The Last Heiress

by Mary Ellis

  “Mr. Peterson, did you say, sir?” The clerk’s thin face paled considerably.

  “Yes, Mr. Robert Peterson. Step lively. I don’t have all night.”

  “Uh…please allow me to get the manager, sir.” Before Jackson could protest, the clerk disappeared into the private office.

  Moments later a distinguished white-haired man appeared with a somber expression. “Mr. Henthorne, a pleasure to see you, sir. I regret to be the bearer of bad news. We sent word to your home after finding your name on several papers in Mr. Peterson’s possession. Your butler indicated you were gone for the holiday and wouldn’t return for several days.”

  Jackson bit back a caustic retort as a wave of panic burned inside his belly. “I stand before you now. Perhaps you can convey the news without further delay?”

  The manager swabbed his forehead with his handkerchief. “Mr. Peterson checked in on the thirty-first to enjoy the festivities at the club. He left instructions not to be disturbed the next morning. We assumed he wished to sleep late. When a maid checked his room that evening, she found him unresponsive in his chair. She informed me, and I summoned the doctor and the mayor. Because the militia has been called to the fort, we have few civil authorities in town.” He dropped his voice to a whisper as though pillagers might soon descend on his hotel.

  Jackson braced his palms on the counter. “What exactly do you mean by ‘unresponsive’?”

  “Dead, sir. Mr. Peterson is dead. The doctor believes that bout of swamp fever weakened his heart and it simply gave out.”

  “He’s dead?” Jackson’s exclamation revealed his inability to comprehend the manager’s words. “Swamp fever?”

  “Certainly you knew he was very sick last fall while in the backwater counties. The miasma has taken many men to an early grave.”

  “Those papers you found…are the ledgers and contracts still in his room?” Jackson felt sudden beads of sweat run down his temples.

  The manager’s demeanor cooled. “They were gathered into a satchel along with Mr. Peterson’s personal effects to await the arrival of his family. I understand he had a brother living abroad.”

  “That’s right, Steven Peterson, who is in Bermuda.”

  “Yes, sir. I believe that’s where we sent notification.”

  “I was in partnership with both brothers. I demand to see those papers to ascertain what provisions were made in case the unthinkable transpired…” Jackson knew he was rambling almost incoherently, but the demise of Mr. Peterson had discombobulated him.

  The manager splayed his hands on the counter. “This sounds like a matter for your attorney, Mr. Henthorne, and perhaps a court of law. I will keep the gentleman’s possessions secure pending the arrival of his brother or an order from the court.”

  Jackson grabbed hold of the man’s lapels. “You self-important little— My entire fortune is in jeopardy!”

  The manager shrugged away, incensed. “That will be the case for everyone if the war doesn’t end soon. Good day to you, sir!” He stomped into his office and closed the door, leaving Jackson alone and shaking in the lobby.

  Hornsby and the Marie Celeste had vanished with his load of cotton, and now Peterson was dead? What did that bode for the future of their partnership? And what about the Roanoke? It could be coming to the Carolinas at this moment, unaware of catastrophe awaiting hapless ships that entered the Cape Fear.

  At least he had moved his other ship to safe harbor, as long as unscrupulous guards, shallow waters, unpredictable tidal surges, or rust didn’t bring about the Lady Adelaine’s premature demise.

  Jackson staggered back to where Thomas sat with the carriage. He paused on the curb to speak to his driver, dapper in his frock coat and top hat. “Has the horse been fed and adequately watered?” he asked.

  “Of course, sir. I take good care of the old boy.”

  “Good, because I want to ride to Oakdale tonight.” Jackson lifted his boot heel to the carriage’s bottom step.

  “This late in the day, sir? Don’t you reckon we should wait till morning?”

  “No, I do not.” Jackson exhaled harshly, trying to rein in his temper. “I have important business to discuss with my father that won’t wait. I shouldn’t need to explain this to you, Thomas, but we will return to town tomorrow. You can sleep once we get to Oakdale. Mrs. Henthorne and Salome will be fine for one night alone. After all, Amos is there.”

