Triumph (43 page)

Charleston had been under heavy fire. He would best be able to deliver her to Wilmington. He didn’t consider the seas a safe way for a woman to travel—not that there was a safe or sure way to travel through the South anymore.

As it happened, she was able to disembark in North Carolina just off of the Virginia border. Captain Larson received word from his contact at the port that Brent had arranged for an escort to bring her to the hospital where he was working, on the outskirts of Richmond. She was disheartened to meet the two men who would take her to her cousin; they were so thin, their uniforms so very threadbare. They had both been wounded, and weren’t ready yet to return to the front line, yet were able to take on the duty of protecting one woman along a path that might be peopled by cowardly deserters or a stray Yankee. Both men were polite, courteous to a fault, and determined that she should have decent accommodations each night. Her first evening she spent at a small, still-functioning plantation that had thus far avoided Yankee depredations. Her hostess was the wife of a lieutenant who had known Ian before the war. The woman thought that Tia must now hate her brother.

She was careful not to mention that she had married a Yankee as well. Her blindly loyal hostess might have thrown her right out. Thankfully, the woman seemed to think that her cousin Jerome was single-handedly keeping the South in the war.

The next morning, they started riding early again. They avoided riders when they heard them coming; Sergeant Brewster, the older of her escort, told her that they never really knew just where they might run into a party of scouting Yanks. In the towns, however, they dared the main roads. They were able to buy meals, and there were places where it even seemed that there was not a war on. Everyone, however, seemed to be wearing a mask. They would win the war, yes, of course, the South could still win the war, and though Europe had refused to recognize the government thus far, well, they would simply be proven wrong. The South could never lose. The spirit of the people still remained too strong. They were still thrashing the Union army at most engagements.

Whether that was true or not, Tia didn’t know. The gaunt, weary soldiers helping her across the countryside didn’t seem convinced that they were doing so well. Costs for food had soared—what little could be bought.

The second night she slept in a hotel thirty miles south of the city. She awoke the next morning to a fierce pounding on her door. She bolted out of bed in her nightgown, still exhausted from her long ride, startled by the pounding and blinded by the long tangle of her hair.

“Yes?”

“It’s me, Tia, Brent.”

“Brent!”

She didn’t care the least about decorum but opened the door, delighted to see her cousin. She threw her arms around him, hugged him fiercely, then drew away from him. Brent looked good. He was all McKenzie, tall and dark, Seminole in his features but with a touch of his mother in the shade of his eyes and the hint of red in his hair. He was lean, as seemed to be the tendency with men in the South, but there was something about him that made up for his thinness and the slightly frayed quality of his uniform. He seemed alive with hope, as few people did these days, she thought.

“Tia ... my God, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you! You are still as beautiful as ever, little cousin, though I hear that the beaus of the South will be forever wailing. You have gone off and married a Yank—my own relation—so I am told.”

Tia stepped back, still holding his hands, studying Brent. “Taylor, yes, of course. I keep forgetting that he is your relative as well.”

“How is Taylor?”

“Very well, the last time I saw him,” she murmured, trying to keep all sound of bitterness from her tone. “I have heard that he went to see your father.”

“You sound indignant!”

She shook her head. “Well, he was off on orders, and naturally, he shares nothing regarding his orders with me.”

Brent shrugged. “It’s a war, Tia. You’re not on his side.”

“Neither is your father.”

Brent smiled. “Well, Risa’s letter, informing me that you were coming, arrived just a few days ago, along with a long, long missive from my mother. It seems there was a Yank sailor tossed up on their shore after a storm. He carried confidential despatches. Taylor was sent to find him, and bring him back.”

“Did he do so?”

“No. You see, my older sister had decided she wanted to keep the fellow, and so Taylor went off to return the despatches—and report the soldier unfit for duty so that he could get an honorable discharge.”

“How wonderful,” she murmured.

“So it seems. Jen has now married the young man.”

“Jen remarried—a
Yankee
?”

“Ah, well, he’s not a military man at all anymore, so I understand.”

She lowered her head, amazed at the information about her cousin Jennifer. No one had been more passionately hateful regarding anyone involved with the Federal government. Jen had been ready to lay down her own life rather than give up the fight. And now ... she had married for a second time. “Everyone is getting married, so it seems. I didn’t know about Jen.”

