Surrender the Wind (24 page)

“Please tell us about yourself.”

Where did she begin and how much did she tell? Of course, a modified honest approach was the best. She bit her lip, glancing at the sea of faces with more men arriving from other campfires. “I’m from New York. New York City to be exact.” She hesitated gauging how that would sit. She could cut the silence with a knife.

“A Yank?”

“Will you hold it against me?” Her voice drifted in a hushed, pathetic whisper.

“Nope, not if the general don’t,” the men chorused. “You’re all right by us.”

She stretched her fingers by the fire to warm them. The general’s wife was big news.

“Are all the women up north as pretty as you?” asked a young soldier who still looked hardly more than a boy. His hair all curls, like a French prince, he swept off his hat and held it to his chest, the feather plume frilling in the air.

“There are many pretty women in the north.” She admitted, amused that these fearsome Rebel warriors had such an interest in Yankee women. “There are also women who are good teachers, artists, mothers, nurses and more. I am sure the South has many such ladies.”

A soldier with heavy lidded eyes and a lock of hair combed unevenly over his head spoke next. “We apologize for our rough condition.”

“It all goes with rank ma’am,” said a black haired soldier with the most guileless face she had ever seen. “A general has one hole through his pants, a captain two and a private has many holes in his britches.”

A warm glow flowed through her. Their hems were frayed, butternut uniforms tattered with shiny bottoms, very unlike their Union counterparts with new woven navy uniforms. Yet they held elegance, grace, and kind-heartedness, and she could not help but feel an immediate peace and admiration in their company. “I find all of you quite dashing and wonderful. Most of all, I feel honored to meet every one of you.”

Some stroked their beards others nodded their heads pleased with her words of acceptance. Tree limbs snapped and drew her attention.

“What are you doing, Danny Boy?” One of the soldiers yelled to a boy near the trees.

“I’m bending saplings, weaving them together to use as a defensive barrier. I want to see how it works. I read that’s what the Gauls did to ward off the Roman Cavalry.”

“I don’t think we have to worry about any Roman Cavalry.”

This brought a round of guffaws. The boy blushed apple-red.

A Rebel with a rather jaundiced, ill-favored face by the Lord’s creation, stepped into the center of the ring, his thumbs hooked under his suspenders. Catherine’s head creaked backward at the Paul Bunyan-sized man. “I want to announce that a letter from home has confirmed Miss Nancy Ann has agreed to marry me.”

“You mean you’re engaged to be married?” Danny Boy asked. He was no more incredulous than the other men were.

The enormous Rebel picked Danny Boy up, held him eye to eye. “You find that circumstance extraordinary, perhaps?”

“I-I find—it cause to give you congratulations.”

“Good.” The giant dropped him in the dust and walked off.

Lieutenant Johnson laughed. “Danny Boy, your tact surpasses your truthfulness.”

Another young Rebel, nicknamed Gus, with a peach-fuzz face and soft lingering drawl of a Mississippian, volunteered an anecdote. He clapped his hand on the back of the soldier sitting beside him. “Eustace here, his heroic deeds are mind-boggling. Saved a cat from a whole Yank company firing down on him because he didn’t want the cat to get hurt. Isn’t that amazing—”

Eustace bolted from the ground and grabbed the younger man’s jacket. “Listen boy, I’ve shot men in the belly and had their lunch on my shoes. So don’t think I’d blink before I’d put any of you six feet under.” He dropped the boy and ran for the woods, leaving all the men guffawing.

“Saved by the quick-step. Don’t use the poison ivy leaves!” yelled Gus, sending another round of laughter through the ranks.

Lieutenant Johnson bowed and shared a confidence. “Eustace is surly. His missus died with his stillborn son and poor Eustace hasn’t been the same since. The boys try to get him out of his stupor.”

Catherine stared, tongue-tied from the tragic circumstances surrounding Eustace’s life, and the odd but gentle concern shared by his companions.

“Mrs. Rourke you sure are a lucky woman to be married to one of the finest generals of the Confederate Army. I have to say, no general can attest to be a general unless he has won his spurs. General Rourke possesses the requisite spirit and boldness to seize the various chances for victory that are offered him. He is a brilliant commander, your husband.”

“And brave too,” said a soldier with ruddy brown skin, dark-brown eyes and the bearing of a loyal mastiff. “I was injured real bad. He carried me three miles, one night, through artillery and musket fire. Saved my life. Yes, he did.”

