The Long Way Home

by Lauraine Snelling

  ‘‘Where will we be going?’’

  ‘‘Washington.’’

  Louisa flinched inside. She still had nightmares about the time Zachary was missing. All alone in that hotel, not knowing if he were alive or dead, captured or shot for treason.

  She hadn’t heard from her friend Mrs. Hinklen, who’d come south to retrieve her husband’s body. He’d died of injuries during one of the battles. Talking with her had made Louisa realize that Northern women and Southern women suffered the same thing in losing their men to the war. Mrs. Hinklen hated the war as much as Louisa.

  But her husband had done his duty, just as had Louisa’s father and brothers.

  If only it were over, and they could all go home.

  ‘‘Zachary, have you heard anything regarding the taxes on Twin Oaks?’’ The question popped out before she had time to think it through.

  The look he gave her said quite clearly that she should stay out of men’s affairs. She’d learned to read that look well.

  ‘‘You know what?’’ She leaned forward, staring him right in the eye. ‘‘Twin Oaks is my home too, and I have every right to inquire about it.’’ She made each word distinct and forced herself to not draw back.

  ‘‘You know, dear sister . . .’’

  She refused to flinch at the sarcasm.

  ‘‘You are sounding more like Jesselynn every day. Mother would chide you for becoming so unfeminine.’’

  Louisa stared him right back. ‘‘Be that as it may, dear brother . . .’’ Two could play at that game. ‘‘But if I waited around for men to do for me, we would starve here, along with our guests.’’ She kept her voice low so their guests wouldn’t hear them. And considering you have not contributed one dollar to the upkeep of this house, you do not have a lot you can say. Surely they were paying him for working in the law office, but he had never mentioned how much or when. Another very unchristian thought flitted through her head, made a hairpin turn, and returned to roost.

  What was he doing with his money? Had he paid the taxes? Had he even written a letter in response to the one Lucinda had sent them? When he said he would deal with it, she had trusted him to do so. No longer was she so certain that was wise.

  Lord, if I can’t trust my own brother, whom can I trust? But she knew the answer there too. As her mother always said, ‘‘In God alone do I put my trust.’’

  Now the real question. Do I? She heard herself arguing, or rather remonstrating, with herself as if she were another person standing back and eavesdropping on a conversation.

  ‘‘You will be ready?’’ Zachary’s question stopped her internal discussion. His voice had softened.

  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘Making you look old enough will be difficult.’’

  A compliment. Zachary had paid her a compliment. Veiled or not, one had to take compliments when offered.

  ‘‘Thank you, dear, I will manage.’’ Now how would she tell Carrie Mae that she would be gone?

  ‘‘But where are you going? I need you here.’’ Carrie Mae stared at her sister as if she had left a portion of her mind at home.

  ‘‘Carrie Mae Highwood, er, Steadly, some of us have more important things to do than wait on you hand and foot.’’

  Carrie Mae slumped as though she’d been slugged in her still-tender midsection. Tears sprung from her eyes like downspouts after a rainstorm.

  Even though Louisa knew Carrie Mae could put on tears as easily as she put on a shawl, she felt as if she’d tried to drown a kitten.

  ‘‘I’m sorry, dear, but I must do this. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and—’’

  ‘‘It’s that dumb old war again, I just know it. I am so sick and tired of hearing about the war I could throw up.’’ The baby let out a wail. ‘‘Now see what you’ve done.’’

  Louisa hid a smile. While she wasn’t the one who’d been shouting, she knew her sister well enough to know who would get the blame. ‘‘I’m sorry.’’ Louisa walked through the archway and picked her niece up from the basket where she slept. ‘‘There now, sugar, you don’t need to cry. How long since you fed her?’’

  ‘‘Two hours or so. She’s like a little pig, eating constantly. That’s all I do, feed the baby, change the baby, feed the baby. I feel like an old milk cow.’’ Carrie Mae threw herself down on the sofa.

  Louisa nuzzled the now quiet infant. ‘‘Ah, you precious little one, if only your grandmother were alive to see you. She loved babies so.’’ She looked up to see her sister mop away tears. At the bereft look on Carrie Mae’s face, Louisa knew they were thinking the same thing. Some days, even after these years she’d been gone, the ache to see their mother again cut clear to the heart.

