In His Eyes: A Civil War Romance

by Stephenia H. McGee

  Ella slipped into her room and through to the nursery and spied Lee sleeping peacefully. Her heart lurched. She must remember to keep these emotions under control. Ever they sought to undo her, no matter how diligently she sought to control them with logic.

  She turned to find Sibby staring at her from the doorway. “You all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She moved to slip past Sibby. “Now, if you don’t mind, I should get out of this dress and get to work dusting the library.”

  “Humph. Done told you there ain’t no need for you to be doin’ all that.”

  Ella set her teeth but refused the temptation to send cutting words to Sibby. Heavens, what had gotten in to her?

  Sibby’s voice softened. “I know them women can be tough.”

  Ella stilled. Feeling some of the fire go out of her, she dropped her chin. “You listened at the door.”

  “Yep.” Sibby came around to stand in front of her. “Good thing, too, else you might’ve gotten you self into more of a mess.”

  Logic warned the words were true, even if her emotions demanded she defend herself. “I decided it best to have to lie as little as possible.”

  Sibby seemed to consider Ella’s words, but then shook her head. “They was too suspicious.”

  “So?” Ella dug through the wardrobe for her work dress. “What does it matter? They can dislike me all they wish.”

  Sibby grunted. “And if they start talkin’ to other folks, saying they don’t believe you is Mr. Westley’s wife?”

  “Then they can talk.”

  Sibby groaned. “Give them soldiers one reason to make us get out and they is goin’ to take it.”

  “On the gossiping words of women?” Ella flung the dress on the bed. “Pish.”

  “They take any excuse they get to take stuff from folks. Done seen it.”

  “Oh?” She lifted her eyebrows. “Is that so?”

  “You think I’s lyin’?”

  “Well, one thing their suspicions are right about. This house didn’t get razed. Why?”

  Sibby threw a glance at the high ceiling. “They flew the United States flag and Mr. Westley was a Federal Major.”

  “Hump.” Ella crossed her arms. “Then they would have been looted by desperate Confederates.”

  “Flew Confederate, too.”

  Ella gaped at her. Impossible.

  “Sure ’nough did.” Sibby bobbed her head, once more speaking to Ella as though she were a child. “And folks round here knew why. They all respected Mr. Remington.”

  “Who would have been a traitor to both sides?”

  “Who done loved his South and his son.” She looked over Ella. “But if you asks me, I say it was all them prayers Mrs. Remington sent up. If ever a woman had hold of God’s ear, was her.”

  Ella pondered the words, and could find nothing to refute them. That both armies had left not only the house but all the contents alone was evidence enough that Sibby’s words held true.

  “Now. We need to talk about what you done said to them….”

  Sibby’s words trailed off with a loud knock to the door. Both women froze and stared at one another. The heavy knock sounded again, stirring them to action.

  By the time they reached the front door, a third round of knocks made Ella’s blood pound. Who could be so insistent at the door?

  Sibby threw the door open. On the other side, a young man of no more years than Nat stood with his fist raised to pound once more. He lowered his arm to the side of his Yank uniform, then straightened himself.

  “Good afternoon.” His eyes darted past Sibby and landed on Ella, who was glad she still wore a lady’s gown.

  Ella tried to hold back her frustration. She’d told Sibby they needed a plan for the fields! And here the Yanks had come already, and she had nothing. She scrambled for any lie she could find as she stepped closer to the door, but lost all her thoughts to the man’s next words.

  “I have come bearing a message that these lands are to be forfeit unless the taxes are paid in full.”

  Westley stood by the hearth, dressed in a pair of faded trousers and a linen shirt provided to him by Mrs. Preston. Where she’d come by them, he didn’t know, nor did he ask. Had he a cravat and vest, he might almost feel properly dressed. As it were, he would have to receive his company in naught but his shirtsleeves. But then, at least he wasn’t in a nightshirt, still abed. His walking had improved to the point she allowed him to dress and move around the chamber.

