Kaid muttered a vile obscenity, and moved away from her. “I’m gonna go straighten everybody out, darlin’. But I’ll be back later, I promise.” He grinned, and left her.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
It was a grim time for the South, that spring of 1864. After the battle of Gettysburg, during the previous July, forty-three thousand men on both sides had been listed as killed, wounded, or missing. Too, this was the first clear-cut victory for the Union. With the fall of Vicksburg on the fourth of July, Southern morale sank to a new low.
In addition, the Confederacy was suffering from low supplies of everything from food to drugs to men. Hospitals were so desperate for chloroform, morphine, quinine, paregoric, and laudanum, that profiteers were smuggling drugs through enemy lines in empty coffins. Women were also able to smuggle drugs by carrying them within the confines of their hoop skirts. For men were reluctant to search women.
Field medics learned to improvise. A concoction of dogwood, poplar, and willow bark was used as a quinine substitute. Opium was extracted from the red poppy flower, when the flower could be found at all.
Starved, often without shoes, many of the troops were covered with lice, filth, and dirt. The men did not want to bathe in the freezing air, even before a fire. As a result, they developed “camp itch” and were treated with a strong concoction of poke root and an ointment made from elder and sweet gum, lard, olive oil, and sulfur flour.
Some of the women imprisoned at the new Dobbsville Stockade had been assigned to make these ointments, as well as the concoction believed helpful in the treatment of venereal disease. They mixed poke roots, elderberries, wild sarsaparilla, sassafras, jessamine, and prickly ash to form a potion. Then there was silk weed root to put in whiskey, and rosin pills from pine trees.
If lack of drugs was a problem, lack of food was a desperation. Horse meat was being issued to some companies. The soldiers sometimes went for months without receiving any rations besides salty bacon, rice, flour, and tough horse beef. As a result, they were driven to slaughter mules and horses and eat them. Some men even ate large wharf rats. It was a last resort before starvation.
One company said they had cooked a cat for two days, but it was still too tough to eat. The only thing that kept them alive till rations finally arrived were the two wild dogs they found roaming in the woods, and they were skin and bones.
The meal they were given was sour, dirty, weevil-eaten and filled with ants and worms.
Many soldiers were turning to whiskey when they could get it, to dull their senses so they would not think about food so much. Whether they called it “busthead,” “popskull,” “red eye,” or “spill skull” it all meant the same thing—a little respite from the misery that seemed to have no end.
When whiskey also became scarce, they doctored it, concocting the brew from apple brandy, made up of a third of genuine alcohol, while the rest came from water, vitriol, and coloring matter. The old and mellow taste was developed by the addition of the raw flesh of wild game.
Desertion had become a serious problem. Many Rebel soldiers felt that their commitment to the Confederacy did not include the invasion of Northern soil. And after the twin disasters of Gettysburg and Vicksburg, the number of unauthorized absentees was estimated at between fifty and a hundred thousand, from both sides.
The women at Dobbsville Stockade had better conditions than they’d known at Tarboro. They still mourned their lives, but at least they were not subjected to the lust of the guards.
The women were housed in small log huts, chinked and daubed after the fashion of pioneer cabins. There were no floors, just the bare earth. They slept in triple deck bunks. There was one door to each cabin, but no windows. A large fireplace was added for heat. All cooking was done in one large building where men and women prisoners ate together. Meals were the only time the men and women were together, and they were not allowed to converse.
On a sunny day in early March, a cold wind blew across the work-bent bodies of the women prisoners as they prodded the ground with their hoes. They would have preferred winter tasks—assigned to making lint and bandages—but with a hint of spring in the air, it was time to begin planting. They, like everyone else, desperately needed whatever food they could sprout from the earth.
They paused in their digging to stare at the man on horseback who approached along the outside of the fence. He was well-built, muscular but lean. Long dark sideburns were neatly trimmed to accentuate the firm, angular jaw. His nose was slightly aquiline, well formed, and beneath it were tightly set lips framed by the mustache and closely cropped beard. Brown eyes, as mellow and rich as Louisiana coffee, were fringed by lashes seemingly too thick and long to belong to a man. The face was golden-bronzed by the sun.