  Louisa crossed the polished floor to sit beside her sister. ‘‘I’d stay home if I could.’’

  ‘‘I know that. Forgive my childish tantrum. I . . . I just didn’t realize babies took so much time, and I’m tired clear to the bone. Jefferson suggested a wet nurse, and now I’m beginning to think I made a mistake in refusing him.’’ She glanced at her daughter, who was now engaged in conversation with her aunt. She watched in silence. ‘‘You are so good with her.’’

  Louisa turned to look at her sister. ‘‘So are you.’’

  ‘‘I get impatient.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t have to get up with her every two hours during the night. Why don’t you feed her and go take a nap? I’ll stay awhile.’’

  ‘‘No, I’d rather visit with you.’’ When the baby screwed up her face, Carrie Mae picked up a blanket to throw over her shoulder and unbuttoned her waist. ‘‘Can Elise get you anything?’’

  ‘‘No thanks.’’ Louisa watched as Carrie Mae set her daughter to nursing, all the while smiling and whispering to the baby.

  ‘‘Lucinda would say she’s sweet as sugar and pretty as a rose.’’

  ‘‘I know. I always thought I would have my babies at Twin Oaks. Funny, I never thought I would have to go with my husband wherever he lived. Just never entered my mind.’’ She smiled at Louisa. ‘‘Life certainly is different than we dreamed, isn’t it?’’

  Back at Aunt Sylvania’s, working on her disguise, Louisa kept thinking about Carrie Mae’s comment. Sometimes the only thing that kept her going was the thought that God knew what was happening and was not surprised. No matter how severely her world was torn apart, He was still in control. Lord, help me to remember that, no matter what.

  Louisa reminded herself that God was in control when she and Zachary climbed into their rather odoriferous buggy.

  She reminded herself again when the Union officer studied their papers. One of her prayers had been answered. He wasn’t the same man who had passed them through on the earlier trip.

  Union uniforms painted Washington blue. From the troops camped to the south of the city to the officers who took part in the life of the capital, one could not step out the door without seeing uniforms.

  As Zachary and Louisa drove to a house in the northern outskirts, heads turned away at the putrid effluence of their coffin. Riding with the foul odor so long had deadened their sensitivities, so they could look suitably grief stricken. Pepper in her handkerchief helped as before. Red eyes only added to her appearance of age.

  ‘‘Zachary, dear, I keep getting the feeling someone is watching us.’’ Louisa had hesitated to say anything, for due to the stench, many watched them.

  ‘‘I think not. I’ve been observing carefully.’’ Zachary tied the reins to the whip handle, and using the armrest and his crutch, carefully lowered himself to the ground.

  ‘‘Don’t go lookin’ around like you are frightened or some such.’’ He barely moved his lips while giving instructions.

  ‘‘I know.’’ She climbed from her side of the buggy and followed her brother up the walk. Staying at a hotel had been hard enough but with strangers would be worse.

  Zachary knocked at the door that had missed a few paint jobs, as had the porch. A curtain dropped back into place, the only indication so
meone was home. Within moments the door opened, and a man in a black coat and trousers invited them in.

  ‘‘Were you followed?’’ His first words sent ripples chilling up Louisa’s back.

  ‘‘No, at least not that I could detect. Why would anyone follow me?’’

  ‘‘Just bein’ careful. We have the box ready to transfer. I will take your buggy inside my barn and do so while the two of you have a bite to eat. Then you must be on your way again.’’

  Without even a night’s sleep? Louisa wished her brother would look at her so she could question him. But he ignored her, keeping his attention on their host.

  ‘‘That will be fine. Perhaps you have a place my wife could rest and wash a bit?’’

  ‘‘Of course, follow me.’’

  Louisa did as asked and was shown into a bedroom with a pitcher of water set on the commode. When their host left the room, she sank gratefully down on the bed and removed her hat. After using the necessary, she washed her hands and face, brushed her hair, and wound it back in a bun. Lying down on the bed, she closed her eyes, sinking into the softness of the feather bed. The night before had been spent at an inn where the only available bed had been boards with a thin pallet. Her shoulder still ached.

