Nan Ryan (37 page)

“I’ve tried to tell everyone that myself,” Hunter answered, “but it falls on deaf ears. We haven’t a chance if the war, or should I say, when the war breaks out.”

“It’s suicide, Hunter, and we both know it. We have no resources down here and we can hardly shoot cotton balls at the Yankees and expect them to fall.”

“Ah, I know,” Hunter shook his head. “I love the south as much as any man, as I’m sure you do, Dawson, but our hardheaded pride is going to do us all in, I’m afraid.”

“You’re right, and I’ll tell you, if we think the north is going to let up keep our pleasant way of life, we’re fooling ourselves. They resent it bitterly and are determined to put an end to it.”

Richard Craddock looked from one man to the other, not understanding exactly what the problem was, but fascinated by the exchange between the two southern gentlemen.

“I agree and it makes me furious,” Hunter declared. “The north cares no more about the slaves than the man in the moon. They just resent us having them because they were not productive for them. If they had been, they’d own slaves and we both know it.”

“Exactly. This fuss is over states’ rights, not the slaves, and I expect it is going to blow sky high any minute.”

“You’re right, Dawson, you’re right.”

After lunch, the four sat in the drawing room having coffee when Craddock said politely, “Dawson, pleasant as this visit is, we really have to be going before too long.”

“I’m sorry, Mister Craddock,” Hunter smiled, “we got so carried away over our regional problems, we haven’t really discussed what you came here to talk about. Forgive me. Kathleen dear, if you would like to be excused now, we will …”

“I’ve a better idea,” Dawson said. “Why doesn’t Kathleen show me the garden, I see it’s already starting to bloom, while you and Richard take care of the necessary negotiations.”

Kathleen stiffened slightly, but she smiled and Hunter turned to her, “Yes, darling, do that. We won’t be long, I promise.”

“Certainly,” she smiled. Kathleen rose and Hunter kissed her cheek, rising too, as did Richard Craddock. “Go along, darling,” and he squeezed her hand.

“Right this way, Mister Blakely,” and she started from the room while Dawson fell into step beside her. “The back gardens are the prettiest, do you want to see them?” She turned to look at him.

“That would be very nice,” he answered politely and followed her down the long hall to the back of the house. They strolled into the yard in silence and down the path to the gardens, the sun now brilliant over the heads, the sky a bright blue. “Are you sure you won’t blister?” Dawson looked down at her.

“It’s nice of you to worry about me, but I’m fine, really,” she said without looking at him.

“Some of the roses are blooming,” she pointed to thick vines filled with huge red blossoms.

“They’re lovely,” he continued to look down at her, paying no attention to the flowers. They walked under a huge magnolia tree, its branches bending low to the ground.

“Watch your head,” she said and before the last word was out of her mouth, Dawson had pulled her into his arms.

“My darling,” he whispered and immediately kissed her lips.

Shocked and alarmed, Kathleen pulled away and pushed him, “No, Dawson, no. We can’t, it’s all changed.”

“What is wrong? You’re still mine and I want to hold you.” He pulled her closer. “No one can see us.”

“No!” she shouted, “Please let me go.”

Dawson released her, totally confused. “What happened? Darling, the last time I saw you we …”

“Don’t. That was two years ago, Dawson. It’s different now, you have to understand. I love Hunter, I love my husband. I didn’t the last time I saw you, but I do now. I’m sorry, Dawson. I never wanted to hurt you, you know that. It’s over between us. All over. Please don’t make it any harder than it is.”

“I’m sorry, Kathleen, I didn’t know. I want you to be happy, dear. I always want that.”

“Thank you, Dawson, I’m sorry, I …”

“Don’t be sorry, darling, you haven’t done anything to be sorry for. Now, come, we’ll go back inside. It is I who am sorry, I was out of line, forgive me.”

“Thank you, Dawson. You don’t have to be forgiven, you didn’t know. Now, let’s do go back in.”

“I’ll just go up to my office and get a bankdraft,” Hunter said when his wife led Dawson away. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Pour yourself another drink.” Hunter took the stairs two at a time and flung open the door to his room. He walked directly to the big desk in front of the windows facing the back gardens. He pulled out the middle drawer and lifted out a ledger. Glancing out the window, he saw Kathleen pointing out the early blooms to Dawson. Hunter smiled, she looked so little and pretty, walking along beside Dawson in her new spring dress. He stood for a second watching them and he stared, unbelieving, as Dawson Blakely pulled Kathleen into his arms and kissed her.

