Glory by Heather Graham
“Sydney, I will not have you involved.”
“If Jesse becomes angry—” she began with a toss of her head.
“It has little to do with his anger,” Julian warned her. “He is probably responsible for you. And if you betray him, he is probably the one who will pay the price.”
“He shouldn’t have arrested me.”
“What choice did he have? He’s a Yankee. You were exchanging information that was hurting the Northern war effort.”
“But if he had lo—”
“If he had what?”
She flushed. “If he had cared for me, he wouldn’t have arrested me.”
Julian threw up his hands. “Sydney! It’s a war. He is a Northerner.” He shook his head. “You’ve seen what war does to families. You can’t expect a man to go against his beliefs.”
“I want to go home, Julian.”
“But you married him.”
“I said that I wouldn’t spy. I never said that I wouldn’t go home. And if I helped you escape, I could go home with you—”
“Sydney, that would be the same as when Jerome escaped.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “Jerome is a blockade runner. The Yanks hate him; he’s made a fool of them time and time again. The Yanks don’t hate you—you’ve saved body parts for far too many of them!”
“I assure you, there are Yanks who hate me. But Sydney, Ian knows I’m here.”
“Oh? And what is Ian going to do? Say, ‘My brother is with the medical department, you should let him go’?”
Julian shrugged. “Maybe. You never know.”
“Well, I do have a plan, you know.”
“Oh?”
“One that has worked before.”
“You want me to dress up like one of the singing Irish ladies as Jerome did?”
Sydney arched a brow indignantly. “Don’t be silly, they would recognize that ruse immediately.”
“Then—”
“A coffin,” she said somberly.
“A coffin?”
“When the dead are being brought out ... you crawl in with them. It’s worked well on many occasions. And God knows, there will be plenty of dead men with all the injured from the battle at Gettysburg.”
He opened his mouth to protest.
But he paused.
Sydney had a point. There were so many men who were dead ... and dying.
Coffins were abundant. Ian would do what he could, yes. But how long would it take?
As they stared at one another, church bells began to toll. They had been tolling frequently since he had arrived for all the prominent Yankee officers who had made it from the battlefield only to die in the hospitals.
Here, in the Yankee capital, the Rebs were not so mourned. All that awaited them was ...
Coffins.
And transport home.
South.
In the days that followed the great clash at Gettysburg, the Union army began making some movements toward stopping the Southerners. Rhiannon knew what went on—and what didn’t go on—because of General Magee.
The long, exhausting, endless hours—in which day turned into night turned into day again—immediately after the battle at last began to come under control; injured men were treated, then sent on to hospitals or sent home for convalescence.
The Rebs were treated, and sent on to hospitals, or prisons.
Many were buried in hastily dug graves not far from the field hospitals where they had perished from their wounds.
But finally, many of those who could be moved were moved. The numbers of men to care for became manageable as the injured were dispersed. Some would stay on at Gettysburg for a long time, under the care of patriotic Yanks. Some went on to Harrisburg. And like the Rebs, some of them died, and were hastily buried. Organized graves would have to come later. At times, Yanks embraced their Rebel brothers in death and into the ground, for the numbers were so terrible to deal with, and the threat of disease from the tens of thousands of bodies was so great to the living that such small indignities had to be done to the dead.
The hospital at the farmstead where she worked began to function under more normal hours. General Magee began to return for set meals and to have a few precious hours at night where he could put his feet up, rest, correspond—or talk to her. And since he had very firm opinions about what was going on, he kept her well informed. They should have moved—immediately. Lee must be shaking his head over the Union army. No wonder the Rebs were convinced they could win the war despite the numerical and technical superiority of the North. The Yanks couldn’t get a single man in charge with the capacity to fight.
Lincoln was delighted with the victory—and beside himself with frustration over what had happened since. The Rebs were slipping away. Meade believed that his troops were just too exhausted to risk another encounter with Lee.
But then, Meade planned an attack and took it to a “council” of generals. A few of the generals vetoed his plan.
Lincoln’s response was swift and angry. Meade wasn’t to have a council with his generals, he was to give orders, and they were to go after the defeated and retreating Confederates. There had been some fighting, at Boonsborough, Maryland, at Williamsport, Maryland, but Meade never gave the order that would send the army in force after the Rebs.
By mid-July, Meade finally moved large forces after Lee. Word had come by then of draft riots in New York. At least a hundred people had been killed or wounded. Churches had been burned, there had been massive destruction. Despite the success of Gettysburg and what might be a real turning point, there were those Northerners who wanted nothing more of war.
Toward the end of July, Rhiannon found herself on the move again with General Magee’s forces. They moved southward into Virginia. Magee’s cavalry became involved with skirmishes as bands of Union and Confederate soldiers met, clashed, and withdrew.
Most often at night, she lay awake, afraid to sleep—afraid to dream.
