“Of course, I remember. I’m not senile, ya’ know! You sound like those prison guards.”
Laurel continued prodding, trying not to lose her patience. “Would you please tell me what you remember? I’m attempting to find out what became of my father and you’re the only person I’ve found so far who might be able to help me.”
“You’re his daughter, right? Name’s Laurel.”
Holt placed his hand on Laurel’s shoulder, calming her. She realized that the general, although not senile, was having a difficult time concentrating. Calmly, she said, “That’s correct. My name’s Laurel, and you were going to tell me what occurred when you met my father after your furlough.”
The general looked up at the ceiling and stared, while Laurel sat with her hands clasped tightly.
“Be patient, Miss Bray. He’s been like this ever since he was released from prison. I’ve tried over and over again to get him to tell me how he was captured, but…” Mrs. Sullivan ended, raising her right shoulder.
“We understand, Mrs. Sullivan,” Holt said, “maybe we should leave and return tomorrow.”
“That won’t be necessary, Major. Nothing really distresses him. I think he only recollects little tidbits at a time. You sit down and make yourself comfortable while I fix some tea.”
Turning toward the general, who had resumed reading once again, Laurel asked, “Sir, did something bad transpire when you and my father attempted to rejoin your brigade?”
General Sullivan squinted and shook his head. “Yes. I remember we were walking along a creek in some forest. Oh my, it was terrible. Some rough-looking men attacked us. Came out of nowhere, they did. Francis tried to fight them off, and I was knocked unconscious. Took quite a blow on the back of the head,” he said, fingering his old wound.
When Mrs. Sullivan re-entered the room, she smiled. Placing the tray down, she poured tea and sat on the bed, and listened as her husband continued, while Laurel’s mind filled with questions she longed to ask.
“When I came to, night had already fallen. Damp and buggy and desolate, not a dwelling anywhere, only the sound of the insects chirping and the bubbling of the water. My head hurt so bad,” he said, once again rubbing the place where he had been hit. “I was quite dizzy, I could barely focus. I felt around in the darkness until I found your father. We had been robbed of everything except our uniforms. I guess I blacked out then, because the next thing I remember, the sun was rising. That’s when I discovered how hurt your father was. I found a creek nearby and washed his face off and tried to get him to move, but he was in bad shape. He had bruises and cuts all over his face and hands, and one arm was broken bad. I remember now. The bone stuck out.”
Laurel gasped and Holt interrupted, “General Sullivan, can you tell us if Colonel Bray died?”
Laurel reached for Holt’s hand, and he held on tight, while they waited for the major to respond.
“No. Nobody died,” he answered, as if they should have known. “Francis was unconscious and every time I tried to walk, I nearly fainted. I couldn’t go for help and I couldn’t leave him there. I worried about wolves coming.
“Those men left us to die. Francis took the brunt of the attack. I didn’t know what to do, except to sit and nurse him. The next day, I think we were only there for two days, but I’m not sure. Anyway, wherever we were, was crawlin’ with Yankees and, I suppose we were fortunate to be captured, otherwise we would have died there.”
“Thank you, God,” Laurel whispered. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply, fighting off the dizzying sensations of fainting.
“Laurel, please drink some tea.”
Holt held the cup to her lips while she drank, then she sat back, somewhat recovered.
“Please, go on with your story, Tom,” Mrs. Sullivan interjected.
“That’s all there is, Gertrude. I spent the rest of the war in prison.”
“Yes, Tom, I know, but the young lady would like to know what happened to her father.”
“They took him to Delaware with me. I went to prison and I guess they took him to a hospital. I never saw him again.”
Huge tears welled in Laurel’s eyes. She turned to Holt. “I don’t understand why there’s no record of this. What happened to him?” she asked desperately.
“I don’t know, Laurel, but at least we have a clue. We can search all the hospital and prison records in Delaware, and that narrows the search.”