Hunter whirled around immediately, clutching the desk, shock and hurt making him weak and dizzy. He stood leaning against his desk for support. He couldn’t believe it. How could she? Hunter shook his head while bitter tears of hurt stung his eyes. Then it all came clear. Once again, she had made a fool of him. She didn’t love him at all. Once again, he was merely a substitute for Dawson Blakely. She didn’t know he was back in town. She would never have given herself to him if she had known her lover was in Natchez. What an idiot he’d been to believe she really loved him. A substitute husband and a substitute father, that’s all he’d ever been, all he’d ever be. His son and his wife both belonged to Dawson Blakely. And why shouldn’t she love him. I’m no man at all. I’ve no business sense, the plantation is going down daily. I’m no provider, she hasn’t half the things she had when her father was taking care of her. I’m no lover, she must have closed her eyes and pretended I was Dawson Blakely. I’m no hero, I’ve put up with her all these years, stayed with her when I knew she didn’t love me. How could she possibly care for me? I’m nothing at all like Dawson Blakely.

Hunter was shaken from his tortured thoughts by a commotion downstairs. He steadied himself, wiped the tears from his eyes, sighed heavily, picked up the bankdraft and started down the stairs. He could hear Daniel’s excited shout in the hall, “Our cousin, General P. T. Beauregard, done fired on Fort Sumpter! We’s at war, we’s at war!”

Kathleen and Dawson were back inside the house when Hunter came down the stairs. They were in the hall with Richard Craddock and Daniel, all talking excitedly about the news.

“Looks like it’s started, Hunter,” Dawson turned to him.

“Yes, I heard,” Hunter said evenly. “Here’s the bank-draft, Mister Craddock.”

As soon as Dawson and Richard Craddock were out the door, Hunter turned to go up the stairs. “Where are you going?” Kathleen asked.

“To pack,” he continued slowly on.

Hurrying after him, Kathleen grabbed his arm, “Hunter, what are saying?”

“I’m going to Virginia to join the Confederate Army.”

Twenty-six

Private Hunter Alexander sat on the ground smoking a cigar under the shade of a giant oak tree. Legs bent in front of him, long arms resting on his knees, he blew out the smoke and looked around with drowsy brown eyes. Hunter was more bored than usual on this hot August day in 1862. Eight months of sitting in reserve in Richmond, Virginia, under General Robert E. Lee had held little action and had given Hunter too much time to think. Time to think of Kathleen and Scott back in Natchez. Time to think of the sight of Kathleen in Dawson Blakely’s arms in the garden at Sans Souci. Faint nausea rose in his stomach as it always did when he vividly recalled that day.

The overly cautious Union general McClellan made fighting slow and sporadic for Hunter and the men in his Confederate troop. Hunter wished the slow-moving general would charge, put an end to the painful waiting which gave him too much time to remember. Hunter lay back on the ground, a long arm slung up supporting his head, and shut his eyes. Still the picture of his wife in another man’s arms remained.

“Hi, sir, what are you doing?” Hunter opened his eyes and saw Jason Mills standing over him. The ten-year-old drummer boy from Charleston, South Carolina, spent a lot of time around Hunter. As fair and blond as his idol, he was a small, beautiful child with eyes brown and dreamy, very much like Hunter’s. The first day Hunter had seen the lad, he was shocked to see a boy so young in the army.

“What in the name of God is that child doing here?” he asked Captain Cort Mitchell, the troop’s fiery, high-spirited leader.

“Why, good Lord, Hunter, he’s practically a grown man,” Captain Mitchell winked at the approaching boy. “Aren’t you, son?”

“Yes, sir, Captain Mitchell. I’m ten years old and I’m ready for those Yankees.”

Captain Mitchell laughed loudly, patted the boy’s back, and teased, “You sure you’re not from Texas, kid? I thought we were the only ones who bragged like that!” The captain strolled away, still chuckling to himself.

“What’s your name, son?” Hunter asked the youth.

“Sir, I’m Jason Mills from Charleston, South Carolina, and I’m pleased and proud to be serving in the Confederacy.”

“Well, Jason, I’m Hunter Alexander and you needn’t call me sir. I’m a private, just like you are.”

