For the first time since he met her, her French accent repulsed him. “You can still be famous, Monique. However, your career will have to wait until after our child is born.”
“You’ll pay for this,” she threatened. “I’ll never divorce you. Never! Do you hear me? I’ll leave you, but I’ll never agree to a divorce. You’re a Catholic and divorce is forbidden in your church. Even if you obtained a divorce, you’d never be able to marry in the Church again.” Her eyes squinted, and her face became distorted with hate.
The reality, that for the first time the real Monique stood before him, smacked him bitterly in the face—like the sting of a glove across the cheek, as if challenged to a duel.
He opened the door to leave the room that he would never enter again before speaking. “Suit yourself!”
That part of his life happened in another lifetime. He had put that chapter behind him and started a new life with his daughter. But now, they were moving again, to South Carolina this time, because of Monique. He had a strange feeling since he had not read about her in the newspapers for a while, that she might have plans to return to the States. And if she did there was no telling what she planned to do to punish him for what she conceived as his past deeds.
He walked outside and mounted his horse. Once, living here had meant everything, but everything hadn’t been enough for Monique.
The mansion was empty now, left behind for the termites to devour.
Chapter Four
Beaufort
Laurel and Junie were escorted to the Carolina Queen and barely had time for a quick greeting from the captain before they were underway. Laurel remained on the upper deck, enjoying the view and the fresh ocean breeze…she’d be home soon.
Her eyes flooded with tears, and her heart pounded from sheer joy. She had a difficult time believing she was truly going back to her beloved island, recalling the times she secretly doubted she’d even survive the frightening war, let alone be able to return home.
The moment the island came into sight, she rushed down to the lower deck and paced—impatient to disembark. At first glance, she barely recognized the port. A long wharf had been built that jutted out into the river with U.S. Naval ships at anchor, changing the once serene entranceway.
As soon as her feet touched land, she took a panoramic look around and then froze on the spot. Nothing could have prepared her for the scene in front of her. Setback after setback, taught her to condition herself not to visibly react emotionally. But the landscape she saw, paralyzed her.
During the last four years in exile she’d lived with one family after another, had been routed out of bed in the middle of the night and forced from town to town seeking safety from the Yankees. She thought the last years of her life had hardened her to accept anything. But she was wrong. A quick rush of anger and rebellion erupted and threatened to overtake her emotions. This was a fatal blow. A reversal of fortune.
Storehouses and camps littered the shoreline for as far as she could see. A sign posted on the pier informed visitors that the port was the general depot for supplies for the entire Union Army and Navy. People disembarking the riverboat hastened her along until finally her feet touched the sand. Sand as fine as ashes that soon swallowed your feet up to your ankles if you didn’t continue to walk.
To add insult to injury, the intruders who occupied Beaufort were conspicuously visible, casually standing about or sitting on the front steps of homes they commanded or occupied. Ironically, her anger gave her courage, and she felt safe despite Junie’s misgivings about her stubbornness to return.
She was well aware that her physical appearance lent her protection from these gentlemen. Her normally high cheekbones were exaggerated by the loss of weight, and her eyes were shadowed with circles. The faded flowered frock she wore was several sizes too large and hid the fact that she was a young woman. She wore her hair pulled back tightly into a chignon at the nape of her neck, and wore a kerchief to cover her blonde hair, and unless someone looked closely, she knew they wouldn’t see any more than a homeless, desperately poor stranger.
What irony. Once she had dressed better than the men and women she now avoided. She had long outgrown the few items of clothing she had taken with her when she escaped to the mainland. Her pride had suffered tremendously over the years, but she wasn’t too proud to wear the used clothing she collected in abandoned homes along the way.
She walked quickly with her head down and stumbled on a stone, but ignored the pain that penetrated the thin material of her frayed shoes.
