The Crossed Sabres
Read The Crossed Sabres Online
Authors: Gilbert Morris
© 1993 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Ebook edition created 2011
ISBN 978-1-4412-7039-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Cover illustration by Brett Longley
Cover design by Melinda Schumacher
There are many dark things in this world, but sometimes a man or woman will come into my life who radiates light. This light is always a reflection of the true light, the Lord Jesus Christ.
This book is dedicated to a man who shared that light with me—James Ferguson.
CONTENTS
11. Some Things a Man Can’t Do
CHAPTER ONE
An End to Everything
Many families in the South lost everything in the Civil War—including their sons, fathers, and brothers. Some families lost all the men in that tragic conflict.
Sky Winslow and his wife Rebekah had three sons and two sons-in-law fighting in Confederate gray. Except for Vance Wickman, Belle’s husband, all came out of the war alive—a miracle in their judgment, for which they never forgot to give thanks.
Most people remembered the night of April 13 as the beginning of the Civil War, but Tom Winslow always remembered the date as the night he first kissed Marlene Signourey. He maneuvered the beautiful young creole girl off the ballroom floor at Belle Maison and into the moonlit garden at exactly five minutes before midnight.
“But, Tom,” Marlene Signourey protested, “we mustn’t leave the party!” She was not a tall girl, no more than average height, but held herself so erectly that she seemed so. The black dress she wore was adorned with tiny fragments of silver that glittered as they caught the rays of the moon, and a large solitary diamond at her throat refracted that same light as she turned to him. She had the blackest of hair and a pair of black eyes to match—eyes that could glitter with anger, or warm a man if she chose to do so. And she chose to smile at Tom Winslow, for he was tall, handsome, and rich.
Now he laughed at her, his white teeth gleaming against
his tanned face. “If I don’t keep you hidden from Spence, he’ll run off with you to New York,” he said.
“Oh, Tom, he’s not going to kidnap me!” Marlene protested with a smile. Her lips were small, but full, tempting to a man—as she well knew. Now she pursed them, adding, “I think you are the kidnapper, taking me away from the ball like this!”
“I haven’t had a moment alone with you for days,” Tom insisted. “Every time I turn around some fellow is in my way.”
“And I must go back home in a week,” Marlene sighed. She said no more, but with an intensely feminine gesture threw her head back and parted her lips. “I will miss you, Tom!”
Her skin was like translucent ivory in the moonlight, and the fragrance of her perfume came to him. Without thinking, Tom reached out and drew her into his arms. She did not protest, but lifted her lips, and when she leaned against him, the hungers in him grew rife. Her lips were soft and yielding, yet firm, and the touch of them brought a roughness to his caresses. Her arms went around his neck, and she urged him closer for a time, seeming to savour his kiss—and then she pulled away, her lips sliding from his—“Tom—we mustn’t!”
“Why not?” he demanded, reaching for her again.
She had the ability to draw a man, yet at the same time keep him at a distance. He had seen her use this on other young men, and now it was his turn. She put her hand on his chest, holding him away—yet there was a light of invitation in her dark eyes as she whispered, “A girl has to be careful, Tom. Most men will take liberties.”
“You think I’m that kind of a man?”
She smiled then, and removed her hand. “No,” she said, shaking her head. Then she put her hand on his cheek, whispering, “You’re too exciting for me, Tom—I don’t trust myself with you!”
Winslow quickly kissed her again, but the kiss was never finished, for the door to the garden burst open with a clatter. The sound jarred them, so that they at once stepped back,
and when Tom glanced in that direction, he was half angered to see Spencer Grayson approach. He didn’t close the door, and the light from the ballroom framed him, a big, solid man with yellow hair and blue eyes.
Tom glared at him, saying at once, “Spence, you’ve got rotten manners!”
Grayson grinned broadly, then shook his head. “I always did, Tom. You never complained before.”
“You never were such a pest to me before!” Spencer Grayson was Tom’s best friend, but he spoke the simple truth. Since Marlene had come to visit, Grayson had become a fixture at Belle Maison, Tom’s home, always on the scene. He had done this before, and Tom had enjoyed his company. But both of them knew that the creole girl had put a strain on their friendship.
“Didn’t mean to intrude,” Grayson said easily, “but I thought you’d like to hear the news.”
Both Tom and Marlene were now conscious that something was happening, for cheers were coming from the guests. “Has the war started?” Marlene asked quickly, her eyes wide with apprehension.