  ‘‘Mrs. Highwood, are you ready?’’ The voice came far too soon, but Louisa answered yes. She rose, tucked stray wisps of hair into the bun, donned her hat, and after straightening the bed, left the room.

  Zachary met her at the front door, their host beside him with a basket over his arm.

  ‘‘I dislike hurrying you off like this, but we have been informed we must leave this house and find another immediately.’’

  Louisa took the basket. Chills raced each other up and down her spine like a hawk after chickens. One look at her brother’s face and the mask covering it, and she knew he was as edgy about the situation as she. Why, then, had they been sent here?

  ‘‘I’m sorry there was no time to inform you of any changes.’’ The man hustled them out the door and into the buggy. ‘‘If I were you, I would go further north and west before heading south.’’

  ‘‘Thank you. All is loaded as needed?’’

  ‘‘Yes, and Godspeed.’’

  Louisa climbed into the buggy and waited for Zachary to accomplish the same. But when he clucked the horse into a trot down the street with no difficulty, she let herself rest against the back of the seat.

  The odor seemed even more pervasive.

  Zachary threaded their way among the wagons, buggies, and riders clogging the streets, making Louisa wonder how he could possibly find their way.

  They spent the night at an inn and left again early in the morning. A drizzle grayed the road and set the trees to dripping. At one point they pulled off the road and watched a battalion of Union soldiers pass with fully loaded provision wagons and wagons with red crosses painted on their sideboards. If only they could appropriate the supplies therein, but instead she kept her head down, handkerchief to her nose. Since no one gave them a second glance, they followed some distance behind until they met the Union lines.

  ‘‘Halt!’’ A young soldier, rifle across his chest, stepped into the roadway.

  Zachary dug in his breast coat pocket and held out his papers. ‘‘We are taking our son home to be buried.’’ He enunciated clearly, sounding as Northern as possible.

  ‘‘And where is that?’’ The man folded the papers and handed them back.

  ‘‘Not far down the road, at Manassas.’’

  ‘‘I’ve been instructed to have all civilians vetted by my superior officer. You will have to come with me.’’

  Louisa felt her stomach tighten, then loosen, like a snake preparing to strike. Please, God. She looked up with tear-filled eyes.

  ‘‘Please, as you can smell, we must get him home, or we will have to bury him along the road.’’ One sniff of her handkerchief and the tears ran.

  ‘‘I’m sorry, ma’am, orders is orders.’’ He beckoned to another to take his place at guard and motioned them forward.

  They stopped in front of an officer’s tent.

  ‘‘Please leave your buggy and come inside.’’

  ‘‘My poor husband has a difficult time getting out of the buggy. Is it possible for us to talk out here?’’

  ‘‘One moment.’’ He disappeared in the tent.

  ‘‘Do not say any more than necessary.’’ Zachary spoke without moving his lips.

  The young man returned. ‘‘Sorry, ma’am. Follow me, please.’’

  Louisa controlled the shaking of her hands with the greatest effort. She stumbled as she stepped down, but the soldier caught her arm before she fell.

  ‘‘Easy there, ma’am.’’

  She recognized the discomfort in his face and voice at forcing them to do this. Knowing how old and frail they appeared, she let herself lean on his arm, then rounded the buggy to assist Zachary.

  As they hobbled into the tent, the officer behind a desk looked up and commanded, ‘‘Search their buggy.’’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘‘Sir, the body . . .’’ Louisa dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and the tears rose immediately. ‘‘Our son . . .’’ Her sniff was as genuine as her fear. ‘‘The smell is . . . is bad. Has . . . has he not been through enough?’’

  ‘‘Ma’am, we’ve seen enough war that the sight of one more decomposing body won’t be a shock.’’

  No, but what isn’t in that box may be. She turned and hid her face on her brother’s shoulder, the sobs real.

  ‘‘Now, dear, please, don’t carry on so.’’ Zachary patted her back with the stump of his arm. ‘‘Now see what you’ve done.’’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘‘Too much. This has all been too much.’’ His voice sounded old and feeble, as if the very life were being drained from him also.

