Triumph (13 page)

“Sissy, don’t you even
think
about saying anything to Jesse. You don’t understand the promise I made. You must swear not to say anything to him.”

“But—”

“Swear!”

Sissy sighed. “I promise,
Mrs.
Halston. I promise.”

“Good!” Sydney said firmly. She cracked the whip over the backs of the mules once again. They were close to home.

No, home was far, far away. Where it was warm. Where winter’s frost never seeped into the bones ...

And yet, she was suddenly anxious for her home away from home.

She wanted to crawl into darkness, away from everyone, and try to understand just what she was fighting for herself.

H
OME. TIA OPENED HER
eyes, not quite sure what had awakened her.

Sleeping was pure luxury. Her bed in her father’s house was imported, her pillows were of goose down, her sheets were soft cotton, and in the coolness of the night, the quilt that covered her was warm and encompassing. Far different from the thin camp bed she had made her own at her brother’s now constantly moving field hospital.

She knew that what they saw of the war was nowhere like what occurred in other places; the skirmishes they saw couldn’t begin to be as severe as the fighting in the other areas. Casualty figures from battles fought across the South—and into Maryland and Pennsylvania—were staggering. Fifty thousand killed, wounded, missing, in a single day. Even seeing a battlefield so strewn could probably not even sink into the soul. Yet, no matter what the numbers, death was an individual thing, and she had watched men die, and each individual death had been a terrible thing. But others had lived, and that made the camp beds, the horrible food, the mosquitoes in summer and the damp cold in winter all bearable. She loved her brother; Julian was one of the best surgeons in the world, she was convinced. And from the beginning, she had wanted to come with him to his surgery. Her parents had never suggested that nursing in the wilds was not a suitable occupation for a lady—as had been the case with innumerable young women when the war had begun—but everyone in the household had teased her about the luxuries she would be leaving behind. She smiled, holding her pillow close to her chest. She had, indeed, shown them all. She might be an ivory-skinned “delicate little thing” to all appearances, but she had found her own inner strength serving in the field. She had gone from her down pillows to straw without a blink; she had bathed in cold springs—to tremendous ill effect, she might add!—she had stood by while wounded men had screamed in anguish, and she had never faltered or turned away when Julian had given his orders for help. She had stitched wounds, soaked up blood, cleaned out infected injuries—the stench of which had scarcely been bearable. She had done it all—forgoing all luxury, and maybe even proven something to herself. She had to admit, though, that at the beginning, it had been terrible. Far more terrible than she had ever imagined—and she had been sorely tempted to run home. She had never let it show.

It was so good to be home—there was nowhere in the world like Cimarron. The plantation sat upon the river coming in from Tampa Bay. Winter could become chilly, but never deadly cold, and on mornings such as this, the breeze just touched the chintz curtains by the latticed door to the balcony that surrounded the house. The rear of the house faced the river; to the front was the grand entrance; to the east lay the sloping lawn and, down from it, a thick pine forest filled with lush hammocks and fresh water springs. It was as if life went on forever here as it had before. And yet ...

There were changes, of course. Most of her father’s best horses were gone. Last night, though there was coffee in the house, they’d saved it and had a chicory brew after dinner. Candles were more carefully doled out; slivers of soap were collected to be molded again. Lying in bed, feeling the cool breeze slip through the latticed door, Tia felt her heart beat a little faster. Cimarron was strong. A little citadel unto itself. The house stood, the servants and workers remained, all was as it had been, except ... the war was slowly coming here, too. There was no deprivation yet as there had been elsewhere. All across the South, people had lost their homes to the invading armies, they’d been robbed, their possessions “confiscated.” Refugees roamed the larger cities; invading armies sometimes stripped properties of all available food and supplies, then burned homes and barns to the ground. Some officers, North and South, tried to stop the pillaging of their troops. Sometimes they were desperate to feed their men. No matter what the intent, with hungry armies to be fed, the land was stripped. And it was the women left behind, with the old and feeble, with little children, who often paid the price of war. Tia had heard it said that the war might have been over now if it weren’t for the patriotism of the women of the South, of their determination to accept any hardship. She wasn’t so certain. It was one thing to be full and warm and in good health and be patriotic; quite another to be starving and homeless, with a dream left in the ashes.

