by Mary Ellis
The boy mimicked her posture. “Bluebells is my horse, miss. I wouldn’t loan him out to Jeff Davis himself. I don’t want to lose him to thieves or stragglers looking for a way home.”
Weary beyond forbearance, she broke into tears. “Forty dollars is all I have, but I’ll pay you whatever you demand once I reach home.”
“Ain’t no call for cryin’. Let me think on this a minute.” The young Mr. Waite snaked a hand through his thick hair and lifted one boot heel to a bale of hay to assist the process.
Amanda swabbed her face with a handkerchief much in need of laundering.
“Wilmington ain’t exactly ’round the next corner. You would get lost for sure if you took Bluebells alone. More likely he would throw you off, and then Yankee cavalry would find him wandering around. They’re always crisscrossing these parts.”
“What do you suggest?” Amanda asked, trying to stifle her sniffles.
“The name is Bobby Waite. This was my pa’s place.” He indicated the surroundings with a wave. “’Spose we could both ride Bluebells, seeing as neither of us weighs much. I can take you where you need to be, collect forty dollars atop the forty you pay me now, and then hightail it back home. That second forty includes the price of shipping.”
“Shipping?” she asked, straightening her hat.
“For your satchel.” He pointed at her valise. “I’m only taking you and the little purse on your wrist. Bluebells ain’t no pack mule.” Bobby narrowed his eyes, the point obviously nonnegotiable.
“You have a deal, Mr. Waite.” Amanda offered her ungloved hand. She was becoming an American by leaps and bounds.
“Bobby. Mr. Waite was my pa.” He shook her hand as though pumping a handle.
While Bobby hung a “Closed” sign on the door, Amanda prepared herself for an unladylike ride minus a sidesaddle. Soon Bluebells was tossing his mane down the road, seemingly pleased to be leaving Rocky Point.
Regardless of whether Amanda was a new American or still an Englishwoman on holiday, it was dawn before the flower-eating beast, the stable heir, and textile mill heiress arrived at the Henthorne residence. She paused at the back door to address her companion of the last several hours. “You’ll find plenty of hay and oats in the barn for Bluebells. Once he is situated, join me in the kitchen for breakfast.” She pointed at the entrance. “I’ll pay you what I owe and show you to a guest room. You can rest before starting your journey home.”
Bobby’s gaze traveled skyward to the roofline three stories above them. “If it’s just the same to you, Miss Dunn, just set my plate of vittles on that bench along with the money. I prefer to bed down next to Bluebells for the night and keep an eye on him.”
“All right. I’ll also set out a quilt and a pillow for you.” Suddenly, a piercing wail distracted Amanda from her guide. “Thank you for helping a damsel in distress, Bobby.” With that she left him and hurried into the house. Upstairs she found her sister bathed in sweat. Abigail’s wrinkled nightdress was sodden despite the room’s cool temperature.
“Goodness! Is the baby on the way?”
Salome jumped to her feet from where she sat on a bedside stool. “Praise the Lord! You’ve returned, Miz Dunn.”
Abigail opened her eyes. “Mandy, you have come back. I thought surely you were on your way home.”
“You haven’t called me that since we were little girls,” Amanda said as she smoothed her sister’s damp hair from her forehead. “I wrote that I would return after sending Helene off, and here I am.”
“I’m very glad to see you. Salome doesn’t think she can handle one wee babe, even though she’s already birthed four children.” Her weak voice still managed to convey amusement.
“All I said was that I never seen it done from the other end of things.” Salome wrung out a cloth in the basin and placed it on Abigail’s brow. To Amanda she said, “Don’t know why it’s taking Miss Abigail so long. She’s had the birthin’ pains since early yesterday morning.”
With Salome’s observation, Abigail’s face blanched with terror. “I don’t know what to do.”
Amanda turned to the Henthorne cook. “Could you fix a plate of food for the young man who brought me home from Rocky Point? He’s tending to his horse in the barn. He’ll also need a quilt and a pillow. He insists on sleeping in the hayloft.”
Salome nodded, relieved to be useful in a familiar way. “Be happy to, Miz Dunn.” She practically flew out of the room.