  A tap came at the door, and Westley gripped the top of his cane a bit tighter. “Enter!”

  The doctor strode in, and on his heels followed a short, spindly man with an oversized moustache. The doctor, whom he had learned was a captain by the name of Albright, stroked his beard as he studied Westley.

  “Well, I see you have gained your feet, Major Remington.”

  “Indeed, I have, Doctor.” And soon he would be free of this cane as well.

  “That is good.” The look in his blue eyes stated he distrusted Westley’s ability to move about on his own. He motioned to the man who came to stand at his side. “This is Corporal Nelson.”

  Westley shifted his gaze to the other man, who came to attention. “Good day, Corporal. Take your ease. As you can both see, I am on my feet and will soon be ready to return to duty.”

  The men exchanged a glance that soured Westley’s stomach.

  Nelson stepped forward. “Sir, I have come bearing a message from General Sheridan.”

  His pulse quickened, but Westley kept his face passive. “Speak, then.”

  The smaller man shifted his weight from one scuffed boot to the other. “His orders are that you are to take an extended leave of absence until you are fully recovered.”

  Westley started to growl, and the doctor held up his hand. “I’d say, Major, that these are most prudent orders. Force the leg too quickly and it may hinder your stride all the more.”

  Westley bit back disagreeable words. “I understand.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “The usual ninety day furlough is the extension, then?”

  The small man attempted to make himself seem taller, but he still only reached Westley’s chin. “He said that by way of your great service, he has decided to grant you a more extended leave, should you wish it.”

  Westley’s face must have revealed more of his thoughts than he wished, because Corporal Nelson lifted his eyebrows.

  “He seemed to imply the furlough was a well-deserved reward, sir.”

  Westley ground his teeth. Curse it! How to insist he return without spurning the general’s offer?

  Another thought occurred to him, and he narrowed his gaze at Captain Albright. Did the doctor tell the general about Westley’s memory lapses? Did that, more so than the leg, make the army feel it was prudent to give him extended recovery time?

  His jaw began to ache, and he had to force muscles to relax ere he broke a tooth.

  “You will, of course, continue to earn a wage,” the corporal stated, as though money made up for Westley’s humiliation.

  Westley shifted his weight off his bad leg, a motion that did not slip past the doctor’s notice.

  “Giving you trouble?”

  “No.” It took every ounce of his patience to remain affable, yet he sensed he failed in his attempt.

  Corporal Nelson glanced between the men, but said nothing.

  Westley cleared his throat. “Please send word to the general that I am honored by his generosity, but I shall report back for duty no later than one month’s time.” Better he set things on his own time schedule.

  “But, sir….” The man twitched his thick moustache, his beady eyes darting nervously to the doctor.

  “I have been healing for several weeks already, Corporal,” he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. “That shall be plenty of time for me to have healed sufficiently to return to duty. Already in the days since I regained consistent wakefulness, I have improved dramatically.” He swung his gaze t
o the doctor. “Isn’t that correct, Captain?”

  A smile twisted the corner of the man’s mouth. “It is, Major.”

  A small tap at the door drew their attention to Mrs. Preston. “Gentlemen, dinner is ready.”

  The doctor eyed Westley. “Are you fit to eat at the dining table?”

  Given that he didn’t fall over on the way there, he would make it so. “Indeed, Doctor. As I said, I am much improved.” He flicked a glance at Mrs. Preston, expecting her to protest, but she gave him an encouraging smile that bolstered his confidence.

  He was slow—humiliatingly so—but he made it to the dining room without the pain undoing him. Six weeks now since the injury, and his leg would finally hold his weight. At least, as long as he leaned heavily upon the cane.

  Easing into a chair at the well-used table, Westley took in the dining space of Mrs. Preston’s home. Like everything he had learned to be true of the woman herself, the space was simple, warm, and inviting. The beams overhead were sturdy, as were the humble walls free of elaborate paintings. The window on one wall stood open, letting the afternoon breeze ruffle the linens placed over the dishes to keep the bugs at bay until they began to eat.

