallen had the younger woman not caught her.

  “How…” Mrs. Carter’s outraged voice suddenly ceased.

  Matthew rose and unkinked his stiff body. “Sergeant Ross, your behavior…”

  But dressed in his Confederate gray and wobbling, his confidence in his ability to assert any kind of authority wafted away like gunsmoke. He cou
ldn’t form his thoughts—other than to protect the widow.

  Cigar smoke wafted from nearby. Dr. Probst, a Union surgeon, took Granny by her elbow, bent and examined the frail woman’s leg before shooting Ross a scathing look. “They’ve a saying around these parts, Sergeant—you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

  “I’ll get her back to her cabin.” Angelina smiled at the physician and then led the elderly woman away.

  Matthew’s hands itched, longing to pummel Ross.

  The scent of tobacco puffed up and then intensified, although it barely covered the stench of decaying flesh. Dr. Probst inhaled a long intake on his pipe. “Sergeant Ross, if I ever catch you again so much as touching your toe to anyone here I will report you. And I shall take delight in removing your marks of rank.” He pointed to Ross’s uniform.

  Ross saluted. “Yes sir. Understood, sir.”

  “Dismissed.”

  After he left, the surgeon shook his head. “Someone is going to catch Ross alone one night and he’s going to have all those kicks returned. Lord help him.”

  God save them all. And given Matthew’s excellent ability in pugilism, may he restrain himself from delivering Ross’s come-uppance.

  After she’d dropped off her dress, Angelina stopped by the Old House to retrieve an old petticoat Hilly’s wife left there. Much cooler than sitting outside, she sat by a window, shredding cloth into strips for bandages. The floor boards creaked in the hall, although she’d not heard the door open. Dropping the bandages into her lap, she looked up.

  Sergeant Ross occupied the parlor doorway. She’d seen the look in Ross’s eyes before, one of lust.

  Angelina drew a shaky breath. “Are you lost, Sergeant? Or do you require the bandages more urgently?”

  A square-built man, he’d lumbered toward her. Her mouth grew dry and she pressed the small of her back against her chair, the wood shield-design seatback jabbing her ribs.

  “Thought I saw you, Sergeant Ross.” Private Scott strode into the room.

  Relief leapt through her.

  “What do you want, Scott? I have business to discuss with the lady.” His leering eyes as he emphasized the last word left no doubt he considered her no gentlewoman.

  Shivering, Angelina wadded the cotton pieces into a ball and shoved them into a pillowcase.

  “The lieutenant returned from Berkeley and wants to see you immediately. Colonel Sackett has something to discuss with you.”

  Hopefully a transfer to Harrison’s Landing.

  Now, hours later, Angelina’s hands still shook. She motioned her niece and nephew outside, awaiting their call to dinner. “Sit here on the stoop with me.”

  Charity and Julian followed to the front porch of the flanker or “Old House” as the family liked to call it. Generally unused, the past two days she’d swept the first floor and cleaned, falling into bed to sleep like the newly dead, like those she’d discover gone the next morning. At least this way they didn’t inhabit her dreams. No—her waking day was a nightmare. Save for the few moments she spent here and there with the very attractive Private Scott.

  She rubbed her arms. The Confederate soldier would be horrified to discover she was a freed slave, and the children slaves. Yet she knew her sister’s lover didn’t fight for the Confederacy because he revered the institution of slavery—he went because he couldn’t stand the thought of the North telling Virginians what they could and couldn’t do. What would he do when he discovered Lorena had died?

  She patted the step beside her and the children sank down. They, too, had served the injured Union troops, carrying water and mopping brows. Charity sang for some of the men—some of the hymns from their own church and she’d had to pull her away, fearing questioning by someone. Fear, everywhere, every day, fear.

  “Ma’am?” Private Scott appeared seemingly from out of nowhere.

  She pressed a hand to her chest, aware that for once she’d not worn the black bombazine garment. The dress sorely needed cleansing. Earlier, she’d gone to the laundry and given it to one of the girls. The slave had taken it from her, giving her the oddest look, as though wanting to challenge her. But Angelina had shaken her head, warning her to not protest. She’d jerked her thumb over her shoulder at Sergeant Ross who seemed to trail her everywhere.

  Angelina smoothed her work dress out around her as the handsome soldier approached, the ornasburg fabric practically screaming her status as former slave.

  “Private, how can I help you?”

  He clutched his gray hat in his large hands. The jacket as well as the pants were several inches short with the pants above his ankles and the jacket well above his sturdy wrists. Dark hair glistened on his arms sending a strange sensation through her. Unlike most men she’d encountered, she felt drawn to him with the sensation of ease, of comfort, waiting in his capable arms.