He wore a dress gray uniform with shiny brass buttons and gold epaulettes bearing the rank of captain. A red sash was bound about his waist, and he wore both a black gun belt and a scabbard. White-gloved hands held the reins of the great black stallion clipping his hooves at a determined gait.
“Now that’s a fine figure of a man,” Jewel murmured to Selma, who was working the row next to her. “A woman would never forget what it was like to have him inside her.”
“Is that all you think about?” Selma snapped. “I honestly think you miss all the mating you got to do at Tarboro.”
Jewel shot her a look of scorn. “And I think you miss mating at all since you got marked for having the clap.” She stepped over the lumps of upturned soil and moved closer to the fence as the man approached. “Hey, Captain. You’re a good-looking rogue, you know that? It’s not often we scum get to see a handsome gentleman like you,” she called out in challenge, hoping he would stop to talk.
Captain Rance Taggart reined Virtus to a stop beside the woman. He stared down at the ragged, torn nails, the long, bony fingers clutching the fence. Long, grimy hair clung to her lined face. What, he wondered, had been her crime? What had brought her to this end? Most of these women, he knew, were guilty of treachery to the Confederacy, and, since there was no cure for those who carried the clap, many of those afflicted were confined in stockades to keep them from the soldiers.
“Thank you for your kind greeting.” Rance tipped his hat politely and gave her a slight smile. “Perhaps you could be so kind as to help me. Where would I find the officer in charge of this stockade?”
Jewel looked him up and down, liking what she saw. Striking what she hoped was a seductive pose, her fleshy breasts thrust forward, she replied, “Well, now, Captain, you’d be looking for Major Whitley, and he ain’t never around much. Stays in Richmond, where it’s more comfy-cozy, he does. Look around and you can see we ain’t got much here in the way of comfort. No saloons. No place to gamble. No women except the likes of us, and we ain’t supposed to be messed with. Not that way.” She cocked her head to one side and gave him a leer. “Course, if a real smart officer knew what strings to pull, he could make arrangements to have the lady of his choice. There are ways…” She let her voice trail off in a husky drawl.
“I imagine that would be possible, madam.” He gave her a wink, which made her giggle. “And if I had the time for such a pleasure, rest assured you would be the lady of my choice. Unfortunately, I’ve business to tend to and no time for luxuries. Could you tell me who would be in charge in the Major’s absence?”
“Blackmouth.” She spat the hated name.
“I beg your pardon?”
Jewel laughed raucously. “That’s what we call the no good sonofabitch because, when he opens his mouth, all you see is a big, black hole. He’s got rotten teeth. His name’s Blackmon, Sergeant Kaid Blackmon. I reckon that’s what you better call him.”
He was amused by her candor. “I reckon I had. Now where would I find him?”
She pointed down the road. “If you keep ridin’, you’ll come to a nicer building than the rest. On the left. He’ll be in there, probably takin’ a drink, if he thinks nobody’s lookin’.”
“Tell me,” Rance pushed f
or information. “Weren’t some of you women in Tarboro Prison before being moved here last fall?”
“Sure were. A hellhole it was, too. ‘Blackmouth’ was top dog there, for sure, and he ran things the way he wanted. Then the real top dogs got wind of things and closed it down. Moved us here. We still got it rough, but it’s better’n it was back there, believe me.”
“Were you one of the prisoners there?”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, and she stepped back from the fence and placed her hands on her hips. “Yeah, I was. But don’t go askin’ me no questions about what went on. It was a hellhole. That’s all I’m going to say.”
Rance thought a moment, then decided that he might get more information from one of April’s fellow prisoners than he would from the officer in charge. “I’m not trying to make any trouble, madam. I’m looking for someone. A young woman by the name of April Jennings. The last information about her was—” He stopped talking and stared down at the woman. Her face had suddenly twisted in a grimace of rage. Her hands were opening and closing at her side, fingers arching as though clawing. Her eyes flashed wide then narrowed to angry slits.