She viewed the town, ignoring the devastation of war, and instead reminisced about its beauty, as though she were looking through a kaleidoscope. Black, twisted vines, now barren, appeared abundant with purple, fragrant wisteria. The doors of St. Helena’s Episcopal Church were flung open, and she imagined she heard the sweet voices of the parishioners singing a hymn. The palmettos were verdant, the soft winds of the islands whispered through their fronds, and all the brick and the pink tabby homes were freshly painted.
Soon, however, present time intruded on her reverie and shattered her short-lived fantasy, as she stopped and looked through the window of one of the homes. An oval sign, painted with large numbers, reminded her that this once stately mansion now stripped of all elegance, was an abandoned military hospital. The walls and floors were stained with spattered blood.
As she crossed the large expanse of a deeply rutted street made of gravel and tabby, broken pieces of seashells imbedded the soles of her shoes causing her to stop often to remove the shards that sliced the bottoms of her feet.
A few faces were familiar and Laurel was tempted to call out to them, but quickly changed her mind. What seemed like a century ago had passed since they had seen her and unless she made herself known, she doubted they’d recognize her. Instead, she chose to keep her head down, burying her hands deep in the pockets of her dress.
Quickening her pace, she headed to the Government Army Headquarters. Once there, she remained on the side of the building trying to bolster her confidence. Finally she garnered enough nerve to peek in the tiny window in the door. Only one soldier was inside and she didn’t see any civilians. Laurel wiped her roughened hands and sweaty palms on the sides of her dress, held her head up proudly, and walked in without knocking.
She expelled the deep gulp of breath she held when the officer standing behind the desk, strewn with papers, looked up, “May I be of service?”
“Yes, my name’s Laurel Bray. I want to report my father missing,” she whispered, bowing her head.
“Pardon me, miss, could you please speak up?”
“My father’s missing,” she responded, much too loudly this time, exposing her nervousness.
“Missing from where?” the officer asked, turning his back to her while he placed some folders in a cabinet drawer.
Exasperated, she sighed and shook her head. Her insides were jittery, and her hands shook. Rubbing the back of her neck, to ease the tension, she began again. “My father, Francis Bray, was a colonel in the Confederate Army, sir. He came home on furlough in the summer of sixty-one to attend my mother’s funeral and hasn’t been heard from since.”
“He’s been missing for four years?” The officer asked, turning to face her.
The astonished look on his face and the tone of his voice told her that this clerk more than likely wouldn’t spend much time trying to find someone who had not been heard from for years. But she wasn’t about to abdicate her objective.
Perhaps the determination and hope in her eyes as she glared at him caused him to change his mind because he softened his voice and asked, “Do you have any evidence, Miss Bray, which leads you to believe your father may still be alive?”
“Well, sir, I don’t have any evidence that he was killed. He simply disappeared.” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed to keep from crying.
Movement in the corner of the room kept her from continuing her conversation. Turning, she caught a glimpse of a gentleman who wit
h a few long strides exited the building.
“I apologize. I wasn’t aware anyone else was here. I hope I didn’t intrude on anything,” she said apologetically.
“No, not at all. The gentleman was waiting for someone, and I’m certain he left in order to give us some privacy. Please be seated, Miss Bray,” he said returning to his chair and extending his hand, “my name’s Sergeant Lang.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” She said as she sat in the chair next to the desk.
“I’ll do whatever I can to help you, but I can’t offer you too much hope, Miss Bray,” he offered, reaching for paper and pen. “To the best of my knowledge, most of the prisoners have been released and sent home, with the exception of those men who await trial for treason or other crimes. But don’t despair, there’s always hope.”
“What hope is left for me and the others who are homeless and destitute?”
“Well,” he answered, “and you need to be prepared for this, there’s a possibility he may be critically wounded and unable to be sent home.”
Rubbing his chin, he pondered, “What I don’t understand, is why you haven’t been contacted regarding your father.”
“That’s why I’m here in Beaufort. I’ve been in exile on the mainland since before the occupation. I’ve had no permanent home since that time.”
