The Last Heiress (42 page)

H
ow long do you plan to keep us here like muskrats?”

Cold, wet, and faint from hunger and thirst, Jackson scooped up a mouthful of brackish black water and spit it out.

“Until I know those Yankee sailors went back to their boats. Just keep your head down and your mouth shut.” The sergeant spat a stream of brown juice into the murky water.

How the man managed to keep his plug of tobacco during a maelstrom of artillery and swarming Yankees with bloodlust in their eyes remained a mystery. Jackson rubbed his eyes to stop the images of men dying. He would never forget the human cruelty he witnessed. He could handle shooting a man from twenty paces away. The poor soul usually crumpled to the ground to await death or an eventual stretcher bearer. But what Jackson had witnessed on the blood-stained grounds of Fort Fisher left him weak-kneed and nauseated. Nothing in life could have prepared him for so much bloodshed, and nothing would ever replace this as the worst day of his life.

“We've been sitting in this tree for almost two days,” he said wearily, stretching out his legs.

“You're just a corporal. I'm the one givin' orders round here, Henthorne.”

“Yes, sir. But if we don't find good water to drink soon, we'll drop over dead from dehydration.”

“The rest of you boys got something to say 'bout this?” The sergeant swiveled around to two privates in uniforms so covered with mud, their loyalties would be unrecognizable.

“Can't stay here another night, sir.” The taller of the two drawled. “Them bloodsuckers just 'bout ate us alive.”

“What exactly you got in mind, Corporal?” asked his equally emaciated companion.

Jackson looked to his sergeant, a gap-toothed boor of a man. If this was the typical caliber of Confederate officers, the end could be near for their Glorious Cause. “With your permission, sir.”

“By all means, Henthorne. Tell us your humble opinion after three stinkin' weeks as a soldier.”

Jackson ignored the barb. “If I were in charge of this outfit, I would head toward higher ground. Once we're away from the sea, we should find water and may locate the rest of our company.”

“Maybe they's all dead,” said one young private.

“We're not the last ones standing,” the sergeant snapped. “Regiments will regroup upriver to give it another go. We'll keep fightin' till they kill every last one of us, but that ain't gonna be today. So I'm of a mind to take your advice, Henthorne. Why don't you lead the way since you're so eager to leave our little hidey-hole?”

Jackson nodded but dispensed with a salute. After watching his superior officer in battle, he had little respect for the man. Sergeant Womack spent more time positioning himself out of harm's way than shooting and reloading. Jackson had shot his share of Yankees and would have continued until a bullet found
its way to him. But when an explosion blew open their shelter, the sergeant ordered them through the breech in a hail of gunfire. With men dropping to their knees on both sides of him, Jackson tried not to step on fallen comrades. Blindly he followed his superior officer into a maritime wilderness, running from the inevitable collapse of Fort Fisher.

Sergeant Womack's new order was no particular honor. Leading them up the peninsula made him an easy target for Yankee sharpshooters who loved to pick off Rebel stragglers. But Jackson would rather take his chances than spend another night in that bug-infested tree.

They slogged for hours until finally gaining higher ground as the moon rose over a shimmering Atlantic Ocean. They had encountered no Yankee patrols. Their enemies had either returned to the gunboats anchored around the mouth of the river or were celebrating their victory in the newly acquired fort. But Jackson's joy in avoiding capture and a federal prison camp was soon eclipsed by the view out to sea. Sitting off the coast, surrounded by the Union navy, was a familiar-looking blockade runner. From her sleek lines and exquisite details, Jackson knew for certain it was the
Roanoke
. While he stood frozen on a bluff of land, the
Roanoke
went up in flames and thick, black smoke.

“Looky there.” The sergeant pointed one blunt finger. “Who'd ever reckon one of those iron boats could catch fire?”

Jackson stared mutely for a full minute before responding. “Anything will burn after being hit by cannon shot or if it triggers a water mine. What doesn't burn will soon sink to the bottom of the sea.” Without visible emotion, he delivered the information like a schoolmarm speaking to her pupils. Same as his companions, Jackson watched the
Roanoke
curiously as half his earthly fortune burned out of control. Why mention that it was his ship providing their entertainment and give the sergeant another
reason to despise him? Womack already resented that he entered the service a corporal instead of a private, as though one level of rank made much difference to pay, or whether or not a man lived to see another day.

The contents of my pay envelope will be little consolation,
he thought as the crow's nest crashed into the flaming hull. It was an inglorious conclusion to a reckless investment.

“Let's keep moving. Show's over.”

The sergeant's bark pulled Jackson from his trance, and then they set out again on a meandering course north that crossed marshland, sandy floodplains, and skirted around treacherous bogs that could suck a man into a gruesome death. They ate what little remained in their knapsacks and foraged for berries and edible roots. One of the untidy privates knew which plants could be eaten and which would wreak havoc from just touching the leaves. The men caught rainwater in their caps until they found fresh water. The rushing stream seemed like a mirage after days of walking through tidal pools.

Without much military experience, several days passed before Jackson realized Sergeant Womack was carefully avoiding contact with all troops, friend or foe. The two brothers from Macon seemed content to wander wherever their commander decreed, but after choosing a dry place to sleep on the third night, Jackson decided it was the time to ask questions.

“I would have thought we'd find the Confederate encampment by now. Surely General Bragg intends to regroup and make another stand against the bluecoats.”

Womack pulled an insect from his grizzled beard. “Reckon that's what
General Bragg
plans to do.” He imbued the commander's name with blatant contempt. “But as far as I'm concerned, Corporal Henthorne, I don't give a rat's arse what General Bragg intends to do.” He imbued Jackson's surname with almost as much disdain.

“What are your plans, sir?”

