In The Face Of Death (28 page)

From them we learned that the war is going well for the Confederacy, at least according to what these men chose to impart to us. They spoke of victories in Maryland and Virginia, but made no comment on the battles along the Mississippi, which I infer have been more often Union successes. I did not press for anything regarding Tecumseh, thinking that if he had been wounded or killed, these men would surely have mentioned it, and gleefully, as they crowed with pride recounting how Generals Lee, Jackson, Johnston, and Longstreet routed the Union commander, General McClellan. . . . They could not find enough invectives to sufficiently condemn a proclamation Abraham Lincoln has issued, going into effect the first of next year, freeing all the slaves in the Confederacy. . . .

On the ridge above the mill there had been a dusting of snow during the night, and its freezing breath came on the wind. The ground was hard enough to crunch when walked on, and the empty branches made brittle music when the wind moved through them. Only the pines sighed, as if relieved to have dawn come again to this remote stretch of hillside.

Madelaine huddled at the foot of a hawthorn bush, strangely exhausted, her deerskin cloak drawn close around her. The man she had visited during the night had troubled her, for his dreams were filled with scattered bodies and torn flesh and the chaos of battle. He had succumbed to her with a peculiar numbness that shocked her, and it lingered as she made her way back toward the mill, sapping her strength. The man, she realized, was a deserter, a harness-maker’s apprentice who had seen too much of war and had fled its horrors.

The first sounds of birds warned her to hasten on her way, for the hills had become dangerous in the last few months as more people were displaced from their small holdings and forced to seek a living away from the fighting. If she were discovered by one of these groups, things could go badly for her. That was one of the reasons she had avoided the narrow road and had chosen to climb the hill through the underbrush.

A distant sound of hoof-falls attracted her attention, and she shrank back in the shadows, squatting down low where a rider was unlikely to look. She remained very still as she listened to the approach of eight or nine horses, the creak of tack revealing they were mounted.

Suddenly a deer burst from cover and bounded noisily down the hill. Two of the men swore as their horses shied at this unexpected activity.

“Keep in order,” said a curt, low voice with the soft accents of Alabama.

“My horse—” a protest began.

“And quiet.” There was great authority in that soft, determined voice.

“We’ll get caught,” one of the others moaned; this voice had the distinctive timbre of a black.

“If you make another sound, we may,” insisted the first.

The horses came nearer, and then one faltered on the icy footing and was only kept from falling by the quick, expert ministrations of his rider. “Watch this part. There’s ice.”

Madelaine tried to make herself smaller, trusting that the mounted men would not be carrying more than a single lamp.

“When we get to Reverend Singleton’s church,” the first voice said quietly, “you two’ll go into the attic. He’ll arrange the next part of your journey. You do like he says and you’ll do fine.”

“Yes, sir,” said a second black-timbred voice.

“Singleton’ll get you as far as Chattanooga; he’ll tell you who takes over there.” This was in a reassuring tone. “Remember, the Union says you’re free. Get there and you will be.”

“Praise God,” said the first black voice.

The horses were abreast of Madelaine now, and she looked away from the mounted party; Saint-Germain had long ago taught her that watching a person’s head or hands increased the likelihood you would be noticed by him. Recalling that lesson now, she watched the legs of the horses as they minced across the stretch of black ice.

“It’s gonna be light soon,” said a new voice, one with a greater twang than the leader had.

“All the more reason to be careful. Singleton’s church is only two miles away from here. We’ll get there in half an hour, that’s plenty of time.” The leader sounded wary and exasperated at once.

“If you say so,” said another of the men uncertainly.

“Penvy, if this bothers you, go home,” said the leader, raising his voice a bit. “No one forced you to do this.”

“But, Chance, . . .” The objection faded.

Madelaine waited until she could not hear the sound of the hooves any longer, and then slowly stood up, filled with astonishment. She had heard rumors of antislavery Southerners who helped runaways to get safely out of the South, but had never before witnessed their work herself. She felt intense curiosity about the men and for an instant had the urge to go after them, to ask them why they had undertaken such dangerous work. Then she realized the folly of such an act, and resumed her trudge up the slope to the ridge which ran above the hollow where the old mill was located.