She had parted ways with Jesse Halston at Gettysburg. He would be convalescing at Harrisburg before returning to a quieter duty in Washington or to his cavalry troops. She had written to Sydney, though, of his condition, and asked about Julian. There had been no reply. To the best of her knowledge, Julian remained at Old Capitol, safe. There were many prisoners for him to treat. Ian had come to see her, telling her that it would be late summer or early fall before he could arrange for an official transfer. She needn’t worry; Julian knew he was only biding his time. He wouldn’t do anything reckless.
Meade camped near Warrenton, Virginia. September began with hot weather that turned chill at night. Rhiannon found herself busy enough, because Meade, though he wouldn’t actually move his army further at the moment, found his troops engaged whether he liked it or not—Southern guerillas came to him and his supplies. The days simply seemed long, sometimes busy, sometimes dull, and still, far too often, tragic. Helplessly holding a gut-shot boy while he died one afternoon after a skirmish that involved no more than two companies, she wondered what difference it made when a man died in a great battle or because a single shot was fired.
In mid-September, she found herself haunted by snatches of a nightmare that involved a child. He was little more than a toddler, a handsome boy, but she could never really see his face. He seemed to walk a fence, teetering along it. Behind him, she heard the explosions of cannon fire. All around her, the landscape seemed cast in shades of darkening yellow as the sun fell, and sunset was like the drenching of an artist’s pallet in red. Men shouted, horses screamed, and she saw Julian running again, across the terrain where the dead and dying lay ...
She woke one night from the dream in a deep sweat. She was glad to have awakened. She didn’t understand the dream. It wasn’t telling her anything that she could comprehend, that she could use to help anyone.
Julian remained in Old Capitol.
Then she started, feeling a subtle fluttering in her abdomen. She didn’t know what it was at first, then realized that it was
Julian had been furious with her for tricking him into captivity, but he was alive. So no matter what his feelings toward her, this child had a father. She wanted him in prison. It was safe in prison.
Yet, the next morning, she couldn’t help but find herself disturbed when she listened to some of the soldiers talking over coffee.
“We sit here and sit. And Lee regroups,” complained a sergeant bitterly.
“If the generals would let the enlisted men fight this thing, we might have won by now,” replied a worn private.
“Gettysburg, Vicksburg ... hey, and did you hear? They’ve got that Belle Boyd locked up in Old Capitol again.”
“Ah, she won’t stay long! Have you ever seen the woman? Now, there’s some Southern hospitality for you! She’s flirted her way out of captivity before, she’ll do it again!”
“Well, they’re certainly entertaining the Washington press.”
“They?”
“The Rebel doctor, McKenzie. She came in with a fever, and he treated her.”
The men started laughing.
Rhiannon retired to her camp tent, sat on the bed, and started shaking. She clenched her hands into fists, jealousy washing over her. She’d never seen Belle Boyd, but the Southern spy was supposed to be a rare beauty. And now Belle Boyd was locked up with Julian. Who had married her, but loathed her.
It didn’t matter, as long as he stayed alive! she told herself. But it hurt. Oh, Lord, did it hurt. With Richard, she had known peace in her marriage. But she hadn’t wanted to love Julian. But he had come to her ... She had touched him, known him.
Death would be an agony she didn’t know if she could bear again. But there was no way out of a simple truth either—love was anguish all in itself.
He was a captive; he was safe, she tried to tell herself. But the next night, she began to dream again. And she dreamed of him in a coffin ...
Chapter 21
SYDNEY STARTED FOR THE door, stopped, and spun around. As she had suspected, Sissy was behind her. Sissy watching over her had been part of her deal for freedom.
She and Marla still shared an apartment—with Sissy. She hadn’t moved into her new husband’s quarters because her new husband wasn’t there. He had, in fact, rather dispassionately told her that she could obtain an annulment easily if he was to fall in battle. If she hadn’t felt so terribly resentful and off guard that night, she would have told him that he couldn’t fall, that she couldn’t believe that God would be so cruel as to allow the death of such a fine man. But she was still bitter and afraid of what was happening—and God had allowed the deaths of far too many fine men already. He had been hurt again, her cousin had probably saved his arm and his life, and she could only pray that wherever he was, he was recuperating.
Marla, she thought, had been glad to end their spying days. She had been passionate and reckless at first, but then more uneasy. And since the night when Sydney had been taken—and she had claimed she’d heard the howling of the banshees, she had been afraid.
Jesse had gone to see Marla before coming to Old Capitol the night he had married and freed Sydney. He had explained that they had been caught, that there was to be no more activity, that Sissy would remain with them until he could return to Washington, D.C., and make new arrangements for his wife.
Marla readily accepted the situation. Naturally, they had both been cold and rude to Sissy, but the beautiful young black woman hadn’t noticed. She followed Sydney everywhere. At the prison, oddly enough, she didn’t insist on sitting in on Sydney’s conversations with her brother, but she waited outside, ready to follow Sydney once again after she left the prison.
“Well, are you ready?”
“Of course, Mrs. Halston.”
Sydney lowered her lashes, thinking that Sissy had a way of being polite while mocking her at the same time.
“We’re going to Old Capitol—”
“I know.”
