The Last Heiress (18 page)

“Pa tried his best to drink himself to death, but when that didn't work he decided to hurry matters along.” Nate sipped the
coffee, not meeting his friend's eye. “Even that old still wouldn't produce anymore.”

“When you left, did you leave your little brother back on the farm?”

Nate flinched. “Do you think I would leave a fifteen-year-old alone in Balsam in a shack that might blow over in a good wind? I sent him to my aunt and uncle outside Fayetteville. They grow corn and raise pigs. Joshua liked farming, but that spread we had never amounted to much. The soil was too rocky and worn out.”

“Didn't he want to move to Wilmington? That boy used to follow you around like a hound dog.”

“He did, but I knew I would have nothing here at first. Took me nigh a week before I found work. I slept in folks' stables and ate from their gardens until I got paid. When I got a job here, Mr. Starkey let me sleep on a pallet in the storeroom. I saved every penny I earned, but it was no place to bring a boy to live. My aunt promised that Joshua would go to school. That's what Ma would have wanted.”

“Have you heard from your brother lately?”

“I wrote five or six times but never heard a word back. 'Course, Joshua never was one for letter writing. He said that was sissy doings.”

“Yeah, that sounds like your lil' brother. But Josh ain't at your uncle's hog farm no more. He left a while ago.”

Nate bristled for the second time that afternoon. “How would you know? I'm betting you never been to Fayetteville in your life.”

“You would win that bet, my friend. I saw Joshua at the battle of Shiloh. He enlisted in the Confederate army right after North Carolina seceded. He fought bravely too, as I recall.”

Every hair on the back of Nate's neck stood on end while his gut tightened. He ticked off the years in his head. “Why…he would only have been seventeen at the time.”

“Yep, sounds about right. Old enough for a poor boy to fight and die in a war started by rich old men.” Mason's face screwed into a scowl.

“Old enough to die?” Nate's stool toppled as he jumped to his feet.

“Simmer down. That's just a figure of speech. Your brother was alive and well the last time I saw him at Chattanooga.” Mason reached down to pick up the stool.

“But why would he enlist? He grew up listening to Ma preach about the evils of slavery, while Pa ranted about a government that helps only rich landowners. Backwoods folks were left to fend for themselves.” Nate scrubbed his face with his hands.

“I recollect your pa standing up one Sunday after church telling folks not to pay their taxes. He said the government shouldn't get another dime from the hill folk,” Mason said thoughtfully, taking the last cookie from the plate.

His reminiscences did nothing to lift Nate's spirits. “The Reb recruiters couldn't even raise a regiment in our county. They had to go to Asheville to fill ranks. Joshua knew I wouldn't enlist—not because I didn't love North Carolina, but because it was time to end slavery. If Jefferson Davis had his way, slavery would spread into the western territories.”

Mason pulled on his shaggy beard. “I try not to think much 'bout politics these days. But I bet your uncle was the reason Joshua signed up. You know folks in the flatlands 'round Charlotte and Fayetteville don't think like we do. Plenty of them own slaves in those parts. Maybe even your uncle does too.”

That possibility had never occurred to Nate, even though his uncle owned at least three hundred acres of land. “Did you speak to Joshua? Did he ask about me?”

“The last time I saw him it was early in the morning before the fightin' started. He said to tell you ‘hey' and that he was doin' fine.”

Swallowing a lump of regret, Nate stretched his neck from side to side. “What about you, Mason? Did you muster out after your enlistment period ended?”

He snorted with contempt. “All the majors and generals forgot terms of enlistment once the Yankees started thinning our numbers. There was no mustering out. Only way to leave was into a shallow trench beside your fallen comrades. They threw just enough soil atop the graves to keep the crows and wild hogs from pickin' your bones clean.”

With a shudder Nate refilled their mugs from the coffee pot. “I'm curious, then, about how you came to Wilmington.”

“You callin' me a coward, Nate? I'll take on any man who calls me a yellow-belly.”

Nate recoiled from his friend's perceived insult. Putting up his hands in front of him, he said, “Easy. I meant no disrespect. Far be it for a man who refused to enlist to judge someone who did. Everyone must make that decision for himself and live with the consequences.”

Mason slumped lower on the stool. “I'm not a coward, but I did desert. They could hang me if they catch me, but I figured I'm as safe here as anywhere. And the coastline is where the jobs are.”

“You realize that Fort Fisher is but thirty miles downriver. That place is guarded better than the fortifications at Charleston.”

“I know that, but with the Yankee navy out to sea, they'll be too busy to look for deserters on the docks.”

Nate was content to let the matter drop, but apparently his old friend wanted to talk.

“I fought hard on the line at both Chickamauga and Chattanooga. But I couldn't abide with those planter sons astride their fancy horses along the back, ordering us privates to take that hill or claim that worthless cornfield against terrible odds. We were always outnumbered. Always.” Mason drank the last of his cold
coffee. “So the next day I acted like I was headed to the latrine trench and just kept walking. I expected somebody to spot me and shoot me in the back, but nobody did. I kept moving east, foraging off the land like an animal.”

“Our paths were destined to cross.”

“Say, you like this coat?” Mason tugged on the lapels. “Some man left it in his carriage when he went inside his house for the night. Musta been in his cups not to take care of so fine a garment.” He ran his hand down the cloth lovingly.