It was especially good to come home now. Assisting Julian, when their hospital had remained in one place, had been one thing. She had felt strong, secure, and confident in what she was doing. She had even felt very mature—
old!
—as of late, with so many so very young new recruits joining the militia. But with the renewed interest recently shown the state by Yankee forces, situations were becoming very perilous. Julian had moved the surgery. And she had taken the injured and eventually—after being so rudely delayed—met up with Dixie’s troops. That wretched no-name man!

Dixie’s men had delivered her safely home the previous afternoon. They’d been polite, courteous, and a pleasure to ride with. They were, she thought, the true backbone of the state, especially when so many regular troops were so constantly stripped from the state to go north. After Christmas, she was determined, she would join up with Julian again, wherever he was. His newly acquired wife, Rhiannon, was an excellent assistant, but she was expecting their first child any day now, and besides, any field hospital always needed whatever competent help could be had. But for now, home was good. A place to repair the wounds done to her confidence, convictions, and sense of security by that awful man.

Tia clenched her teeth at the thought of him. While he hadn’t brought the full force of the Yankees down on Dixie, he had seen to it that the Yankee troops and supply wagon Dixie had intended to take had been reinforced. The Rebels were forced not only to forgo their plans to confiscate desperately needed supplies, but to run as well, since the Yankee forces guarding the supplies were so many, and so well armed.

A twinge of uneasiness and guilt assailed her.

It might have been worse. Much worse. Except that ...

According to rumor, some of the Yankee troops had been led astray. Led down the wrong path by a vision suddenly appearing in the woods. All of Dixie’s troops had escaped and survived.

The vision in the woods had disappeared, so it seemed. They had told her all about it late in the night when they had rejoined her and the injured men at their rendezvous point fifteen miles westward, on the old Indian trail leading to Tampa.

There was a brief tapping at her door, then it swung open. “Good morning, dear!”

Her mother, Tara, came sweeping into the room. She was tall and elegant and very blond; in her mid-forties now, her hair was still her crowning glory, without a strand of gray among the gold. Her smile could still light up a room, Tia thought, grinning herself while burrowing more deeply into the covers. Her mother looked fragile, but she was all steel inside. No matter what her thoughts on a subject, she could temper her words. Jarrett McKenzie’s determination to remain as neutral as he could in the war had been a difficult stand among his neighbors, but his wife supported him with total passion—and diplomacy. Each time one of her sons came home, she managed to keep the politics out of the matter of family love—quite a feat, since, throughout the country, some fathers and sons had sworn never to speak again for the stand taken by the other. Her nephews and nieces, ardent Rebels all, remained welcome in her home at any time. Injured soldiers, from either side, received the greatest care possible. Representatives from both armies came to Cimarron at times to negotiate various matters—prisoner exchanges, evacuations of newly occupied areas, surrenders, temporary truces.

Tara pulled open the draperies, allowing the sun to flood into the room.

“Mother, that’s cruel,” Tia groaned, sinking more deeply beneath the covers and casting an arm over her eyes to shade them from the sudden light.

“You’ve been sleeping nearly ten hours.”

“But I’m home for Christmas!”

“And you chose to go to war with your brother,” Tara reminded her. “You have no rank, no commission. No one pays you, and no one forces you to stay.”

Tia sat up in the bed, staring at her mother, who had gone to throw open the latticed doors. The air that rushed in was cool. Tara seemed reflective, as if, looking out the window, she saw the past, and not the coolness of the winter’s day.

“You didn’t stop me from going!” Tia reminded her, curious that her mother seemed so strange about the situation.

But Tara turned to her then and smiled. “You made a choice, and I admire the choice you made. You’ve helped your brother tremendously; God knows how many lives you may have helped to save. But I’m still glad you’re home. Every time one of you leaves this house ... well, I am afraid I’ll never see you again. I hear the lists of the wounded and the dead, and ...”

Tia jumped out of bed, running over to her mother, throwing her arms around her. “I’m certainly safe, Mother. And Julian is a surgeon—”

“A reckless one! Your father and I are neither deaf—nor stupid. We hear what goes on. And even when Julian does remain in his field hospitals, Ian is out there ...”

