Hearts Under Siege (Civil War Collection) (13 page)

“It seems you put the protection of women before your duty to the army.”

Thomas wondered at the sanity of the man. “But sir, surely the protection of our women is the utmost duty. When placed in such a situation, a man is honor-bound to provide assistance.”

Major Griffin placed his arm around Thomas’s shoulders and pulled him into a stroll. A shell some ten yards in front of them lodged into the earth and exploded. The ground rumbled below their feet. The Major didn’t flinch or even acknowledge it.

“I didn’t think honorable men like you existed anymore.”

“Most men are honorable, at least at heart,” Thomas said, perplexed at the man’s sudden change in demeanor.

“There. You’ve proven my point yet again.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You see, a truly honorable man has no reason to believe others are not honorable, as well.”

“I’ve met plenty of rogues,” Thomas said, thinking of the men he and Alexandra had encountered in their travels. “I didn’t say all men were honorable.”

“That only tells me you can see the difference,” he answered, with a small chuckle. “Tell me, Captain Munroe, what agenda have you set for yourself in delivering this message? Is there a damsel in distress that must be rescued?”

Thomas contemplated the pros and cons of telling his new friend the truth.

“I can see you don’t know whether or not to trust me with that information. And for good reason, I’ll be the first to admit,” the Major said.

A shell flew toward them, neither of them paying it more than cursory attention as it exploded several yards away.

“I’ll tell you what, Captain, I’m going to let you go. Whatever task you feel needs to be handled must be important indeed. This is a dangerous mission. The Yankees are closing in on us, and there is a good chance you won’t make it through.”

Major Griffin stopped and studied the Yankee trenches in the distance. “However,” he continued, turning back to face Thomas, “I need someone to take this message, and you are far more experienced than young Matthew. I’ve grown rather fond of him, and I don’t care to risk him for this assignment, no offense intended.”

“None taken, sir. I’m sure you’ve just given me a compliment.”

Major Griffin laughed again. Several soldiers glanced askance in their direction. “Don’t take it personally. Whatever else you do, get this to Johnson with all haste.” Major Griffin no longer smiled. “By tomorrow, or there may be no more women here in Vicksburg for an honorable man to protect.”

****

Ernest Dumon stood staring out the front window of his bedroom, a glass of water in his hand. The soldiers made liquor offlimits to him— in his own home, yet they imbibed it without hesitation. The irony of it grated on his nerves.

He escaped twice, only to be dragged back before he breached the border of his property. The soldiers tolerated him with grins of amusement, looking at him down their noses and scoffing. In exchange for watching the old man and hunting him down occasionally, they had a nice home to stay in and the best of liquor to drink.

As Ernest watched out his bedroom window, a rider galloped down his front drive.

Who could this be?
He shrugged. In this hub of activity, just about anybody could stroll right through his front door.

Going back to the solid white French settee, Ernest smiled. A mud-covered but loyal hound plodded over to him and plopped down by his feet. Rubbing the hound’s ears, Ernest contemplated his next escape.

One of the horses could carry him to Vicksburg. He scratched the dog’s fur faster. But how to get to it? Soldiers guarded the horses.

A soldier barged in, and the door thudded against the wall.

“I know it’s not time to eat,” Ernest blustered. “Can’t a man have privacy in his own home?”

“You’re free,” the soldier blurted. “We’ll be vacating the house within the hour.”

“Well,” Ernest said, unprepared for this turn of events.

The soldier turned and strode out the door without another word. He left it open.

His mind whirling, Ernest listened to the activity of men tromping through his home. He expected they’d take all the horses, which was just as well, since there would be no one here to tend to them. If only he could procure one. They had already taken all his weapons. He would have to do without.

A plan forming in his mind, he went downstairs to pack food. The soldiers no longer paid any attention to his movements. In turn, he dismissed them.

After packing his valise, he sat at his desk and penned a note. Then he folded it in half and took it with him downstairs. He left it on the foyer table, secured beneath a brass candleholder no one had seen fit to steal. He hastened to the stables.

He had a granddaughter to find.

Chapter Twelve

At home in Chene Ruelle, and napping at last, Alexandra fought against the pull to consciousness. A breeze cooled her cheek, and birds chirped. Busy sounds came from the slave quarters, metal pounding against metal, and men talking in contented tones.

Still in her dream world, Alexandra imagined Jeffy teasing her kitten, Rumbles. She smiled, whisking her paintbrush across her canvas, and glanced through the open door. Her parents sat on the veranda. They waved. She waved back, and her heart sighed.

Then Jeffy was sitting atop one of Grand-père’s stallions. Grand-père stood by him, showing him how to work the reins. Alexandra’s heart filled with pride at the sight of her handsome brother, sitting tall in the saddle. Jeffy shifted until he morphed into a soldier dressed in a gray uniform, his bayonet at his side and his gun in his hand. She frowned. He had a beard. Jeffy never wore a beard.

He blew her a kiss, waved, and turned to ride away.