“The only thing I know about that bitch is that she was a snake in the grass. Used people. You ain’t gonna find her around here. I can tell you that.”
“Well, where can I find her then?” Rance was puzzled. April was not the sort to make enemies. Whatever had she done to make this woman hate her so?
Jewel turned and started walking back toward the others.
“Hey,” he called. “Can’t you at least tell me where she is?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you,” she yelled over her shoulder. “You ain’t got no business gettin’ mixed up with a bitch like that. Just turn around and go back where you come from, Captain, ’cause ‘Blackmouth’ ain’t gonna tell you nothin’ neither.”
He gave Virtus a gentle nudge, urging him forward. The woman’s response was yet another upset in an already mysterious situation. April’s being in prison seemed beyond understanding.
April, a Union spy? Ridiculous! Rance had learned the whole story of Alton Moseley, had been told that she caused him untold agony while he was dying. She had been sent to Tarboro.
The next morning, after Rance learned the story from some soldiers, he had gone to check on Edward and found Trella standing beside his bed. She had looked away from Rance, cheeks coloring slightly. She needn’t have worried, he thought. She was just another woman, and as long as his best friend never found out, then no one would be hurt. He had simply lost his control and his good intentions.
“They aren’t gonna take my arm off,” Edward had mustered strength enough to say, determination in his voice. “They’re gonna leave them things in and see what happens.”
Rance explained briefly about April, saying that he was going to get her released from prison. He warned Edward that, if leaving the maggots in the wound did not take care of the infection, then he would have to agree to amputation. “And don’t tell me you’d rather die, you bastard,” he snapped. “That’s the coward’s way out.”
“Why, you’re man enough for me with one arm, anyway,” Trella cooed, avoiding Rance’s gaze. “My goodness, you just wear me out sometimes.”
Rance left shortly after that, unable to stomach the two-timing wench any longer.
Immediately he went to the hospital military post to get help with his quest, but as soon as he introduced himself, the soldier behind the desk cried, “Captain Taggart, you’re to report to Major General Jeb Stuart in Richmond at once. He sent word that you could be found somewhere around here, something about your bringing in wounded soldiers. The orders were marked urgent, and they came in yesterday morning. You’d best get moving.”
Rance silently cursed the news. The thought of April suffering in prison made his guts burn, but Stuart would not have sent for him unless it was extremely important. He could only hope that whatever Stuart wanted would not take long, so he could return to Chimborazo quickly and start fighting to free her.
Rance sat in a tent on an outpost of Richmond and listened to the great cavalry general explain that his men were in immediate need of horses. Good horses. “We’ve quite a winter before us, Taggart. I plan to busy my men giving the Yankees hell. They won’t hole in like sleeping bears. Not with us around to ride rampant.”
Rance knew he meant it. He had a lot of respect for Stuart. He had fought hard in just about every major battle so far.
Though not six feet tall, Stuart was built heavily and wore a massive flowing beard that people said was meant to cover a receding chin and to camouflage his youth as well, for he was only thirty years old. But his personal bravery, endurance, and high good humor had made him a magnificent cavalry leader. He surrounded himself with an excellent staff and trained his subordinates with a sober professionalism. He had a reputation for being deeply religious.
“One of my scouts tells me the Yankees have a good supply of horses just across the Rapidan River, Taggart,” he said, tugging at his bushy brown beard as his eyes bored into Rance’s. “I could send some of my men. They’re damned good, and you know it. But nobody’s got an eye for horse flesh like you have. I don’t want to send a patrol behind enemy lines, risking their lives, only to have them come back with a bunch of worthless nags. You go pick out the best. That’s all I’ll have for my men. The best.
“You served me well once before,” Stuart reminded him. “You got me damn good horses. I’m counting on you, Taggart.”
