Evermore: A Saga of Slavery and Deliverance (The Plantation Series Book 3) (42 page)

“He knows.”

Alistair winced as she peeled the bandage away from the
wound. He looked at it now he had the time. A chunk of muscle about the length
of his thumb was gouged away, but it was superficial. It’d heal.

“Nicolette,” Alistair said, watching her. “Adam Johnston
died this morning, too.”

As quick as he’d said it, Nicolette’s face crumpled and
tears spilled over her cheeks. She put the back of her hand to her mouth,
trying to hold the grief in.

He hadn’t expected this. Alistair had been there right after
Adam had assaulted Nicolette. He saw what he did to her face. He guessed what
he’d done to her spirit. And now she cried for this man?

“Come here,” he said and held his good arm out. It was just
too much for her, he thought, death all around, the noise, the heat. The boy
Val. And he remembered that once, it seemed like a long time ago, she’d been
fond of Adam Johnston, before he’d turned into a drunken, raging beast.

She sobbed into his shoulder. Alistair cradled her head in
his hand, his breath shuddering with the pain of loving her. He would never
again hold her like this. The deep pleasure of her head under his chin, of her
just for this once allowing herself to need him – it would never come again.

He bent his head and pressed his lips into her hair. 

The Rebels rightly regarded themselves as the best damned
soldiers in the world. Out of food, nearly out of ammunition, they repulsed
attacks all along the perimeter. They built land mines from the Union’s own
unexploded ordnance, they raked the enemy with every shell and rebuilt ball
they had, and they rolled home-made bombs into the Federals’ advance trenches.

They braced themselves for a final, decisive assault from
the Federals, but before the onslaught began, the gunboat General Price steamed
down the Mississippi, its flag signaling it bore urgent news: Three days
before, on July the fourth, the Confederates had surrendered Vicksburg.

General Grant now had no need for Banks to keep these
Confederates confined to Louisiana. The Rebels no longer had any need to keep
Banks from reinforcing Grant at Vicksburg.

The siege of Port Hudson was over.

Finn raced to the signal towers and had his men wig wag the
news down the line all the way to the far end of Port Hudson. The Federal
soldiers hunkering down in the trenches erupted in cheers and jubilations.

They shouted across the barricades to their Southern
brethren. “It’s over! Lay down your arms, you damned Rebs. It’s over!”

“Damned lying Yanks,” the Rebels yelled back.

At noon, a hundred guns fired into the air in unison. The
Nineteenth Army Corp’s band started up, their brass notes penetrating the
length of the fort in stirring renditions of Yankee Doodle.

Nicolette dropped the basin of water she was carrying and
ran all the way to Mrs. Brickell’s house. “Lucinda!”

Lucinda rushed from the bedroom holding Bertie, Charles
Armand behind her.

“Listen! What do you hear?”

Lucinda cocked an ear. “A band? What does it mean?”

“It’s over! It must mean it’s over.”

“Charles Armand, uncover your ears. You hear that?”

Lucinda clenched her hands together as Marcel rushed through
Mrs. Brickell’s house gathering his few things, talking as he loaded his pistol
and rifle.

“Gardner’s going to stall the surrender a day,” he told
Lucinda. “That’ll give some of us a chance to slip out tonight.”

Struggling to keep the quaver out of her voice, she said,
“You let them take you captive, Marcel, you’ll be out of it. You’ll be safe.”

Marcel stuffed four precious bullets deep into his pocket.
“I can’t do that. I took an oath.”

“But you said --” It would hurt him, to throw his words back
at him, but she had to try. She could hardly find air to speak. “You said, you
were on the wrong side.”

Marcel gripped her by both her arms. “Lucinda, I said it.
But there’s more to this than sentiment. If the South goes under, we’ll lose
everything. Cherleu will be ruined. My fortune, Papa’s, gone. Lucinda, we’re
defending our home!”

She covered her face, her shoulders shaking.

“Lucinda, darling. Listen to me.” Marcel pulled her hands
down and kissed her fingers. “Go to Cherleu. Papa will take care of you and the
boys. If you want to go back to New Orleans, he’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“I’d die, Marcel, if your wife came back, if she --”

“You have the letters, sweetheart. No one can take the
children away from you. I promise. Papa will never let that happen, and I’ll be
home as soon as I can.”

She leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
When would she ever feel safe again?

Marcel stroked her back, soothing her. “Your allowance is
protected, Lucinda. It’ll go on whatever happens to me. Understand? Papa will
look after you, and you and the boys will always have money.”

“I don’t want money,” she whispered.

“I’m coming home, Lucinda. Believe it. I’m coming home. All
right?”

Unable to speak, she nodded again.

They heard quick footsteps crossing the porch.

He grabbed Lucinda in a fierce hug, then strode out of the
room.

He pushed by Alistair on the porch. “Let’s go,” he said.

Alistair lingered. “Miss Lucinda?”

She stepped out onto the porch.

“Tell her I’m going to make it through this. I am. And
whatever she needs, after the war, anytime . . . tell her, please, she can come
to me.”

“You’re a good man, Mr. Whiteaker. I’ll tell her.”

Alistair mounted his horse and caught up to Marcel. They
rode through the fort to the southern-most point of the battlements and waited
for dark.

A few infantrymen created a diversion for them, inviting the
opposite Yanks to sit with them around their campfire and drink Yankee coffee.
Marcel and Alistair slipped out, eased their horses in the river below the
cliffs and swam them downstream. Once they were clear of the Union lines and
the high bluffs, they climbed onto the river bank.

They headed south and east, free to carry the fight onward.

Everyone in Port Hudson slept the night through, no
artillery or musket fire rousing them, threatening them with annihilation as
they lay in their beds. They woke tired, though, depleted from lack of food and
rest, burned out from fear and worry.

Nicolette, lying abed on her pallet past dawn like a lady of
leisure, prolonged the luxury of quiet and ease. There would be no new
casualties coming in. No need to rush to the hospital.

Today. She would see him again today. After all these
months, hopeless months, her life was about to begin anew. What had he become,
soldiering? Had he killed? Been wounded? Had he grieved for her as she had for
him?

I love you. That’s what he wrote.

His face was as vivid to her as if she’d seen him yesterday.
The heavy black mustache The fine eyes.

What did Finnian McKee mean when he wrote those three words?
There had been many lonely nights when Nicolette wished she’d given herself to
him, no expectations, no demands. But he hadn’t asked of her merely sensual
love. He’d offered her marriage. Until he understood whom it was he’d proposed
to.

What now? What if he dashed off I love you unthinkingly, in
the excitement of the moment? What if he meant it, but like Alistair, could not
imagine she would expect more from him than love?

Could she bear it again? Lose him because she insisted on
more? Go through the heartache of seeing rejection in his eyes because she
would not accept love without total commitment? She wanted passion, yes, but
she wanted a shared sofa, reading glasses, and bare feet in her husband’s lap.
But she had suffered loneliness and loss for so long. Would she let him go,
just for some impossible ideal?

There was to be a ceremony on the central plain, Union
officers formally accepting arms from the Rebels. Finnian McKee would be among
those officers.

Nicolette feared he would think she’d turned into a
scarecrow. She’d lost weight. Everyone in Port Hudson had lost weight. She
smoothed her hand over her skirt. The dress was too big now. Her petticoats had
long ago been ripped into bandages, and the fabric hung limply, dragging the
ground. This was the same gown she’d worn, day and night, since she arrived in
Port Hudson. She’d managed to wash it once, but it was torn and stained. It
smelled.

Nicolette held her hand up. She’d always been vain about her
long fingers, about the smooth pale skin of her hands. Now her nails were
chipped and dirty. And her skin was brown. With a pang, she realized her face
must be as tanned as her hands. Mrs. Brickell didn’t own a mirror, but
Nicolette knew she was not the creamy-skinned girl Finn had last seen.

He’d never seen her dirty as a mud hen, either. She could do
something about that. “Mrs. Brickell, is that a soap-berry bush back of the
house?”

Nicolette washed her hair and her dress. She crushed mint
leaves into the rinse water. It was the best she could do.

Before her hair was dry, she heard the Union cavalry
marching into the fort, heard the wagons and shouted commands to line up. In
her damp dress and cracked boots, she hurried toward the parade grounds.