“That will teach him to be careless.” Nate stood rather stiffly, the long work hours sapping his strength. “I'd best get to my rented quarters or my landlady may throw my supper to the hogs out back. Do you need a place to sleep for the night? Mr. Sims probably won't mind if you stay in the hayloft. Nothing but bales of fresh hay up there. Might just remind you of your pa's farm in Balsam.”

Mason scowled. “No, thanks. I don't care to remember the past. 'Sides, I don't sleep in barns. I rented me a room above Flannigan's. Nice place until the drunks start shooting. One night a bullet tore right through the floorboards and cut off the tip of my ear.” He tucked his hair behind his maimed ear, the scar still a fiery red.

Nate couldn't fathom an appropriate response, so he said mildly, “If you change your mind, I live in the attic of the Simses' place on Castle Street.”

Mason stood and brushed crumbs from his clothes. “And if
you
change your mind about that pint of beer, I'm at Flannigan's most evenings, including tonight. At least until my old lieutenant recognizes me and puts a bullet in my head.”

The two men shook hands, and then Mason hopped the stone wall and walked down the wharf. He didn't look back, but Nate could hear him whistling long after he disappeared from sight.

For a while he sat contemplating everything he'd learned. His old friend deserted the army and lived in Wilmington. His father's suicide was apparently common knowledge, even though the preacher promised not to spread gossip. And his brother no longer tended pigs on the outskirts of Fayetteville. Joshua was fighting Yankees, if he still walked among the living.

Nate locked up the store and trudged home, wearier than he'd been in a long time. At least his supper was waiting on the table, covered by a clean linen cloth. A glass of water with a saucer over it to keep out flies had also been left. After washing his face and hands, he bowed his head to give thanks—an old childhood habit that refused to die. His fork was halfway to his mouth when Odom Sims stepped from the shadows.

“Didn't take you for a praying man, Nathaniel, but I'm mighty glad to see it. Mind if I join you while you eat?”

Nate shoved the piece of ham into his mouth and waved at the seat next to him. “My ma always said if we don't give thanks for what we got, we'll have even less tomorrow. Sit, Odom. I'm not shy about eating in front of people, but I may slap your hand if you reach for my slice of pie.”

“Had two pieces with my supper. You're lucky to get that skinny slice a'tal.” Odom laughed with a deep, throaty sound. “You know, my granny used to say something similar to what your ma said, so I never wanted to take chances either. Now I've lived long enough to know it's true.”

Nate shrugged. “I see plenty of ungrateful people who still have their worldly possessions the next day.”

“God isn't finished with them yet or with us. He has all sorts of plans up His sleeve whether we believe in Him or not.”

Nate scooped up some potatoes. “Weren't you a preacher down by Charleston? You sure sound like one.”

“Yes, sir, I was. But they don't need any Negro preachers in
Wilmington. I'll just bide my time at the livery stable and sow my seeds out back.” Odom leaned back in his chair with his fingers interlaced behind his head.

“This must be my night for company—those with a mind to talk.” Nate told him about his visitor at the store and his unsettling revelations.

“What do you think about your friend skedaddling from his regiment? It makes life harder for the boys who stayed to fight.”

“It's not my place to judge him or anyone else.” Nate focused on cutting up his chunk of ham. “Some might call me a coward for not enlisting after our state seceded.”

“Is that how you see yourself, Nathaniel? Afraid to pick up a gun?”

“Nope. I won't fight to preserve slavery; it's evil. But I can't bear arms against the Confederates either. I've lived in North Carolina my entire life. I'm stuck somewhere in the middle, keeping my head down and hoping the war will be over soon.”

Sims patted his shoulder. “That's pretty much how I figure it too. Negroes are in both armies.”

“The Rebs conscripted them and are forcing them to stay. It wasn't their choice.”

“True enough, but you don't see me joining the Fifty-Fourth or Fifty-Fifth Massachusetts or the Twenty-Ninth Connecticut volunteers. I reckon if God wanted me to die for the Union, I would have been born in Boston or New York City. He put us all exactly where He wants us to do the job He has in mind.”

Nate scoffed, shaking his head. “You think our lives are that orchestrated?”

“I think it's exactly that orchestrated. You'll see, Nathaniel. God has big plans for you yet. That's why you're here in Wilmington, and maybe why you met Miss Dunn. Which reminds me. Ruth wants to know when we'll meet this special gal.”

“It's not that easy. She's reluctant to be seen out because her family doesn't approve of me. I'm destined to hope she'll need a pack of needles or crave a bag of peppermints.”

“Why not invite her to have supper with us? None of the society folk will notice her here. I'll ask Ruth to cook something not too spicy.”

Nate couldn't imagine a proper British girl dining in their rustic kitchen. What on earth would they talk about? Yet he also couldn't imagine hurting Odom's feelings. “That might work,” he murmured as he finished up his skinny slice of pie.

“I'll send Rufus to Miss Dunn with your message. How about Tuesday?”

“That will give me almost two full days to fret about seeing her again.” Nate could hear Odom's chuckles all the way to the attic bedroom.

Amanda grinned as the Henthorne carriage rolled down the hill toward the river. Her sister's expression had been one she would remember for the rest of her life. Keeping her promise, Amanda informed Abigail that she would dine with the Sims family that night, Nathaniel's landlords. Questions began flying like salvos on a battlefield.

Who are these Simses, and where do their people hail from—the coast or the interior?