“I believe the wedding just took place.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I guess I should tell you now—I have just married as well.”

“What? Oh, my lord, Brent! We didn’t know, we had no idea.”

“Well, you didn’t ask me about marrying Taylor. You didn’t ask your own father, so I hear, young lady!”

“The war changes the way we do things,” she murmured. “But tell me! What is her name, where did you meet?”

“Mary. You’ll meet her later. I met her at the special hospital where I was last working.”

“Brent! I know where you were last working! Did you marry a ... a ...”

He laughed, tapping her chin. “Prostitute—is that the word you’re looking for? No, I didn’t marry a prostitute. But I wouldn’t have cared in the least what she did in her past. She’s the most wonderful woman in the world. Her father was my patient. He passed away, I’m afraid, but thanks to him, we’re together, and. it’s horribly ironic—I still spend my days patching men together, but I’ve never been happier in my life.”

“Oh, Brent, I’m so glad!” she said.

“Well, you must know what it’s like.”

Know what it was like ... to be loved, as Brent loved his Mary? No, she could not begin to imagine, being so cherished.

She kept smiling.

“Marriage is ... different.”

He laughed. “It must be—with Taylor. Especially ...”

“Yes?”

“Well, with you being so opposed on your views of the war. Frankly, I can’t see how it ever came about, but then ...” He shrugged, grinning at her. “Well, actually, I’m just very lucky that I do have Mary, I suppose. Still, you and Taylor! You are the very soul of independence and Taylor ... well, Abby was the sweetest little thing in the world, living by his very word.”

“You knew Abby?”

“Of course. Taylor is what ... my second or third cousin or second cousin once removed, or something of the like. His family lived further north, but he came south often enough.” He grinned at her. “You’ve got to remember, you’re from the all ‘white’ branch of the McKenzie family—I’m from the branch with the red blood. Taylor has a similar background. Such a history in the world we live in can create a unique relationship.”

“So Abby was—sweet?” she couldn’t help but asking. Her curiosity was morbid, she told herself. Abby was dead, gone. Yet Abby remained a ghost in her life. The perfect wife, while she ... well, she was a decadent, infamous Rebel spy.

“Charming. But very strong when she chose to be. I can’t imagine what he felt, watching her die ... oh, sorry, Tia. Well, of course. That is the past. He’s married to you now. And here you are deep, deep in Rebel territory. Does he know?”

She lifted her hands. “I—don’t know. You know more than I do. I came here because of Rhiannon. I felt I had no choice.”

“Yes, of course. I understand. Well, surely Taylor will understand as well. Pity he isn’t on our side. He would have been quite an asset. I’ve never met a man with sharper vision, clearer hearing. When we were kids, he could put us all to shame in the Everglades. He could hear the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, I think. See in pitch darkness. He’s the perfect scout—the Pinkerton Agency wanted him to work with them, but he stayed with the cavalry despite his engineering skills.”

“Engineering?”

Brent looked surprised. “Engineering. He studied at Oxford for a while, before entering West Point. He’s a regular genius with bridges, roads, pontoons ... his first love is actually architecture. He used to talk about the building that time would bring to Florida, You didn’t know?”

“I ... well, no.” She hesitated. She didn’t know much about the man she had married. “We haven’t had much time together.”

“Well, I must admit, I haven’t seen him much myself lately, but then, I’ve barely seen my own folks since the war began. My mother, bless her, must spend hours writing letters—and then hoping they can reach us. Anyway, the letter I received from Risa said that Rhiannon had written to Varina Davis, but that she felt someone should see her in person as well.”

“Do you know about the dream?”

“Something about a balcony, and a child. But I haven’t been able to see either the President or Varina in the last few days. He has been insanely busy, suffering from insomnia—and from crushing blows. You’ve heard that the Europeans have refused to recognize our government?”

“Yes.”

“He is losing too many men—and too many generals. But I’ve sent in a request to see Varina. When we arrive, we’ll see her. Set Rhiannon’s mind at rest.”

