The Last Heiress (41 page)

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