  “Amos is an old man, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so, and—”

  “What I mind is standing here arguing instead of leaving! The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll get back.” He ended up shouting on the street.

  “Yes, sir.” Releasing the brake, Thomas snapped the whip over the horse’s back. The carriage began to roll before the prudently silent footman closed the door behind Jackson.

  Picking their way along dark, rutted roads provided Jackson with plenty of time for contemplation as to what he would say when he arrived, but how did a man tell his father he had apparently been duped and swindled by a man he shouldn’t have trusted in the first place? Or that he’d leveraged their assets on two shiny blockade runners that could be sunk by an artillery shell or confiscated by the navy as spoils of war? His father had entrusted him with Henthorne and Sons, but in his quest for wealth he may have foolishly and needlessly put at risk their entire future.

  By the time they reached the front gate to Oakdale, morning had broken over fallow peanut fields, dormant until spring’s warm rains. Jackson sent Thomas and the footman around back to eat and sleep while he entered the grand foyer of his ancestral home. Handing his coat to the butler, he paused in the dining room doorway and bowed low. “Good morning, Mother, Father. Forgive my intrusion at this early hour.”

  His parents looked at him in some surprise but also in welcome. “You need no invitation to come home, son,” said Randolph.

  “Sit and have something to eat, dear. Did Abigail come with you?” his mother asked.

  “She did not. I came rather spur of the moment.” Jackson stiffly lowered himself onto a chair and motioned for coffee.

  “You must have ridden all night to arrive at this hour. I trust there is something important on your mind.” His father studied him curiously.

  “There is, but let’s enjoy this fine breakfast first.” Plates of fruit, grits, tomatoes, sliced ham, fried eggs, and flakey biscuits were arrayed across the table…all for two diners. Jackson forced himself to eat a small amount despite his lack of hunger.

  Isabelle finished her food in silence, and then she stood, brushed her son’s forehead with a kiss, and left the room. Jackson didn’t wait to be prodded as to why he had come. He launched into a tale of bulging warehouses, inflated prices for tobacco and cotton, sleek ships able to outrun gunboats, and repaid debts on the company books. He then completed his account with the saga of Captain Hornsby, the closing of the port and mining of the river by their army, the death of his business partner, and one undeniable reality: the financial future of Henthorne and Sons rested on the continued success of the Roanoke and the Lady Adelaine.

  His father listened without interruption. He neither cursed nor berated nor shook his fist in anger. His behavior throughout Jackson’s narrative remained calm and composed. “So you’re telling me our backs are against the wall.” He signaled to the servants to clear the table.

  “To put it mildly, sir. I feel as though I betrayed you by not coming here earlier.” He forced himself to meet his father’s eye.

  “Nonsense. I gave you the reins because I no longer wanted them. You tried what you thought was our best chance for success.”

  “I may have been reckless—”

  Randolph waved away the adjective as though it were a gnat near his food. “There was no safe course, no predictable road to an assured outcome, during this time of extended conflict. All of that’s been taken from us.” He gazed out the window at sights he had seen all his life.

  For the first time, Jackson noticed accumulated dust on the surfaces
of the table and bookshelves and the streaky window glass. The neglect of his parents’ pride and joy saddened him as much as his money woes. He turned his attention back to his father, a man almost as worn as the room’s appointments. “Who could have predicted this war would go so relentlessly against us?”

  “Your brother was certain they would lick the Yankees and be home in time for harvest. Everyone thought after giving the North one or two good thrashings that Lincoln would leave us in peace.”

  “Now Yankee ships ring the mouth of the river, waiting, daring us to escape from our own state.”

  “Perhaps the Roanoke will stay in Bermuda. You were wise to hide the other steamer.” Randolph clumsily pushed up from the table. “Don’t persecute yourself, son. We shall manage with whatever comes.”

  When had his father become so defeated or grown so old? Jackson sucked in a deep breath. “I cannot sit in my parlor awaiting my fate like a condemned man. I have to act. The Confederacy must prevail. If we are victorious in the coming battle, and if the Yankee navy sails back north, commerce will resume. Given time, our losses can be recouped.”