Out there on the wrong side, Tia thought. But she didn’t say anything. This was her father’s house. And she adored her brother, no matter what his personal ethics decreed he must do.

“Oh, Mother, you mustn’t worry.”

“And the sun shouldn’t rise,” Tara murmured, pulling away slightly, studying her daughter’s face. “You’re too thin.”

“Which is good, since I’m short.”

“Not short, darling, petite.”

“Short. What happened to me? This is a family of giants—even you’re tall.”

Tara sighed. “Petite, Tia, is just fine. But you’re not short, really, your height is average at the least, and among other women, you might even be considered tall. You’re only a bit smaller than I am—it’s just that your brothers and your father are so very tall—”

“And bossy.”

“—and therefore, you feel
short
in comparison.”

“Is that all it is?”

“You really are just about my same size.”

“Am I?”

“Just like me,” Tara said.

Tia laughed. “I’m dark as night while you’re pure sunshine.”

“All right, so you have that fabulous head full of ebony hair, and indeed, your father’s deep, dark, fathomless eyes! You are your father’s daughter!” Tara said, smiling and hugging her tightly once again. “In most things!” she murmured, then pulled away. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re home. And tonight, you will be your father’s daughter in pure diplomacy, if you don’t mind. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you did come home for Christmas, what with the boys away and even Alaina and the babies staying in St. Augustine. It really isn’t fair, you know, this war—it’s not only destroying our country, our land, and—my God—an entire generation of young men, but I’m a grandmother, and I don’t get to dote on my grandchildren, spoil them terribly, and hand them back. For that reason alone, I’m so happy I have my precious little daughter home—”

“Little! There you have it!” Tia said with a sigh.

“Sorry, dear, it’s just a manner of speech. You are the baby, and always will be.”

“Ah ... be careful there, Mother! Aunt Teela thought Sydney was her baby, and then Mary made an appearance when everyone least expected it!”

“Well, that’s true, but most likely your father and I are quite done, and that leaves you in the position of ‘baby’ and ‘little.’”

“A baby old maid!” Tia sighed.

“Through your own choice,” her mother said, somewhat sharply. Then she smiled. “But you’re here and I’m so glad—”

“And you mentioned diplomacy. Why do I have to be diplomatic? Oh, Mother, don’t tell me that Father has invited forlorn Yankee friends in the peninsula to come to Christmas dinner—”

“Your father would never do anything so foolhardy. This remains a state in rebellion, and the Yankees do not hold Tampa as they hold St. Augustine. Your father is a man of tremendous courage who does not lie about his views—but then, again, neither is he an idiot. He does not taunt the Rebel forces who control the state, and he respects the fact that the state did vote for secession.”

“So what is going on?”

“Exchange negotiations.”

“Exchange?”

“Some Florida militia boys have been taken by Northern troops, and some fresh young Yanks out of St. Augustine were seized trying to pillage a farmhouse west of the city. We’re having some officers to dinner to make arrangements to exchange the boys for Christmas.”

“What kind of officers?”

“
Kind
of officers?” Tara repeated. “Gentlemen, I imagine.”

“Mother!
Which
officers? Union men? Confederates?”

“One of each, of course.”

“Wonderful. The war will wind up being fought over the dinner table!” Tia said.

“There will be no fighting at the table.”

“Is Ian coming?” Tia asked hopefully. “Is he going to be one of the Yankee officers?”

Tara shook her head. For a moment, Tia could see the strain in her mother’s features, and yes, the war had aged even her. She never held her children back, and yet Tia saw briefly then the agony that she suffered, never knowing where they were.

“The last I heard, Ian was in Virginia again,” she said. “When he is in the state, he is seldom able to come here. Alaina is praying to see him in St. Augustine sometime soon. He sent her a long letter, but God knows when he’ll be in the state. Sometimes I pray he stays far away. It seems to me that people grow more bitter all the time, and there are plenty of fools and fanatics here who would gladly shoot a man in the back or hang him from the highest tree for his determination to fight for his own conscience.”