Ashes in the Wind

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  KATHLEEN E.

  WOODIWISS

  ASHES IN THE WIND

  Dedicated to the memory of my parents—

  Gladys and Charles

  In love—

  KEW

  Contents

  Lament

  Part One

  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10,

  11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20,

  21, 22, 23, 24, 25

  Part Two

  26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35,

  36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43

  Epilogue

  Lament

  About the Author

  Praise and Acclaim

  Other Books by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART ONE

  Lament

  Oh, my home!

  My land of sunshine,

  Of loving folk and

  Gently passing days.

  You are gone!

  Gone beneath the booted

  Heel of WAR;

  The million-legged worm

  That crawls mindlessly acreoss

  My land and leaves behind

  A tangled waste of broken lives

  And lifeless bodies.

  You have left me! Alone! Forlorn!

  Atoss like a leaf upon the flood.

  Whereever I would set my feed and rest,

  I find— Despair.

  You have rent the fabric

  Of my soul with your going.

  You have fled my grasp,

  And everywhere I turn, I find—

  The hated small of WAR,

  The acrid scent of

  Ashes! Ashes!

  Ashes in the Wind!

  Chapter 1

  September 23, 1863

  New Orleans

  THE wide, muddy river lapped with deceptive laziness at the foot of the levee, while a heavily laden riverboat ponderously picked a path through a bevy of Union warships. Two hundred yards away, the main body of the fleet lay anchored midstream, apart from the city and its sometimes hostile inhabitants. Squat, ugly gunboats with decks nearly awash wallowed like swine amid their more graceful sisters of the open sea, the tall-masted, slim-hipped frigates. Several of each type stood with steam up and cleared for action should the occasion warrant it.

  A brownish haze hung over the city and the humid air pressed the sweltering heat down upon the detachment of blue-clad soldiers waiting on the dock for the arrival of the sidewheeler. Its once-bright trim of red and green now faded and chipped, the steamboat resembled some lumbering beast grown gray with age as it threshed toward them with towering black horns spouting smoke and flame. It wallowed ever closer until it cautiously nudged against the low quay where the Mississippi touched the port city. Great hawsers snaked out like giant feelers, and pulleys and blocks creaked above the shouts of laborers as the vessel shouldered closer against the jetty.

  In the last moments of their journey, the passengers had gathered belongings and pressed forward in anticipation of their landing. Each one seemed to have a specific end in mind and was working toward it with diligence, though it was impossible to perceive any definite goal in the churning crush of people. These were the eager-to-be-rich, the scavengers, the harlots, the rogues of society descending upon New Orleans to squeeze what wealth they could from her impoverished citizenry, and as much as they might from the Yankee invaders. When the gangway formed a bridge to land, they moved as one body to leave the vessel, rudely jostling and elbowing each other aside in their haste until they found their progress halted by a rank of Union soldiers who held them at bay. A second rank formed immediately behind the first, then the two lines of soldiers stepped apart, opening a corridor from the cargo deck to the gangplank. The first angry murmur changed to caustic jeers and catcalls as a single file of thin, ragged, unwashed Confederate soldiers began to pass through the aisle, shuffling along in unison, the only pace their fetters and chains would permit.

  Halfway down the once elegant staircase from the promenade deck, a slender lad stood where he had been stopped with the rest of the passengers. Beneath a battered slouch hat pulled low over his ears, wary gray eyes stared out of a begrimed face. Overlarge garments emphasized the smallness of his frame, and the baggy trousers were gathered about his thin waist with a rough rope. He wore a loose cotton jacket over a voluminous shirt, and though its long sleeves were rolled back several times they still flopped over the narrow wrists. A large wicker case stood on end near his outsized boots, which turned up at the toes. The lean face was smudged with the soot of the deck passage, and through the smut the first signs of a sunburn showed across the bridge of his thin nose. His claim to years appeared no more than a dozen, yet the deliberateness and quiet reserve in his manner belied his apparent youth. Unlike the other travelers, a pensive frown marked his youthful brow as he watched his defeated countrymen led from the boat.