Turning to her sister again, Amanda said soothingly, “Aunt Mandy is here to convince her new niece or nephew it’s time to make a grand entrance.”
Tears streamed down Abigail’s cheeks. “I’m so grateful to you, sister.”
Amanda took her hand and squeezed. “We’re not just sisters; we’re twins. I’m not going anywhere, not now and maybe not ever. Don’t you worry. Salome and I will figure this out one step at a time.”
When Nate looked back on his brief career as an infantryman in the Confederate army, everything would be a blur of confusion. Had the troops been organized and efficient during the early days of the war? He’d heard reports that both battles of Bull Run, along with the battle of Antietam Creek, had been resounding Confederate victories. Reportedly, generals and other officers in command displayed finesse and military brilliance. Perhaps the thing causing morale to falter so badly was fatigue from lack of good food and insufficient rest. Or perhaps it was the ennui and despondency that set in when a war lasted too long. Or, most likely, it was the fact that the Rebels were outnumbered and under-gunned in each confrontation. But no matter the reasons, conditions deteriorated with each passing day of bombardment.
The Union navy began shelling Fort Fisher on January 12. Several ships that had been blockading the mouth of the Cape Fear River aimed their guns at the battery mounds and palisade and opened fire. Nate would learn later that fifty-six Union ships were used during the artillery assault. Had Confederate soldiers inside the fort known that one fact, they may have thrown up their hands in surrender, saved hundreds of lives, and prevented hundreds more from becoming prisoners of war. Instead, the artillerymen manning the guns and mortars did their best to repulse the barrage for a full two and a half days. During this inordinate period of time, Nate couldn’t form a concise thought, let alone sleep or eat or prove useful as an infantryman. His regiment was ordered to remain underground in a bombproof shelter along the rampart on the inland face. On January 15, at three o’clock under a low winter sun, the Union army attacked from both the inland side and the beach where the sea wall met the land face of the fort. Nate would remember no clear command to load and fire, parry forward and retreat, or any semblance of a plan. He focused only on his task at hand against enormous odds—to fight beside Joshua and die for him if necessary. After several hours of attempting to repulse the uninvited guests, the Yankees entered the fortification at Shepherd’s Battery. Wave after wave of bluecoats swarmed through the hole in the palisade like black ants from a threatened colony. After battling for several hours in fierce hand-to-hand combat, Joshua’s commanding officer had little alternative but sound the retreat from Fort Fisher—Nate’s military home for a scant twenty days.
“Head upriver to Fort Anderson, men! We’ll regroup and form ranks to give it another go.”
Amid the smoke and appalling carnage, it occurred to Nate that his brother might not know where to find Fort Anderson. Nate knew it was on the western side of the river, visible from the river road back to Wilmington. He knew exactly how to get back to town. After fixing bayonets, Nate and Joshua fought their way out of the fort in a melee that if he lived another hundred years he could never describe adequately. Once they broke free of the hailstorm of artillery smoke, gunfire, and savagery, they received their first accurate assessment of how outnumbered they were.
“Head north into the marshlands, men! We’ll reconnoiter upriver.” The hoarse cry of their major cut through the din moments before the thrust of a bayonet ended his command forever.
“This
way!” yelled Nate. Joshua and half a dozen comrades quickly fell into step behind him. He tried not to focus on the fact their detail had thrice that number when they exited the doomed fortress.
“Keep your heads down and don’t fire your gun!” shouted Joshua. “That will only draw bluecoats onto our trail.” His brother resumed control of their little group with no idea as to where they were going.
Throughout the night they picked their way across tidal flats thick with cordgrass, stunted pines, and scrub-covered hillocks. They were wet, covered in bloody scratches if not battle wounds, hungry, and exhausted when they finally reached a patch of dry land where a lone swamp willow held its ground against shifting tides. Pulling up their jackets to protect their faces against ravenous insects, the six men huddled beneath the tree without uttering a single word. Confident the Yankees were no longer in pursuit, they fell into an exhausted sleep without posting a guard. None of them could have handled such a task anyway.