“He’s like an oak tree, stubborn and strong, can’t tear him up by the roots. I guarantee any hurricane that goes by will not bend him one bit. Trust him with my life, I do…as do all the men here,” Lieutenant Johnson said.

There were several soft murmurings in agreement. Their deep respect and fervent loyalty astounded her. In full measure, General Rourke was loved and venerated by his men.

“Mrs. Rourke?” A tall rawboned man with his brogans tied and slung over his shoulders bowed his head. “Do you by any chance write?”

Catherine blinked. “Why yes.”

“Do you think you’d be willin’ to write a letter to my wife? My son died at Cold Harbor and she…still doesn’t know.”

“Of course. I would be happy to help you with your correspondence.” Catherine was appalled they had no one to write news to their loved ones.

The lanky man thrust a pencil and paper into her hands. “You know there were ninety of us from our town in Alabama. I’m the only survivor. One woman lost her husband and six sons. So I’m not too bad off. Others have suffered more.”

Catherine could hardly write. She wanted to scream at the world for its madness. She wanted to break down and cry. Instead she asked him his name and the name of his wife and composed the most beautiful letter she had ever written. It was a wonderful testimonial to the heroic deeds of their son. His wife would have comfort that her only child had not died in vain. The father, Charley, asked her to read it aloud before he sealed it in an envelope. There was not a dry eye in the whole camp.

More men asked her to write letters, but Lieutenant Johnson intervened, and Catherine was thankful. “Mrs. Rourke needs rest after her long journey. I’m sure she’ll be happy to do your correspondence tomorrow.” He then escorted her to the general’s tent. “Thank you, Ma’am. The general has married himself a fine woman.”

* * *

Catherine woke to a deep modulated drawl of a man’s voice.

“Mrs. Rourke? Are you all right?”

Through half-opened eyes, she peered up at sun-washed canvas, dappled with the shadows of fluttering leaves. She struggled to get a bearing on her surroundings.

She was in a Rebel camp.

She was in her husband’s tent.

“Mrs. Rourke? It’s Lieutenant Johnson. It’s midday. I thought you’d like a bath and something to eat.”

Her eyes burned. Her body was engulfed in tides of weariness and tenderness. Sitting up, her blood rose. A vivid recollection of the past few day’s events came to fore and she grimaced. She had fallen asleep in her muddy cape. “I never sleep this late.”

“A bath? Food?” Catherine flew to the door and threw open the flap, the bright light of day blinded her. Lieutenant Johnson had procured several buckets of steaming water and a copper tub. “You are the dearest, sweetest man in the world. Please bring it in right away.”

Lieutenant Johnson did as she requested, lifting in the tub and emptying the buckets of water. Joy bubbled in her laugh at the contemplation of a hot bath. It was impossible not to return Lieutenant Johnson’s broad smile as he deposited a plate of biscuits and a cup of coffee on the table.

“Do you have any idea when the general will return?”

“No ma’am.”

“I see.” She scraped the mud off her collar. Of course, John departed with no word of his comings and goings. “Has his adjutant, Ian McDougal, arrived with a woman by the name of Brigid?”

“Yes ma’am. She’s restin’ in the adjutant’s bed.”

“The adjutant’s bed?”

Lieutenant Johnson threw up his palms. “No ma’am. I mean, yes ma’am. She’s waiting for you to come and visit.” He laid out a cake of soap and a towel, high-tailing it out of the tent before she could ask any more questions.

She shook her head, mystified with that revelation then stripped out of her clothes and stepped into the copper tub, sighing. She washed away the dirt, grime, and filth, allowing the warmth of the water to ease the soreness of her muscles. Sounds and conversations drifted from the camp around her. As a well-bred young lady, she had been kept from more common conversation, especially discussion that carried a forbidden nature. Like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, she eavesdropped.

“Come on, show us your sweetheart’s picture, Billy,” someone coaxed.

She heard the clink of tin cups. The reluctant Billy must have handed the picture over for the assessment of the men.

“Why she’s so homely, her face would stop a plow pulled by ten mules.”

“She is not,” a younger, high angered treble voice warned the man who dared to make fun of his sweetheart. “I challenge you to a duel.”