Sydney studied the black woman pointedly. “You’ve nothing to say? No lectures, no warnings? Don’t go helping any Rebs escape, ma’am, you’ll hang, and I’ll see to it that the noose is properly tied?”
Sissy returned her gaze steadily. “Miss Sydney, your brother is a surgeon. He has plenty to keep him busy. And when he isn’t busy ... well, his brother will see that he’s exchanged. Dr. McKenzie was taken, so I understand, because he’d saved General Magee’s foot once, and because—”
“He was betrayed by a woman,” Sydney said flatly.
“Who only wanted to keep him alive.”
“Well, haven’t you heard, Sissy? There are things worse than death. That’s what the abolitionists say, you know. Slavery is worse than death.”
“Do you doubt that?”
Sydney hesitated, remembering what it felt like to be a prisoner—to have lost her freedom. “My family never owned slaves, Sissy. In fact, my grandmother’s people, the Seminoles, helped runaway slaves all the time.”
“Well, I commend your grandmother’s people, Mrs. Halston.”
“You weren’t a slave,” Sydney said.
“Not born a slave, no,” Sissy said, suddenly angry. To Sydney’s surprise, she spun around, unbuttoning her bodice, slipping her dress down so that Sydney could see her back. Sydney swallowed back a gasp of horror at the scars there. “I wasn’t born a slave, but I was seized by some men to be returned to my supposed ‘master,’ a man who owned a plantation in Alabama. Papers were forged, and there I was, a slave. Who listens to a darkee over a rich white man? You know that’s the truth. When I wasn’t agreeable to anything he wanted, he beat me.”
“Sissy, most masters aren’t like that. Their slaves are valuable, they’re often loved—”
“That is so ridiculous, don’t you understand? Some men are good. Yes, I’ve known many really fine white men, in the North and in the South. But there are evil men who beat their slaves, who are careless with their ‘valuable’ property. A slave doesn’t have freedom, don’t you understand that? Slavery allows for men to have the legal right to whip and beat and torture other men. Slavery allows men to rape women, to sell their children.”
“Maybe, but—”
“For the love of God, I’ve seen how you care for other people. I know that you can’t just accept this because you’re Southern. You—”
“It’s a matter of states’ rights, Sissy!”
“But the important ‘right’ to the South is the right to hold slaves.”
Sydney sighed softly. “Slavery is wrong. But, Sissy, what will happen if thousands of slaves are suddenly free? Many will starve, they’ll have no homes, they’ll suffer terribly. Slavery should be abolished with a plan, with education, with—”
“Yes, it should. But men never will release that ‘valuable’ property so generously without force. John Brown said it. Our land could not be purged without blood.”
“John Brown was a murderer,” Sydney said.
“Yes, he was. He thought he was God, judge, and jury. But the land is bathed in blood, and it’s a terrible thing.”
Sydney walked over to Sissy. She touched her shoulder, near a scar. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Sissy smiled. “I know that you are. And I’m sorry that I betrayed you. Do you understand why?”
Sydney put her arms around her and hugged her. Sissy hugged her back. They were both lost, and both found.
“Are you still a Rebel?” Sissy asked.
“I’m still a Southerner,” Sydney said slowly, meeting Sissy’s eyes. “But you sure have made me think.”
“Let’s go see your cousin,” Sissy suggested.
“It may be dangerous for me to go to him—with you behind me. My cousin longs to escape. He can’t help but want to save his own countrymen.”
“I heard
Sydney paused. “You’re good friends with Jesse?”
“Yes. I admire him very much,” Sissy said solemnly.
“Well, then,” Sydney murmured. “It’s good to know that you’ll be here to watch over him if—”
“If?”
Sydney lowered her eyes and shook her head. “If I don’t happen to be here when he comes back.”
Sissy hesitated a moment as if wondering if she should or shouldn’t take the impropriety of a personal observation. “He loves you, you know.”
Sydney felt the world twist and roll. There had been a time when his smile had made her feel a trembling deep inside. A time ...
That time still existed. The touch of his eyes still made her quicken. She had been falling in love with him since she had first met him. Feeling the sweet excitement of learning more about him every time she saw him. But then ...
“He captured me and put me in a prison camp.”
“You were spying.”
“That’s the point, it’s all wrong, he’s North, I’m South, he’s from the snow, and I need the sun to survive, it’s just all—all wrong!”
“Slavery is wrong.”
“Oh, Lord, Sissy, do you know how many Southerners believe that it’s wrong? Many, and many were against secession, and against war. The division remains. And Jesse is a Yank, and I’m a Rebel.”
“You married him.”
“Yes, I did. And you may be right about everything, but ...”
“But what?”
“We are still at war. That’s the crux of everything. We’re still at war.”
More injured came into the hospitals in Washington—and to Old Capitol. Julian realized that he was being given more supplies to work with—medicines, sutures, opiates, and more—than he would have had he were free. It wasn’t a miserable existence. Sydney came to see him fairly frequently. She often helped him with the injured men, but as time went by, she seemed to grow more somber. Every time he saw her, he asked about his wife, and then about Jesse Halston.