If the Yankees end our misery, so be it, thought Nate. Better a well-aimed bullet than a poisonous copperhead or cottonmouth. He had never been particularly fond of snakes. Before drifting off, he thought about Jackson Henthorne and his odd change of heart. Of course, it wasn’t more peculiar than his. He uttered a silent prayer for Henthorne’s life for the sake of Abigail and their coming child. And he prayed for Amanda, that she would remember him fondly if this night turned out to be his last. Nate fell asleep with the mental image of her lovely face framed by an array of blond curls etched on his eyelids.
His sleep, however, would be brief in duration. Just after daybreak an enormous explosion shook the ground they reposed on. Dry leaves, still clinging to winter branches, showered down on the sleeping soldiers.
Joshua drew his sword with his right hand and aimed his pistol with his left into the scrub brush. The sky brightened eerily as though the sun itself had exploded at the southern horizon.
“What was that?” asked Nate, rising to his full height.
“I believe the powder magazines at Fisher just exploded. It was definitely from that direction.” Joshua lowered his weapons.
“Why would the Yankees do that? If they control the fort, they could use the munitions for their own artillery.”
“I have no idea. There’s no figuring bluecoats.” Joshua busily plucked chiggers and burrs from his coat and trousers. “Let’s get moving. We’ll rest once we get to our destination.”
“Where would that be, Lieutenant?” asked a bearded private.
“North of here. We’ll try to join up with others who escaped. We need to move closer to the river.” Joshua looked to Nate for confirmation.
Nate suspected Joshua had no particular plan. How could anyone prepare for a chaotic rout in the dead of night? But he had to give his younger brother credit—he sure seemed as though he had a plan, and his choice to seek the Cape Fear proved beneficial. Within an hour they came upon a detail of pickets patrolling the perimeter of an impromptu encampment. Blessedly, all uniforms were Confederate gray or butternut.
“CaptainTucker,” Joshua called once they drew close enough to recognize the man. He snapped their commander at Fisher a salute. Besides having a bandage around his upper arm, the captain also sported a gash above his right brow, the blood already drying into a scab.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Lieutenant. How many men are with you?” Tucker returned a quick salute.
“Five, sir. My brother and four others.”
Nate stepped forward to salute, uncertain if this was proper or not. His abbreviated training didn’t cover the finer points of military protocol.
The captain nodded, assessing their party with a cursory glance. “I hoped more from our company had escaped from the fort.”
“Plenty more did, sir. We’re not licked yet.”
“Infantry and artillerymen have found their way here all night. I suppose that will continue throughout the day.” Shielding his eyes, Tucker scanned the bank. “At least there has been no sign of Yankees this far upriver.”
“We’ll be ready for them, sir, when they come.”
“Oh, they’ll come, Cooper. The Yankees are as relentless as hounds after a fox.”
Considering his optimism, it was hard to imagine that Joshua had enlisted four years ago. Nate’s respect for his brother grew with each passing day.
“How bad is your wound, sir?”
Tucker smiled. “Not bad enough to kill me, Lieutenant.”
“What are your orders?” Joshua stood at attention.
“After you get some food and rest, try to find more from your company.” He gestured toward soldiers milling around campfires or sound asleep on bedrolls. “General Whiting and Colonel Lamb were both wounded. General Hoke has positioned three brigades along this eastern ridge, or he will have once we are assembled. Across the river, General Hoke positioned another brigade at Fort Anderson. That fort is the last stronghold between here and Wilmington. We can’t allow the last southern port to fall into enemy hands. We must hold our ground here on Sugar Loaf to protect Anderson. I cannot overstate how important our jobs are today.”
“My men and I are prepared to do our duty.” After a final salute, their company left to seek familiar faces, a hot meal of cornmeal mush, and some sleep. There would be no more fighting for Joshua’s bedraggled band of Confederate infantry that day. They would have time to lick their wounds.
Nate had plenty of time to think about Amanda, and how close several Union soldiers had come to ending his earthly existence forever.
Seventeen
The Northeast Bastion of Fort Fisher
How long do you plan to keep us here like muskrats?”
Cold, wet, and faint from hunger and thirst, Jackson scooped up a mouthful of brackish black water and spit it out.