  ‘‘Here, both of you, have a seat. This won’t take but a few moments, and you can be on your way.’’ The officer, who wore the maple leaf of his rank, motioned to two chairs to the side of his field desk.

  Oh, God, please make them blind or willing to accept the coffin for what it is. Please help us. Louisa could hardly sit for the shaking, her prayers skittering through her mind like desiccated cottonwood leaves before a winter wind.

  ‘‘Sir.’’ One of the men beckoned the major from the tent door. He nodded to the two of them and left.

  Louisa closed her eyes. They were discovered. She knew it with every bone in her body.

  When the major reentered the tent, the look on his face said it all. No longer a hint of apology, but now the steel of accusation.

  ‘‘Put these two under arrest for running contraband. And bury that raccoon. He has more than served his purpose.’’

  Zachary sat straight in his chair, one arm resting on his crutch.

  The major took his seat and leaned slightly forward, his voice soft but laced with steel. ‘‘Now, would you like to tell me who you really are?’’ He glanced down at their papers on the desk in front of him. ‘‘I believe Mr. and Mrs. Tyler to be as false as that body out there.’’

  ‘‘Captain Zachary Highwood, Confederate States of America, discharged due to war injuries. This is my sister, Miss Louisa Highwood. The contraband, as you call it, is quinine and morphine, not for resale, not for pleasure, but to ease the suffering of men who fought nobly.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ The major leaned back in his folding chair, one arm cocked over the leather back. ‘‘So after fighting you Southerns for every hill and valley, I should now alleviate your suffering?’’

  ‘‘Some of them are your men too. Cannonballs show no partiality.’’

  ‘‘So you can send them to rot in Libby Prison or Andersonville?’’ Narrowed eyes glared across the distance.

  Zachary shrugged. ‘‘If we have nothing to care for our own, how can we care for yours? Besides, many prisoners are paroled almost as soon as they arrive.’’

  ‘‘Take them away.’’ The major waved at the young man
standing at attention at the open tent flaps. ‘‘And put them in separate quarters. Manacled wrists.’’

  ‘‘For both?’’ The rosy-cheeked young man raised an eyebrow.

  ‘‘Both.’’

  He used his rifle to indicate they should precede him.

  Louisa went out first, followed by Zachary, the young soldier, and another who fell in beside them. Both soldiers held their rifles at the ready.

  What? They think we shall run? Zachary hardly able to walk and me looking like a woman far beyond her prime, older even than Aunt Sylvania? Louisa tottered some for good effect, not that anything they said or did would make any difference.

  Spies were shot. She would argue they weren’t spies, only angels of mercy, but she had a feeling the major would hardly accept that.

  Shame such a fine-looking man had been so harsh.

  As if it would be easier were he ugly? The little voice snickered. What are you doing noticing he is a fine-looking man? He’s the enemy.

  Louisa turned into the tent indicated and sat down on the cot.

  ‘‘Sorry, ma’am.’’ Another soldier entered. ‘‘Please hold out your hands.’’

  Louisa did as requested, a knot forming in her stomach as the iron manacles were snapped about her slender wrists. The sound of it sent waves of horror rolling through her body. She stared up at the blue-clad man in front of her. ‘‘Is this really necessary?’’ Her voice cracked, her throat so dry she couldn’t have spit if ordered.

  ‘‘Only obeying orders, ma’am.’’ He dipped his head, a mere sketch of good manners, and left, dropping the tent flap behind him.

  Any semblance of breeze died with the dimness. And with the heat trapped in the tent, her fear rose from a mewling kitten to a roaring tiger.

  Oh, Lord, no matter how much I look forward to heaven, I’m not ready to leave this earth yet. What about those at Aunt Sylvania’s, and Jesselynn? Please, Lord, I want to see her again. I want to see Twin Oaks. I want to be married and have babies. God help me, I don’t want to be shot. I can’t do this, Lord, I can’t. The manacles weighted her hands like the fear weighted her heart. She curled up on the coarse blanket that covered the cot into a shivering ball in spite of the heat.