“Forget the duel, Billy, and don’t get all wet in your drawers. We have enough dueling to do with the Yanks. Besides, I might introduce you to a real woman in Richmond. Her name’s Hopping Hetty. That’s if you can find your pecker.”

This was answered by a round of guffaws as Billy, now quiet, apparently contemplated the prospect of meeting Hopping Hetty. Catherine dropped the sponge. Was John as familiar with Hopping Hetty as he was with Bouncing Betty?

“You have Satan’s own tongue,” harped a soldier with a loud stentorian voice. “May the Lord destroy all poisonous lips, and the tongue that speaketh evil things.”

“Save yourself, you old reprobate. You’ll preach salvation to anyone who’ll listen or to anyone who won’t. And if you think I’ll go into that little hot box of a church back home to listen to Reverend Potts screech, you can forget it. God’s not going to be stayin’ inside on such a nice sunny day. No siree. You’ll be finding God down by the river, and I’ll be keeping him company, hooking catfish.”

Catherine sank below the waterline, the water sloshing out of the tub. She smiled from the Rebel’s logic. How often had she felt God pouring down his rays of sun upon her gardens?

“Tell me more about Hopping Hetty.”

Billy wasn’t going to let it go.

“You got more questions than a bride on her wedding night,” answered the voice who had offered Hetty’s services. By the way he ground down hard on his R’s, Catherine guessed he was from Maryland.

“The words of the Lord are pure words—as silver tried by the fire, purging evil from the earth. Woe to those caught by the wickedness and snares of the devil,” said the Bible thumper.

“You should join a monastery.”

“It’s the sin. I couldn’t live with it,” confessed the Bible thumper.

“And I couldn’t live without it.”

Catherine brought her hand up to stifle her giggles, amused by their gentle camaraderie and subtle wit.

“Harold, let it up.” A soldier called after him. “He never got religion until he got shot in the Bible. He had it posted inside his shirt, when
bang
, a shot knocked him to the ground. He thought for sure he was dead. Showed me where the bullet stopped on the twenty-third psalm.” The men mumbled their understanding.

The conversation drifted from the ludicrous to the even more absurd. To keep up with the range of topics grew impossible. If her mother were alive, she’d be mortified. Yet Catherine thought all their accents and language so beautiful. Their rhythms, their cadences, and their charming communications came through, endearing them all to her.

Between rinsing her hair and worrying about her clothing, Catherine took stock of her cape, dress and remaining undergarments tossed over the chair. Her dress, torn from brambles was beyond repair and the heat from the relentless Virginian sun would make it impossible to continue wearing her mud-caked cape.
What was she to do?

Her gaze roamed the interior of John’s tent. A desk with an inkbottle and pen, next to that, a crate of rolled parchments, crates of books, a lantern, a canteen and a mirror hanging from a center pole. Guns with cartridge boxes were placed alongside a washstand that contained a shaving brush, razor and strop. Everything arranged neat and in impeccable order with all soldierly accompaniments, masculine and reflective of the general.

A couple of trunks lay at the end of the bed. Catherine leaped from the tub, wrapping a towel around her. Like a woman possessed, she threw open the trunk, rifling through the contents. To her delight, she found a brush and—women’s clothing?
John kept a woman?

She slammed the lid. Of course, someone with his rank and looks would attract women, all kinds of women. No doubt the South was littered with his paramours, from Bouncing Betty to Hopping Hetty.

She read the engraving on a small brass plate on the trunk and frowned, Union issue.
Property of Colonel William E. Briggs, Western New York Artillery
. The same brass plate was nailed to the footboard of John’s. Her husband was a thief! She plunked her hands on her hips.
What was worse, a libertine or a thief!

Catherine knew of Colonel Briggs and the fact that he traveled with his gracious wife. Throwing open the trunk, she sorted through a variety of ladies clothing items. Not as elegant as her own wardrobe, yet she approved of Mrs. Brigg’s taste. She held up a blue cotton day dress, sizing it, her mouth curving into an unconscious smile, pleased Colonel Brigg’s wife was the same size. The unfortunate loss for the Colonel’s wife became a windfall for Catherine.

After brushing out her hair and drying it, Catherine donned the pale blue gown. It was a little tight in the bosom. She would have to make do. Had her uncle been freed from Mallory’s thugs? How she worried about him. If only John had not kidnapped her. What was she to do?
Escape
. The mantra roamed through her head. Could she gain the trust of John’s men and escape?