“Until I know those Yankee sailors went back to their boats. Just keep your head down and your mouth shut.” The sergeant spat a stream of brown juice into the murky water.
How the man managed to keep his plug of tobacco during a maelstrom of artillery and swarming Yankees with bloodlust in their eyes remained a mystery. Jackson rubbed his eyes to stop the images of men dying. He would never forget the human cruelty he witnessed. He could handle shooting a man from twenty paces away. The poor soul usually crumpled to the ground to await death or an eventual stretcher bearer. But what Jackson had witnessed on the blood-stained grounds of Fort Fisher left him weak-kneed and nauseated. Nothing in life could have prepared him for so much bloodshed, and nothing would ever replace this as the worst day of his life.
“We’ve been sitting in this tree for almost two days,” he said wearily, stretching out his legs.
“You’re just a corporal. I’m the one givin’ orders round here, Henthorne.”
“Yes, sir. But if we don’t find good water to drink soon, we’ll drop over dead from dehydration.”
“The rest of you boys got something to say ’bout this?” The sergeant swiveled around to two privates in uniforms so covered with mud, their loyalties would be unrecognizable.
“Can’t stay here another night, sir.” The taller of the two drawled. “Them bloodsuckers just ’bout ate us alive.”
“What exactly you got in mind, Corporal?” asked his equally emaciated companion.
Jackson looked to his sergeant, a gap-toothed boor of a man. If this was the typical caliber of Confederate officers, the end could be near for their Glorious Cause. “With your permission, sir.”
“By all means, Henthorne. Tell us your humble opinion after three stinkin’ weeks as a soldier.”
Jackson ignored the barb. “If I were in charge of this outfit, I would head toward higher ground. Once we’re away from the sea, we should find water and may locate the rest of our company.”
“Maybe they’s all dead,” said one young private.
“We’re not the last ones standing,” the sergeant snapped. “Regiments will regroup upriver to give it another go. We’ll keep fightin’ till they kill every last one
of us, but that ain’t gonna be today. So I’m of a mind to take your advice, Henthorne. Why don’t you lead the way since you’re so eager to leave our little hidey-hole?”
Jackson nodded but dispensed with a salute. After watching his superior officer in battle, he had little respect for the man. Sergeant Womack spent more time positioning himself out of harm’s way than shooting and reloading. Jackson had shot his share of Yankees and would have continued until a bullet found its way to him. But when an explosion blew open their shelter, the sergeant ordered them through the breech in a hail of gunfire. With men dropping to their knees on both sides of him, Jackson tried not to step on fallen comrades. Blindly he followed his superior officer into a maritime wilderness, running from the inevitable collapse of Fort Fisher.
Sergeant Womack’s new order was no particular honor. Leading them up the peninsula made him an easy target for Yankee sharpshooters who loved to pick off Rebel stragglers. But Jackson would rather take his chances than spend another night in that bug-infested tree.
They slogged for hours until finally gaining higher ground as the moon rose over a shimmering Atlantic Ocean. They had encountered no Yankee patrols. Their enemies had either returned to the gunboats anchored around the mouth of the river or were celebrating their victory in the newly acquired fort. But Jackson’s joy in avoiding capture and a federal prison camp was soon eclipsed by the view out to sea. Sitting off the coast, surrounded by the Union navy, was a familiar-looking blockade runner. From her sleek lines and exquisite details, Jackson knew for certain it was the Roanoke. While he stood frozen on a bluff of land, the Roanoke went up in flames and thick, black smoke.
“Looky there.” The sergeant pointed one blunt finger. “Who’d ever reckon one of those iron boats could catch fire?”
Jackson stared mutely for a full minute before responding. “Anything will burn after being hit by cannon shot or if it triggers a water mine. What doesn’t burn will soon sink to the bottom of the sea.” Without visible emotion, he delivered the information like a schoolmarm speaking to her pupils. Same as his companions, Jackson watched the Roanoke curiously as half his earthly fortune burned out of control. Why mention that it was his ship providing their entertainment and give the sergeant another reason to despise him? Womack already resented that he entered the service a corporal instead of a private, as though one level of rank made much difference to pay, or whether or not a man lived to see another day.