Laurel felt a little comfort in Holt’s words. He said we, as though her problems were his. She was anxious to leave and started to rise from her chair, when the general resumed talking.
With his eyes focused toward the ceiling, he continued, “I remember Francis well. We were at Manassas together. Virginia was a pastoral site with gentle rolling hills. Hot though, hot and dry and dusty, damn near died from heat exhaustion. We lay in the woods while the Yankees fired at us. We couldn’t fire back because we didn’t have anything to fire back with because our smoothbores were too short ranged. The enemy hurled everything they could at us. Didn’t hit much though,” he cackled.
“There were charges and counter-charges,” the general continued, “and we were running into trouble until we were reinforced with Colonel Early’s brigade. Beauregard gave the order to fix bayonets and the entire gathering of the Southern Brigades fanned across the crest of the hill,” he said, waving his arm in the air.
“We surged in an arc toward them Yankees, yelling and screaming for victory, like the keening at an Irish wake. Ever been to an Irish wake?” he didn’t wait for an answer. “Yep, the Rebel Yell originated on that hill...”
General Sullivan slumped back in his bed and closed his eyes in sleep. He looked exhausted—like a soldier after the ordeal of a battle. Holt and Laurel followed Mrs. Sullivan silently out of the room.
“Will he be all right, Mrs. Sullivan?” Laurel asked, deeply concerned that her questions brought on his exhaustion.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine now. He needed to unlock all of those memories. Please write and let us know if you locate your father.”
“I will, Mrs. Sullivan. Thank you so much for your kindness.”
The moment Laurel and Holt rounded the corner away from the cottage and headed up the hill, Laurel spread her arms out wide, and sighed, “Ah, fresh air!”
Holt took her hand and started pulling her up the steep hill. “Wasn’t he delightful?” she asked. “Frustrating at first, but delightfully charming.”
“You seem very happy.”
“Of course, I am. I know General Sullivan doesn’t know what happened to my father after they were captured, but he was alive when they reached Delaware and now I have some idea where to begin my search. At least I know something about what transpired after he left home. Besides, there’s no record of my father’s death, and we have testimony he was taken to a hospital. I believe he’s still alive.”
“That may be, Laurel, but there is no guarantee. Hospitals have been burned and records got lost. You also have to consider the possibility that during the war there were too many men entering the hospitals at one time for anyone to keep accurate accounts or register their names. I wish he had given you something more positive.”
“I thought you were my friend, Holt. You sound as if you don’t believe it’s possible for him to have survived.”
“I am your friend, Laurel. I simply want you to bear in mind the likelihood that this could be a dead end and I’d hate to see you disappointed.”
“Well, I’m not going to do that today. Nothing you say will make me believe otherwise. I have new hope and that makes me happy.”
At the top of the hill, Laurel turned and began skipping backward. The hood on her cape slipped off her head, and the wind caught her hair and blew the curls forward. She stopped and looked at Holt staring at her. “What’s wrong, Holt?”
“The childlike qualities you display, the easy manner in which you laugh considering the burdens you carry, and the ability with which you face responsibilities fascinat
es me.”
“I had no idea I fascinated you,” she blushed.
“You appear to be like a damsel in distress both fragile and inexperienced, but I know that’s not true, and I have a driving need to know everything about you and the qualities you possess that enabled you to survive.”
“Yes, but you don’t have to feel responsible for me. Now, I have a question for you. When the general mentioned Bull Run, I felt your hand tighten on my shoulder. Were you there, Holt?”
He lowered his eyelids a moment and nodded. “I served on General Scott’s staff and was sent to observe what the North considered to be the battle that would clear the way for us to enter Richmond, and put a quick end to the war.
“The atmosphere surrounding the battleground of Bull Run, or Manassas, as the South referred to the area, was blatantly festive. Members of Congress and the cabinet, army staff officers, ladies of wealth, and ordinary citizens, gathered to picnic while they watched the battle, as if they were attending an outdoor concert.