The old mill, near Dallas, Georgia, 8 April, 1863

Today three children came to the mill looking for food and shelter. They are such pathetic little creatures, ragged and thin, their father and older half-brothers gone to war and their mother dead of fever. . . . Susanne asked me what I thought—should we take them in. How could anyone turn them away. It will mean finding more food, but it would be intolerable to have them suffer more.

They are called Jesse, Melissa, and Eliza, and I would guess their ages at eight, seven and five. They said they had been walking for six days, and I can believe it, they are so worn. As to where they come from, they say it is a farm across the Chattahoochee from Franklin, which Susanne tells me is south of here by some distance. They are looking for their mother’s brother who they were told is in Dalton, perhaps, if he has not joined the army.

War always means orphans.

There was a large sack slung over Luke Greentree’s shoulder and he grinned as he entered the mill. “Nothing fancy. A few chickens and some greens. It’ll make a passable stew.” He dropped the sack onto the broken millstone and signaled to the children who had followed him through the door. “You take this upstairs to Miss Susanne, and tell her I’m going out for more.”

“Sure,” said Melissa, who was the most communicative of the three. She grabbed for the sack, then stopped to say to Luke Greentree, “I never knew Indians could be nice. Pa says they’ll scalp you soon as look at you.”

“Not all of us,” said Luke Greentree, no emotion on his face.

“That’s good,” said Melissa, and led the way up the stairs with the neck of the sack clutched tightly in her hands, Jesse and Eliza trailing behind.

Luke Greentree went out again to put his thick-bodied draught horse in the makeshift barn, where he found Madelaine sorting herbs. “More of your potions, I see.”

“When I finish the preparation, yes. It would be good if you could find me more moldy bread.” She did her best to smile encouragement. “I know. People don’t throw much away any more, and with the price of flour as high as it is—”

“And getting higher,” Luke Greentree interjected.

“And the army requisitioning everything it can lay its hands on, well, I suppose I will have to make do with whatever you can find.” She smiled at him, and went on with her work, thinking as she did that her dress was sadly stained and faded. Considering the wear it had been given, she was not surprised it was not as fine as it had been when she purchased it.

“Oh. While I was hunting today, I found an empty house, set back in the hills. Just an old farm. Nobody for miles around, and nobody working it.” Luke Greentree worked over the coat of the draught horse with a handful of straw.

“Has anyone . . . been at it yet?” Madelaine asked in an off-handed way.

“Not that I could see.” He paused. “If we returned there, we might find a few of the things you want.” His voice was level but there was mischief in his eyes. “I think it would be worth the time to go there.”

Madelaine shrugged. “Surely there is no livestock.”

“No, but I think there is a root-cellar and maybe a few blankets.” He let himself smile at her. “There are clothes, too, and sheets and pillows. With the children here, we should have more for them.”

“You’re right,” said Madelaine, making up her mind. “We’ll take both horses and load them up as best we can. How far is this place?”

“Ten miles or so, but the ground is rough.” He came to her side. “The signs are for summer being hotter.”

“So you’ve told me,” said Madelaine.

“It will mean illness.” Luke Greentree regarded her narrowly. “If there are herbs you would like me to get for you, I will do it. So we will not have to fear growing ill here.”

This offer took Madelaine aback, for she knew Choctaw fighting men did not gather herbs, and she did not answer at first. “That would be very helpful, yes.”

“Then show me the ones you want, tonight while we are on our way.” He nodded once, to signal their agreement was struck, then turned on his heel and walked out of the barn back toward the mill.

At the old mill, near Dallas, Georgia, 11 June, 1863

A letter has come from Walter, who is now well enough to travel and is planning to come here before the end of summer. He informs Susanne that he will be traveling in the company of two Shaker women, who will serve as his nurses if he should suffer another setback while traveling. While I am certain it is a kindness for the women to do this, I understand that there has been more fighting in Tennessee, and they may well wish to remove themselves from the paths of advancing armies.