“No!” Alexandra cried. “No, don’t go.”

He rode until he crested a hill.

“I’m sorry, my dearest sister,” he said, his words breaching the distance. “I must go now.”

“No,” Alexandra said again, sobbing.

He disappeared.

“Miss? Sammy, wake up,” a male voice coaxed. “You’re dreaming.”

As Alexandra opened her eyes, the haze of the dream cleared, and she looked into the Confederate soldier’s face. Mark Calhoun. She sobbed.

He patted her shoulder, and she buried her face against his chest. He stroked her hair as the tears spilled down her cheek.

Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she grew still and quiet
.
What am I doing?

An adolescent boy would never seek comfort against another man’s chest, much less be caught crying to begin with.

She pulled away, clearing her throat and lifting her chin. She glanced around, but no one noticed them.

“I apologize profusely, sir,” she said, feeling heat rising in her cheeks. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You had a bad dream,” he answered. “Here, drink some water,” he said, handing her his canteen.

She searched his face for ridicule, but seeing none, she accepted the drink he offered. “Thank you.”

Something was wrong.

She studied the men, but they were digging, as usual. She glanced up. A storm cloud darkened the north, but that wasn’t the problem. Everything looked normal. Then sh
e
heard
the difference.

“It’s quiet,” she said.

“Yes, the shelling has stopped.”

“Then?”

“Word hasn’t reached us yet, but we’re all pretty sure we’ve surrendered.”

“At last,” Alexandra muttered, and the soldier nodded.

Two hours later, Yankee officers approached the Confederate commander and disappeared into his command post.

Afterwards, one of the soldiers stood beneath the flagpole and unrolled a sheet of paper with all eyes riveted on him. He cleared his throat and read in a calm voice
,
“You will be allowed to march out, the officers taking with them their side arms and clothing, and the field, staff, and cavalry officers one horse each. The rank and file will be allowed all their clothing, but no other property.”

The Union would release them after each signed an oath not to fight again until they completed the prisoner exchange: thirty thousand Federal captives held in Confederate prisons in exchange for them. It was July fourth. Independence Day. How ironic. Somehow she didn’t feel celebratory.

As the men walked away to gather their possessions, Alexandra leafed through her notebook, half-filled with her sketches, not only of what she saw in the trenches, but also what she had seen in her travels and…home, Chene Ruelle. Would the Union commander allow her to take the sketchbook with her or at least deliver it to Pemberton
?
Pemberton. Where’s Thomas?

With thirty thousand men in the city, how would she find him?

The soldier, Mark, approached her and knelt next to her.

“What do we do now?” she asked him.

“Prepare to march.”

Prepare to march.
The words echoed in her mind. March. It seemed she would leave the city whether she wanted to or not. With or without Thomas. Her heart sank at the idea of leaving without him. She couldn’t bear the idea of not seeing him again. Touching him, kissing him.

She was so in love with him.

“Where will you go?” Mark asked, interrupting her realization.

She took a shuddering breath. Where would she go?

A hazy memory of the nightmare she had had earlier wafted across her mind. Home. She had to go home.

She would find her brother.

****

Thomas collapsed from exhaustion outside General Johnson’s tent. He brought the message to the general of Pemberton’s impending surrender, only to be told that word had already reached Johnson’s headquarters.

His entire trip had been in vain. At the caves, he had found Alexandra’s Aunt Maggie distressed over Alexandra’s disappearance. She knew Alexandra left of her own accord, but she had expected her to return by now and feared for her safety.

He went from there to Pemberton’s headquarters. No luck there either. After these dead ends, he carried on with his task of getting a message to Johnson outside the city.

I must get back inside that chaos and find he
r
.

As he sat there, his hand pressing against his forehead, a lad in tattered clothes brought him a canteen and a fresh biscuit, not hardtack. He took a bite and washed it down with a swig of water, closing his eyes a moment
.
Real food. And fresh water
.
He enjoyed every bite. Finished at last, he sat for about five minutes, fantasizing about stretching out right there and falling asleep under the heat of the sun. Then, taking a deep breath, he stood up and set off for Vicksburg. He would find Alexandra. Then he would sleep.

****

The rest of the day passed in a blur for Alexandra. Union officers gave them the option of attending the formal surrender ceremony. She didn’t know anyone who would attend. She spent a couple of hours standing in line to sign an agreement not to fight. Dipping the quill into the inkpot and scratching her boy’s name, she wondered if anyone would notice she never enlisted.

She gazed at the frowning Union officer sitting behind the table. “Could I see General Pemberton?”

He laughed at her, looking her up and down with derision. She shook her head and wandered off to be alone, taking a seat on a deserted bench outside. She opened her sketchpad and took out her pencil. Someone peeked over her shoulder. She didn’t say anything, accustomed to men stopping to peer at her work.

“It seemed my instincts were correct,” a gentleman said.

She paused, tilting her head, trying to determine who spoke to her. It was a familiar voice.