“Soldiers in an array of uniforms swarmed the area, and as I watched the brigades form on both sides, I became sickened. These enemies, many of them West Pointers, once classmates, men who fought side by side against the Indians and Mexicans, all experienced leaders, were now planning to exterminate each other. At the end of the day, I stuffed my notes in my jacket and returned to Washington. The routed Northern Army lay behind me in a state of chaotic confusion and shock. The dead and wounded bodies of men and horses littered the fields. Bull Run was a sight I’ll never forget.
“I didn’t mean to spoil your day telling you this,” he said. “I believe that anyone who survived the war deserves all the happiness they can find, and that’s all I want for you.”
“Trying to forget about the war hasn’t been easy. That’s why finding out what became of my father after he was hospitalized is most important. Once that’s accomplished, I can put a lot of the unpleasant memories out of my mind, and I hope you will be able to do the same. Do you really think you can help me, Holt?”
“Yes. I’ll do everything I can, Laurel. When we get to Washington, I’ll put the entire War Department at your disposal.”
“Then, that’s settled. You see, I have some hope and that makes me happy.”
Holt looked at her and shook his head. “I think you’re a remarkable young woman, Laurel. If I were you, I’d be very bitter.”
“Sometimes I am,” she said, waving her arms in the air and letting them fall to her sides, “but bitterness is an immature and selfish trait. I used to get bitter about all of the things I missed because of the war. The parties, beautiful gowns, coming to Charleston to school... But those things are materialistic and they were overshadowed by the loss of my mother. Now, the only important thing in my life is to find my father, or else learn what kept him from returning home.”
Laurel turned and ran in the wind like a child chasing a kite. The meeting with the general gave her a sense of relief. She turned and noticed Holt staring.
She caught a look in his eyes and once again rushed to his side, placing her arm in his. “Why such a sad face? This is a wonderful day. We’re alive, and you promised to take me to meet your friend and treat me to lunch. Did you forget?” she asked making a face at him, pulling on his arm.
“No, how could I forget? Would you like me to hire a carriage?”
“Is the restaurant far?”
“Not too far.”
“Then let’s walk. I want to be famished when we get to the restaurant so I can order everything on the menu.”
At that moment, a dying frond from a swaying palmetto fell to the ground and landed behind them, startling Laurel.
“Are you all right, Laurel?”
She turned and looked behind her.
“A mere palm frond.”
“I’m sorry, the noise frightened me.”
“Do you always scare so easily?”
“Ever since that first night Junie and I had to sleep alone in a forest,” she shuddered, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “I’d rather not talk about that now. All right?”
“Certainly,” he answered, “how sad though that one can be so easily frightened.” A few minutes later he found himself asking, “Can a friend lend a friend some money? Would that help?”
“You’re very kind and generous. I don’t really need to borrow any money. When we were in Beaufort, our old house servant and her husband who was the plantation foreman gave me my mother’s silver chest. As soon as I can find a buyer, I’ll have enough money to take care of us until the government forwards me the money from the sale of my parents’ estate. The houses and land sold for more than the taxes that were due at the auction and the government owes me that money. I don’t know how much money, but every little bit will help.”
“Where’s the silver now?”
“Old Junie is guarding the chest on the riverboat.”
“Will you allow me to try and find a buyer for you? I think I might be able to get you a fair price. There’re simply too many vultures around who would rather take advantage of a beautiful young woman. I also don’t think that storing valuables on the riverboat is safe.”
“Don’t you think I’m capable of dealing with businessmen?”
“Yes, but I think I might be able to secure a little more money for you because my uniform will warn any carpetbagger that I’d arrest them if I thought they were cheating me.”
She nodded “You’re probably right. Besides, I will find parting with the silver painful, only because the chest once belonged to my grandmother and is the last possession of my mother’s that I have.”