After that day, Jason Mills spent a lot of time in Hunter’s placid company. Hunter told him about his own son back in Natchez and told the boy he would have to come for a visit after the war ended. Jason told Hunter he was an only child, too, and that he wished he had brothers and sisters, but his mother and father were old and had told him there would be no more children. He told Hunter that his father was disabled and couldn’t join the Grand Cause, so he was honored to serve in his father’s place and he hoped to make them proud of him.

“I’m certain your folks are very proud of you, but I’m just as certain they miss you and worry about you, Jason,” Hunter said kindly.

“Oh, they needn’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, Jason,” Hunter laughed and patted the small boy’s back.

Today Jason dropped down beside Hunter and, parroting the gestures of the older man, slung a slim arm up under his head and laid down.

“I’m just resting, Jason, what are you up to?” Hunter turned to look at him.

“Not much, sir. I’m bored, aren’t you? I wish we could see a little action!”

Hunter reached out to the unruly blond hair, tousled it playfully, and said, “Jason, to tell you the truth, I hope you get to stay bored for the next ten or fifteen years.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Mister Alexander. I’m almost a man,” the soft brown eyes were quite serious. “Sir, could I have a cigar?”

“Jason, I hate to sound like your father, but you’re much too young to smoke,” then Hunter laughed at the irony of a boy too young to smoke but old enough to go to war. “Son, why don’t we close our eyes and take a nap?” He tossed his cigar away.

“All right,” Jason agreed.

“On your feet, men,” It was Captain Cort Mitchell’s voice booming down to them. Hunter and Jason opened their eyes and looked up at the tall, imposing figure. A stir went through the resting men and they crowded around, moving closer to their leader to hear what he had to say.

The tall, prematurely gray-haired Texan was smiling and he raised his voice so all could hear, “Men, we’re finally going to move.” A cheer went up from the bored, restless soldiers under his command. Captain Mitchell grinned and waved his long arms, signaling for quiet. “We are going to Gordonsville, Virginia, to re-enforce General Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson. Mount up, men, it’s a forty-mile ride and I’m itching to get there.” Tall, long-legged Captain Mitchell dismissed the men and strode to his coal black horse, his gray hair flying around his head, the pink mouth under his gray mustache grinning as though he had been invited to a party.

The chance for some action and the high spirits of their captain were infectious as the Confederate troops scurried to break camp and mount up for the long ride to Gordonsville.

“We’re going to help out old Stonewall,” grinned a dark-haired man standing next to Hunter. “Maybe at last I’ll have something to write home about.”

“I hope so,” Hunter agreed and mounted up for the ride.

Captain Mitchell and his men had no sooner arrived at Gordonsville than they were ordered north as part of an advance guard to stop Pope’s army from advancing south. At high noon on August 9, 1862, Captain Mitchell led his men north across the Rapidan River. The hot sun beat down mercilessly on the tired heads of the men crossing the river. It was quiet and still in the beautiful Virginia countryside as the men, many now dismounted, crossed the river just west of Cedar Mountain. With part of the Confederate troops still in the river, Captain Mitchell encountered an advance Federal cavalry. The slow-moving Confederates were taken completely unawares. The ensuing skirmish quickly led to pitched battle as the Union cavalry charged, the hot desire for revenge coursing through their veins. Longing to reek deadly punishment on Jackson and his men, they descended on the Confederates ready and thirsty for bloodshed and fought like men possessed of demons. No match for the steely Union troops, Captain Mitchell’s untried Confederate left flank caved in and took flight.

Hunter had spent too many months safely behind the lines, sitting back in reserve at the static battle of Richmond. He was in no way prepared for the hellish realities of war. He was marching peacefully along, leading his horse in the scorching August sun, thinking of his wife and son back in Natchez, Mississippi. The serene Virginia countryside’s stillness was shattered by a rifle shot. Sounds of gunfire, screams of the wounded, and frightened horses snorting and whinnying filled the air around Hunter. Loud rebel yells escaped the lips of the Confederates as they tried to mount up in the volley of bullets flying around them.

Hunter’s mind was foggy and he didn’t fully realize what had happened. His hand went up to his right shoulder and, when he drew it away, he looked with shock at the red of his own blood in his hand. Dazed, he looked down at his shoulder and saw his tunic turning a bright crimson before his frightened eyes. He wondered, “But why isn’t there any pain? What am I to do? Someone tell me what to do.”