“Any granddaughter of Ernest Dumon would excel at anything she set her mind to.”

Alexandra gasped and turned her head.

“Don’t worry,” General Pemberton said. “I won’t give you away. I wanted to speak with you frankly, without the pretense of your charade.”

“Very well,” Alexandra said. “It’s a relief, really.”

“May I?” he asked, inclining his head toward her sketchpad.

“Of course,” she said, handing over the notebook.

He started at the front and flipped pages, studying each one. After the fifth, he stopped and looked at her. “These are good,” he said.

She smiled ruefully. “It was difficult subject matter to capture.”

“But you did. You not only captured the subject in each case, but you also captured the emotions, the resignation, and the hopelessness in these faces.”

She shrugged. “I only sketch what I see.”

“May I take some of these?”

“You can have any of them you want.”

He removed about a dozen sketches then stopped when he came to the sketch of Chene Ruelle. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “It’s everything my wife said it was.”

“Your wife knows my home?”

“Yes. Her name is Martha Thompson. She visited New Orleans with a cousin’s family before we were married. You weren’t even born, I’d wager. They attended a spring ball given by your grandparents. It’s a wonder she came back at all.”

“Surely there are comparable homes where you’re from.”

“Of course, but something about yours stayed with her. Perhaps it was the oak trees,” he said, sweeping his hand over the sketch. “Or maybe it was something about your family that made her remember it as a fairy tale.”

Alexandra smiled. “I’ve always felt it was an enchanted place myself. As soon as I’m released, I’m heading back there.”

“Yes. I was certain you would want to,” he said, handing the sketchpad back to her and rolling up the ones he had chosen. “These will assist me in my reports. Thank you.”

“It was no hardship since I had to be here anyway. I sketch and paint at every opportunity.”

“That was something I had hoped to speak with you about.”

“What is it?”

“I came to ask you to continue on as a war artist. However, now that I’ve seen your sketches of home, I find that I cannot do it.”

“I am honored, sir,” Alexandra said. “Though I would like to return home and try to locate my missing brother and make sure my grandfather is safe.”

“I understand,” he said, placing his hand over hers. “If there is ever anything more I can do for you, please let me know. And give your grandfather my best. Now, unfortunately, I must return to the realities of surrender. My men will be looking for me.”

After he left, Alexandra sat for a long time, weighing her responsibilities to family and country. She finally decided that she owed it to her grandfather to get back to him. Under his supervision, she could help her country.

A drawback existed in her plan, however. Her heart sank at the thought of leaving here without seeing Thomas again. Tucking her sketchpad beneath her arm, she made the decision to leave for home. She fought a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

****

Thomas stood leaning against a fencepost and watched as thousands of soldiers marched past him. He chose this spot so he could watch soldiers heading south. He knew that if Alexandra left the city, it would be to return home. He couldn’t imagine any reason for her to go in any other direction. He peered into each face, searching for Alexandra’s delicate features. Most of the men had beards. If he didn’t find her soon, he would have to go into the city after all and see if she had returned to her aunt.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to be patient.
Wa
i
t her
e
, he told himself, again. Then a soldier with downcast eyes, slight of build, caught his attention. The boy’s shoulders slumped. A soldier walking alongside him said something to him, but his shoulders only rose and fell in a sigh.

Thomas straightened his posture and took a few steps forward. His eyes feasted on her face. God, but she was beautiful. Never again would he be apart from her this long, he thought. He’d explode with his feelings for her, and he’d show her.

Alexandra looked up into his face, and her steps slowed. She stood still. Everyone around them faded from awareness as Alexandra and Thomas strode toward each other.

They stopped less than a foot apart, their gazes transfixed on each other, neither trying to hide their affection. Then Thomas swept her into his arms and squeezed her against him.

A cheer went up from the men. Thomas suddenly remembered their presence. Those traveling with Alexandra stopped when she did and stood watching their reunion. As the glad shouts continued, Alexandra turned and smiled at her soldier friends.

“I guess they knew I wasn’t a boy,” she said.

“Only a blind man would think that you were,” Thomas said, and kissed her hard on the mouth.

The men applauded.

“Let’s not hold them up,” Thomas said against her mouth. Taking her hand, he led her back to the small group of soldiers who waited for them. Holding hands, they marched along with the others.

“What are you doing here?” Alexandra asked.

“I came to get you.”

“But,” she spoke in bubbly tones, smiling, “they let you?”

“We’re all on furlough. I came to take you home.”

Without missing a step, she threw her arms around him again. “I love you,” she said.

He laughed, lifting her off her feet to carry her. “I’ll wager you say that to all the boys in gray.”

She giggled and lifted her face to kiss his chin.

“Keep this up, and we won’t get much farther today,” he said, setting her down.

“What’s this?” he asked, indicating her sketchpad.

“General Pemberton gave it to me. He assigned me the task of sketching the soldiers in the trenches.”

“Is that so? Pemberton himself gave it to you? How did that come about?”