Rance could not refuse. It was his duty to the Confederacy, and he wanted to help this man.
So, through the winter months, he rode with Stuart’s cavalry. He was proud to be a part of that gallant band. If he had not been haunted by thoughts of April, he would have been content with his life.
It was mid-February before Stuart allowed his men a respite from fighting. All indications pointed to fierce fighting with the spring thaw. He wanted his cavalrymen rested for it. So, while the others recuperated, Rance rode at full speed to Richmond.
He found Trella, who told him that Edward had recuperated fully and been reassigned to duty. He was fighting somewhere, though she did not know where…did not seem to care. They’d had a fight of their own, she said, before he left. She doubted that he would return to her. This time, she was really working as a prostitute.
He had left her, heading for Chimborazo. There, thanks to intervention by General Stuart, he was able to secure the pardon for April.
He had the pardon when he knocked on Kaid Blackmon’s door.
Rance approached the headquarters and dismounted. A guard snapped to attention and saluted. Rance returned the gesture and asked to see Sergeant Blackmon.
“Inside, sir. Go right in,” he was told, a bit reluctantly.
He pushed open the door and saw the swarthy, heavyset man leaning back against the wall in a precariously balanced chair. The front chair legs hit the floor at the same time the big man did. Saluting smartly, he said, “Sergeant Blackmon, sir.”
Rance removed his gloves, reached inside his coat, and withdrew the official pardon. Handing it to Blackmon, he felt an immediate dislike for the man.
“A pardon for Miss April Jennings,” Rance told him as the sergeant scanned the papers. “She was unjustly imprisoned some time ago. That’s a full pardon. She is to be released to me. Send for her at once, please.”
He was glancing about the room, noticing the sparse furnishings, the empty whiskey bottles lying in dust-cluttered corners, when he became aware that the sergeant had made no move. Turning, he saw Blackmon looking at him with a strange expression on his face, a mixture of anger and…what? Sadness? His wrath.
“Well, sergeant?” Rance asked impatiently. “Have Miss Jennings brought to me at once.”
“Can’t.” Blackmon spit a wad of tobacco into a dark corner and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He glared openly at the intruder.
Rance was about to ask why in the hell he could not send for her,
but the man spoke up first.
“She’s dead.”
A full moment passed before Rance could find his voice. Dear God, he thought wildly, it was like that other time…that other time when he returned for a woman he dared believe he was capable of loving, only to find her dead. It was happening all over again.
“What…what happened to her?” he managed to choke, reaching for the bottle on the desk without asking. He tipped it quickly to his lips and took a long swallow of whiskey, listening as Blackmon told him how April tried to escape before they moved out of Tarboro, ran into the swamps and was lost. A few days later, an old farmer told them of finding her body, snake-bitten and alligator chewed. Blackmon had buried her.
“I made out the report. It’s all here if you want to see it, Captain,” Blackmon offered, reaching toward a drawer.
Rance shook his head. He was feeling sick, fighting the bile rising in his throat.
“I didn’t go mark the grave or nothing. I mean, she was just a prisoner, and I’m real sorry that it’s come out now that she shouldn’t have been in prison, but you gotta understand that we didn’t know none of that. We were just doin’ what we was told to do, and that was to keep her in the stockade. Her dyin’ was her own doin’.”
Rance never spoke. He continued to down the contents of the bottle as quickly as possible, racing to blot out the horror.
“Here. You can read the report.”
He thrust some papers forward, but Rance pushed them away. “No,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don’t want to see them, I’ve got to be going.” He forced himself to walk rigidly from the cabin. Later, there would be time for a big drunk, to souse himself with as much liquor as his body would hold. It was going to take a hell of a drunk to ever get over this, he thought dazedly. God, not April. Not April.
Virtus seemed to sense his master’s grief, and he moved along slowly without being prodded. Rance stared straight ahead, seeing only a vision of laughing blue eyes and golden blond hair, and a smile like an angel’s.
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