  The prisoners were met on shore by the waiting detachment, while aboard the riverboat the Federal soldiers fell in behind their officers and followed them ashore, at last allowing the other passengers to disembark. Dragging his eyes from the shuffling prisoners, the boy lifted his valise and began to make his way down the steps. The case was clumsy and repeatedly bumped against his leg or snagged the clothes of others who came in its path. Avoiding the glares tossed his way, he fought to control his burden and advanced as best as he could. Behind him a man with a gaudily dressed and overpainted woman on his arm grew perturbed at the slow progress of the youth and sought to press past. His haste caused the boy to stumble. The heavy wicker case caught the balustrade, then rebounded heartily against the impatient one’s shin. A vicious curse exploded from the man and he whirled, half crouched, with a knife suddenly glittering in his fist. The startled lad drew himself up against the balustrade and stared with widened eyes at the long, slim blade that threatened him.

  “Gauche cou rouge!” The man’s French was slightly misaligned in the Cajun way and guttural with rage. Black, restless eyes glared in arrogance from a swarthy face while he scathingly perused the youngster. The rude man’s wrath slowly dissolved, for he found nothing even remotely menacing in the frightened youth. Sneering, the man straightened himself to a height barely half a head taller than the boy and replaced the blade in its hiding place beneath his coat. “Be careful with your trash, eh, buisson poulain. You ‘ave almost send me to the surgeon.”

  Clear gray eyes flared hotly at the insult while the youth’s lips grew thin and white. He understood all too well the slur to his parentage and longed to throw it back into the other’s face. Grasping his valise more tightly, he gave the two a disdainful scrutiny. The woman was obvious, and though the man wore a coat of rich brocade, the bright print shirt and red bandanna knotted about his neck marked him as one of the backwater riffraff whose presence in the city was usually occasioned by a mysterious rise in fortune.

  Pricked by the boy’s sneer of contempt, the harlot huffily reclaimed her companion’s arm and crushed it to her ample bosom. “Ah, give him a couple of cuffs, Jack,” she urged. “Teach the lil’ piker to mind his betters.”

  The man flung up his hand in exasperation and fixed the trollop with an impatient stare. “The name is Jacques! Jacques DuBonné! Remember it!” he bade her heartily. “Someday I will own this town. But no cuffs, ma douceur. There are those who watch—” He gestured upward where the Yankee captain of the sidewheeler leaned on the quarter rail of the top deck. “And who remember too well. We do not wish to offend our Yankee hosts, chère. Were the whelp older, I might enjoy taking him on, but he ees barely weaned. He is not worth our bother. Think no more of him. We go, eh?”

  The ragamuffin watched the two go ashore, his loathing appar
ent in his smut-blackened face. To him the two were worse than the Yankees. They were traitors to the South and to everything he loved.

  Conscious of the captain’s stare, the lad lifted a quick glance toward the quarter rail. The gray-haired captain gazed down upon him with more compassion than the boy was willing to accept from a Yankee, and he could not find it in him to give even a small gesture of gratitude. The officer was a distasteful reminder of the defeat the Confederates had suffered in the Delta. Unable to bear the weight of the captain’s regard, he gripped his valise with determination and hurried down the stairs to the main deck.

  A landing ran along the waterfront to accommodate the low decks of the river steamers. A few yards of level space gave room for loading and landing, then the levee rose abruptly to the main warehouse level. Its steep stone face afforded steps for people and ramps for wheeled vehicles. As the lad laboriously hauled his case toward the nearest steps, a short caravan of Federal wagons rattled down an adjacent ramp. At a brusque command from a sweating sergeant, a handful of soldiers dismounted and started toward the sidewheeler.

  The youth eyed the closing Yankees nervously, then forcing his gaze downward, he carefully kept his pace slow and deliberate. But as their footsteps neared, his trepidation mounted. They seemed to be coming straight for him. Did they know?