“Yes. Fort Sumter was fired on last night,” Grayson nodded. He sobered then, his handsome face chiseled in the moonlight. He was a cheerful man, but now that was gone. “I’ll be leaving soon. Got to get out before I get arrested for treason.”
“Don’t be a fool, Spence,” Tom said abruptly. “Nobody’s going to arrest you.”
“Don’t be too sure, Tom. I’ve been getting some pretty hard looks from some of your fire-eating friends out there.” A taut smile touched Grayson’s full lips, and there was a cynical light in his eyes as he added, “You and I will probably be shooting at each other pretty soon, Tom. Have you thought about that?”
Winslow met the man’s gaze, thinking of the good times they’d had together. They had practically grown up together, for though Grayson’s family lived in New York, they owned
a plantation not ten miles from the Winslow place. The two youngsters had roamed the hills, hunting together, and later, had experimented with liquor and flirted with girls together. Without willing it, Tom thought of a time in Richmond when Grayson had stepped aside, giving him first choice with a young brunette they’d both been interested in.
“I guess we’ve all thought about things like that, Spence,” Tom said slowly, hating the idea. He knew that Spence would never fight for the South, for though he’d grown up in Virginia—at least partly so—his family was of the North. They had spent endless hours arguing about the political quarrels, about slavery—but neither man could change. They were both products of their blood, and Tom knew that what Spencer said about their shooting at each other was a real possibility.
Marlene looked at them as they faced each other, then said quickly, “Oh, don’t talk about things like that!” Taking an arm of each man, she said, “Come on, let’s go back inside and see what’s happening.”
As they allowed themselves to be led away, Spence looked down at Marlene’s hand on his arm, then to her other hand that was resting lightly on the arm of Tom Winslow. His eyes lifted and he met Tom’s gaze. They knew each other very well, and the same thought that came to his own mind, Grayson saw in Winslow’s expression.
She’ll have to choose,
they were both thinking.
Sooner or later—she’ll have to decide between us.
But neither man spoke, and they passed into the ballroom where they were at once surrounded by young men and women bright-eyed with excitement.
****
War came to Richmond like a whirlwind. Schools were broken up and knots of excited men gathered at every street corner. Every patriotic citizen had his house ablaze with a thousand lights, and the dark ones were
marked.
The nonilluminators were dubbed “Yankees,” “Abolitionists,” and
“Black Republicans,” and were virtually ostracized. Churches were full on Saturday as women met to ply the needle, cutting out clothes for the soldiers, indulging in talk about the vile usurpers from the North. Snatches of song improvised for the emergency—”Maryland, My Maryland,” “John Brown’s Body,” “There’s Life in the Old Land Yet” were sung, and a favorite was written for the times:
I want to be a soldier,
And with the soldiers stand,
A knapsack on my shoulder,
And a musket in my hand;
And there beside Jeff Davis,
So glorious and so brave,
I’ll whip the cussed Yankee
And drive him to his grave.
And while the grown-ups were about their business, the younger rebels were keeping their patriotism warm by
playing
“Yank” and “Reb” in mock battles. So fervent did these battles become that there were frequently cuts and bruises to show for them.
Hatred for the North swelled, and the fire-eating element, made up largely of country editors, preachers, lawyers, and politicians-on-the make, was the most vocal and eloquent. Recrimination and name-calling in private conversation, in public meetings, in editorial columns, from professor’s desk and country pulpit, produced a tide of emotion in those days. An overseer on a plantation forty miles below New Orleans wrote in his journal:
This day is sat a part By presedent Jeffereson Davis for fasting & prayer owing to the Deplorable condishion ower Southern country is In My Prayer Sincerely to God is that Every Black Republican in the Hole combined whorl Either man woman o chile that is opposed to negro slavery as it existed in the Southern confederacy shal be trubled with pestilents
& calamitys of all Kinds & Dragout the Balance of there existence in misray Degradation with scarsely food & rayment enughf to keep sole & Body togeather and O God I pray the to Direct a bullet or a bayonet to pirce the Hart of every northern soldier that invades the southern Soile & after the Body has Rendered up its Traterish Sole gave it a trators reward a Birth In the Lake of Fire & and Brimstone my honest convicksion is that Every man woman & and chile that has give aide to the abolishionist are fit Subjects for Hell I all so ask the to aide the Sothern Confedercy in mantaining Ower rites & establishing the confederate Government Believing in this case the prares from the wicked will prevaileth much Amen.