by Diaz, Debra
REVIEWS OF SHADOW OF DAWN
“Kudos for Debra Diaz. With a fine eye for detail and a keen ear for nuance, she brings the South to life in a mesmerizing tale set in the dark days of the Civil War. Diaz creates a lovable heroine and adds enough surprises to keep you turning pages. Shadow of Dawn is a ‘must read’ for history buffs…and for anyone who loves a good story chock full of love, honor and courage.”
---Peggy Webb, best selling author of Where Dolphins Go
“In the finest tradition of southern writers, Debra Diaz has crafted a great story of historically-authentic fiction and tells it well. Shadow of Dawn is a masterfully written, gripping tale of romance, intrigue and espionage set in the turbulent days of the Civil War.”
---Michael Warren, Ph.D., Civil War battle re-enactor
“With the detail of historical fiction, the action of a spy thriller, and the passion of a romance novel, Debra Diaz’s Shadow of Dawn transports the reader to Richmond, Virginia, at the height of the Civil War. The unexpected twists and turns of the plot result in a real page-turner…The faith, courage and determination of so long ago still speak to our age.”
---Dr. Carl M. White
SHADOW OF DAWN
DEBRA DIAZ
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2010 Debra Diaz
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your use only. It may not be re-sold or digitally reproduced for use by another person. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
Author Page at Smashwords
CHAPTER ONE
It seemed impossible that as the country stood on the brink of war, she’d married a man she barely knew. The clash and roar of battle had been raging from Virginia to New Orleans for more than a year now, and she’d not seen her husband since the morning after their wedding, when he had ridden off to join the army—but that would change very soon.
Catherine heard the train before she saw it, heard the hiss of its engine and the rumble of tracks as it slowly crossed the trestle high over the James River. Her green bonnet shielded her from the faint drizzle of rain—and from the sympathetic look she knew was on the face of her uncle, Martin; not that she didn’t want his sympathy, or need it. “No doubt his wounds are serious,” Martin said. “I think you’d better prepare yourself, my dear.”
Catherine felt her stomach tighten. A whiff of cold wind stirred a few strands of russet hair from beneath her bonnet and brought a flush of pink across the high cheekbones and slim nose. The green fabric of her bonnet and cloak deepened the grayish-green shade of her eyes to emerald, but they were troubled in expression, almost fearful. She closed them for a moment, trying not to remember things she’d read in the newspapers, things she’d heard whispered during social gatherings, things she’d seen herself in the city’s hospitals.
Cannon balls, exploding shells, flying bullets—all had horrific effects upon the human body. It was bad enough to observe these effects on strangers, but one’s husband—Catherine stopped in mid-thought as the realization struck her again that the man who would soon accompany her home was practically a stranger.
With a screech of brakes, the train rolled into the station and stopped. Passengers, mostly women and children, began climbing down the steps. They must be refugees, she thought, the most recent victims of the war. She’d heard nearby Fredericksburg had been evacuated in anticipation of yet another attempt by the Union Army to capture Richmond.
She knew they ought to at least offer someone a ride, but somehow she couldn’t move, could hardly think.
A woman disembarked, very thin in a gray dress and white apron, with dark hair pulled severely back beneath a black bonnet. She turned to await someone else, extending her hand. A man’s gloved hand descended upon her arm.
Catherine heard her own involuntary gasp of surprise as she watched the man lean heavily on the woman in gray. She saw that his other hand grasped a slender black cane. As her gaze moved upward, she stifled another gasp, only vaguely aware of Martin taking her arm.
There could be no doubt he was her husband, though his frock coat hung more loosely about his tall frame. It was the same pale yellow coat he’d worn as he rode away to war, before he’d acquired his uniform. Beneath it he wore a black shirt and black trousers. Around his entire head was a black hood or scarf, covering even his eyes. Though he leaned on the woman, he held the cane out before him, as if—
“He’s blind,” she heard Martin say, his voice reflecting her own awed sense of disbelief.
The two advanced slowly. The woman held a large black umbrella over their heads. Perhaps forty or more years of age, she was plain and unsmiling, with an air of steely determination. Her owlish, slate-gray eyes swept Catherine grimly from head to toe.
Catherine stared at her husband. He seemed taller than she remembered, perhaps because a certain heaviness had fallen away; he looked lean and fit but for his obvious weakness. The black scarf completely enshrouded his head and neck. Two small holes had been cut where his nostrils must be. Black gloves made of soft leather concealed both hands.
The pair stopped. Catherine stood speechless, finally turning toward her uncle with a look of helplessness.