  “So, Mrs. Preston, I find I am a bit curious,” Corporal Nelson said as he settled in his chair. “I am told this is the Hillsman farm.”

  She lifted the covering from a platter of roasted venison. “Yes, sir.”

  The smell scurried to Westley, and his mouth began to water. When had his nurse been able to get a deer? They’d had naught but chicken and mutton previously.

  The corporal shifted in his chair to allow her to pass the vittles to him. “Forgive me, but I am confused.”

  “Preston is her married name,” Westley supplied, stabbing three pieces of meat. “This farm belonged to her father, Mr. Hillsman.”

  “Ah, of course.” The man reached for a bowl of potatoes. “How dense of me.”

  After they had served themselves and Mrs. Preston took it upon herself to ask a blessing over the meal, they ate in earnest.

  “So, Doctor,” Mrs. Preston said, “as you can see, my patient has fared quite well.”

  The doctor wiped his mouth. “So I see. In fact, I suspect he shall very soon be leaving you.”

  Her face tightened, but she smiled anyway. “I do believe you are right.”

  Westley reached for another helping of beans. “It is only by her good care I am alive.” Never mind the doctor who had tried to take his leg and then let orderlies proclaim him dead. “Ever will I be thankful for her, and she shall always hold a place of high regard with me.”

  Her cheeks dimpled. “Oh, but I surely will miss having him about, even if he is an ornery one.” She laughed. “Though I dare say he may have redeemed himself with such flattery.”

  The men laughed at Westley’s expense, but he did not begrudge her teasing. Indeed, it felt good to be treated normally, and not as one who required tender care. “Ah, and I shall surely miss her unbridled honesty.”

  When the laughter died down, the corporal leaned forward. “Where shall you go during your furlough now that you are able to walk?”

  Westley tapped a finger on the table, indecision once more nagging at him. Mrs. Preston gave him a small nod of encouragement. She’d made her thoughts on the matter abundantly clear, and Westley finally conceded she was right. “As I have come by the extra time, I shall return to my home to settle matters there.”

  “Very good, sir,” Nelson said, as though Westley had answered a test question correctly. The man twitched his mustache. “And where do you hail from?”

  “Mississippi.”

  As expected, the doctor’s features showed surprise. Unexpectedly, the corporal’s did not.

  Dismissing the oddity as the man’s ability to control his features, Westley leaned back in his chair. “As you can imagine, my father’s lands will need to be seen to. I intend to take care of any expenses he may have left upon his death, then likely sell off the lands I have no intention of keeping.”

  “A difficult task, I’m sure,” the doctor said.

  “But a necessary one.”

  Mrs. Preston rose from the table and began taking up the dishes. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to talk for a moment, and I will be back with some pie.”

  Westley watched her leave, then turned his attention back to the men. Corporal Nelson twirled the waxed end of his mustache. “I, too, have family from the south. They live in Alabama.”

  “Oh?”

  “A most unfortunate splitting of allegiances, as I am sure you can understand.”

  Westley could. Though his parents had not begrudged his determination to stay loyal to the oaths he had taken upon graduating West Point, and he did not blame them for their desire to hold to the position of their home state, such was not usually the case for divided families. Often, such understandings did not exist between torn families that straddled allegiance lines. “This war has placed many a family against one another.”

  “You are quite right, Major Remington,” the doctor said, patting his pockets as though hankering for his pipe. “I am glad to see it come to an end.”

  “I thought to take a furlough to my grandfather’s home to see how they fared,” Corporal Nelson continued as though the doctor had not interjected himself into the conversation. “Perhaps we might travel south together?”

  Westley considered the proposal. Did the man offer because he thought Westley incapable of traveling alone? He pushed such rancorous thoughts aside. “I would be pleased for like-minded company, Corporal.”