“She was so distraught. The dream keeps recurring. In it, there is always a little boy, falling from a balcony. She doesn’t know whether she’s dreaming about any of the Davis children, but she’s so upset. She’s described what she has seen, and both Risa and Alaina are convinced that the house she’s seeing is the White House of the Confederacy.”

“Well, cousin, get dressed. We’ll go right away. I’ll meet you downstairs. The executive mansion isn’t quite as open as it was at the beginning of the war, but we’ll go straight there and surely, since I sent my note, we’ll get an audience with Varina quickly enough. Maybe Rhiannon’s letter has already reached her.”

“Thanks, Brent.”

“I’ll be downstairs.”

She watched him go, closed the door, and dressed quickly. When she hurried downstairs, he was waiting for her. He had hired a carriage, and as they jolted along the streets on the outskirts, Tia was amazed at the changes that had taken place since the war had begun. All over, there were defense works set up. “In case Grant gets in close,” Brent told her.

“How close has he come?” she asked.

“Close,” he replied. He met her eyes, then squeezed her fingers. “But Lee meets him every time.”

She nodded, and looked outside the carriage again. There were people everywhere. More and more, the closer they got to the heart of the city. Wounded men in worn uniforms were in abundance.

So many men without arms ... without legs ... limping on crutches. The expressions on their faces were so lost.

“The city has changed, I guess,” Brent said. “Strange, I don’t see it as you do, since I have watched as it has happened.”

“Why is that building burned to rubble?”

“Ah, that was a munitions factory—burned by our own men when it seemed the Yanks might be getting in. People have fled the city, returned, fled the city, returned. It’s the capital of a nation at war. This is the price that is paid.”

In time, they came to the huge white house that was serving as the executive mansion for the confederacy. The street was lined with carriages there. Civilians and military men hurried about with grave faces. Fashionably dressed women—appearing just a little frayed about the edges—moved about on their business, most still accompanied by slaves and servants. There seemed to be a constant flow of soldiers on horseback.

“Here! We’ll alight here!” Brent called to their driver.

He helped Tia from the carriage and they walked from the street to the elegant house. Tia was amazed to see how neglected and overgrown the grounds were.

“Once ...” Brent said, pausing on the walk.

“Once what?”

“The house was beautiful, freshly painted, the grounds were beautifully cared for ... Mrs. Davis’s coach was usually ready to take her about the city ... she had such fine horses. She sold them long ago now. She hasn’t been about much lately. It’s said that Davis considers himself surrounded by foes. Most people believe that spies have penetrated even the White House. Davis has been ill, sleeping badly. He forgets to eat. I was at a meeting with him not long ago. It was a dinner, but he barely touched his food. He has Varina quite concerned as of late.”

“He must carry a great weight on his shoulders.”

“He does, indeed. You should hear the furor over Fort Pillow—though I must say, whatever happened was terrible.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well—perhaps some of the fury from the Yanks has to do with our accusations against them. General Dahlgren was to attack Richmond—he didn’t make it to the city. He had thought himself something of the conqueror, drinking blackberry wine at the home of our own Secretary of War, Mr. Seddon—with Mrs. Seddon. He was led astray by a guide—hanged the guide—but reached Richmond too late to tie up with Kilpatrick, who had already retreated. To make a long story short, he was killed. He had an artificial leg, acquired at Gettysburg, which was stolen—along with papers claiming that his intent was to fire Richmond and kill the Confederate cabinet. Lee sent photographic plates of the papers to General Meade, still directing the Army of the Potomac under Grant, protesting vigorously. The Yanks were up in arms over us, declaring the entire battle a massacre. Then, just a few weeks later, Bedford Forest’s famed Reb Cavalry storms Fort Pillow—five hundred some odd soldiers are holding the place with more than a third of them being black troops. About two hundred and thirty are killed, another hundred are wounded, and two hundred something are captured. That is, I must say, an absurdly high ratio of killed to captured. So the Yanks are stating that we’re all a lot of murderers, that it was a massacre—which it might have been, since over two hundred of the troops were black soldiers, and many men in the South are bitter and afraid of the blacks fighting against them—it might well have been a massacre. At any rate, all this goes on day in and day out, and there’s no good news, so Davis is suffering the torment of the damned.”