  The lump in the lad’s throat grew until the first soldier went on past and clamored across the gangplank, leading his fellows with him. Glancing around furtively, the boy saw that the men were pairing up on heavy cases stacked on deck, then carrying them to the wagons.

  Just the same, the lad reasoned to himself, it’s best to get clear of these Yankees as soon as possible.

  On reaching the top of the levee, he saw a huge stack of barrels which he hurriedly put between himself and the packet and then hastened toward the shelter of the warehouses. Black scars marred the cobbled wharf. Fire-stained warehouses, a few displaying the new lumber of recent repair, were a harsh reminder of the thousands of cotton bales and hogsheads of molasses that had been set ablaze by the citizens of New Orleans in an effort to keep the blue invaders from seizing them. More than a year had passed since the river city had bowed to Farragut’s fleet, and it was not a pleasant thought for the youth that he must now live in the midst of the enemy.

  Shrill laughter drew his attention to the hired carriage into which Jacques DuBonné was helping his buxom companion. As the barouche swept briskly away from the dock area, the youngster experienced a genuine surge of envy. He had not the coin to purchase a ride for himself, and it was a goodly distance to his uncle’s house with, no doubt, more Yankees along the way.

  The oppressive presence of Yankee blue was everywhere. He had not ventured into New Orleans since its fall, and he felt much the alien. The unceasing bustle of the waterfront exceeded what it had ever been before. Soldiers moved supplies onto boats or into warehouses. Gangs of black laborers abounded, and sweat flowed freely as the men strained in the steaming heat. A vulgar curse made the youth jump swiftly aside, and he waited as a six-in-hand of huge, plodding horses, their foam-flecked sides heaving, drew a large wagon piled high with casks of gunpowder along the cobbled wharf. The skinner swore again and swung his whip against the broad back of the drays. Heavy hooves struck sparks from the stone as the animals struggled harder.

  Intent upon staying out of the team’s path, the boy heedlessly stepped backward into a loitering group of Union soldiers. Their presence was first marked when a slurred voice called loudly:

  “Hey, looky here! An up-country brat come to town.”

  The young Southerner turned and stared, half in curiosity, half in hatred, at the foursome, the eldest of which could have barely been called a man, while the youngest’s cheeks were still covered with the light down of youth. The one who had spoken passed a nearly empty bottle to a companion and stood forth, his feet spread, his thumbs hooked in his belt. He towered over the slim lad who eyed him apprehensively.

  “Whatcha doing here, yokel?” he called boldly. “Come to see the big, bad Yankees?”

  “N-no, sir,” the boy nervously stammered, his voice breaking and dropping in key on the last word. Uncertain and dismayed at this unexpected confrontation, he glanced uneasily toward the others. They were more than tipsy. Their uniforms were in sad disarray, and for the most part, they seemed only to be seeking some diversion from boredom. The lad could not be too careful and sought to make them more cautious.

  “I’m supposed to meet my uncle. He should be here—” He let his voice trail off in the lie and gazed about expectantly as if seeking some trace of his kin.

  “Hey!” The Yankee private grinned over his shoulder. “This kid’s gotta uncle around here. There, boy!” He jabbed a finger painfully into the other’s shoulder and pointed to a team of mules nearby. “Do you suppose one o’ them could be your uncle?”

  The lad yanked the brim of his floppy hat lower, bristling under the uproarious laughter of the four. “Excuse me, sir,” he mumbled, not intending to remain the target of the Yankee’s drunken humor, and started to turn away.

  In the next instant the hat was snatched from his head, baring a mop of shaggily cropped dark reddish brown hair. The lad threw his hands over his head to hide the uneven thatch, at the same time opening his mouth to vent his outrage. For some reason he seemed to think better of it and clamped his jaw tightly shut. Angrily he grabbed for the taken item, only to see it sail high in the air.

  “Man oh man!” the soldier hooted loudly. “That’s some hat!”

  Another caught it and began to inspect it closely. “Hey, I think I saw an ol’ mule downriver with a hat better’n this. Maybe that was his cousin.”