With the letter came other news: Van Dorn and Forrest have had some successes against the Union troops, but it is not going as well for the South as they tell themselves it is. . . . Whether they like it or not, the North has taken on the task of reuniting the country, and they will not be turned from their purpose. . . . Tecumseh is with General Grant, hoping to break open Vicksburg, and though they have encountered stubborn resistance, with so much of the Mississippi River controlled by the Union, it is only a matter of time. Daring generalship and military dash are all very well, but an army is only as good as its supplies, and the Confederate States are running low on supplies. . . .

The herbs brought by Luke Greentree yesterday are quite useful and will permit me to make a few more tinctures for injuries and sickness. . . . A few of the remaining Choctaw to the west of here have sent herbs to me, as well, and I am most heartily grateful to them, and to Fox Woman, for without her approval, I would see none of these.

I have finished the two cut-down dresses for the girls. . . . How odd, that the needlework taught me by the Ursuline Sisters should stand me in good stead now, in this place. . . . I am glad we found cloth at that deserted house, as well as the other supplies, for we certainly have need of it, simple muslin though it is. . . . I will return to my manuscript when I have finished the dresses for Susanne and myself.

Both horse and rider were sweating as they rode up to the old mill in the midday heat. The man rose in his stirrups and called out, “Hallo. You in the mill.”

Madelaine, who had been lying on her earth-filled mattress at the top of the mill, lifted her head, wondering where she had heard the voice before. As she fussed with her skirts, she rose and went to the window and leaned out. “Hallo, rider.”

The man doffed his hat and bowed in his saddle. “Good day to you, Ma’am. I wasn’t certain anyone was here.”

Madelaine decided not to tell him that Susanne had taken the three children down to Dallas to see if she could find any supplies they might need; Luke Greentree had gone hunting at first light and had not yet returned. “Well, we are.”

“Aha,” said the man. He was good-looking, pampered, russet-haired, with a glint of easy humor in his light-blue eyes. His horse was well-bred, in top condition and well-cared-for. “Would you mind giving a thirsty stranger a drink of water?”

It was a reasonable request, and one it would be suspicious to refuse. “Of course not,” Madelaine answered, and added, “I will be down in a moment.” She did not wait for his answer, but hastened down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor, still trying to place his voice.

The man stood in the door when Madelaine drew back the bolt, his hat still in his hand. “And if I may let my horse drink down at your millpond?”

“Certainly,” said Madelaine at once. “If you want to give him a chance to cool, it might be best.”

“I have him tied up to that tree,” he said, gesturing toward the oak in question. “I saw a ring and used it.”

“Good,” said Madelaine, and motioned him into the mill.

“This is awkward,” the man continued. “I reckon I had better introduce myself, since there’s no one else to do it for me. I am Chauncy Howard of Twin Oaks.” He bowed to her slightly. “Chauncy is such a silly name. My friends call me Chance.”

Now she knew the voice. This was the leader of the men she had watched from the thicket last winter. Startled by the recognition, she hesitated before saying, “I am Madelaine de Montalia. That’s in France.”

Surprise registered on his mobile features. “It would be ungentlemanly of me to inquire what a Frenchwoman is doing here,” he said, a speculative lift to his brows.

This was not something she was willing to discuss with him. “Let me get you a glass of water,” Madelaine offered, retreating to the pantry and reaching for a glass before starting to work the pump handle. “It comes from the millpond.”

“Fine,” said Chauncy Howard, who had followed her to the pantry. “You have supplies.” He glanced at the shelves, noting what he saw.

“Not as much as we need, either for this summer, or the winter to come,” she told him, holding out the filled glass to him.

“It’s much the same everywhere,” he said, shrugging. “Thank you, Ma’am,” he told her when he had taken his first sip. “It’s pretty fierce out there.”

He was older than she first supposed, perhaps thirty or thirty-five, and his charm seemed more studied than she had thought; his boots were dusty and scuffed, testament to hard riding. Madelaine began to wonder why he had come. “We don’t see travelers up this way very often.”