The sergeant lowered his eyes, and murmured, “I understand.”
Seeing his discomfort, Laurel hurried to say, “I sent several letters to my home, but never received a response. I plan on going there after I leave here. I realize the war’s been over for six months, in case you’re wondering why I showed up after all this time, but you see, sir, I didn’t have any money to return home before now.”
Laurel purposely did not mention she was still without funds and couldn’t even afford a stamp. She preferred to hang onto what little pride she had left.
“Have you made any other inquiries into your father’s whereabouts? What I mean to ask, Miss Bray, is have you checked the lists of the deceased?”
“Yes, sir. And, when I first went into exile I wrote to my father to let him know where I had gone. When I received no answer, I wrote to General Beauregard. Eventually I received a letter from the general. My father and Beauregard were good friends.”
Laurel paused a moment waiting to see if the sergeant would react to her words, but he simply raised his eyebrows waiting for her to continue.
“They served together in the Mexican War, and when South Carolina seceded from the Union, my father joined him in defending Ft. Sumter. After the Battle at Manassas Junction my father was furloughed,” she concluded.
When the sergeant didn’t offer a comment, she cleared her parched throat and resumed, “Anyway, the letter from General Beauregard said my father never returned to his unit and that some of the men accused my father of being a deserter. But the general assured me that those who knew him knew better. My father would never desert me either. The general suggested he might have been taken prisoner or worse, killed, while trying to rejoin the battalion.”
The sergeant made notes, constantly dipping his pen into the inkwell and uttering, “Uh-huh. I see. Please continue, miss.”
“After I received the general’s letter, I made several inquiries, but to no avail. I find the fact that no one’s heard from him, very odd. My father loved me, sergeant, and I know he’d send for me if he knew where I was.”
“Miss Bray, I’ve no doubt,” Officer Lang, began, “and I’m really not trying to be cruel, but sometimes men are literally blown to pieces, and there’s no way to ever identify those bodies.”
He paused for a moment, and she felt the color fade from her face and then her head began to spin.
“I’m sorry. Are you all right?” He quickly poured her a glass of water.
Laurel reached for the proffered glass with a shaking hand and nodded while she drank.
“War is a terrible thing, miss, and I wonder if you ever considered that possibility, as cruel as it may sound? It’s a logical explanation, especially if you had any idea how many thousands of men were buried without being identified.”
“Sergeant, I’ve considered all of the possibilities, and I know what I’m about to tell you may sound strange, but I have this unusual perception through my dreams that my father’s in some kind of trouble and needs me. If someone told me that they knew for certain he was dead because they witnessed him being killed in battle, then I’d be able to accept that.”
“Give me a few minutes to look through my lists.” Sergeant Lang pulled a thick ledger out of a drawer and placed the book on top of the desk. Laurel prayed that her father’s name wasn’t among the deceased. She stared at the sergeant’s index finger as he scanned the pages of names and then he said, “Your father’s not listed.”
Turning a few pages, he repeated the scanning and then stopped. “Your father is, however, listed among those missing in action. These lists were compiled and sent to us from the Confederate Army. However, it says, Missing, presumed dead.”
Laurel put her elbows on the desk and held her head. Her skull felt as though it might split in half if she let go. She waited a few minutes, exhaled, and regained her composure. “Please continue.”
The sergeant flipped past the pages of deserters, told her he did not find her father’s name on the list of those charged with treason, and then he began to read through the list of survivors.
As the clock ticked away time, Laurel sat patiently listening to the sergeant turn the pages, one by one. The near silence made the wait seem endless.
“Here’s something of interest, Miss Bray. There’s a Brigadier General Sullivan listed here, who served under Beauregard’s command. He lives in Charleston. It notes here that he was missing from his unit after he had been furloughed, but after the war he was released from a Union prison. Perhaps he can be of some help.”
“When was he furloughed?”
“August of sixty-one. Detailed files on all soldiers have been compiled and sent to the War Department in Washington. You might want to inquire there.”