  As the boy reached him, the hat was sailed off again. The lad was incensed and stood with small fists clenched, a snarl of rage baring gnashing white teeth. “You bluebellied woods colt!” he shrieked, his voice piercing a high tenor. “Gimme back my hat!”

  The first soldier caught it and, with loud guffaws, upended the wicker case and sat on it, bowing the flimsy sides until it threatened to burst. His laughter exploded into shouts of pained fury as a well-directed boot found his bony shin and, another, his knee. With a roar he came to his feet and seized the slight youth roughly by the shoulders.

  “Now you listen, you sow-belly brat!” he snarled, shaking the lad and bending near until his whiskeyed breath choked the other. “I’m gonna turn you over—”

  “Attenhut!”

  Immediately the boy found himself sprawling free, almost stumbling over the case. He saw the hat fall to the ground and scurried to retrieve it, jamming it securely on his head before he whirled with doubled fists, ready to do battle. His jaw slackened as he stared amazed by the sight of the four soldiers standing ramrod stiff. The whiskey bottle smashed on the cobblestones, and in the wake of its shattering, the silence was ominous. A tall figure strode into view, resplendent in dress-blue uniform with shiny brass buttons, bright braid on cuffs, and gold epaulettes bearing the rank of captain riding on wide shoulders. A red and white sash was bound about a lean waist beneath a wide black gun belt, and a Hardee hat was pulled down over his scowling brow. As the man came forward, the yellow stripes that ran down the sides of his trousers flashed against the blue of the cloth.

  “You men!” he barked sharply. “I am sure the sergeant of the guard can find more worthy chores for your attention than abusing the children of this city. Report to your quarters at once!” His gaze sternly raked them as they struggled to maintain a rigid stance, then he curtly ordered, “Dismissed!”

  The officer watched the scrambling departure of the four before turning to the boy who found himself meeting eyes of bright azure blue set in a face bronzed golden by the sun. Long, light brown sideburns were neatly trimmed, accentuating the leanly fleshed cheekbones and firm angular jaw. His nose was thin and well formed, slightly aquiline, and beneath it were generous, but at the moment unsmiling, lips. There was an air of the professional soldier about him, a quality that
displayed itself in his crisp manner, almost painfully neat apparel, and rather austere mien. The handsome features bore the look of good breeding appropriate to some princely head of state and those eyes, fringed with dark lashes, seemed capable of piercing to the lad’s innermost secrets, causing a chill of fear to go through him.

  Gradually the captain’s stern visage softened as he stared at the raggedy urchin. When a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, he quelled it as quickly as it came. “I’m sorry, boy. These men are a long way from home. I fear their manners need as much improvement as their judgment.”

  The youngster was overwhelmed by the presence of a Federal officer and could muster no reply. He glanced away as the man’s gaze ranged upward from his oversize boots.

  “And you, boy. Are you waiting for someone?” the captain inquired. “Or running away from home?”

  The youth fidgeted beneath the other’s close inspection but remained mute, pointedly ignoring the questions as he stared off into the distance. His ragged, ill-fitting garb and turned-up boots suggested a serious lack of coin, prompting the man to draw his own conclusions.

  “If you’re looking for work, we can use an extra hand at the hospital.”

  The youth wiped his nose on the back of a dirty sleeve and let his eyes roam derisively over the dark blue uniform. “I don’t fancy workin’ fer no Yankee.”

  The officer smiled leisurely. “We won’t demand that you shoot anyone.”

  The translucent gray eyes narrowed with hatred. “I ain’t no lackey to wipe some Yankee’s boots. Go find you someone else, mister.”

  “If you insist.” The man casually produced a long cheroot and took his time lighting it before continuing. “But I wonder if all that pride of yours keeps your belly full.”

  The youngster lowered his gaze, too aware of the painful gnawing in his stomach to make any denials.

  “When was the last time you ate?” the captain queried.

  The urchin’s retort came sharply on the heels of a piercing glare. “Cain’t see it’s any of your business, blueleg.”