Nicolette stood to the side, straining to see the length of
the Union line. Her heart thudded so hard it rivaled the beat of the snare
drums. The soldiers marched into position.

How could she find him among so many soldiers, all standing
at attention in the same blue hat and coat? What if he was sorry he’d scrawled
that note?

Gardner was offering his sword to General Andrews, who,
after a few diplomatic words, returned it to him.

Was that Finn over there, standing at attention at the far
left of the Union line? No. He was too short. That one? Impossible. Finn would
have to find her. She kicked an empty ammo box over and stood on it so she
would be conspicuous. Then she waited, the echoing drum beats loud and
insistent.

“Attention!” General Beall called to his soldiers. “Ground
Arms!

The jangle of weapons being placed on the ground carried
through the air. Even from her perch, Nicolette could hear the disarmed
Southerners muttering loudly up and down the line. They were defeated, for now,
and they’d accepted friendships around campfires the night before, but the
stony glares they cast toward their foes across the field announced they were
not finished.

Today, though, in this place, there was peace. The ceremony
concluded with Union and Confederate officers saluting one another smartly.
Federal soldiers commandeered the weapons and the opposing lines broke up.

Nicolette stretched her neck to see the length of the field.
If he could see her, if he were here in the fort, he’d come to her.

There he was! Marching through the intermingling soldiers,
striding around a knot of men, pacing through another, straight for her.

Nicolette stepped off the box. With no thought of propriety
or pride, she ran for him.

Ten feet away, she halted.

Finn slowed his steps and stopped an arm’s length away from
her.

He gazed into those gray eyes. She still looked at him as if
he were the handsomest of men. As if he deserved her admiration.

“Miss Chamard,” he breathed.

“Captain.”

How did he begin? Did he tell her he loved her? She knew
that. Should he simply apologize? That’s what he should do. Simply say, I’m
sorry, I’m an ass. See if she would forgive him.

“My mother wants to meet you,” he said.

Thank God, he’d said the right thing. Those beautiful gray
eyes filled. A brilliant smile lit her face.

Finn stepped closer, forgetting all the people around them.

“Do you forgive me, Nicolette?”

“Finn, I --”

“Nicolette, will you marry me?”

A sob erupted from her chest. Her nose running, her eyes
streaming, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.

“I think that’s a yes.” He thumbed a tear from her cheek,
and then, in front of privates, sergeants, generals and God, he kissed her.

Finn allowed a four hour engagement. He walked her under the
shade trees along the creek. They talked until they were in the thicket of willows.
Then he tipped her chin up, gazing at that mouth he’d dreamt about all these
months.

He kissed her gently, softly. And then more firmly until he
felt her body sink into his. He grinned at her and walked her further along the
stream until another tree offered them a little privacy.

Finn enlisted Port Hudson’s chaplain, Father Simon. Mrs.
Brickell polished up her grandmother’s marcasite ring. Lucinda and Charles
Armand picked wild flowers. For their chapel, they stood among the willows.

Lucinda and the boys and Mrs. Brickell attended. Hursh
Farrow walked Nicolette up the grassy path.

Finn’s eyes never left hers as she turned to him, a bouquet
of daisies in her hand. “I love you,” he whispered, the words not nearly enough
to tell her what he felt.

Father Simon began. “In the name of the Father, and of the
Son, and of the Holy Spirit. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of
God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.”

“And also with you.”

“I will love you and honor you all the days of my life,”
Nicolette promised, gazing into the dark eyes she loved.

“I will love you and honor you all the days of my life,”
Finn responded. He slipped the ring on her finger, his heart beating the steady
thrum of deep content. “With this ring, I thee wed.”

“Lord, Bless this union we pray, and walk beside Finnian and
Nicolette throughout all their lives together. Amen.”

The Union claimed Port Hudson, but the Confederates argued
they won the siege. The Rebels lost 700 men holding off the attackers. General
Banks lost upwards of 5,000. With added losses from Louisiana’s harsh climate,
disease, desertion, wounding and death, the Union paid a very high price for
this bluff over the Mississippi River.