  “Don’t talk foolishly. I won’t sacrifice both my sons.” Randolph walked toward the door, but Jackson blocked his exit.

  “If we lose the war, the Yankees could confiscate everything I have left. We will be ruined.”

  “What can one man possibly do? You must think about your wife and the child on the way.”

  “I can fight to preserve my home, my ships…my dignity. I intend to take a stand.”

  “You sound exactly like your brother! William hasn’t been heard from in two years. He’s probably lying in an unmarked grave with other brave souls in Maryland or Virginia and we’ll never know where.” Randolph’s face flushed hotly as he staggered against the wall.

  Jackson gripped his father’s arms to steady him. “If my brother is dead, he died a hero. I want no man calling me a coward when all is said and done.”

  “You’re not making any sense. No one is trying to raise regiments in town anymore.”

  “No, but I can still volunteer at the fort. They won’t turn away a man who comes to fight.” Before his courage faltered, Jackson kissed his father’s cheek in a rare token of affection. “Best not to tell Mother where I am going. I’ll tell her myself when this nasty business is behind us.” He strode from the house, the place where he’d been born, and didn’t look back.

  In the side yard, he sent a small boy to find Thomas. When his coachman appeared with a chicken leg in hand, Jackson issued instructions. “Have someone saddle one of my father’s horses and tie on a bag of food and a canteen of water. After you have sufficiently rested, I want you to drive the carriage home. Inform Mrs. Henthorne she is to pack her bags and return here with you. Bring Salome and Amos, Miss Dunn and Helene, and anybody else who’s still there. Lock up the house and leave as soon as possible. Do you understand, Thomas?”

  “Yes, sir, I do, but where’s you goin’?”

  “I’m on my way to Fort Fisher, but Mrs. Henthorne isn’t to be informed of that until she’s safely with my parents. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir. I surely don’t want to be the one to tell her when we’ve got a long ride ahead of us.”

  After his coachman headed toward the stable, Jackson sought the cool shade under a live oak tree. He would rest for an hour or two and leave without seeing his parents again.

  He wouldn’t need much provocation to change his mind.

  January 5, 1865

  Nate quickly learned the meaning of purposeless drills, useless exercises, and how truly bad food can taste. But he was now a private in the Army of the Confederate States of America, something he never thought he would be. He also learned the meaning of mind-numbing boredom. Few books were to be found in the sand-and-earthen fort, and he hadn’t the forethought to bring any with him.

  After morning drills and exercises, Nate took it upon himself to learn the layout and weaponry of Fisher. At first his numerous questions were met with suspicion, but eventually the artillerymen deduced he was just another bored soldier, one who didn’t enjoy card games or bawdy singing. In the evening, Nate read a few passages of Scripture, said his prayers for Amanda’s safety during his absence, and then studied the defenses of the fort as a way to pass the time.

  Unlike typical masonry forts, rendered obsolete by improved weaponry, Fort Fisher was a massive sand fortification with a land face and a long sea face. Along the sea wall, connected by a broad sand rampart, were eight- and ten-inch cannons, along with Brooke rifles and a one-hundred-fifty-pound Armstrong gun. An artilleryman explained that the Armstrong was capable of shooting shells for five miles, but before Nate could feel particularly secure, the man bemoaned the fact that they had very little ammunition for the cannon.

  Land defenses included Parrott rifles and Coehorn mortars along the inland wall, with twelve-pound Napoleons guarding the entrance. Any Union troops landing on the northern shore wouldn’t stand a chance against such weaponry. The woods were cleared for half a mile, and the area in front of a nine-foot palisade of sharpened pine timbers was mined. Beneath the fort’s embankment was a series of interconnected bunkers for ordnance and gunpowder, or to serve as bombproof shelters where soldiers could find protection during a bombardment.

  As for himself, Nate intended on keeping his head down and pointing his rifle at anyone with Joshua in their crosshairs. Was such an idea even possible? Having never fought in a war before, he didn’t know, but it was the only plan he had.