Chapter Eight
Charleston
Laurel and Holt entered the restaurant that he told her had once been the most elite on Charleston’s waterfront. As she looked around the room, she observed that some previous elegance was still visible but the scars from abuse and neglect over the last five years were more prevalent. Nevertheless, she felt special as they were escorted to the table reserved in Holt’s friend’s name. Only the wealthy survivors could afford the luxury of dining out at noon.
Holt’s friend George Fleming stood to greet them before they reached the table. Holt gave George a rough embrace and when he moved away to introduce Laurel, she noticed a strange look come across Holt’s face when he realized there was a half-empty sleeve where George’s left arm used to be.
“George, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I wanted to, Holt, but this isn’t the sort of thing you write about to someone going off to battle. Besides, I got to spend the rest of the war at home while you were off fighting in Gettysburg. Now, are you going to introduce me to this beautiful young woman or not?”
Laurel smiled and decided immediately that she liked George. He laughed freely and was happy to see his old friend. She knew how difficult his life must have been during the war, especially after being sent home while all of his friends were away fighting. That situation wasn’t unfamiliar to her.
She spent time with families whose husbands were maimed and returned to their homes, and she saw those men suffer from their inadequacies as they watched their loved ones starve. There were no jobs and the once plentiful land had been raped dry to feed the soldiers and what was left had been taken or burned by the enemy.
Watching and listening to George’s jovial attitude, concerned her because she suspected he masked deep emotions regarding his injury. She glanced at Holt and wondered if he understood what his friend had actually suffered as a man and a soldier, and especially the loss of an arm.
She was surprised to learn that Holt had fought at Gettysburg. He had led her to believe that he had remained in Washington during the entire time, yet, when she thought about him, she realized that she knew very little about Holt Flanagan.
At least outwardly, he appeared unfazed by the horrors of war. He exhibited sympathy and compassion for others, but she wondered if there were personal emotions that he kept insulated deep inside. He also exhi
bited wealth, strength, and a need to be both protector and defender, but she questioned whether or not he was as content as he seemed. That little bit of mystery surrounding him pulled her toward him like a tide.
Laurel enjoyed the quiet dignity of the restaurant with its subtle background noises. Waiters hurrying to and fro, the tinkling of glasses, the clatter of silverware and the beautiful, light-skinned Negro women in calico dresses and stiffly starched white bib-aprons with bright colored turbans neatly arranged on their heads, walking from table to table serving hot corn pone from large baskets—their taffeta underskirts rustling as they moved.
She caught Holt smiling at her, while she buttered her bread. “Do you know how wonderful this warm cornbread tastes lathered with butter?”
He laughed. “Yes, but I believe this is your third piece. You won’t be able to eat your lunch.”
“Not true. When you spend days on end not sure where your next meal is coming from, believe me, you never leave a crumb on your plate.”
Lunch was served on fine porcelain china trimmed in gold and the meal they chose reminded Laurel of the meals Reba had prepared at Mossland. She had forgotten many of the things she had missed and planned to savor every morsel of the delicately seasoned seafood.
After the meal she watched the activity on the docks outside through the large picture window. She stared out at Fort Sumter, daydreaming, not listening to the conversation around her.
“Laurel,” Holt said, touching her arm. “We’re ready to leave. George has promised to meet us on the boat tonight for dinner.”
“Forgive me; my mind was elsewhere.”
“We noticed—sad reminder isn’t it?” George asked, motioning toward the fort with the tilt of his head.
“Yes, very. My father was there and at Manassas.”
“So was I,” George said. “Bray, Francis Bray?”
“Yes,” she answered. “Do you know my father?”
He shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard of him. There were several divisions of the South Carolina Brigade and some divisions of the Louisiana Zouaves who fought under Beauregard at Manassas. Your father commanded one of those divisions. That’s where I lost my left arm; it’s scattered up there somewhere along with other buried debris.”
Songs the Soldiers Sang Page 9
