Kary, Elizabeth

May 10, 1861—St. Louis, Missouri

The
sound
intruded on the bright spring day, cutting across the persistent whisper of the
wind in the treetops and the cacophony of chirping birds. It was in variance
with the placid scene of wild flowers blooming at the edges of the roadway and
the redbuds' blossoms that hung like a pale purple haze across the landscape.
Leigh Pennington paused uneasily to listen to it, her gracefully arched
eyebrows drawn together as she tried to discern its source. The sound came
gradually nearer, a swelling rhythm: like a distant drumbeat or a hundred
footsteps falling together, like the rush of waves upon a shore or a cordon of
marching men. Clutching the carefully packed basket of sundries she had been on
her way to deliver to her fiancé at the Confederate camp on the outskirts of
town, Leigh whirled to stare back the way she had come, down the country lane
toward swiftly advancing ranks of Union soldiers. The dappled sunlight that
filtered through the branches above cast shifting patterns against the men's
dark uniforms and glinted off their polished weapons as they marched closer.
The troops came like an encroaching blue flood through the tunnel of old trees
that overhung the road, and Leigh realized with despairing certainty that their
destination was the same as hers. The Union army was marching on Camp Jackson!

For
a few seconds she stood immobile as the ramifications of what was happening
washed over her. Then, thinking she might be able to sound the alarm at the
Confederate compound, Leigh turned to run. But before she had gone a hundred
yards toward the camp in Lindell's Grove, she was engulfed in the living
current of civilians that was surging along beside the Union troops. There were
knotted clumps of people pushing forward: men, women, and children moving apace
with the soldiers, apparently intent on witnessing the first confrontation of
the Civil War in St. Louis. Leigh was jostled and buffeted as groups brushed
past in their haste to reach the shady grove at the edge of town where the
Confederate camp stood. And as the crowd congealed around her, she was helplessly
swept along with them. A babble of excitement rose around Leigh as both cheers
and jeers were flung at the grim, straight-backed soldiers. Some of the shouts
expressed approval of the Union's actions in attacking the newly formed
compound of state militia with its blatantly Southern leanings, while other
shouts were harsh indictments of it. The voices clashed just as the two groups
of soldiers soon would, and as Leigh was hustled inexorably forward, her mind
was filled with thoughts of escape. She struggled determinedly toward the
relative safety at the edge of the crowd, but the bodies were packed too
tightly and the crush had grown too dense. She watched in anger and frustration
as the basket she had packed for her fiancé, Lucas Hale, and his brother
Brandon was torn from her grip and its contents dispersed into a sea of greedy
hands. With a swift-rising panic that took her breath, Leigh began to
understand her helplessness against the multitudes that were gathering, and as
she stood wedged in the midst of them, she was afraid as much for those around
her as she was for herself. Caught in a haze of carnival gaiety, no one in the
crowd seemed to sense the growing danger. She alone realized that once these
Union soldiers reached Camp Jackson, there might well be a battle in which
soldiers and civilians alike could be killed.

When
Leigh reached the wide, familiar meadow, now checkered with row upon row of
canvas tents, the Union forces were converging from several directions to
systematically surround the field. Meanwhile, the Confederates ran
helter-skelter across the grass, snatching up arms and ammunition, though no
order to do so had been given. Before the Southerners could form themselves
into any semblance of a military unit, the camp was ringed by an unbroken wall
of blue uniformed men with their bayonets at the ready.

A
turbulent silence fell as the last of the Northern troops assumed their
positions and General Nathaniel Lyon from the Federal arsenal sent a note to
General David Frost, the state militia commander, demanding Camp Jackson's
surrender. In the face of the Union's far superior strength and the confusion
in his own ranks, Frost had no choice. With only a few minutes' deliberation,
he capitulated without a struggle.

In
the crowd's reaction to the surrender, Leigh could sense a full spectrum of
response, as diverse as the population of St. Louis itself. The faces around
her mirrored pride, regret, disbelief, anger, and fear, each expressing the
individual's principles, sympathies, and beliefs. Nor were her own feelings,
profound relief that there had been no bloodshed between the opposing armies
and her concern for Lucas's and Brandon's safety, any less evident than those
of her neighbors. The dread she felt at the inevitability of the coming
conflict scored her wide brow with worry and tightened the corners of her
gently curving mouth. The war that had begun so far away at Fort Sumter had
come to St. Louis, and she was torn by her own conflicting loyalties.