  “Very good, sir. Would you be opposed to my making the travel arrangements?”

  “Not at all.” Westley rubbed the top of his leg under the table. He knew the rail systems were in poor condition the farther south one traveled, so they would need to cover at least part of the distance by carriage. Surely, though, the man would know as much. “I will need to get to the Mississippi River, in Washington County.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nelson smiled. “I will see it done.”

  Wondering if he had just walked himself into some kind of preconceived plan, Westley considered the man’s too ready words. He didn’t have an opportunity to voice his thoughts, however, because Mrs. Preston arrived with thick slices of apple pie. The scent of cinnamon and spice absconded with his concerns, and he turned his attention to the food and his thoughts to his home.

  Another few days, perhaps, and then he would have to face Belmont once more. What would he find there? Charred ruins? His home ransacked? The servants gone?

  It mattered not. Whatever state he found Belmont in, it would not deter his course. With his parents gone and himself unwelcomed in Greenville, it would be best that he remembered good times from his childhood rather than what the place would be with his parents dead. The house and lands would be sold and his father’s affairs settled. Then he would gain his place in the army once more and start a new life out west.

  Westley tried not to massage the leg that had begun to ache. He had thus mostly ignored the tingles and occasional sharp pains on this trip that had oft left him exhausted come the day’s end. He hated to admit it, but Mrs. Preston had been right in her misty-eyed farewell. It was a blessing that he was not yet required to return to the army where long days in the saddle would surely test his leg more than these days spent cramped in a carriage.

  Corporal Nelson had seen him to the northern borders of Mississippi, then taken his turn into Alabama. Seemed Westley had been wrong about that, too. The man didn’t attempt to hover over him or worry about his mental condition. He merely provided companionship for the majority of the journey.

  Westley took a deep breath of the humid air as the carriage drew nearer to Greenville. It had been four years since he’d visited—not since the war began. He’d exchanged letters with his parents, and had once seen his father in Washington, but he had not known that the day he’d bid his mother farewell at Belmont four years ago would be the last he ever saw of her. Regret gripped
him, and though he tried to push it away, as he did other emotions, it refused to budge.

  Trees passed slowly with the sway of the carriage and Westley was once more glad no others shared the hired coach with him. He could bear the weight of his guilt in peace. Memories of his youth swept over him. They had come to this swampland in 1845 when he was but a boy of eight. His father and his uncles had bought up vast areas of land and started growing cotton in the fertile ground. Indian squaws had been hired to harvest it back then, before they built Belmont in 1857 and acquired 200 slaves. Then his mother said Jesus didn’t want her owning another person and insisted that all the house slaves be freed. His father had consented, but held his ownership of the field hands until the war. Then, in ’64, when Father suspected that the South could not win, he granted freedom to those who had not run off and the lands had lain fallow.

  How he wished his parents had made it through the winter. Westley shook his head. Rather than the winter, it was more likely the summer that got them. The mosquitoes could be thick around Belmont, and his parents usually spent their summer months at their home in Natchez. But it was sold to pay for what the crops had not, and, thus, his parents had spent two summers in Belmont.

  The carriage slowed to a stop, pulling him from his dark thoughts. Yes, best he be rid of this place and the burdens it would give him. He noticed the scene out the window once more and his chest constricted. Burned homes, toppled buildings, and ragged-looking people lined the streets of Greenville. He’d been told things had been bad here, but seeing it with his own eyes stirred him.

  Westley opened the door and slowly climbed out. After paying the driver for his services, he turned down the main street in town. He’d elected to come here before going on to Belmont to see if he could locate his father’s solicitor. The carriage rolled away just as he was about to tell the driver he’d changed his mind, as it seemed too little remained of this place to be considered functional. As the hackney left him, he leaned upon his cane and started forward. Father had always said God gave a man but one direction. One could not go back, so he must move forward as best he could.