“Hello, Andrew,” Martin said, too loudly, too cheerfully. He reached out to shake the man’s hand, realized his mistake, and let his own hand fall.
“It’s Martin,” her uncle went on, less enthusiastically. “Catherine is here.”
“Hello, Catherine,” Andrew said, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for coming, Martin. Is Sallie with you?”
“No, I’m afraid…that is, I regret to say she was unable to come.”
“This is my nurse, Mrs. Shirley.”
“How do you do?” Mrs. Shirley extended her free hand in an almost mannish fashion. Catherine took the proffered hand, noting absently its firm, almost painful grip.
“If you don’t mind,” Andrew said, whispering, “I’m tired. I’d like to go home.”
***
Catherine had been prepared for, had even expected, missing limbs, scars, perhaps a patch over one sightless eye. But this black-garbed being, faceless, with hardly a voice to speak with—somehow Catherine felt completely taken aback.
The carriage rocked lightly over the cobblestoned street. Martin seemed to consider speaking, but Mrs. Shirley’s unblinking stare discouraged conversation. Even a simple “How was your trip?” seemed inappropriate.
The black hood over Andrew’s face revealed nothing of the shape or contours of the features beneath. Distortions and scars were left to her imagination—and Catherine had a fertile one. It didn’t seem real, sitting opposite this silent and faceless man.
The feeling of unreality was strangely familiar. It struck Catherine like a bolt of lightning that she’d felt exactly this way at least once before. It was on the day of their wedding.
Spring of 1861 had been a time of madness, of excitement, of hurry, hurry, hurry. Men left their families to fight a war some of them little understood. Their reasons for going, though varied and complex, could be boiled down to one simple truth: No man, or group of men, was going to tell the South what it could or could not do, and no army was
going to invade the Southland without a fight.
Catherine herself took little interest in politics, but she gathered the issues had to do with the rights of the individual states and the South’s economy, which would be fatally threatened by the eradication of slavery as proposed by the North.
Incensed slaveholders and radical abolitionists had really been fighting the war for years through newsprint and political speeches, and through harrowing acts of violence. Quieter, more sensible voices were heard, still in opposition to each other—some urging submission, others
encouraging secession—but the North was unyielding and the South
refused to be coerced.
Men who loved their country, men who loved the Union, wept and left Washington forever to become principal leaders in the new Confederate States of America.
The North’s not-very-subtle attitude of moral superiority further alienated Southerners and maddened the owners of slaves (especially in view of the North’s labor practices, where even women and children were worked nearly to death and paid a pittance in wages). When Virginia seceded, Catherine believed her state had done the only honorable thing. It was a viewpoint shared by practically everyone she knew, including Andrew Kelly.
She’d met Andrew at one of the dozens of parties given that spring. And because he was young and handsome and came from a good Alabama family, because he declared his love for her after their second dance, because she had no parents and lived with her uncle and his very young second wife, and, mostly, because she feared she would never have another chance should the war take all the eligible young men— she consented to marry him.
Catherine’s gaze shifted from the window of the rocking carriage to the tired, gray-bearded face of her uncle. It wasn’t that she didn’t like living with Martin and Sallie. It wasn’t that she’d fallen suddenly, desperately, in love. Somehow she’d simply been caught up in the excitement of those early days of the war, when emotions ran as hot as some tropical fever through the blood of southern men and women alike.
Why, they’d whip the Yankees in a month. They’d teach those despotic rabble-rousers to stick their long Yankee noses into a situation that was no business of theirs. The young men couldn’t wait to join the army, and the young women couldn’t wait to marry them, to send them off with tearful pride and eagerly await their victorious return—heroes one and all.
Catherine found herself at the altar with dizzying celerity. Like most brides, she blushingly pledged her troth, stifling the misgivings that had begun to gnaw at her former determination. But, unlike most brides, she spent her wedding night alone in her own bed, for she had come down with a sore throat and raging fever. She was better by the next morning, but Andrew had to join his unit and so had ridden away after kissing her on the cheek and promising to write. (She had wondered, often, why she hadn’t been more regretful.)
After three letters, she heard nothing more for six months. It seemed she must assume the worst, but she held on to the fact that no one had found his body, though so many bodies remained unidentified, shoved into shallow mass graves. But Andrew was an officer; surely if he’d been killed, someone would know it!
In June of 1862, a few months after their first anniversary, she heard he was wounded and had been unconscious for a long time. He was only beginning to recover. She received a long but curiously uninformative letter from a surgeon who had tended Andrew in a hospital somewhere in Georgia. Her husband would be sent home as soon as he was strong enough to endure the trip.