“I’ll try anything. I’m going to Charleston tomorrow, and would appreciate it if you could tell me where I might find this, uh...”
“Brigadier General Thomas Sullivan.” The sergeant jotted the major’s name and address on a piece of paper, then handed Laurel the pen. “Please give me an address where I can reach you in case I receive any information concerning your father.”
Laurel gave him her grandmother’s address in Maryland and explained it would be several weeks before she could be reached. Then she stood and extended her hand to him. “Thank you for your time, Sergeant Lang, you’ve been most kind.”
“My pleasure, Miss Bray. I wish you the very best.”
When she walked out of the office, Laurel noticed the gentleman she had seen leave the headquarters earlier, leaning against the building. He tipped his hat as she went by, stood erect, and with a slight smile on his face re-entered the office.
On her way to Mossland, she passed the old Habersham mansion that for whatever reason had been turned into a bakery. She smiled at another ironic situation.
Somehow, she lost all compassion for everything that was Southern. She did the one thing she vowed during her exile that she’d never do and that was to feel sorry for herself. And in doing so, in the last six months, struggling to reach home to find her father, she no longer felt sorrow for others. Standing in front of the bakery window, she stared at her reflection and was reminded of the days she’d spent hungry. She was hungry now and she moved on, quickening her step once again.
One thing she concluded during her exile was that South Carolina seceded from the Union before securing the islands, leaving the forts defenseless and at the mercy of the Union Navy. The unexpected threat of Union gunboats and the Yankee invasion to occupy Fort Royal and St. Helena, and the other Sea Islands, brought panic to the residents and forced the women and children, who had been left behind, to hastily abandon their stately home
s, leaving the estates to be plundered by the demoralized Negroes, as well as the soldiers. An unnecessary act of war, she thought, that reduced once affluent families to live in abject poverty.
As she got closer to her home, her heart began to race. She rounded the familiar road, raised her head, and gasped. She stared in horror at the wreckage the occupation had wrought. The muscles in her stomach tightened, and she was thankful she hadn’t eaten because she was certain she would have been sick.
Even the silver-green Spanish moss hanging gracefully from the tall oak trees seemed to have lost its beauty. The paint on Mossland’s frame siding was gray with age. Scatterings of pickets were missing from the once gleaming white fence. Tufts of overgrown grass appeared here and there, and tall weeds thrived where beds of roses and flowering shrubs had bloomed in profusion once upon a time…
She remained motionless while she absorbed the devastation, her heart broken, and her mind void of emotion. This was not her home any more than she was the same person who fled its warmth along with the people she was forced to leave behind. Her dry throat hurt when she swallowed, but stubborn Irish-American determination made Laurel straighten her shoulders, lift her chin, and approach the house.
The moment she placed her hand on the rickety gate, the front door opened, and a stern and dour looking woman emerged, tugging at her glove while she forced her fingers to fit its contours. The woman looked down the brick walkway and noticed Laurel. A scowl marred her face after she looked Laurel over, seemingly appalled at her apparent impoverished condition. “What do you want?” The woman’s tone was abrupt.
“I’m Laurel Bray,” she started, but was quickly cut off by the woman’s clip-toned Northern accent.
“You should have been notified by now that you no longer own this land and I think it would be best if you left. We don’t want any trouble.”
Laurel’s cheeks flamed. She drew in a sharp breath, balled her fists behind the folds of her skirt and wished she were close enough to take a swing at the insulting old biddy standing on Mossland property. She had a few words she was tempted to use—words she’d picked up from the soldiers over the past few years. She knew how to use them, too, even if she wasn’t sure of their meaning. But before she could open her mouth to reply, the front door opened again and a stout bald-headed man, dressed in a dark brown suit that matched the color of the woman’s outfit, came and stood at the railing, questioning his wife, “What’s going on here, Matilda?”
Songs the Soldiers Sang Page 3