  She could easily alter his clothing. It was a kindness she could perform.

  “How does a gentleman get a bath around here? Ross wouldn’t allow me to bathe with the others. I suspect he’s angry that I got between him and you earlier today.”

  She shivered at the recollection of the Sergeant and what he might have done.

  “Mrs. Carter, I don’t know why you’re staying out here.” Private Scott ran a hand through thick dark hair, his hazel eyes inviting. Angie’s pulse quickened.

  Because I’m a freed woman and not a member of the family and these children are slaves. She opened her mouth but words failed to come.

  “Mind if I sit with you for a spell?”

  Charity grinned up at him but Julian eyed him suspiciously. Angelina scooted over and gestured for the children to do the same.

  “No, we don’t mind.” His earlier comment was right, though—loathsome Ross likely was angry and Private Scott needed a bath. But the other field hospital odors made his masculine scent less powerful.

  He held out his hand and passed a small carved soldier to Julian. No coloration, only that of the wood. No insignia to differentiate Union from Confederate. Just a soldier. A man.

  As the boy examined the toy from all angles, his frown relaxed. “How’d you make this?”

  “Whittled it—you want to learn how?”

  “I want a lady—in a fancy dress.” Charity pulled her skirt out at her side. Would this child ever have a chance to live a free life much less be a lady?

  “Sure thing. First you have to have a block of wood to work with. I found these over at the ice house.” Scott displayed a hunk of wood. It must have missed being ground into sawdust to keep the ice cold.

  “Then you have to have a knife sharp enough to whittle with and a little flexible, like this one.” He unsheathed a short knife.

  Had another man done so she might have flinched but Angelina’s only reaction was that of curiosity. Why did the Union army allow this man a knife? Had he stolen it?

  Julian leaned in, placing an arm on the soldier’s shoulder, as casually as he would have Abraham’s in the field. The two of them, head-to-head looked so natural—so right. If only Julian could have a father. Charity placed a tentative hand on the man’s other broad shoulder and he beamed up at her, the cleft in his chin deepening.

  Her heart swelled. He’d appointed himself her protector.

  What would it be like to have a husband to look after her and defend her? To help with the children?

  But she needed to go north. To start a new life.

  “Children, scat to the laundry and ask Jemma to get a tub ready for Private Scott.”

  “It’s Matthew Scott.”

  She chose to ignore his comment and averted her gaze. “You can bathe and then we’ll get your uniform cleaned.

  She’d put him into one of Hilly’s uniforms or she’d fix what he had.

  “Thank you ma’am.”

  Once the children departed, Matthew Scott stood, turned and glanced up at the façade of the Old House. He fixed his green-brown eyes on hers and his hand extended toward hers then stopped.

  �
�Ma’am, you need to get yourself into that big house tonight. I can anticipate the next scene coming and it isn’t a pretty one. I’m a theatrical manager, not a soldier, back home, and I know a villain when I see one.”

  She nibbled her lower lip. Mary B. told her they could sleep on the chaises in the hall landings on the third floor—they’d just need to bring quilts with them.

  “Why do you think so?” What did he know?

  “I heard Sergeant Ross boast that he was going to come visit you after he got cleaned up. He seems to think…” Angelina watched his wide mouth move, his lips move over perfect white teeth.

  She leaned closer. What would it be like to have a man like this love her? Kiss her?

  “Well, I don’t know how to say this, but he doesn’t believe you are a member of the family. And as such, he doesn’t believe McClellan’s protection extends to you.”

  Angelina stiffened. Did Mathew Scott also suspect? She pressed her fingers to her lips.

  “And he seems to think that your placement in this building gives him access to you.” Matthew’s handsome face reddened. “I’m sorry.”

  Her mouth went completely dry.

  Charity and Julian ran back to the porch. “Jemma say she ain’t gonna do it—she tired.”

  Angelina glared at the child. “You know how to pump water and haul—you go back and do it for Mr. Scott.”

  “Thank you.” His soft voice was barely audible. “I’m not a soldier, Mrs. Carter. I prefer Mister to Private as I am not an enlisted man.”

  Julian’s pink tongue poked between his lips as though he might argue with his aunt, but then he ran off again, Charity chasing after him. How did they have any energy left after such a long day?

  “Mrs. Carter?”

  Distracted by her thoughts, Angelina looked around the room, as though Mary B. might have joined them but then she focused on Matthew Scott’s eyes. So deep.

  “Do you think you could get me a Union uniform, ma’am? Or perhaps a regular set of men’s clothing—anything but this Confederate uniform.”