Now it was November, and the man she’d married had returned. Except that he wasn’t exactly the man she had married.
The long and silent ride ended before a handsome three-story house of red brick on Franklin Street, not far from the government district. Martin Henderson alighted and turned to help the other occupants. Catherine climbed out, then stood uncertainly, wondering if she should help her husband, but Mrs. Shirley seemed to have the situation well in hand.
Catherine followed the pair into the house and turned to wait for her uncle, who was directing the driver as to the disposition of Andrew’s and Mrs. Shirley’s baggage. Once inside the house, she took off her bonnet and cloak and hung them on the rack next to the door.
Andrew had paused in the wide central hallway. Catherine noticed that Ephraim, who acted as butler, valet, and on many occasions her counselor, stood just inside the doorway of the parlor with a bewildered look on his kind, aged face.
The masked head turned slightly in her direction. “I do hope there’ll be no inconvenience. Mrs. Shirley must be available at all times. Is there a room for her?”
The whispery voice tore at Catherine’s heart. What had happened to him? Andrew had been so strong, tawny-haired, blue-eyed, quick to express his opinion, impulsive. He was now, she thought as she stared at the black scarf that covered even his throat, only a shadow of himself. Before she could answer, Martin came to stand beside her.
“Of course,” he said, with somewhat forced cordiality. “Of course she must stay. There’s plenty of room. Ephraim, tell Jessie to open another bedroom.”
Ephraim disappeared, going out the second doorway at the end of the room. A movement from the long stairway caught everyone’s gaze. Martin’s wife, Sallie, turned the sharp curve near the top and hurried gracefully down the stairs, saying breathlessly, “Oh, Martin, you’re back at last. I’ve been writing letters and lost track of the time.”
She reached the small landing near the bottom of the stairway, looked up from the steps, saw Andrew, and froze. Her smile of welcome cracked, she said “Oh” in a baffled tone, and fainted. Martin saw it coming, leaped forward to catch her before she hit the floor, and in the flurry that followed, Andrew and Mrs. Shirley disappeared up the stairs. Catherine ran for the smelling salts, which her uncle waved under his wife’s nose as she lay limply upon the settee in the hall.
“Oh,” Sallie said again, raising her head a little and automatically pushing away the smelling salts. “What was it? Martin, who was that man? I thought we were being robbed!”
“It’s Andrew,” Martin said gravely. “Of course you knew he’d been wounded. We didn’t know how seriously. I expect his nurse will let us know more as soon as Andrew is settled.”
“But, why…he must be terribly disfigured.” Sallie sat up, her bright gaze falling on Catherine. “How dreadful for you, dear. It must be quite a shock.”
Catherine turned away as Martin helped Sallie up and assisted her into the parlor. She heard the tinkle of glasses and knew a stout dosage of brandy was being poured. By now Martin—indeed all of them— knew how to handle Sallie’s fainting spells. Whether due to her excitable nature or the too-tight corset that cinched her waist to a mere handbreadth, they were a frequent occurrence.
Catherine walked across the hall into the second parlor, the formal room where their more lavish parties were held, though there had been none of those for a long time. While many of their neighbors held a party or reception at least once a week, Martin frugally chose not to entertain much. Catherine sat down, realizing dimly that her knees were weak and she was still too stunned to think straight.
Was Andrew going to get better? Why hadn’t the doctor prepared them? Why hadn’t he detailed Andrew’s injuries?
She remembered her relief at discovering he was alive. The surgeon had written: “Captain Kelly remained unconscious for a long period of time. Though we were aware of his identity, he himself remained confused, and for this reason we were reluctant to write concerning his condition, fearing that the appearance of family members would lead to more confusion and despondency. It is apparent that he has recovered his mental faculties and will require a period of recuperation. His desire is to return to his home. Will telegraph arrival time at a later date.”
Certainly there was nothing in the letter to imply his condition was so critical, though Martin had tried to warn her that such might be the case. There had been no mention of blindness and possible disfigurement. They had been trying to spare her feelings, she supposed, but seeing him had been a far greater shock than any written description could have been.
She could only think, Poor Andrew. And there was a vague idea, nipping away at her consciousness, that her life would never be the same.
“Mrs. Kelly.”
The voice came from the doorway. Catherine jumped to her feet, startled. Mrs. Shirley stared back at her. She had removed her bonnet, revealing straight black hair threaded with barely noticeable strands of gray and rolled into a knot at the base of her skull. “May I speak with you?”
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“Please—of course. I’ve been waiting for you.”