Womack consulted his compass. “I figure if we keep moving north, sooner or later the river will narrow down and get shallow enough to cross. Then we'll be off this infernal peninsula and back on the mainland. I plan to head west and south, keeping out of sight the best I can. By the time I get home to South Carolina, this war should be just about over. Nobody's gonna count on their fingers what day I left the army. I'll tell them I caught me a fast-moving train.”

“You intend to desert?”

“You could call it that, rich planter boy.” Cocking his revolver, Womack aimed it at Jackson's chest. “Or we could just say I'm letting
you
finish my enlistment, seeing that you're one of our newer recruits. Can't imagine what business was so important that it took you nigh on four years to do your duty.”

The gun barrel didn't waver. He could end Jackson's life with the twitch of an index finger.

Jackson slowly lifted his palms from his knees. “There's no sense getting all riled up over a harmless question.” His languid drawl masked his fear. “I'm simply curious about your plans, that's all. I judge no man for their past or future deeds.” He forced himself to meet the sergeant's eye.

“I might be willing to let you live if you give your word as a
gentleman
to keep your mouth shut.”

“On my honor and on the graves of Henthorne ancestors, I will speak to no one about this.”

Womack considered his pledge and then aimed his weapon at the brothers. “What 'bout you two?”

They exchanged a glance. “If it's all the same, we'd like to tag along with you, Sarge, seeing that South Carolina is in the same general direction as Georgia.”

Womack grunted before turning back to Jackson. “And you,
Henthorne? Do you intend to head toward the river to find what's left of our army or are you comin' with us?”

“Let me mull this over and give you an answer in the morning. Either way, don't worry about my overzealous loyalty to General Hoke. As you succinctly pointed out, my enlistment has been a scant three weeks.”

Once his comrades had bedded down for the night, Jackson stared off into the brush, deeply cloaked in shadows. In his mind's eye he saw his father's plantation. Not faded and overgrown as it was now, Oakdale sat like a polished jewel in the middle of fields of peanut plants. Abigail sat on the verandah stitching some tiny garment for his son or daughter. People there bathed, changed their clothes, and led civilized lives. He came to the conclusion the Georgia brothers had been dirty
before
the battle had even begun. In the morning, after a restless night of weighing honor against practicality, dignity against his overwhelming intuition the Yankees would soon control the Cape Fear River, Jackson made up his mind.

“I'm coming with you boys until we get to Wilmington. My folks have a farm about a day's ride from there. I'll hole up in the city for a while.” He didn't mention the word “plantation” or refer to his mansion in the city. No sense giving the sergeant a reason to shoot him in the back.

“Suit yourself, Corporal. Don't make no never-mind to me.” Womack spat tobacco juice into the dirt.

All day they followed a rutted wagon track north, close to the river. They kept off the road, lest patrolling militiamen drag them back to the army or shoot them as deserters. That evening, when the sun dipped low in the sky, the other three bade him farewell and waited for their opportune moment to swim to Eagle Island unseen. Jackson continued north until the familiar landmarks of his hometown appeared. Only then did he assess his present
physical state. No one would recognize him for the wealthy man he was. Or at least, the wealthy man he used to be. Memories of the
Roanoke
burning in grand spectacle churned his empty gut.

Knowing Abigail would be appalled to see him like this, he chose Third Street as his destination. He would bathe, don clean clothes, and burn his uniform in the fireplace. Then he could leave for Oakdale after a good night's sleep in his own bed. Surely Salome left something behind to eat when she packed up the kitchen. After the past few days, he wouldn't be too particular.

It was a little past dawn when Jackson trudged up the oyster shell driveway of home. Glancing down at his muddy boots, he chose the back door, half a dozen steps below ground level, and entered a warm kitchen. He'd assumed the room would be empty.

“Master Henthorne!” Three voices chimed in unison from the trestle table.

Jackson stared at Amos, Salome, and Thomas in succession. “What are you doing here? Why haven't you gone to the plantation with Mrs. Henthorne?”

“Mistress Henthorne is upstairs sleeping, sir.” Amos was first to respond as he helped Jackson off with his wet coat.

“Why on earth didn't you take her to Oakdale as I instructed?” He posed this question to Thomas.

Salome bustled toward him with a cup of water. “We were of a mind to leave come that morning, all packed up and ready. But your baby had other ideas. He made up his mind to be born, but then took almost two full days to get 'round to it.”

Relieved of his outerwear, Jackson slumped into a chair to pry off his boots. “Did you say
he
?”

“I did, sir. You got yourself a strong, healthy son with quite a set of lungs on him.”

Jackson grasped the table for support. “And Abigail—how is my wife?”

Salome patted his back as if he were a small child. “Miz Henthorne be just fine. We was sure glad to see Miz Dunn that day, sir. 'Tween the two of us, we handled the situation fine.”

“Miss Dunn? She's here too?” He shook his head as though waking from a dream.
I have a son my sister-in-law helped deliver?
He was too exhausted to process the information. “I thought she sailed back to England.”

“She told Miz Henthorne she was not going anywhere until her new niece or nephew was born.”

Jackson struggled to his feet. “I want to see my wife…and the baby.”

“No, sir, Master Henthorne,” said Salome, shaking her head vigorously. “You'll scare her the way you look. Thomas will fill the giant washtub with hot water, and Amos will find you clean clothes to wear. You need a bath and a shave, if you don't mind my saying so. And I'm gonna cook you up a breakfast that'll stick to your ribs.”

Jackson felt a wave of relief that decisions were being made for him. “Thank you, Salome, all of you, for taking care of my family.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Just so you know, Mr. Henthorne, we ain't slaves no more. Miz Henthorne told us we're paid workers. She just don't know how much to pay us yet.”