  After he practiced loading and reloading his gun until he could do it in his sleep, Nate went in search of Joshua in hopes his patrol duty was finished for the day. However, the familiar face he spotted on the parade ground didn’t belong to his brother. Jackson Henthorne approached on a diagonal path with his head bowed as if deep in thought. If Nate hadn’t glanced up, the men may have collided.

  “Mr. Henthorne! What are you doing here?”

  “Mr. Cooper,” drawled Jackson, the first to recover his composure. “Ordinarily I might ask you the same question, but Miss Dunn told us of your wish to fight side by side with your brother. This is an odd turn of events for a suspected anarchist and a mercenary planter’s son, wouldn’t you agree? Not that I believed that particular rumor about you.”

  Nate bit back a snide remark and instead said, “Yes, rumors of my insurgent leanings were greatly exaggerated. Tell me what inspired your change of heart.”

  Jackson pulled on buckskin gloves with a slow smile. “My partner in the shipping business is dead. The man had the luxury of dying without current knowledge of our precarious financial state.” He glanced up to meet Nate’s eye. “I am indebted to you, Cooper, for the message passed through Miss Dunn. If not for your warning, I might have lost the Lady Adelaine.” He bent from the waist.

  Nate didn’t know how a gentleman should respond to such a compliment. He returned a less dramatic bow. “We have been cut from different bolts of cloth, you and I, but we share the common ground of the Dunn sisters.”

  “Indeed, we do.” Jackson absently plucked at a seam on his coat. “Whose regiment are you in?”

  “My brother’s, Lt. Joshua Cooper.”

  “I’ve been given the dubious distinction of corporal in Sam Thompson’s regiment. Of course, when the shelling begins again, it won’t matter which detail we line up in during roll call.”

  Nate took a step closer. “Why are you here, Henthorne? Miss Abigail needs you at home. Who’s to say the rest of your slaves won’t run off? There are no doctors left in Wilmington who haven’t been ordered here. By now Miss Dunn and her maid are long gone.”

  “Abigail’s sister left North Carolina?” His face bleached pale to the color of milk. “I intended for her to remain at my parents’ home with my wife, safe from whatever is coming.”

  “And I demanded that she catch the next steamer home. I feared that if she stayed she would follow me here dressed as a man and enlist. She can be a very stubborn woman.�
��

  “In that case, I hope her ocean crossing will be uneventful.” Jackson took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “At least Abigail has Estelle and Salome looking after her, along with my mother. One of the slaves at Oakdale is a midwife too.”

  “I will pray they don’t decide to run off.”

  “Estelle and Salome are like family to Abigail. Thomas would never leave Salome’s side, and Amos is too old to leave. We should have given them their freedom long ago instead of holding them captive. Now we’re trapped in a war we can’t win. I’m here to do my part or I’ll never be able to hold up my head again.”

  He looked so miserable that Nate regretted telling him about Amanda. “With a merciful God, we’ll live long enough to see them again someday.” He offered his hand, which Henthorne promptly clasped.

  “That’s what I intend to focus on when those Yankees start knocking at the door.”

  Sixteen

  Henthorne Mansion, Wilmington

  January 5, 1865

  Abigail awoke to a cool room in a downright frigid house. The fire had gone out during the night. She peered at the small silver bell on her bedside table. What a useless bauble. Most of their slaves had run off, including Estelle. Initially, Abigail had felt miffed because her maid hadn’t left her a note. Estelle had simply told Salome she planned to find her mother in South Carolina. But then Abigail recalled that because of a silly law that required slaves to remain illiterate, Estelle could neither read nor write.

  Sighing and feeling abandoned by husband, sister, and maid, Abigail wrapped a quilt around her shoulders and shuffled to the window. In the courtyard below, rain splashed the flagstones and pooled in puddles that would soon turn icy if temperatures fell any lower. It seldom snowed in Wilmington, which was similar to weather conditions at home in England, where warm ocean currents kept the climate mild. Home. How she wished she were there instead of in an empty mansion with only Salome and Amos. With a baby due in a few weeks, Mama would summon the best physician in the shire to be on hand. Despite five years’ worth of pent-up hostility, even Agnes Dunn wouldn’t deny her daughter proper medical care.