Though
the decision to surrender had come quickly, it took a long time to muster and
disarm the captured Southern troops in preparation for the march to the Federal
arsenal south of the city. While they waited, the milling crowd of citizens
grew restless, and speculation ran high as to the fate of the Confederate
prisoners. Women wept silently, hoping for one final glimpse of their menfolk,
fearful for their safety. Leigh watched too, as anxious as the others to be
reassured. She had known Lucas and Brandon Hale all her life and loved them both.
Only a month before she had promised to marry Lucas, and as she shielded her
eyes against the brightness, she scanned the growing ranks of captured men,
seeking either his gilded head or Bran's coppery hair to reassure herself of
their well-being. But as hard as she searched, there was no sign of either man,
and her uneasiness grew.

"Oh,
Lucas, where are you?" she breathed, the whisper catching in her throat.
Her concern for her own safety was eclipsed by the fear for her fiancé and his
brother.

As
the mustering of the Confederate troops went on beneath the scorching Missouri
sun, the civilian crowd continued to swell, until the road back to the city was
lined with pedestrians and clogged with carriages and carts. To pass the time,
flasks and even jugs of homemade moonshine were circulated from man to man. As
her attention turned once more to those around her, Leigh began to notice
people armed with guns and clubs pushing closer to the line of march. The tenor
of the crowd was subtly changing too, as discord and impatience became
full-blown discontent. She was aware of a growing menace in the air, but she
knew Lucas and Brandon's fate might well be decided in the next minutes, and
she could not desert them.

Finally
the troops began to move out, the Confederates leaving their compound flanked
by the victorious Union volunteers. As they marched out the camp gates,
catcalls and curses rose from the crowd, some meant to bait the victors and
some to taunt the vanquished. Bricks, bottles, and rocks flew along with the
insults, and the closely packed citizens began to surge and fall back in a
writhing mass. Once again Leigh was swept along with the mob, unable to break
free. Her legs moved of their own volition to keep her abreast of the flow of
bodies, but with a shiver of terror she realized that anyone who fell would be
hopelessly crushed under hundreds of trampling feet. Shoulders and elbows
prodded and jabbed her as the people followed along beside the sober military
procession. The tension, both between the soldiers and the crowd and between
factions of the crowd itself, escalated with each passing moment. The din
around Leigh grew louder too, building swiftly in a rush of frenzied voices.
Her fear grew apace with the noise, as waves of greater and greater ferment
rolled and crashed around her. Somewhere to her right the fervor grew to a
deafening roar until there was the single, sharp retort of a pistol. For a
moment the crowd seethed in silence, then clamored with renewed outrage. From
farther down the line of march there was a blossoming of musket fire that
seemed to be moving closer and closer.

Every
brain simultaneously grasped the danger, and the throng of citizens erupted
into a pushing, shoving mass as they fought to escape the threat of harm. All
around her Leigh heard the shrill panic of women's screams and the hoarse moan
of men's muttered curses. There was the surge of blood singing in her veins as
she became a victim of that same mindless terror. Wildly she sought some refuge
from the maddened frenzy of the crowd and the troop's sporadic firing, fighting
the crosscurrents of plunging bodies. Then, driven by the horde at her back,
Leigh lost her footing as stones rolled from beneath her slippered feet. She
cried out in despair as the world shifted beneath her, knowing full well that a
fall could mean her death. Then a large hand clamped tightly around her wrist
and dragged her to safety behind the stout bole of an oak.

For
a few moments Leigh gasped for air, thankful for the tree trunk at her back and
the protection of a man's hard, strong-limbed form along the length of hers.
His weight crushed her full skirts as he leaned even closer to shield her body
with his own, and slowly Leigh raised her head to look up into the determined,
high-cheekboned face of her rescuer.

She
went strangely weak for a moment, whether from her narrow escape or this man's
nearness she could not say. She only knew that in spite of his rugged,
uncompromising features, there was something reassuring about the solid feel of
him beside her and the expression in his light blue eyes.

In
that moment a feeling of breathless surprise filled Leigh as she became aware
of the nubby texture of his tweed lapels beneath her clutching fingers and
caught the faint, clean, citrus scent that clung to his tanned skin.
Inexplicably, she sensed a like response in the man beside her. As they stood
pressed intimately together, some intangible charge arced between them sending
hot blood coursing to Leigh's cheeks, turning them from parchment white to rosy
red. Though she tried, she could not look away, and as she watched him
helplessly, she saw his pupils widen until the arctic blue irises became a pale
corona for some unfathomable emotion that lit the inky depths. Then abruptly
his heavy eyebrows clashed above the bridge of his nose as his hands clenched
tight on her arms. His lips narrowed dangerously before he spoke, and the first
words he flung at her were harsh and totally unexpected.